Objective (i.e. Highly Subjective) Best Part Of Going To The Club Is Getting To Roll Whatever Absurd

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The door swings open and closed as she is pushed through and into the room.

The hand of her friend rests in the space between her chest and her shoulder, forcing her backwards and backwards and down.

Her back meets the lip of the bed, but the pressure does not relent. 

Sure, she could resist and stay standing and put an end to this fun, but she chooses not to.

She continues backwards, falling onto the bed.

The hand is removed from her body.

She stays still.

Her limbs are strewn about around her. Her hair fans out where her head met the bed. Her eyes, looking so so empty, stare emptily and needily upwards.

A click.

Her eyes regain focus for a second, and she looks up at her friend, standing there with a camera and looking at her through the viewfinder of her camera. A smile plays at her lips, disguised by the plastic and metal and electronics that serve to immortalise this moment. The aperture moves and refocuses on her.

Another click. 

The shutter opens and closes.

The smile on her friend’s face widens. This must have been a good photo, she thinks.

Her friend reaches down towards her.

Her eyes flicker open and closed.

Her hand is on her clothes. Her friend relinquishes the camera for a moment, pulling her limp arms above her head before she smoothly pulls her top off of her.

She shivers, suddenly exposed to the cold air.

Her friend giggles, and she stills once more.

The lens moves backwards and forwards.

Another click.

This time her friend does not let go of the camera. Her hand caresses her chest, then moves around to her back, and undoes the clasps of her bra before deftly removing it, throwing it into the corner of the room.

She takes her time with this one, getting the perfect angle and lighting and focus.

The subject is already perfect, she thinks.

Another click.

Her friend moves again, and pushes her skirt upwards.

Another click.

Her friend stretches out, and brings her skirt down, discarding it onto the floor.

Another click.

Her tights are removed. She can hear them breaking and she does not care.

Another click.

Her underwear goes next.

Another click.

…

Her friend pauses, and looks down at her, a slight frown on her face.

She turns.

She throws a pillow down before her, intent clear.

Her subject is so lovely, but she wants more.

Why not see such a lovely thing in action and movement?

She stirs, and takes the pillow between her legs.

She moves, repeated movements backwards and forwards and so on.

Another click.

Her friend’s hand is on her hair.

It rests there for a moment.

It pulls, short and sharp and painful.

Another click.

The hand moves down to her mouth.

She opens her mouth, and her friend drives her thumb inside, pulling on her cheek.

Another click.

Their hand is removes and placed on her chin, forcing her upwards to look at her.

Another click.

Another click.

Another click.

She comes undone. She writhes and begs and whimpers and moans and shakes. Her mouth moves, making no coherent sounds, only noise. Her eyes roll back in her head and then return, glassy and vacant.

Another click.

She is released, and falls back down onto the bed.

Another click.

Her friend lies down beside her, and brings her camera up, showing her the screen.

There are so many photographs of her, exposed and limp and moving and broken, and her friend delights in showing her empty and exhausted eyes each and every last one of them.

What little of her mind remains drifts into the embrace of sleep.

One last click, for good measure.

Her boss sits at the table, staring across at another man. Well, she notes dryly in her head, not a man. Never a man, at least not again. He’s pale, same as her and her boss. 

To some, he would look almost like a corpse.

To a small, unlucky few, they would recognise him as one.

She busies herself with tasks, pouring drinks, keeping candles lit, and delegating to the other servants. She checks the oven, ensuring the temperature within is just right. Too low, and the meal would be cold and unpleasant. Too high, and it would be charred to death and boiled and ruined.

It wouldn’t do for her to ruin a meal. It would be so improper to serve anything less than perfection, so she’s become adept at cooking. She knows the tastes and preferences of her boss perhaps better than her own. She knows how to pick the right supplier for her meals. She knows how to prepare and present them with an absolute minimum of mess and panic.

In the kitchen, a timer rings, snapping her out of her routine.

The meal ought to be perfectly warm by now.

She takes them out of the oven, checks them over with a keen eye. All parts unnecessary for consumption have been skilfully removed by her hand, and it’s in the perfect state to be served up.

She moves the meal on top of a trolley, such that it can be more easily served. Even her new lifestyle hasn’t made her strong enough to carry the whole thing on a plate, and it’s not as if it can exactly walk anymore.

She rolls the trolley into the room, and slides the metal tray onto the table. She stands in the corner, behind her boss, and looks on politely.

They start on their meal.

As they lean forwards to drain the meal, it reacts. She wasn’t careless enough to kill it, after all. That would ruin the blood. Sealed lips quiver. Hollow eye sockets twitch, trying to focus eyes that no longer exist. Muscles, devoid of limbs to attach to, tense and lock up. Its breaths become short and shaky. 

It attempts to scream.

So rude.

It should remember it has no vocal cords.

After a while, it stills. The meal is over now.

She removes and disposes of the leftovers before returning to her room.

wanna be called puppy in mundane situations, “thank you puppy” when i do you a favor, “pretty puppy” when i show off my outfit, “c’mere puppy” when asking to cuddle

I love gay characters without romantic interests

being sad and trying to think about ur favorite characters to make yourself feel better is always kinda funny when every character u like is an abominable piece of shit. try to think "[X] would comfort me" no they would fucking Noooootttttt. Lol

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I start having weird thoughts about becoming a girl whenever I smoke weed? Like the last time I got stoned I bought a skirt from goodwill and tried it on and it felt nice but I don't know if that confirms anything. Should I stop?

No