Snippet of a Snapped Slave
Today, I had a proper catharsis and managed to dig up a measure of prose in its remaining form: Brief, smattered with theatrics, and completely out of context with the rest of the scene that apparently got trimmed, earmarked with a discarded note demanding a re-write. Apparently it was a slave rising up against their Mistress with delicious results.
"That's a good lil'Bitch," came the words she was used to spilling from her own lips, lips that were now suddenly wetted by a tongue that slowly traced along her gasping pout. Belly to belly now with the beast's own burden, she would find her wrists hauled down instead of ceremoniously put over her head and against the wall like any other male seeking a show of force. No, for those hands which had so cruelly wielded innumerable devices to wound his pride would now be used as mere leverage, handles to a fate that would only end well for him. And maybe for her. If she was lucky. And deep.
The knotted cock he wielded was sandwiched between them, his form shuffling ever-closer to the wall with little regard for whether or not she could breathe. Freely with his pre did he soil her pelt and its satin garb, sopping them as he marked her with that cinnamon-tanged arousal until they clung together, peeling apart with dribbly gossamer strands connecting them from time to time.
"Beg, y'lil'whore. Beg for me to make this fuckstick bore into your cunt, your core. Whimper for it to bloat your belly with kits like a proper slut. Or else you'll get real fuckin' intimate with it ramming in dry up the tail-end of your pretty lil'ass. Y'follow me?"
That demand prattled on all the while she finally found out the reason for being cozied southward, falling prey to the underside of that knot at his cock's base. It spread her lips ajar to let the the most powerful of his loins' veins throb against her clit like a feral, persistent drumbeat.
She stammered. Pleaded. To be fucked, bred, broken, tinged with flavorings of a fate she might fall to at his clutching claws. This was the woman who had wrought on his hide countless scars through year after year, night after night, each blissful moment he'd ever tried to savor flavored with the tang of his blood or tears.
There was no magic veil lifted in the wake of her whimpers. There was no rejuvenated pride. It was simply... Unremarkable. Typical.
And then she dared, in this moment of fury and absolution, to nip at him. Challenge him. Smile at him and wiggle a little bit.
"Please...~"
Her form, clad in sodden, sheer material, would appease him no more than a writhing oracle begging for mercy to the heavens above; the only saving grace her wanting could wish for was the fact he was no stellar distance afar and made of sin-riddled flesh. Close enough was she that though wounded, teased, taunted, and tortured by her very hand, her pitiful panting muzzle against his throat would find no damnation. He was a fair, albeit greedy titan and her words, her prayers, fell upon the ears of one all-too-eager to put her on the path of righteousness. There was little sacred about her impending fate, already obvious by her murmurings and the male stench permeating any amount of perfume she'd doused upon her fur, his musk boring into her as only beasts could will upon their bitches.
"Even as you beg, you're a smug cunt." Fingers let loose her wrist, trailing the cool, smooth arc of his clawtips over her pelt as his fingers wandered ever-higher along her arm. "You're not begging, you're practically a fucking toddler bouncing on Santa's lap and listing off the shiny little things you want this year... And I'm not gonna' have it."
CRACK came the sound of a paw held flat and daring to strike upon the cheek of the Mistress, flavored with a snarl even as that crisp sound's echo died.
"Don't patronize me, you worthless whore! Are you, or aren't you different?" Countless degredations funneled from his memories in a dribbling, parroted fashion right back at his Mistress, laced with the menace only the Imprisoned could muster. The meager press of her chest was answered with the crushing shove of his own, driving the breath from her lungs utterly and forcing her jaw to lay over his shoulder as the flank of his maw teased the rim of her ear.
"You've got a paw free now. Hit me. Scratch me. Try and fight me, you predictable pile of Bitchflesh. If your tears won't taste sweeter than some dimestore gutterskank..." The brute's chest eased back, but her breath would come no more easily than a moment before. A paw now held the back of her skull flush with the wall thanks to a near-strangling grip on her throat. "...I'm afraid I'm gonna' have to pluck those pretty little eyes right out from their sockets to see if they taste any better."
There was a dry, rasping sound as her fur and hair dragged against the smooth drywall, the vixen's entire body shifting several inches higher by the hold on her neck alone. "So let's try this again, y'sorry BitchMistress." The Slave's hand left her limp, disbelief-drugged wrist to rise level with her face. The healing started as yet another CRACK blistered the air, smacking his tormenter with the flat of palm and fingers alike.
And another.
And another.
All as he snarled, dared her maw to open, and stared with eyes seething the raw, aching hate of his scars.