slave screams he's being beaten into submission

[parasitus]

It isn't often that Genie elects to play with her food, so to speak, or to hurt the ones she keeps closest; but this creature is most fascinating, and requires further study, she believes. He claims to be utterly hers, but still he acts on her own.

She's always wondered what it will take to break a man. Today she intends to begin learning just that.

The knocking that taps at Foster's door is polite and sharp, a rapping of knuckles that is over as quickly as it began, and then the person responsible waits in silence.

Comments

[criticallyfucked]

Shock is absolutely a risk, and Foster's pallor and fast, laboured breathing is making it no small threat. But he looks more shocked--almost betrayed--when she turns the water off.

He sits, hunched--shivering, wet, miserable; the whites of his eyes are clearly visible. But even as much agony, as much suffering as she'd inflicted, the deprivation of it was far less welcome. He has no right to objection, though, so manages a weak smile, trembling and naked.

[parasitus]

"There's a good boy. If you're still awake when I return, I have a surprise for you."

She holds up two of her fingers, presses a kiss to them, then presses it against Foster's temple; and then she's gone, without even another thought.

She's gone for some time. Not hours, for that could leave her little pet dead, or in too poor shape to bear her offspring, but it would certainly feel like hours for Foster.

When she does return, it's with some very strange items: a cup, the contents of which he can't see, more restraints, and, most ominously for Foster, a medical speculum.

"Did you miss me?" She coos, grinning at him from beside the tub.

Give him a minute, Genie. He's. Very cold. :<

[criticallyfucked]

Time is sort of a difficult experience for Foster even when he's not wet and shivering and desperate, still yearning for touch between his legs despite his misery. Breathing is... surprisingly hard when he's this chilled, every breath caught on a shudder--he's so cold that he's in pain. Not externally, at the outside of his body where her blade cut him open but at a deeper layer, something terrible under what he can touch, and no strength of will can force his body to relax as, his muscles to unclench as he struggles, alone in the empty tub.

He tries to lie down, mostly out of desperation, some futile bid for warmth--as though having more skin in contact with a surface will give him the slightest hope of relief. On his side, on his back, his hair plastered to his face, his legs spread as though begging for comfort of a different kind.

His sexual ardour is definitely dampened--pun unintended--but even if her specific punishment here wasn't enough to extinguish his need, it definitely made it the least of his worries. The ache of his open wounds is also somewhere deeper now, under the skin and in the muscle. He closes his eyes, trying--trying to remain conscious through this ordeal.

The time that passes is enough for his body's... condition to catch up to what cleanliness she briefly enforced, though. As the minutes pass, interminably, he can feel the wetness as his blood, his filth leaks out again, body-warm as it oozes, to cool tortuously against the open folds of his pussy. It mixes with water as a thick clot runs down between the cheeks of his ass to join the puddles at the bottom of the tub.

He turns, curling foetal-style--

And that's how she finds him, pathetically hunched in the bottom of the tub, half laughing with misery--he can't find the words to speak.