drcuriouslxix

[drcuriouslxix]

endless size greed lucoa. endless size greed monika. endless size greed miku. endless size greed asuna. endless size greed elegg. endless size greed nicole.

[drcuriouslxix]

elayne bimbofication sequence doodle

[drcuriouslxix]

source

[drcuriouslxix]

Excessive titty is best titty

[drcuriouslxix]

(okay doc. everyone's sending in asks. this is it. this is your big chance. think of a good joke. don't blow it...)

I've heard of pointy nipples but this is ridiculous! -drcuriouslxix

Hey, not my fault it's so nippy outside today!

[laugh track]

...It absolutely is my fault for becoming afflicted with the hyper nipple curse though. That was on purpose.

Yes, it is unbreakable and endless.

[drcuriouslxix]

Boys are meant to have hourglass figures and giant boobs

[drcuriouslxix]

bends you to my will

[drcuriouslxix]

Well if all the mutuals are gonna be weighing in. I have no strong opinions on most NTR personally, I'm more interested in other scenarios with occasionally, but not necessarily, overlapping subjects (e.g. mind control)

[drcuriouslxix]

i'm gonna need like 3 to 10 times as much R*aring Knight pornography as currently exists. yeah with tits and huge ass. no i don't care if that ruins their design

[drcuriouslxix]

There are long periods of what would be loneliness, were Her Ladyship not always with her. She will go days - or you can call them months, or years, and you would be just as sure of it as she was - without seeing another person. She does not seek the living guests out, but on exceptionally rare occasions one will enter a room where she is working. They are typically panicked, desperate, gaunt and dirty. Most she sees only for a few seconds before they either exit the room or find themselves ended by Her Ladyship's vast array of deadly traps. Some are calmer, in the moment, examining the minutest detail of the room with critical eyes and attempting to discern patterns and meanings. She privately believes their search to be futile, but does not tell them this.

There are other members of the staff, as well. She has seen other maids - generally only in passing, but rarely a task will require more than one of them to cooperate. Some of them look identical to her - or at least the version of herself she glimpses in reflective surfaces - and she wonders if perhaps they are herself from another time, or clones, or merely other humans that Her Ladyship has made to match. She would never ask them, of course - one of Her Ladyship's commandments is that the staff are not to speak to one another.

There are others beyond the maids that she understands to be part of the staff, as well, though she has the suspicion that they do not think the same, or at least not with the same vocabulary. She has seen rough, faceless humanoids of jagged metal and glass lumbering in pursuit of sprinting guests. She has seen skinless, eyeless serpents the size of horses nesting inside cupboards. Once - only once - she saw a hooded, four-armed figure, 30 feet high, etching geometric patterns of unclear purpose into Her Ladyship's walls (in that room, they were featureless planes of solid gold) with its fingertips. None interfered with or questioned her work, and she offered the same respect to theirs.

She does not know where the guests come from, and the explanations they volunteer on the rare occasions they speak to her are vague and contradictory. Perhaps there is, or was, a place that was not Her Ladyship from which they entered; perhaps they were creations of Her Ladyship, purposeful or accidental. It was not her place to speculate. She does not question them, but politely responds to them when they question or converse with her. It has become apparent to her that none of the guests have ever met any of the others.

Often, when a guest's remains are to be removed, she finds notes upon their person. She is not, herself, permitted to make records - whatever she must remember or know, Her Ladyship will ensure that she does without them. Most of these papers and devices she is ordered to dispose of by various means - roaring furnaces, industrial shredders that dominate entire walls, vast chasms, hungry mouths that open upon dead ends in corridors. These methods typically suffice for the more intact bodies, as well. The one thing Her Ladyship wishes retained is maps.

It is a kind of vanity, she supposes. Her Ladyship loves to see depictions of Herself, and treasures each one within Her library. It holds no books from the outside world, if such a place was ever anything but fancy; only shelf after shelf crammed with disparate sheets of paper, some bound in hasty stacks, some folded and creased, each depicting a floorplan of but an infinitesimal fraction of Her Ladyship. They are, of course, useless even as they are made - it is readily apparent that Her Ladyship rearranges herself, so one's steps can never be retraced. She saw a note in the margins once of one particularly careful rendering of winding, incoherently arranged hallways and chambers. It estimated, by some obscure methodology, the extent of Her Ladyship's spaces, in cubic miles. She cannot recall the number precisely, now, but it was high in the hundreds of quadrillions.

Her Ladyship has made her know that this is a profound underestimate.

Thinking about a maid tending to a vast, impossible, functionally infinite structure.

You could call it a house, but that wouldn't really be accurate. Certainly there are rooms that resemble those in an everyday domicile, furnished and apparently welcoming, where the maid spends much of her time. But the doors from the charming parlors lead into serpentining crypts, industrial chambers of riveted metal with whining hot machinery, empty towers of spiraling marble and crystal, cramped wooden rooms seemingly transplanted from antique sailing vessels that creak and sway gently.

Possibly "building", but there are parts of it that appear to be caverns and tunnels of eroded stone, and she isn't aware of any actual exterior for it to be built in, or any way that any living being could have built it. It is, perhaps, the entire world, or something that has supplanted the world. She prefers merely to think of the place as Her Ladyship. It is very convenient, the maid thinks, for the lady to which she tends and the space in which she lives to be one and the same.

Her duties are not as complex or varied as they would be with a human mistress. There is no need to prepare Her Ladyship's meals, tend to Her social calendar, dress Her, go into market on Her behalf. Most of her tasks consist of cleaning Her Ladyship - sweeping Her tiles, dusting Her shelves, scrubbing a guest's leavings off Her concealed blades, arranging the trinkets upon one of Her mantelpieces into a more pleasing formation. The maid does not - cannot - make any of the messes she is tasked with removing, a fact in which she takes a quiet pride. Her footsteps are light as air, she and her uniform are always perfectly crisp and clean. Not a single cell of skin is ever shed. But the guests are most untidy, especially the ones who have stopped moving.

She is not a living human, at least not in a conventional sense. The gentle touch of Her Ladyship has graced much of her being. She does not hunger or thirst, though occasionally she happens upon small plates of dainty sweets or cups of tea in which Her Ladyship permits her to indulge. She does not tire - though she occasionally chooses to sleep when she has no other pressing duties, should she find herself in a bedroom. Her dreams are either nonexistent, unremembered, or indistinguishable from waking life. Telling time here is hard - there are calendars and timepieces, but none seem to agree, and measuring the days without a sun proves impractical - but she is sure she has been working for Her Ladyship for many times an average human lifespan. She is not certain she can ever die.

She does not recall whether she was born - perhaps created - within Her Ladyship in this state, or was once human before entering Her Ladyship's employ. She has no memory of a name, of an identity other than 'maid' - not merely a profession, but a sense of self etched bone-deep into her identity. Intellectually, she is aware that she should most likely find this philosophically terrifying, but existential dread is not an emotion Her Ladyship allows her the capacity to feel. Sadness, anger, envy, and dread are mere academic notions to her, at this point. Terror is similarly absent, though Her Ladyship permits a basic level of instinctual fear to keep her away from obvious harm and danger.

Love, or something like it, remains. Love is the succinctest term for it, but the simplicity of the word obscures how much it consumes the maid's life. It is at once a romantic attachment, an almost fanatic quasireligious devotion, and a sexual obsession. Her Ladyship is the only target of her desires, and to spend every moment with her fills her with both a profound contentment and a tense erotic thrill. She is aware of her arousal in the same way that others are aware of their breathing - it is so constant as to be unnoticed when not focused upon, but when the mind turns to it, it becomes harder and harder to ignore. Her Ladyship does not begrudge her tending to her desires, when she has need - so long as it is done between assignments, and leaves no mess.

[drcuriouslxix]

Thinking about a maid tending to a vast, impossible, functionally infinite structure.

You could call it a house, but that wouldn't really be accurate. Certainly there are rooms that resemble those in an everyday domicile, furnished and apparently welcoming, where the maid spends much of her time. But the doors from the charming parlors lead into serpentining crypts, industrial chambers of riveted metal with whining hot machinery, empty towers of spiraling marble and crystal, cramped wooden rooms seemingly transplanted from antique sailing vessels that creak and sway gently.

Possibly "building", but there are parts of it that appear to be caverns and tunnels of eroded stone, and she isn't aware of any actual exterior for it to be built in, or any way that any living being could have built it. It is, perhaps, the entire world, or something that has supplanted the world. She prefers merely to think of the place as Her Ladyship. It is very convenient, the maid thinks, for the lady to which she tends and the space in which she lives to be one and the same.

Her duties are not as complex or varied as they would be with a human mistress. There is no need to prepare Her Ladyship's meals, tend to Her social calendar, dress Her, go into market on Her behalf. Most of her tasks consist of cleaning Her Ladyship - sweeping Her tiles, dusting Her shelves, scrubbing a guest's leavings off Her concealed blades, arranging the trinkets upon one of Her mantelpieces into a more pleasing formation. The maid does not - cannot - make any of the messes she is tasked with removing, a fact in which she takes a quiet pride. Her footsteps are light as air, she and her uniform are always perfectly crisp and clean. Not a single cell of skin is ever shed. But the guests are most untidy, especially the ones who have stopped moving.

She is not a living human, at least not in a conventional sense. The gentle touch of Her Ladyship has graced much of her being. She does not hunger or thirst, though occasionally she happens upon small plates of dainty sweets or cups of tea in which Her Ladyship permits her to indulge. She does not tire - though she occasionally chooses to sleep when she has no other pressing duties, should she find herself in a bedroom. Her dreams are either nonexistent, unremembered, or indistinguishable from waking life. Telling time here is hard - there are calendars and timepieces, but none seem to agree, and measuring the days without a sun proves impractical - but she is sure she has been working for Her Ladyship for many times an average human lifespan. She is not certain she can ever die.

She does not recall whether she was born - perhaps created - within Her Ladyship in this state, or was once human before entering Her Ladyship's employ. She has no memory of a name, of an identity other than 'maid' - not merely a profession, but a sense of self etched bone-deep into her identity. Intellectually, she is aware that she should most likely find this philosophically terrifying, but existential dread is not an emotion Her Ladyship allows her the capacity to feel. Sadness, anger, envy, and dread are mere academic notions to her, at this point. Terror is similarly absent, though Her Ladyship permits a basic level of instinctual fear to keep her away from obvious harm and danger.

Love, or something like it, remains. Love is the succinctest term for it, but the simplicity of the word obscures how much it consumes the maid's life. It is at once a romantic attachment, an almost fanatic quasireligious devotion, and a sexual obsession. Her Ladyship is the only target of her desires, and to spend every moment with her fills her with both a profound contentment and a tense erotic thrill. She is aware of her arousal in the same way that others are aware of their breathing - it is so constant as to be unnoticed when not focused upon, but when the mind turns to it, it becomes harder and harder to ignore. Her Ladyship does not begrudge her tending to her desires, when she has need - so long as it is done between assignments, and leaves no mess.

[drcuriouslxix]

can i post something meandering and weird and probably conceptually terrifying on here if we all operate on the shared understanding that i'm jerking off to it

[drcuriouslxix]

@biggerbagingos

so today's xkcd is... well

[drcuriouslxix]

so today's xkcd is... well

[drcuriouslxix]

the problem with labyrinthplay is i get to be the endless underground complex and she gets to, what, hump the corridor floor?

[drcuriouslxix]

why are YOU the mutual tolerating this

the problem with labyrinthplay is i get to be the endless underground complex and she gets to, what, hump the corridor floor?

[drcuriouslxix]

the problem with labyrinthplay is i get to be the endless underground complex and she gets to, what, hump the corridor floor?