protection from gravity

this story was commissioned by an anonymous darkweb client. don’t read if you don’t want to see some horrible shit. “why don’t we gore the t-boys more? whats up with that”

*

I always had trouble making friends. I don’t know what it is but sooner or later people get weird and I have no idea why. It’s like they smell something on me. I get a little excited sometimes, but who doesn’t?

Community college. Evening class. You stood out immediately to me. So small in your skinny jeans, always looking down at your phone. Which meant I could watch you extensively and I didn’t have to worry about ugly looks. Not that you could give a look like that. You’re perfect.

I found your profile. You posted a lot. Like you were begging someone to rescue you. Shitty roommates, disowned by your family. It made you so attractive to me. I was always on the edge of social groups, you know? Every time a friend started dating or met someone with an actual personality, I started sweating, knowing I’d be replaced. They never needed me.

But you do.

I was happy just watching you. Picking a strand of hair from your desk, peeling the bubblegum while it was warm and sticky from your mouth. Normal, harmless appreciation, squished into a sweet, fragrant doll of you. Then one day we were alone after class and you smiled at me. I think you were a little high. We didn’t talk about much. But you were like for sure, for sure, yeah. I get it. For sure. Just so incredibly nice. That was when I knew I could never be happy with nothing less than all of you, completely, forever.

It was easy to get you in the trunk of my car. I knew you’d be alone, compulsively checking your phone, oblivious to the world around you. You were walking to 7/11 for a Monster energy drink. Another bad habit. You’ve really started eating a lot better since then. Nice blended safe sweet slop for your little mouth. You used to get so scared. I mixed it up when I mixed it in, you never knew when you were going to get a dose of special boy sauce.

I steal them from work. Discontinued antipsychotics and sedatives. I had to experiment a lot with the dose. You developed a tremor. Harder to speak and swallow now. But it keeps you nice and sweet.

You haven’t eaten anything solid since you came to live with me. It would be dangerous. You could choke. The throat is a very vulnerable part of the body. That’s why the chain attached to your collar is so heavy you can barely move. Even moving the chain a few inches tires you out. You don’t have much counter-force to apply.

I rub the stumps of your legs to remind you of the first two times you tried to escape. What were you thinking, silly?

My finger traces the center of the stump, swirling, tingling, tickling, you get so worked up, our fun little game. No one has ever touched this part of you before. This sapling cross-section, this intimate pucker so close to the delicate sheath of your periosteum.

I get angry thinking about other people touching you. But I know any girlfriends or boyfriends you had only touched your superficial skin. When I grab you with both hands I am grabbing your marrow and meat and soul, this hefty helping of the smallest thing in the world.

You’re trembling. You’re so sensitive to my moods.

I check for bed sores. You rely on me for everything, even protection from gravity.

Your skin bruises so easily. You’re like a delicate fruit, peel ready to slip off at the slightest touch and reveal your wet vulnerable—

Full confession.

I didn’t know you were soft and slimy down there. It was a complete shock to me. I was really upset at first. I punished your surprise hole. Did a lot of things to make it change color and make messes and make you cry when I touched it. Everything was supposed to be perfect. Why didn’t you tell me?

But it makes sense, why you’re so small for a guy. And it’s one less thing to cut off. A preemptive stump. Needy and wet between the legs. The perfect size for me. I like your other hole too, but you lose control back there. My comfort scenario is plugging your anus up with something big enough that it makes your cunt even tighter. You make a mess on your puppy pad but we get in the shower together.

You wiggle and your face gets red when I scrub you down there. Sometimes I scrub too rough, until you cry. But you can’t do anything about it. You’ll never be able to touch yourself again. The scrape of the sponge is the closest you’ll get.

If you’ve been good, you get the soft yellow side of the sponge. If you’ve been bad, you get the rough green mesh.

You haven’t been able to masturbate for so long that sometimes, when you’re very worked up, you cum just from the sponge, even the green side. It looks painful. You always cry after like it wasn’t enough. And sure. I stop fucking you when I cum. So maybe it’s throbbing inside, frustrating and wet and gaping when I leave you chained up in the dark, soaked in your own urine.

Maybe it’s my fault. I try to reinforce the right behaviors. But I get so messed up in my head sometimes. I forget what’s a reward and what’s a punishment. Sometimes pushing myself inside you is a punishment. But how could it be anything but a reward?

Case in point. Last week I was holding your hand in mine. You were crying with those big eyes acting all terrified. I’d just finished cauterizing the stump. Your fingers were so small and pale and limp. I couldn’t remember why it happened. But I’m sure there was a good reason. And I’m sure whatever little thing you were doing just before I cut it off will be branded into your brain forever.

Every limb has a sound or smell or action associated with its removal. The ring of a cell phone. You tried to answer it when I was out of the room. But it was just a robocall. Now every time you hear my phone ring, you shit yourself. You can’t tell the difference between a real phone and a ring-ring in a cartoon anymore. I try to keep it on silent but what’s the point of having all this modern technology if you don’t use the features?

So even when we do that thing I actually really like and is so much fun for me and so pleasurable for me, you associate it, I guess, with your right foot being slowly removed with, admittedly not the best tool, a dull saw. I was sweating all night with that one. I go to work and my co-worker says, jeez, take a shower. I think he meant it in a joking way but you can never tell. People have all kinds of horrible secrets. But I looked into his eyes and saw that he couldn’t read my thoughts. He has very low sensitivity, unlike you.

I stood there surrounded by co-workers and thought, if only they knew.

So incredibly small. You were already so small when you came into my life. Something something soaking wet, you know? Skin and bones and all that good stuff. So fucking petite it’s a miracle. I didn’t know God made organs this small. You’re even lighter after losing weight and a few limbs.

I would love to take you somewhere. I bet I could take you anywhere and no one would know. You fit in a suitcase. I can see us on the beach. I always hated beaches. But with you I think it would be la bella vita. I heard that somewhere. It’s Italian for having a good time with your little buddy.

You gasp and gurgle. No one else will ever understand you but me. It took a long time to learn the language of your wet little sounds. But you’re worth it. I bet if someone else saw you, they’d think you were brain dead. But I know you’re in there. You’re just…softer. Mushier. Better.

Soundproofed basement. Hidden entrance. You exist only to me. Isn’t it cozy? Dim and cool. Surrounded by your toys. And my toys. I scrub the smell out every Friday. All the things that come out of you. Clean slate.

I put on your favorite show. No live action allowed. You get confused when there are scary sounds like yelling or gunshots or people yammering with closeups of their gross pores. You like cartoons with fun colors and cute sounds.

We fall asleep together, my body wrapped around you. So incredibly small without your limbs, like a grub. Like I could swallow you with my belly. Wouldn’t that be nice?

I get back from work. I’ve been thinking about you all day. I open the door and you’re already shivering. Even through the soundproofing, you’re sensitive to subtle changes in the house.

Sorry, buddy. Was I gone a long time? Work took forever today. It’s like you have a clock for me now. Your only routine is me coming and going.

Did you think I died? Did part of you wish I did? Even as part of you knew what would happen if I was truly gone?

I get paranoid sometimes. I have to know what you’re thinking.

My fingers run along the wall. I have all the special adult toys up here so you can look at them and think about them all day. Well, you don’t really have night or day anymore. It’s just this room.

Is the open door the sun? I’m getting jealous. I slam it shut. It’s just me. Clink tinkle rattle whisk ping donk bang shwing. All these tools have their own sound like one of your musical toys. And I know which ones I’ve used the most because of the red color coding. Some of these are so messy it’s almost black. I try to keep them clean but I get depressed and it’s hard.

This one is very clean. Maybe we never tried it before. Some people are novelty-learners. I saw that in a video. I bet you learn with novelty. You were always so special and never fit in, always kind of broken like me. I protect you from that crazy grinding world with its schools and jobs and schedules and manipulation and backbiting and I do it all so you don’t have to suffer. I’m like that meme of the soldier protecting the sleeping child from the knives except the knives are also coming out of me and into you and you’re screaming but they’re different knives knives of love shhh hold still, the pills will kick in soon. You won’t be able to move at all. Settle those stumps. Let daddy take care of everything.

You’re really fighting. Back arched, tummy flipping up so cute. Trying to crawl backwards but I have my hand on your belly. All it takes is a little touch to subdue your atrophied muscles. You’re just flailing in place. There we go. The drugs are kicking in. I wish I felt more comfortable with anesthetic but it’s just not super safe and I was never certified in that area.

Only the wet parts are moving now. Tears from your eyes. Tears of joy. Blood from the cut. Can’t spell cute without cut. You look so cute. I’m going to dress you up after this. There there. Stroking your forehead. Oops. Don’t worry it just slipped a little. I would never endanger your life. It just made you more unique and more special, if that’s even possible?

It’s so pretty. You open up so easily. My soft little boy. Sorry, I got saliva in the wound. It’s fine. Here’s antiseptic. I know it stings. Oops. Sorry. Don’t look. There we go. Just a little more, okay? Some of your favorite friends from the very first time. Love you in the skin love you in the muscle love you in the bone. One two three learning with me. Because it’s coarse and ugly if it’s just, violence, right? It has to be special it has to be a three course meal it’s Friday no work in the morning we’re staying up all night and you can fall asleep to your Saturday morning cartoons and don’t you see the juice box and Lunchable and blender all lined up?

The tip stings. The hammer taps. The teeth tickle. Letting you know exactly where everything will go. Wouldn’t it be funny if I switched one at the last second? I went to the hardware store on the way home. Just kind of grabbing things at random. They have ones in fun colors like pink and green with those rubber grips. It feels so comfortable and safe in my hand. My gift to you. I’d never take our relationship for granted.

Your eyes roll back. Your tongue thrashes. You get drool all over your face, glistening and sticky and shiny over the flushed skin. You make the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

I love you so much. I love you I love you I love you. Can you feel it? Can you feel my love? Louder. Louder. Thank you.

6 grubs honk balefully on “protection from gravity

  1. sigh. always a gore toy, never the freak with the gun. nah but this fucking rocks. i lovelovelove how you depict torturous sadistic love. all the bits of little casual control, like not being allowed to watch anything live action, that little denial of agency and respect. does our victim still have teeth and a tongue to talk? would our narrator ever let us listen? always a fan of what you write. maybe next time we could get some freak perv tboys. that’d be a treat for me in specific. -some transfem boygirl thing without a disgust response.

    1. thank you! torturous sadistic love yes!! no live action, that’s the most parental incestoid part of it, really, the arbitrary rules. i would love to write a totally degenerate tboy, it’s definitely on my list. i guess Rubicon is the closest so far? terroristboy…

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