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5/27/2025, 12:59:04 PM
"As long as I'm not in..." Actually, if you're in agony, you could potentially beat your pain record. You shouldn't say that. "...As long as I don't start sprouting extra arms?"
"Of course not. I'm very good at this. Shall we?"
You wind up flat on a cot— Richard wanted a table, but you consented to unbearable agony, not an irritating backache. You also insisted that Richard wear safety goggles, so he'd look more professional. In return (as revenge?), Richard sticks his fingers into your chest, tweaks something that makes you flinch, and instructs you to bite yourself. Yes, venom and all. It's that or restraints.
Reluctantly, you pump venom into your forearm, and your muscles fall buzzily, numbly unresponsive. Including your jaw: Richard pushes your mouth shut with a finger. "Don't drool. Think loudly if anything unpleasant arises. Notably unpleasant, that is."
Notably unpleasant, because him plunging two hands into your Very Being is always unpleasant— though not as bad as you were expecting. You feel every twitch palpably, and it still casts a pall of unease, but no mortal terror. You suppose you trust him. Not like that. Not about anything else. But you haven't lost your memory of his wicked betrayal, and you haven't woken up slavishly devoted to him, even though you're sure he could do that. Could he do that?
"It's against policy, Charlotte." He pulls his chair up closer.
Uh-huh. Like he cares so much about policy. In any case, maybe it's that, or maybe your Very Being is used to it by now. Richard is being careful, and you haven't sprouted arms yet, though you are seeing bright spots. Does that count as notably unpleasant?
"Not unless they're blinding you. Report how this feels."
"This": a full-fist twist of your strings. You might've yelped or might've spasmed, but stay numb and silent as the effect sets in: a narrowing of your vision, a renewed spate of bright spots, a sense of weight. You imagine the cot distending under you.
"But not painful? Faculties intact? Good." He twists again, forcefully, and you contract; your hands shunt into your wrists, your wrists into your elbows, your ankles into your knees, and so on, and so on, but you don't know if it's real. Or if you only feel that way. Your limbs or what remain of them feel light, hollow, and it's your twisted chest that's lead. No, Richard, it isn't painful. But you would like it to stop.
"Only way out is through, Charlotte Fawkins. See if this eases it." He extracts his left hand, blows on it, and punches two fingers through your temple. A second later, you're hollow in the head, too, and the cot is made of candyfloss and eiderdown, and Richard can do more of that, if he wants. You wouldn't mind.
"No." He extracts the fingers and tightens his grip, the only thing keeping you from floating away. "Your susceptibility to pleasure is a weak point we'll address, but forget that for now. Try this."
(2/5)
"Of course not. I'm very good at this. Shall we?"
You wind up flat on a cot— Richard wanted a table, but you consented to unbearable agony, not an irritating backache. You also insisted that Richard wear safety goggles, so he'd look more professional. In return (as revenge?), Richard sticks his fingers into your chest, tweaks something that makes you flinch, and instructs you to bite yourself. Yes, venom and all. It's that or restraints.
Reluctantly, you pump venom into your forearm, and your muscles fall buzzily, numbly unresponsive. Including your jaw: Richard pushes your mouth shut with a finger. "Don't drool. Think loudly if anything unpleasant arises. Notably unpleasant, that is."
Notably unpleasant, because him plunging two hands into your Very Being is always unpleasant— though not as bad as you were expecting. You feel every twitch palpably, and it still casts a pall of unease, but no mortal terror. You suppose you trust him. Not like that. Not about anything else. But you haven't lost your memory of his wicked betrayal, and you haven't woken up slavishly devoted to him, even though you're sure he could do that. Could he do that?
"It's against policy, Charlotte." He pulls his chair up closer.
Uh-huh. Like he cares so much about policy. In any case, maybe it's that, or maybe your Very Being is used to it by now. Richard is being careful, and you haven't sprouted arms yet, though you are seeing bright spots. Does that count as notably unpleasant?
"Not unless they're blinding you. Report how this feels."
"This": a full-fist twist of your strings. You might've yelped or might've spasmed, but stay numb and silent as the effect sets in: a narrowing of your vision, a renewed spate of bright spots, a sense of weight. You imagine the cot distending under you.
"But not painful? Faculties intact? Good." He twists again, forcefully, and you contract; your hands shunt into your wrists, your wrists into your elbows, your ankles into your knees, and so on, and so on, but you don't know if it's real. Or if you only feel that way. Your limbs or what remain of them feel light, hollow, and it's your twisted chest that's lead. No, Richard, it isn't painful. But you would like it to stop.
"Only way out is through, Charlotte Fawkins. See if this eases it." He extracts his left hand, blows on it, and punches two fingers through your temple. A second later, you're hollow in the head, too, and the cot is made of candyfloss and eiderdown, and Richard can do more of that, if he wants. You wouldn't mind.
"No." He extracts the fingers and tightens his grip, the only thing keeping you from floating away. "Your susceptibility to pleasure is a weak point we'll address, but forget that for now. Try this."
(2/5)
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