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Content: tentacle rape, rape, torture, temporary death-inducing violence including single line mentions of dismemberment and organ removal, loss of self and sanity, eternal nothingness in a bottle
“Dolls don’t speak,” the first tube of ichor slithered its way down your throat. “Dolls don’t move,” three more gathered about your body, moving like the tendrils of jellyfish to prod and brush and sting. “That includes blinking, little human,” he mocked darkly. When another tentacle appeared - hardened and sharpened and formed into a tiny needle-like tip – and then swept a small, smart line from chin to cheek to the divot under your right eye you couldn’t help it. You squealed and bucked your lower half wildly, face turned to pure stone and eyes unfortunately widened so hard as to bulge it closer to his tentacle. He seemed to like that, the fight despite its fruitlessness and brevity, and so he softened it back to slippery firmness that was yet flexible without drooling. “I would close my eyes, if I were in your position.”
You obeyed the warning. You were terrified just leaving them closed wouldn’t be enough. If he touched you, breathed too closely to your ear, hurt you then you may flinch and part your eyes and lose them right away. You clenched them tightly, digging creases into your brow and pulling your cheeks up high and tight.
The other boon would be holding in all of your welling tears.
His tongue brushing between your legs shocked you. One thigh tensed and Rire took your knee and shoved it up high enough that your hip dislocated. Oh how you screeched and yowled and sobbed. “Dolls don’t move,” he chastised. “Don’t make me disconnect your legs.”
You didn’t move again.
He worked silently after that. You kept your eyes closed. You focused on the pressure they made and how it traveled even out towards your ears. Like a blindfold of your own nerve endings and musculature. You tried to ignore how he sunk his cock and appendages and eventually his fist into your holes. You couldn’t ignore when he said he’d run the black tendril in your ass through every nook and cranny of your intestinal track until it could meet with the one strangling you into your gullet. He didn’t do it and you loved him for it.
His divine mercy was short lived.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded.
You fell for his tricks.
Razor sharp stalactites pierced you in five places throughout your abdomen and all you could do was soak in his calm, devilish grin. “Silly doll. Will you ever learn?”
He plugged you up to stop the blood.
He bit more than licked or sucked and it made you throb but you took it in petrified. Rire flipped you over, tugged you up haphazardly at the hips, and fucked in to you so you know he’s just doing this because he likes to make you hurt. Your entire backside bruised from the beating of his hips alone. He’s so much stronger and bigger and pumped with more stamina than a human being that it went on and on. He came in you and on you and marked you in a myriad of other ways, above and below the skin. He was lucky to have those tentacles – they held you up for him long after you blacked out.
You learned how to sleep with his appendages lazily pumping in and out of your holes. You stayed on his cock even when it was soft. You as a person were not attractive or pleasing or exciting. It’s the pain you could take. It’s how you could adapt. That’s what made you entertaining.
It took you many, many tries to learn. You atrophied your muscles to stay limp and joint-mobile at all times that Rire was present. He fucked you so often and so hard that you were nearly always open exactly the size of his form. A glove. A true fleshlight sex doll
You lived through it. Through all of that. It was a miracle. A miracle, you thought.
That meant it was significant. Living was significant. You would have been excruciated for naught.
You signed the deal and sold your soul and reveled in the chance to keep living.
He flicked you into a jar and went about his merry way.
At only four weeks, Rire poured you out of your incorporeal existence, right into his hand where he smirked and inspected you. You thought he might eat you, wondered how you’d exist or not in the belly of the beast, but instead he summoned a body and tucked you into it. Through your throat, like before, though you doubted a King capable of taking souls in the first place was bound by any limitation. He just liked to feel you choke.
You trembled ‘til you tremored ‘til you convulsed while he watched you coldly. His brow cocked and you swore you saw a yellow pulse behind his dark shades. “Still so scared, human?” His bare hand, sharply clawed, met knuckle-down with your temple. You jolted back on instinct. A heady rush of hormones and electrons and fluid fear you hadn’t had in a month to propel you. You stumbled like a new bord giraffe on legs that just didn’t feel like yours. He reached out again, and you slapped his hand away. Not strong, not angry, not even planned. Just the pathetic, automatic swatting of a cornered animal. Rire loved it, evidently, by how he caught you without so much as a step forward, lazily collected you by his tentacle wings closer closer closer until you were chest-to-chest. You finally nodded and yelped, high-pitched and throaty, when he bit clear a piece of flesh above your chest. You pushed against his ribs helplessly. “You still have some fight. How very delicious.” Another bite, parallel with the other, and this time completely felt due to its expectance. Sawing between tendons and clipping blood vessels and stretching-then-snapping of severed skin.
You howled when he shoved those wounds against the book case, crushing your face there in his massive, near translucent hands. Other vials stuttered and slid and crashed to the ground. They shattered and oozed neon lights and liquid, but Rire didn’t pay it mind. He kicked another glass globe himself.
He spread you with his tentacles but then retracted them. He wanted you to remember he could do whatever he wanted just as he was. The tentacles were merely an extension of his power, not a core component. You stayed there, sniveling and bleeding against damp wood just shy of a millennia old. How long had all of those burst and wisped to pieces souls waited there just to explode for your assault?
The demon at your back pushed his length in slowly. The body wasn’t yours, not really, and not prepared. Your consciousness and its brain did not yet meld perfectly, but they did well enough to blind you with pain as your, the? its?, perineum threatened to tear. You, it?, stayed intact, for better or worse, and he enjoyed himself in you, it?. You could merely stare ahead, gasping and screeching in the face of a barbie pink soul that iced your nose and the corner of your mouth.
“Good job, little doll." The hair of his goatee scratched the skin you were not used to having. “I may yet visit you again.” Rire chuckled into your non-existent ear.
He did visit. Two years later. It was challenging to track, having no means to record it down, let alone a day night cycle. It was at least two years, to be fair, because you’re not sure how long passed before you began your counting of every second. Sixty three million, one hundred twenty one thousand, five hundred, and thirty eight seconds.
You had long since lost what you thought your mind was. You were just… there. Talking to yourself, to hallucinations, to a God all faded to silence. Your memories, beautiful and traumatic alike replayed over and over and over and over and over again until they had been experienced so many times that they had never been experienced at all. You had no eyes. You couldn’t close them or look away. You were in a jar, a vacuum of space. You couldn’t smell the air, there was none, nor feel it. Not even hydrogen danced around you. Was this the emptiness of space interstellar? Intergalactic? Were you beyond the Universe itself, without dimension?
All you did was see streaks of bright color on a black canvas. All the others gathered around you but too far to remember them. Over the years, your ‘vision’ had clouded and blurred. In the manner that vision does when starting to cross your eyes, but it kept going. You sight split and overlayed and muddled together all the way around in a 360 until you had not two eyes at all. Just a lighthouse like beam that swirled through a still and silent ocean.
When Rire skims past the rows of captive consciousnesses, you are full to bursting. He has not been here at all, not even for another, since you’d last been rape. You pray. Yes, this time he uncorks your prison (though you would not call it a prison – you were not aware on most days that it existed. That you existed.) after a teasing jiggle from his fingertips. You are happy beyond what rejoice or reverence could cover. This was the singular happiest moment in all of forever before and after. It was best called happy, simple and all encompassing, more than joy or ecstasy or exhilaration or rapture. So complex and severe the feeling that only the basest and most inelegant form could convey.
“How are you feeling, little doll?” He asks while popping you into another out-of-thin-air meat suit. You don't know what to say, you are growing dangerously close to forgetting what words are at all, let alone having the capability to manipulate a vocal box and the lumpy slug of a tongue into saying them. Similarly you don't know how to use your legs or balance or even breathe and you collapse, blind, while Rire hums over you. He kicks you somewhere, you aren’t exactly sure, and seems tickled at the realization that you don’t have the spatial recognition to process where pain or sound or light or he comes from. You are moving, that’s all you know, where or how fast or through what means was irrelevant. Then you are splitting and pulling and pulsing and it feels all over you without relief. The pain and heat is orgasmic in their being the first thing you’ve processed as a sensation in… well, what’s a day in blackness so abandoned it never lightens by a singular, rogue wave of light? There’s no such thing, and it’s best if you recognize that now. You aren’t human. You don’t need these human thoughts.
All you need to do is make those broken sounds from deep in the chest cavity past a tongue that doesn’t so much as wriggle through lips that neither part nor pull apart a slack jaw. The making of them is orgasmic, too, earning you a second immediate climax, because you’re not breathing so your lungs and esophagus are frozen until the noises form. You bask in the lighting of nerves that they bring, and babble on and on wordlessly while you try to determine how to lean into the heat and press and slickness of Rire’s body as it consumes you like tar that’s in every hair follicle, every pore, the cracks between each and every cell wall. The tentacles wrap you like a latex bondage suit besides the hole he leaves to fuck into you.
He laughs when there splashes warmth and he pulls free. Booms uproariously when he dismembers each of your limbs and severs your skull before yanking your soul free, maybe to trap it from escaping when the body dies a tenth of a picosecond later.
You’re so happy to hear his laugh.
You think of it over and over and over and over and over again until you can’t hear at all. Decades go by. There’s no qualifier one can add there – slowly? Velocity depends on time and space, and you have neither.
He appears again and you’re desperate for him. You need him at such a fundamental level. He’s everything. He looks at you, taps you with a forefinger, and slides a lime-y vase beside you.
He leaves.
You think of the cloy mixture of affection and despisal over and over and over and over and over again until you can’t see at all.
He comes one more time to the corner you’re tucked away in. The green light moves first and your whole nothingness SHAKESSHAKESSHAKESHAKES with rage and hatred but when it returns and you plop free to ‘Sweet doll. Don’t you know you’re my favorite, will always be my favorite?’ you are disgusted in your questioning of Rire’s love for you.
You stay out so long you start to regain your faculties. Several days you have to understand what it means to wiggle your fingers, to open your eyes, to taste raw clumpy flour and find it the most satiating item in the world. A puff of air is visceral. You relearn what it means to serve Rire, and what it means to be broken by him. You learn how each organ functions, its role – no such thing as an autonomic nervous system when every dendrite connection is so remarkably pronounced. You then learn how you function without each, its squelch or pop distinct when Rire rummages it free of your body cavities to discard.
You love him. You love him so, so much.
It makes going back in the vacuum harder. So, so much.
You never see him again.
It takes it many, many decades to stop hoping that will ever be a possibility. Stop hoping for the agony.
Without the near constant mind and body wrenching torture, without even the mocking and tormenting voice of its new God, its AM, to keep it company, it folds in and watches. Watches the darkness and all of that emptiness. Watches its inevitability.
It wants to be hated. It wants to be anything but irrelevant.
This is not destruction. Nor death. Nor even slow decay.
All that lingers is a doll so forgotten as to not even crush under the weight of the dust of the world. Not even an atom to call its friend.
Despondent. Devoid.
It has no mouth, and it does not know what it ever meant to scream.