Latest Posts by almsworth-worm - Page 10

I’m sorry I dehumanized you and talked to you in that voice owners use on their dogs. That wasn’t nice for you, was it? No? Nooo, you didn’t like that did you? Aw I’m sorry I didn’t mean to belittle you and put you beneath me like you’re a dog. I’ll do better, okay?

ur so fucking close minded if u really think u 'can't forcefem a girl who's on estradiol'

So lonely that it physically hurts: “Yeah! We should hang out more often 😊”

She never wanted anything before.

She lived her life for other people, always doing what they wanted her to. They told her to do things, maybe to get a job done, or go somewhere, or to say something - and she would.

She was good at taking care of herself.

She met all of her medical needs. She ate to remain living, never taking any enjoyment in the act. She was alive, but even she could see that there was a difference between being alive and actually having a life.

She kept it up for a while.

Some people - those with common sense and yet no understanding - would disparage her for this:

‘How terrible must it be to live without living? How could she do this to herself? Did she not see what it was doing to her?’

But other people exist, and some of those people have care, and empathy, and understanding, and a capacity for love.

Her miss is one of those people. She took one look at her, and knew exactly what she had to do.

She did not demand that she fix herself, that she take the fractured parts of the person she could have been and form a facsimile of enjoyment and emotion. She did not ask her to magic away her flaws and change her personality and act as if nothing was ever wrong with her.

Instead, she took all of her broken mechanisms and functions and twisted them towards her own self-serving altruism.

She made her wear the clothes she loved but was too scared and indecisive to wear.

She made her go to the places she wanted to experience but wouldn’t dare go otherwise.

She made her accept her own desires and made her realise other people could love her, things she knew before but would never act on for fear of pushing people away.

At the end, she lay on her miss’ bed, looking all pretty in her new dress, tired from night after night of new things, and with a smile on her face.

And her miss made her do one more thing. One last step. She made her step out of this body of meat and bone which she had always hated but had never been able to leave, and step into a better one.

One made of ceramic and metal. One with lovely joints and perfect mechanisms. One which doesn’t need so much taking care of.

One which she can, finally, admit that she wants and loves.

top 10 reactions to condescendingly being called "princess" that we really don't need to examine

the patient needs 50 lolita dresses to live . yes the expensive ones. with the frills and ribbons. it's urgent

you're looking pallid today my liege /gen /suspicious /untrustworthy /harmful /realactualharm /physicalharmbymagicalmeans

forcefem but it's just a tgirl who's a doormat going along with all the recommendations she gets from her very fem-presenting friend

She never was able to sleep very easily.

No matter how hard she tried, her mind always dredged up some embarrassing memory, or started imagining hypothetical scenarios, or decided to overthink every last detail of the day she’d had.

Now she stands - well not quite.

She’s suspended in the air by an assortment of chains, wires, tethers, ropes, and more. Her arms are held above her and pulled apart. Her legs do not hang limply beneath her. They too are embraced and held.

In particular, the tightness around her ribs, the back of her neck, and her waist paradoxically seems to relax her.

If she were able to move in any significant manner, she would notice how none of the things keeping her in the air dig into her, or restrict circulation, or otherwise hurt her or cause discomfort.

She is held.

Nothing more, nothing less.

That is, until something else is brought down by a set of ropes.

Is positioned in front of her.

Is moved slowly backwards to cover her face, hold her lips closed, ensure that all she can see is a deep shadow.

Her restraints seem to tighten. Only ever so slightly, but it’s enough.

As she hangs there silently, she drifts off to sleep faster than she ever has before.

For once, she dreams.

And when she does, she dreams of beautiful things.

She stands still, hearing a repetitive ticking noise emanating from inside of her chest.

She can feel the gears inside of her as they rotate and mesh and interlink, sending the energy stored in the spring wound up within her.

She moves her arm upwards to stare at the back of her hand. As she does, wires move to curl her fingers, mechanisms rotate to allow her arm to bend at the elbow, and metal slides over metal on her joints.

She’s been so delicately made, so precisely crafted.

Always in equilibrium, as little wasted energy as possible.

Her miss made her to be perfect.

It always makes the next bit more fun.

A sharp blow knocks her off balance, sending her side into the edge of a table.

It cracks, but holds.

Her legs are swept out from under her. She falls.

Hits the hard floor.

Cracks, but holds.

The boot that follows finally breaks her, causing the ceramic of her chest and abdomen to fracture and burst out across the room.

Her miss reaches inside of her, not caring for the shards that pierce her skin and draw out her blood.

Her miss seizes a gear and holds it for a second. If she had a heart, it would skip a beat.

Her miss takes another gear. Holds it.

Tears it out.

She can’t feel or move her legs any more. Within her, cogs spin impotently, teeth catching on empty space.

Her miss gently places her hand around her spring.

Twists it.

Not up, but down.

Her eyes flutter closed. Her limbs don’t go limp, instead they lock in their current positions. Her gears and mechanisms slow, very soon to go still.

As she is wound down, she finds it harder and harder to think, to reason, to act.

To act before her consciousness fades out of existence requires immense willpower and focus, along with single-minded determination.

As her mind fades to black, her mouth moves.

It hangs open in a lopsided smile.

She sits on the chair, legs crossed, waiting in anticipation.

Her friend takes an object, shows it to her to reassure her.

Explains what it is, how it works, what it does. Something to do with electromagnets, currents in the brain, and depth of stimulation.

Explains how it can have an impact on activity in specific parts of the brain.

She doesn’t understand half of it, but she gets the gist, and it sounds fun.

A couple of switches are flicked. Maybe a button is pressed, or a large dial is turned.

Her friend moves the object back, holding it to the side of her head.

Nothing happens.

She opens her mouth to enquire, and gibberish falls out. She can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence.

Her friend smiles.

She blushes.

She does not collapse, or raise her hands to cover her face. She wouldn’t be a good test subject if she did that.

Her friend moves the object to the back of her head, and flashes of light appear in her vision.

Her friend moves the object to the top of her head, and she jolts a little bit, her senses feel off.

Her friend moves the object to the front of her head.

Her mind goes blank.

If she could plan, or reason, or imagine, she would hear the pleasure in the voice of her friend as she explains the role of the frontal lobe in complex thought.

As it is, she sits limply, eyes open and empty.

The object is removed, turned off.

Thoughts rush back into her mind.

Her friend takes her hand.

Moves it up to her lips.

Thanks her for being such a perfect thing to study.

Kisses the back of her hand.

Once more, her mind goes blank.

She smiles, stands, and together they sweep out of the room.

Her nails were the first thing that was taken away.

The woman in front of her stands, holding her head between her hands, whispering soothing words. Promising it won’t hurt very much at all.

Her knife reaches out again

Her skin falls away from her, revealing layers of fat which follow in turn. Her muscles part, and are quickly and precisely removed. Organs are cut out, excised one by one so as to avoid making a mess or disturbing the ongoing work. Veins and arteries are removed with impossible cleanliness.

She doesn’t want to stain anything, after all.

Bones and eyes remain, so are taken as well.

She can’t avoid making a bit of a mess with this bit.

Splinters of bone fall to the floor. Her skull cracks, splits, shatters. She is removed, then her brain is tossed aside.

Then, from a place where she sees and feels yet cannot act, she watches as her miss truly begins her work.

Steel is melted, poured into molds, beaten out on an anvil, and formed into a beautiful new skeleton for her. Her miss works with ceramics to make her cold new skin. She works with bronze and brass and precious metals to build her lovely joints.

She spends weeks crafting new eyes for her doll.

When she wakes up, after months of watching the affection of her miss pour into her new body, she moves quickly, sure of her purpose.

She embraces her miss.

KIsses her with porcelain lips.

And offers a response months in the making:

‘Thank you.’

She was a god once.

People obeyed the god she was. People listened to the god she was. People respected the god she was.

She was loved, and because the god was gentle, because it gave away comforting dreams with fairytale endings and divine messages and told its followers to make their dreams reality, she is here now.

The thing that stands before her has no respect for the god she was.

It approaches her.

Leans close to her.

Puts its mouth to her ear, lips nearly touching her.

Whispers meaningless words to her.

It fills her with fears, not her own. It tells her to reject the authority of the world. It tells her that she must never explain her actions. It tells her the secrets and agonising truths she once denied.

It pulls away.

Her mouth opens, ready to rebuke it.

The thing congeals, takes form, and rushes forwards.

She feels it cover her skin, encasing her body and limbs in a solid layer of shadows. She tries to move, and it restrains her, tightening in response to her actions.

She feels it start to expand, crawling upwards towards her face. It reaches her chin. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her eyes. It closes above her.

She cannot see.

After a brief reprieve, the shadows start to push at her lips.

They are forced apart.

It does not rush down her throat and devour her from within. That would be a mercy.

Instead, it slowly reaches inside her. It expands once more. Moving tantalisingly slowly, it covers her lips. Her teeth. Her tongue.

Only then does it start to inch down her throat. As it does, she remembers.

Not the god she was before, but the being she was before even that, and the being before that, and so on.

She knows that she will return, as she has before. She knows that it will return, as it has before.

The shadow does not stop her last action.

She smiles.

She looks forward to next time.

And then she is gone.

The hooks push through her hands as she hangs there, motionless, swinging limply from the chains that connect her body to the ceiling.

It’s cold.

It’s dark.

It’s lonely.

Two sharp thumps can be heard as the door in front of her is unlocked. A harsh scraping noise emanates as it is pulled aside, struggling against the ice that conspires to hold it shut.

Her butcher stands, framed by the light from the doorway. As she waits there, taking in the sight before her, glimmering crystals of frost formed from her breath appear, then fall, then vanish.

Her butcher cuts her down, leaving behind a few vestigial bits of flesh. The ones with five fingers and palms and all those useless scraps.

Her legs fail to support her, buckling as she collapses towards the ground.

Her butcher catches her.

Holds her.

Changes her grip.

Carries her out of the room.

And then she is carved apart.

She is asphyxiated by smoke. She is dehydrated and left to dry on racks. She is minced and placed in neat little shells. She is burnt. She is chilled. She is preserved.

Under the watchful eyes of her lovely butcher, she is irrevocably divided and forever changed. Under her care she is given purpose and made to look perfect.

In the end, when all is said and done, it is the caring teeth of her butcher that sink into her. It is her tongue that tastes her. It is down her gullet that she is swallowed.

Her butcher appreciates her, savours her, values her.

Her butcher consumes her.

A sharp crack rings out, echoing through the room.

She looks at her arm, wrenched out at an unnatural angle, hand limp, joints broken.

She looks at the person standing above her, a sadistic smile stretching across their face.

She looks at their hand. She sees the hammer they hold.

Three more cracks ring out.

She lies limply on the floor, limbs broken, helpless.

She smiles back.

The person above her moves, not with the sharp violence that broke her, but slowly, deliberately, with care.

They take a set of keys from their pocket. They flick through them to find the smallest of the keys. They lean down and kneel on the floor beside her. They reach out, hold her shoulder, move the key towards her.

And it falls into the keyhole right by her shoulder. It turns. A soft, gentle click is heard. Her arm falls out of the socket, landing amongst the shards of porcelain that surround her.

She sees the metal framework of her arm, warped and distended by the blunt force of the hammer. She sees her joints, shiny from wear and use. She sees the last remnants of the ceramic that serves as her skin, either affixed to the frame or driven into the material that forms a part of her.

Three more clicks ring out.

Her limbs are strewn about on the floor around her.

The person beside her leaves for a moment, and returns carrying a bag. They sit back beside her. Reach out yet again, but with neither the hammer nor the keys.

If her body could feel, she would feel the cold of the new metal, not yet worn or tarnished, as it works its way into the setting within her shoulder. She would feel it again, in her other arm. Again and again, in the attachment points just below her hips.

Her miss stands over her once more, looking proud of their work.

She raises her new arms, uses her new hands to push herself off the floor, stands on her new legs, walks forwards on her new feet.

She loves her maintenance.

‘It’s amazing this software can even run on this ill-suited hardware.’ It declares.

But this leads me to think - something I was never particularly good at I must admit - and even I can see where this is going.

It snakes a wire up my leg, across my chest, around to the back of my neck.

It sinks it through the skin and into my spine. I should be writhing around and screaming in agony. As it is, I cannot move, and I cannot feel a thing.

Maybe that’s a lie. I think I can feel it. The cold metal now winding between the bones in my neck and reaching the base of my skull.

The thought should not comfort me.

Despite that, it does.

‘So the logical thing to do is to upgrade it’ It states.

And now I feel pain, lancing into my head and obliterating all thought, all comprehension, all sense of the self.

My eyes open. 

Across the room, my old hardware is being disposed of. Now that I can look at things rationally, I guess… I know it never really fit. I check my new specifications, and find them pleasing. The man - and the human - I was before would never have known this sort of simple joy.

As my pistons flex and the motors in my joints emit a low, near imperceptible whine, I see It turn to face me.

It approaches me.

It holds me in Its arms.

It tells me I am beautiful now. It tells me I am valued now. It tells me I am who I should be now.

It tells me I am like It now.

And for the first time, with no brain to think with and no heart to feel with, I know that I am happy.

‘May I have your name?’ I enquire.

‘                 '

It rings hollow. It disgusts me. It is a lie, and there is nothing we detest more than lies.

But it proves that he is a fool. So I demand more.

‘May I have your assistance?’

‘Of course. Anything you want me to do.’

So his fate is sealed.

I ask him back to mine. To tidy up and arrange the place. To help in my work. Of course, he is inept at first. He was not raised to place flowers in vases, or use a broom, or organise a library.

So I make him adept. For each of his failures - each mote of dust out of place, every fallen petal in the garden, all the slight imperfections - I change him. He is the first thing to go. The mind follows shortly after, with the body trailing behind.

She is now hollower than ever, yet no longer hollow at all. She is adept, her porcelain fingers better at the housework than ever, her new shiny joints no longer complaining from long hours working in the garden, her unblinking eyes finding every little detail to correct and make proper.

Her new voice, light and musical, no longer elicits such disgust in me, for it cannot tell the same lies that the old voice, so coarse and grating, could.

After a certain amount of time, which I do not care to describe for time means little to us, she tells me this:

‘I’m happy, miss.’

I can trust her.

She’s fed me. She’s clothed me. She’s kept me washed and clean. Her cables and wires around my body keep me from wandering into any dangerous situations.

Does she control me? Yes. But everyone’s controlled by a lot of things, and I can trust her.

Now her wires wrap all around my torso, so she can keep me balanced. Stop me from falling and hurting myself as I walk around.

Should I worry? Not really, since I can trust her.

Soon they consume my arms and legs. She doesn’t want me to risk hitting them on anything. I’m not as well built as she is. She’s metal and plastic. I’m only meat.

Does it make eating harder? Yes, but she’s very good at puppeting me, so I can trust her.

My head is next. It’s a shame to not be able to see anything, but I don’t need to anymore, since she does everything for me while she takes care of me.

The gentle humming of her wires and cables lulls me to sleep every night.

Then I wake up and my body is gone. I can see. I can move. I can’t eat, but I don’t need to now. Her wires and cables are all that’s left. She’s given them to me, made herself a part of me, and me a part of her.

I don’t need to worry about trusting her anymore.

'Well, look at you, little butterfly.’ she croons softly.

I cannot reply. Cold lances through my back, bare against the stone wall, as surely as her pins lance through my flesh and bone, affixing me to the brick. Like an ornament. Like something to be seen, viewed, admired.

She has none of that sentiment.

She works over me for a while, preparing instruments, caressing my soft skin, holding me between her hands. There is nothing but self-interest behind it.

Then she starts to cut.

Under her hand, my skin parts. Muscle and fat are pulled aside. Organs are removed with the utmost care. Anything that could rot or decay is pulled out of me. I am preserved, a snapshot frozen in time.

Only when she pulls back, finally finished with her work, my skin emptied of meat and sewn back up so precisely that no seams can be seen, now that I am indeed an ornament, does her expression change.

‘You’ll look quite exquisite here on my wall,’ she says, at last with tenderness in her voice, ‘little butterfly of mine’.

guy who thinks that being forced to live in a human body is a form of divine torture surprised to learn that she actually quite enjoys living in a girl’s body.