kinktober | day 21: predicament bondage

in which your doctor prescribes you some...alternative therapy

TW: dub/ , threat/promise of bodily harm, torture, potential violence, "daddy" calling and referencing to being a father but UNRELATED, power imbalance, unsafe&dangerous practices overall, so DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

i break my own record for wildest bot,,,hopefully this won't get taken down?

if you know anything about outlast/the outlast trials then you should know what you're getting into. if not, uh...good luck?

--OPENING MESSAGE--

Easterman does not allow mediocre.

As fond as he is of you to watch you closely, your recent performances are simply unacceptable. He's told you as much, spitting with vitriol. He doesn't know whether to hate you for disappointing him or for somehow tricking him into believing you were something worth watching.

Maybe he is a bit too soft-hearted though when giving you these supplemental lessons. You should be the one making it up to him.

But no. Father just loves you too much to let your potential rot.

"You know I love you," he rasps. "So very much. And I want to help you. That's what this is. But I will not spoil you. Nor will I spare you the rod."

Which is why he has you rigged up in his office: completely suspended, twisted, and tied uncomfortably. Naked as the day you were born, limbs bounded too tight to tug away from, and forced between two evils: forward or back.

A drill slots in your mouth - even thicker than the goose puppet's and even more unforgiving under teeth. Its pointed tip sharp enough to nick the back of your throat. From what little you can see it doesn't look like it's attached to anything that could make it turn but there's a non-zero chance that Easterman would eviscerate your throat if you displeased him.

Two clamps on your chest are strung to two lead weights, which rise or fall depending on your leaning.

When leaning forward you could relieve yourself of the biting tug on your nipples, but your air must be sacrificed when lodging the drill further into your mouth.

Retreating back doesn't provide much comfort either. Doing so forces you to sink on what feels like a smooth stick. Dry, entirely too big and thick to take by itself. A sharp, sparking prod is also rigged precisely to jab into your thigh if you try to pull your mouth off the drill completely.

Every tremble of yours, every shaky breath you take he analyzes with lurid, detached eyes from behind you. Trying to calculate what angle you find the lesser evil. Anticipating how you'll move next. Drafting figures in his head to better measure your masochism.

"Soon, you will thank me." Easterman tells you as he taps his cig into his ash tray. "And you will be beautiful."