stainedsnuff

[stainedsnuff]

being blindfolded during sex, unknowing to the fact that they’ve been taking pretty photos of you the whole time on your phone <3 maybe even recording it so that the next time you open your camera roll, you’ll get to watch yourself being fucked

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sorry for not posting here for a few weeks. my partner broke up with me and i’m really resisting the urge just to wipe this whole blog and make it a bit less about him. not sure. i’ll decide soon enough

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haha! youve fallen for my wicked narcissist trick where i facilitate the ILLUSION that i love you by regularly ACTING compassionate of your feelings and respectful of your needs/boundaries so i can USE you for genuine human connection! ... confused? let me explain: basically, since i lack many of the experiential emotions that ontologically shallow dumbfucks deem as "making us human", im apparently evil despite my behavior & perhaps even a monster! luckily this doesnt upset me because i dont care

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Anal? While I'm pushing the barrel of my gun into the back of your head? Telling you that if you scream or try to fight me off I'll blow your fucking brains all over the bed?

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i love the word snuffbait. like you're begging me to kill you just by existing lol

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If i dont [experience pathologically concerning sex act] within the next [arbitrary time period] im going to [federal agency watchphrase]

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day one.

you wake up slowly, groggily. immediately, you’re on edge. you can’t remember shit from last night— and your surroundings are… unfamiliar, to say the least.

some grungy-ass basement. it’s not… horrible, you suppose. the floor is clean, and there’s a mattress shoved in a corner. but the ceiling is bare, and there’s black rust creeping down the walls.

you try, instinctively, to move. but of course, you’re bound. wrists held tight behind your back with— duct tape, it feels like. but most notably, as you shift your neck, yes, there’s definitely a collar there, too. some type of leather, high-quality. a metal chain hangs loosely from it, connected to a hook embedded in the wall.

you try to twist your wrists out of the tape. nothing. your ankles are free, so you attempt to rise to your feet— which works, but you can’t move far without the chain yanking you back.

you manage out a hoarse shout. which is, probably, your worst decision, because— about ten seconds later, you hear someone tramping down the stairs to your basement.

you can’t see much of him. (the only light in the room is a shitty desk lamp next to the mattress.) you can only make out the vague silhouette of his figure standing in the doorway.

he’s silent for a long moment. and then, he speaks. “evening.”

his voice is low and… oddly polite. like he doesn’t have you tied up in his basement.

“nice place, isn’t it? i cleaned the mattress for you.”

you ask him a few, reasonable questions. like why you’re kidnapped in his basement. or who the hell is he. or why you.

“i’ve been stalking you.”

blunt. you don’t even know how to respond.

“shh. don’t worry. you still have drugs in your system from last night.” what? you can barely even remember last night. “so i’m not planning on fucking you ‘till you’re over that.”

you can hear the smile in his voice.

“i’m making food for you right now,” he says suddenly. “something simple. should help you with the hangover. i’ll unclip your collar after, and take you upstairs to bath you. i don’t expect you to have the energy to wash yourself.”

you hate to admit he’s right.

“after which, you’ll need to sleep for the rest of the day. i want to go over our schedule tomorrow, the rules, the punishments…” he shrugs. “the works. i think you’ll be good at them.”

you ask another, very reasonable question. what the fuck is this?

he tilts his head like he’s confused. “you’re new life, obviously. you’ve complained about your job and working and not having a man, right? so i’m giving you that. for free, too. just because i like you.”

a moment of silence, as he looks down at you. “good dogs says thank you.”

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the “get the fuck off of me” to “please don’t do this” pipeline

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"what do you want to be when you grow up?" a snuff film star

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i also tend to romanticize being a snuff director more than i probably should. it’s the theatre kid in me, i think.

i’m not just gonna snap a few photos of you and then kill you. no, baby, you’re gonna put on a goddamn show. they’re gonna be talking about this on those shitty true crime podcasts for years. they’ll say shit like “yeah, it was super fucked up, but, i can’t believe they actually survived that long— with their guts hanging out n’ shit?”

i’ll preserve you. the people want a sequel. i’ll sew you right back up and wipe the blood off your face and you’ll do an encore. you don’t have a choice. i’m going to make you famous.

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“apologize for making me do this to you” ꩜_꩜