shrubco-after-hours

[shrubco-after-hours]

Someone should write forcefem story where the domme is from the “holding tgirls’ hands as they go on a magically difficulty free journey of gender identity/presentation discovery” genre of forcefem and the sub is from the “misogynistic ‘insufficient masculinity=femininity=sexual submissive=objectification’ porn’ genre. Does that make sense or am I just struggling to learn/unlearn some shit

(forcefem story prompt)

It makes a lot of sense! Something like~

(censor warning: sissy mentions)

"now, what are you again?" she sat on her throne, it was a simple chair, but her presence on it was what made it grand. Looking down at the poor soul who decided to hook up together.

They met on Grindr, he thought it'd just be another simple night of servitude.

"I- I am your pet, miss" he said, on his knees staring down at the ground.

"Good, continue~"

"I-" he searched a moment for the exact words to say- words beaten into him by all the misters and misses that came before.

Words that gave him pleasure- them pleasure, words that define him. As this is the best way to live.

"I am a failure of a man, an ugly bimbo sissy fucktoy, who will do anything a real girl demands."

She looked distraught. She came down from her throne, lifted her submissives face to match her gaze, and bent down on one knee.

"you're wrong" Her voice was soft "your a pet, yes. But you are so so much more then a man could ever be."

"you're a girl."

Her sub tried to retort, but she put her finger on their lip. "Ah ah ah- know that if you speak now you'll only make your punishment worse hun."

"I'll allow you to speak, but choose your words very carefully~" her hand left to rest on the ground.

The warmth of her finger left their lips, as she rested her hand on the ground. She knew her pet had something to say.

And her pet was indeed very careful in choices their words.

"Am I allowed to know, why I am being punished miss?"

"Of course! What type of dom doesn't say that?" They know that type of dom...

"The problem is that you lied to me sweetie, and we can't have that."

"Would I be allowed to know un what way I lied, miss?"

"well isn't it obvious? You're not a failure but so much more- you're the most beautiful witty girl ive found- you're adorable, and yes a pet. But not because that's all you can be- but because you want to be, I know that look in your eyes."

"You like being on the ground, having your choices made for you, accepting all the love a dom can give. You're an awfully kind soul you know that sweetie?"

They didn't agree, yet still nodded. Their gaze resting again on the floor as to not insult her by watching her beautiful face any longer.

"But, you have some misconceptions hun- so let me train those out of you~"

"First let's get you out of those bland clothes-"

"Is that part of my punishment miss?" "What no?" They felt suprised "I just know you'd look stunning in this dress I have, plus I know you like wearing cute things. We've let to much time pass with you wearing that dreadful boymoder outfit."

They didn't know what boymoding meant, but felt a bit scared to ask.

"then we can actually punish you."

I'm fearful anticipation their mind started racing with what it could be- being gagged and plugged listening to hypno a night, a transfer of their life savings, beatings until they can guess the number in her head, going out in public with a remote control toy gagged under a mask and needing to order food in a restaurant-

"You okay cutie? You've been dazed out for a while now" she asked

"Y- yes miss" he said, only now noticing that she's finished dressing him up-

"Alright, just promise to safeword if you need it okay?"

"Yes miss" he knew a safeword wouldn't do anything.

"Now!" She clapped her hands. "Would you do a little thwirl! I want to see the dress!"

He did as asked- her face lighting up.

"Gosh!!! You look amazing! Just as beautiful as I thought you'd look!"

"Thank you miss" he was waiting for the catch. The but. The reminder.

"Aw gosh I'm glad I tried this on you- how do you like it."

"I, like it too." Well he, actually loved it, but a sissy needs to know modesty.

"I'm glad! Youll be wearing it a lot more then!"

"and now- time for your punishment!"

He dreaded this...

"Say I'm sorry, I'm a girl, I won't misspeak again"

"I'm sorry, I'm a girl j won't misspeak again..."

"Good Girl!!!" She jumped at the sub for a big hug. "I'm so proud of you!!!"

The sub, didn't know what was happening- I mean, this must be what it's like to have your head ruffled and... To be complimented?

"You're such a beautiful woman!!! Gosh I'm happy to be hugging you, you're so soft and cute and adorable and fun and smart and-"

The sub was in heaven.

And knew what would come next.

The hug did last a suprisingly long time, this dom sure knew how to compliment someone, almost made him believe it... But eventually she broke away.

"now! We've got some more time on our hands so sweetie can I ask something of you?"

"Anything miss."

"Do you want to go on a date!"

Avwjwowjsbns???

"it's okay if you don't of course, but you're just so cute and fun and I really really like you and I've been meaning to maybe find more... Consistent partners and you're just-"

"y- Yes miss!"

"Oh! Um, do want to be clear I don't want to date as submissive and dom"

"But as you and me! Lilly and... What was your name again?"

"oh it's ¥$¥°, miss"

"right... Well! How do you feel about a date!"

"...I would love one."

"then a date it is!" She went in for another embrace.

She did say she was a lesbian before didn't she? I... Suppose it's nice to be seen as a girl.

[shrubco-after-hours]

Can I nom nom the belly?

please please please nom my belly ^-^

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Y'all got the white people from Alabama kink

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italian coded name

miattata. me? a 'ttata

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thinking….about a computer that’s a pervert :3 computer that watches you pull up whatever kinky content, fanfic, art, etc and start touching yourself. you notice that, strangely, your webcam is on and panic, only for your computer to minimize the tab and show an error message that simply states “keep going. but i want to watch <3”

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snowballing addictive chain pregnancy that gives you no time to lose any weight and has incrementally more drastic, irreversible effects from an endless barrage of pregnancy + lactation hormones...

(going full mask off shamelessly horny with this one, you've been warned)

Thinking you're relatively safe at first, being *glad* you're not stuck with the combo of being short *and* stick-thin anymore, and having actually *wanted* the newfound curves.

Feeling reasonably confident that you just naturally won't gain too much further than this.

After all, you start your first pregnancy at just 19. You've never been anything *close* to fat before, your metabolism's fresh and sharp, and besides, it's so hard to fit enough extra food in your stomach and keep it down when the babies take up so much space, anyway...

And your first three pregnancies end up being only two singletons and a set of twins, all relatively normal, maybe even a bit small in birth weight. It's nothing *that* crazy, you figure.

But then you're knocked up for the fourth time in only three years, and something's shifting...

With all the back-to-back, your body is being *forced* to get used to this, and never given time to go back to that "old normal".

It's only a singleton this time, and yet this time you feel like you eat more than ever, more easily than ever. The innocuous singleton takes the extra womb elasticity you've developed, the extra nutrition you consume, along with all the excess pregnancy-promoting hormones coursing through you, and becomes your first whopper, comparatively speaking, being born 12 pounds.

You're proud, if a little shocked you had it in you, and think nothing of it, or of how this officially bumped you up to "chubby" and not just "thick" or "curvy". You're so used to seeing yourself swollen already. Desensitization has already set in.

By the time you've crammed eight pregnancies into six and a half years, you're too deeply distracted and exhausted by the double whammy of child-rearing and gestating to notice this is officially getting weird.

Five kids is already sixteen now. After that singleton, your kids have never dipped back below 9 pounds each, even though now, you always have at *least* twins.

You don't take any fertility supplements. You're just unknowingly picking up a strong tendency to hyperovulate, thanks to years of your hormones being out of whack, on top of the natural higher odds for repeat pregnancies to be multiples.

Your entire body chemistry and abdominal cavity's shifted and adjusted itself to the point it no longer matters how pregnant you are, you never have much trouble indulging every craving that crosses your mind. Your stomach has far more stretch and resilience than before, and has long since been forced to get used to the ups and downs. Morning sickness seems to be something you simply outgrew. You don't even bother to wonder if maybe you shouldn't be so indulgent. You're a parent of sixteen, of course you deserve to be nice to yourself whenever you can.

After ten years of this, you've recklessly managed to squeeze *thirteen* pregnancies into that timeframe.

The doctors don't know what to say. You're something of a medical mystery at this point. Much like how someone with extreme morbid obesity can actually be worse off from the strain of losing it, it's feared that the same may apply to your continual state of insatiable pregnancy.

You've popped out forty-one kids by now. At this point, you only ever seem to get pregnant with *litters*. All but one of the last five batches have been at least quadruplets. Your latest go around was a surprise set of almost freakishly big septuplets, misindentified as sextuplets thanks to all the blubber you've piled on.

Your breasts have become utterly out of control, each obviously bigger than your head and often difficult for you to even see past as you lie in bed. They get sore at the drop of a hat without several milkings a day. Your body's accidentally become stimulated to over-lactate, just as it hyper-ovulates worse than ever. And the demand of both making milk and growing oversized fetuses means that now, you only ever seem to have the worst, most fattening sorts of cravings.

Lately, your body seems determined to never let a single infant be born under 13 pounds, and it seems to *know* this is impossible to do on an even *remotely* clean diet.

Meat. Carbs. Sugar. Grease. *Quantity*. You don't just want it, you *need it* around the clock. You feel *awful* when you haven't been pigging out enough. Medical wisdom dictates that you should feel awful regardless... But honestly, as long as you get food and aren't asked to move around much anymore, you actually feel *much* too good to bring yourself to *stop*. And through raging hormones and stubborn, reckless indulgences, you seem to have accidentally ruined your stomach's ability to ever even actually *tell* you when you're full.

Once you've officially racked up fifteen years of this, and find yourself already in the midst of your twentieth pregnancy, bringing with it God-knows-how-big nonuplets to round out the ranks from eighty-three to a solid ninety-two hungry mouths to feed.

The last batch of the same had a "runt" who still managed 15 pounds, and a giant who'd somehow hit 24 and a half.

The media went into a frenzy at the realization this was the hugest newborn *ever*, despite having to contend with *eight* rivals for food and space.

It likely has something to do with how your much-abused stomach not only doesn't know what "full" means anymore, it's also forgotten how to stop telling you you're "hungry". The best you can do is reducing it to an incessant but tolerable peckishness, requiring nigh-endless snacking on pizza, ice cream, brownies, and cheeseburgers to achieve, interspersed with being tube-fed a thick, vitamin-fortified shake, recently reformulated to include heavy cream and butter.

After all, your health paradoxically *plummets* if you're not constantly overfed now, your body genuinely relying on gluttony to sustain its unnatural state of over-fertility.

And just not getting knocked up again simply isn't in the cards. There's no more stopping. No more changing your mind. It's as if your soft, heaving blubberbound form simply doesn't know "how" to go back to normal. Pregnancy *is* its normal, now. You genuinely feared for your life when they tried to keep your spouse from knocking you up, only to soon inexplicably recover when it was allowed, against all logic. You're thankful for your spouse's creativty, along with the reinforced, adjustable bariatric bed and the systems of ceiling-mounted pulleys and slings the medical team devised, or it would've been fundamentally impossible.

On a good day, you can churn out nine, closer to nine and a half gallons of milk now. They note that nowadays, it's oddly rich and thick, too, no doubt because of some strange new hormonal imbalance of yours, brought on by your confused body being constantly screamed at to provide more than it was ever meant to. In turn, it forces your body to demand yet *more* sustenance to fuel its needless, wasteful decadence, keeping you further trapped in your endless, distended, engorged cycle of excess.

In contrast, your children seem surprisingly normal and unassuming as they mature. That is, until everyone from about the eighth pregnancy onwards...

Nobody's *precisely* sure what it is, but essentially, some mumbo-jumbo mismash of altered epigenetics, hormones, nutrients, and natal environment seems to have permanent knock-on effects, from that point on.

*You* were almost flat as a board before all this began. So it goes for some of your eldest daughters. But then... before you know it, at a certain point, the rest all end up with at *least* a set of mildly absurd, unwieldy K-cups by the time they hit 18.

*You* were a waifish thing, desperately wishing you could *gain* a bit of weight, at that age.

After that nebulous tipping point in birth order, you end up with overgrown, strapping sons and curvaceous, voluminous daughters who've grown up to find that they practically can't even *look* at a cupcake if they'd like to stay below 250, or even 300, apiece.

Neither you or your husband were ever particularly strong, and yet, when some of these sons get fed up with being bullied for being from an "oversized family of freaks", and start hitting the gym, they head off to college amidst swarms of rumors that they *must* be on some potent cocktail of growth hormones and steroids.

What else would explain all three being massive, virile, studs, each built like refrigerators, at least 350 pounds apiece and standing at no less than 6'8 each?

And when the first daughter within this odd category trips up and gets pregnant, betrayed by a mix of a bubbly personality with an uncommonly high libido and a rather worrying natural resistance to birth control...

Nobody can say they're too shocked when despite her almost lifelong plumpness, she begins showing extremely early. Or when they discover it's going to be *sextuplets*, or that her already uncommonly intense appetite now includes *ravenous* cravings for the unhealthiest, greasiest foods she can find. It's not at all surprising when her milk comes in so early and so aggressively, or when her newly expanded diet rapidly adds even *more* padding on top of all the lush, creamy softness that she'd spent her whole life utterly incapable of shifting.

Nobody can be surprised when the same keeps happening to her sisters. When they keep failing to keep their legs closed, and keep failing to say no to unchecked hedonism, one by one. When even a couple of her supposedly thin, small-chested, "normal" older sisters get a bit careless, have kids a bit too close together, and start to descend into the same cycle that gripped you.

All because of your hedonism, your stubbornness, your obsessions and indulgences, you irrevocably altered and awakened something within not just yourself, but your *future bloodline*.

And the only question is...

Might these changes be even *further* amplified, as the generations carry on?

[shrubco-after-hours]

yayyyy mutuals hiiiiiiiii reblog if you love your mutualssssssss hiii mutuals

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did you know?

I'm kinda fat :3

[shrubco-after-hours]

We need to talk about tumblr's systematic fatphobia.

Posts of fat people are being marked as "sexual content" even more frequently than they used to, but now we have this fun little addition as brought to my attention by a friend;

That's right. Not just blatant kink-shaming, but now, if you make posts about or with fat people, you can now be flagged as "promoting disordered eating"! Multiple completely innocent posts of fat people literally just existing in their own bodies have already been flagged this way.

Raise hell about it. Reblog and share fat content more than ever. Don't let this shitty website tell you that your bodies are "wrong" or that you aren't allowed to exist publicly.

Tumblr staff, if you care about eating disorders (you fucking don't), stop promoting this sense of shame and fear and disgust towards the idea of weight gain. Stop shaming and censoring people for posting about their own bodies and experiences. Fatphobia kills. Fatphobia causes disordered eating. Fatphobia is the disease you should be worried about.

This has also been disproportionately affecting fat trans people, because of course it has.

Don't stop talking about it. Don't let this bullshit ceo silence you.

[shrubco-after-hours]

reblog if you want trans women to just flood your inbox with their tits, cocks, holes, and anything else you could possibly imagine.

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Some tiny Florafae variants I’ve been doodling on twitter today!

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preds need enrichment. telling a pred not to play with their food is offensive

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youre tellin me?

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even if you can't get them pregnant you can always ALWAYS make them fat. don't forget this

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the concept of someone you’re into masturbating to the thought of you really is just one of the absolute hottest things ever

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awawawaaaaa !! awwaaaa!!!

iimm staring at uu w big rabbit eyes. uu should pick me up and hold me nnn feel me wiggle uvu

[shrubco-after-hours]

yeah, the bimbos are unionized, industrial union no. 692. they won't strut their stuff until they're properly compensated for their implants and slutty little outfits. yeah, they're on strike and pointedly not making out on the picket line. no, i won't show you what that would look like. do i look like a scab?