Affini Vines Are Made To Restrain Dumb Little Flowers Like Me

Women are great, it would be cool if they had like vines, or could give you drugs, and maybe even owned you like a pet. Shame nobody else has ever written about that.

my ass would never be an independent sophont ❗❗❗ would get domesticated immediatly ❗❗❗❗

i wanna helplessly bounce on a lesbians strap whilst they put their fingers in my mouth to shut me up:((

(repeated like a mantra while rubbing my temples) i will stay silly and not allow the world to make me bitter and cruel. i will stay silly and not allow the world to make me bitter and cruel. i wi

I just wanna listen to music with a girl while we cuddle and talk about nothing and everything and after hours of being so close we kiss and kiss and we just cant stop and everything fades away except for the two of us

is that too much to ask?????

the witch pushes you down on the bed, straddles you, holds you in place with one hand on your chest. she waves the other hand, and her nails unfold into glittering, iridescent fractal claws.

"there's too much of the Real about you still, doll-thing," the witch mutters. "show me where."

you reach up, below the twitching blades, and wordlessly take her wrist, guiding her to your throat. she grins in understanding, and lays her claws against your skin.

her touch blooms into you like the heat of a blush, then like the numbness before the pain of a bad burn.

she tells you, "prepare yourself, doll-thing. i will count to three."

you nod your readiness eagerly, a part of you disgusted by how needy you must appear, how badly you want this, how scared you are that she'll sheathe her claws and walk away.

her eyes are the uniform violet-white of a plasma arc, with no pupils. you cannot guess what she sees.

she counts, "one," and then her claws close around your throat and you don't even get to scream.

they cut through your skin and below the Real and tear through its roots into you and she draws out something, dripping with red gore, and eats it.

you gape and gasp but cannot form a single sound.

she chews, streams of blood and shining mirror-ichor running down her face. and only when she swallows does your body finally emit a high, pure moan.

she licks her fingers clean, long tongue fearlessly darting into the fan of jagged claws, and then the witch who ate your voice rolls off you and tells you, "i'm done with you. go clean up."

you nod. there is nothing eager about it now. just measured movement. but she grimaces, and admonishes you, "use your words, doll."

so you use them: "thank you, my mistress."

somewhere in your throat, you feel the lingering reverberation of tiny chimes. □

so many of the transfems i know spent their time pre-transition performing a kind of lifelong exercise in self-deprivation. the goal, for them, was to find out exactly how little a person needed to live. they starved themselves, dressed carelessly, shunned friends, and hollowed themselves out so as not to be burdens on anyone but themselves.

i see it now, too, in the girls around me. i'll ask if they want care – a home-cooked meal, relaxed company, sex without the expectation of reciprocation – and they say no, no, thank you, i don't need it; what would you like, what do you want, because in their head they're still doing that awful calculus, still training themselves to disappear in the eyes of the people around them.

i don't think i'd have died without transition – not in the conventional sense, at least – but to take that leap, i had to stop thinking of myself as a human experiment in fuel-efficient living and start nurturing the anemic, atrophied flame of desire in my heart. i had to learn to eat well, to exercise, to style myself beautiful, but harder than that, i had to learn to ask the people around me to work on my behalf in order to enrich my life and give me the things i wanted.

and i did it; i learned. and it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train, and every day i get better at accepting gifts with the hungry gratitude i never learned in my years and years as a sad, scared, lonely boy.

so be patient with the trans girls in your life. better than that: be proactive, attentive, generous; be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-deprivation that so many of us learned to rely on.

and if you are so lucky as to love a trans girl, you must insist upon her. you must insist upon her happiness, her comfort, her pleasure, and her rest, because she may still not yet know how to make those demands for herself. if you can devote any amount of energy to becoming an engine that nurtures the flame of even a single tgirl then there is a place for you in trans heaven, which as far as i'm concerned is the only one worth going to

I bite the hand that feeds me, I suck the cock that breeds me

i am in awe of the idea of two dommes using me. one is soft, gentle yet firm and grounding in every thrust of her fingers into me, and the other spanks me and uses me like the whore i am.

biting IS a form of affection