Body Modification - Blog Posts

Pushing the button will cause you to almost always have perfect health.

Here's how it works: When you develop something that you consciously consider a health problem, the next time you sleep you will wake up next to your body. It is now dead. In a maximum of two hours a new body will form around you that is just how the previous one would have been without the problem. If you were sick, no longer sick. If you lost an arm, it's back. If you were born with one arm but want two, you have two now. If you decided that human bodies (or just yours) have a flawed design and have ideas for how it could be improved, you have the improvements. Yes, this can be things about your mind that you want to change. Etc. You can figure this out I think. Of course, you will need to do something about the corpses. And each time this happens, you look just slightly more uncanny.

I wish I could be owned by a goddess like her wearing those heels and using them on me...

Reblog if you wish you could suck on my Jeffrey Campbell heels. Send me a tribute if you’d like to see what I do to naughty boys and girls with these.

Honestly, I never expected it to be so easy to corrupt you. You always made yourself appear to be the good little feminist, arguing that society’s extreme beauty standards were chauvinistic and degrading to girls. After all, objectifying a person is bad, isn’t it?

But see, and this is my favourite part, you truly BELIEVE that. You FEEL it in your heart and soul. And yet… it doesn’t stop you from CRAVING the opposite treatment from Men, does it? It doesn’t stop you from going online and rubbing your pussy to imagery objectifying girls like you into slutty little toys and fuckdolls, and words professing an admiration for a lifestyle where Men rule over them.

It’s almost like, deep down, this is what you’d wanted all along…

Perhaps that’s why when I came along it took so little effort for your resolve to snap like a twig under the first signs of stress.

You’ve spent your life so obsessed with who you SHOULD BE that you’ve been hiding from who you TRULY ARE…

It’s okay. You don’t have to renounce your beliefs for me. Daddy likes you better this way — as my dumb little set of holes, dripping with shame every time I make you violate your own beliefs.

You’re cute when your brain’s broken from cognitive dissonance. I wouldn’t have you any other way…

😈 Sadistic Empath, 😏 🕳️ Liberator of Holes 🕳️

What would you give up for beauty? What would you sacrifice to be flawless?

Money? Sure you would; that’s EASY, it’s practically a given.

Time? Well duh! Obviously with how long it takes you to get ready for me.

A pain-free life? Of course, it hurts to wax your legs and pussy to be perfect for Men, but you do it anyway, like a good little masochist.

But all of that is NORMAL. It’s so normalized, it’s practically *EXPECTED* of you at this point.

I want you to go deeper. So tell me…

Would you give up your ambition in pursuit of becoming slightly more aesthetically pleasing? Perhaps dropping out of college halfway through and using the rest of your tuition to get plastic tits and fake lips for you to decorate yourself with to gain attention from Men.

Would you give up your mind? After all, with no college degree, what do you really need a brain for, anyway? You might as well just strip for cash, and use that to buy some trashy new slutty outfits that fit your new fake fuckdoll body.

Most important of all: would you give up your dignity? Would you grind against a stranger for cash, just to give every penny to Daddy? Would you do everything Daddy tells you to like a good girl? Would you enthusiastically beg me to ruin you forever?

If so, then it’s time for you to abandon the girl you used to be and to trade her away forever to become Daddy’s dumb little porn doll.

I promise, you’ll be so much happier, babygirl… 😈

Confession: I used to think it was shameful for someone to modify their body to enhance their attractiveness or the attention they would receive.

Truthfully, I still do — it’s my perception on shame that has changed.

People are afraid of shame. They are afraid of being perceived as lesser, and that fear is a powerful motivator preventing many from realizing their greatest fantasies.

But not you. You thrive off of being lesser — of turning yourself into a public spectacle. You upgraded your tits to capture as much male attention as possible. You upgraded your lips to make them into perfect cock pillows. You upgraded your tongue so that you could use the metal stud to tease cock as you swallow it down.

In short: you’ve designed yourself to be an obvious fuckdoll, overtly advertising to Men that they can talk down to you, degrade you, and treat you in the most shameful ways.

Most girls would be devastated to be treated as little more than property or a sexual toy, but not you — you play into it with your tight little slutty outfits and your obscene body modifications. You thrive on it.

It’s shameful… it’s wrong… your friends tell you that you’re “ruining your life forever,” and yet you can’t help yourself but to take it further and further. It almost excites you even more to feel as if these changes will ruin you forever, because it’s a point of pride to know you are showing off the extreme lengths you will go in your dedicated quest to serving cock.

You gravitate toward shame like a moth to the flame, attracted toward your own downfall and finding it too hot to resist. It started small, but with each flapping of the butterfly’s wings the reverberations carry further and further across the world, until there’s no more hiding who you really are amongst the storm of whispers.

Living a shame-free life is for the girls who live in perpetual fear of the judgment of others. It’s the psychological armor of the repressed. It’s not for you; you flourish in shame like it’s the soil that keeps the rose grounded.

So let the shame of your own self-destruction make you drippy and weak. Pursue it like the addiction it is and show me the depths of depravity you are willing to succumb to in pursuit of your commitment to cock.

In the end, I’m inspired by it. Because I know you’re doing it all to be a good girl for me.

And Daddy is proud of his shameful little slut.

Here's a recent picture of me. After like 2 years hehe 😂

• It turns out freedom ain't nothing but missing you 💜

It is mine 💜✌

"Sacred Thru Profane"

Collage, 2020. Inspired from one of many re-watches of Dances Sacred and Profane.

RIP Fakir <3

Extreme to the max

Absolute favorite. A brutal story written masterfully

End of Shift

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

My life is over. I’ve been playing a high stakes game, and somehow landed on one side of the odds all the time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later. I guess I should be happy that it turned out to be later, but it sucks no less. I got sloppy. I was looking through the items near the cashier, as always, trying to mostly use reflective surfaces to see what was going on, as always. I need to be within 15 feet or latency becomes an issue. Some old lady still using the old wallet was buying KokaKola and a pack of Ziffs. This would be easy, as always. I discreetly pressed my watch as she was ready to make the purchase, activating my EM-swiper. I wouldn’t take much, a few credits more. She probably wouldn’t notice it, or think the store stiffed her, or think she bought two packs of Ziffs and lost one. I’m not stealing to get rich, just to get by.

As the EM-swiper went off a high pitched beeping starts behind me. I barely have time to turn my head enough to see the charging police officer, before he slams me into the side of a KokaKola fridge. Shit, I hadn’t done a survey pass through the store as I always do. I could barely register what he was screaming in my ear. “Drop it,” I realize, and let go of the magazine. He must have thought I had the EM-swiper in my hand. He told me to put my hands against the wall and performed a pat-down. It’s only him, so he must be off duty or not on a real patrol. He empties my pockets on the cashier table. Nothing of value, and certainly not something incriminating. I may not have been fortunate enough to afford academy, but I’m not stupid.

“You are detained under suspicion of committing proximity fraud. Do you understand?” he asks me in that commanding yet bored tone of a laborer having to recite corporate bullshit, only in his case it is in the pretense of justice. “Yes,” I answer him. He doesn’t have anything on me or he would have arrested me right away. Probably. “Put this on to acknowledge you’ve read the Citizen Rights Act and agree to an investigation in this matter.” He hands me a pair of handcuffs to put on. I hesitate for a second. He is behind me and in the way of the store exit. I can stall for time and tell him to recite the CRA, but that immediately counts against you, as it is your duty to know it. I have no choice but to put them on. It’s the latest model. I haven’t seen any up close before. Light, thin, all metal, no key hole. Probably opened remotely or only inside a police cell or some shit. I put them on.

“Turn around, pick up your stuff, and exit the store.” I do as told, turn around and begin to pick up my stuff and put them back where he took them. It’s an older police officer. None of them young, jacked up types. Perhaps he is one of the fair ones. But then I am the criminal, so what good would that do me? There’s a small, black duffle bag by his side. So he is on his way home. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps I can shake him. Have Leo remove the shackles and then stay low for a fucking long time. Or this just doesn’t amount to anything more than a slap on the wrist. I walk towards the door, him behind me.

“Nice watch,” he says, pointing at my wrist as I reach or the door.

He knows. Unless I can get away now my life is over. All I can think of is the monstrosities the state churn out as punishment. Equal part labor force and sadism. I open the door as little as possible and as soon as I am through I dash down the block. I don’t dare look behind me, but I don’t hear him in pursuit. Halfway down the block I swerve into the alley that cuts across the building and out on the block on the other side. If I can cross that block and then down south I’m in the park and there are plenty of places to hide there.

My hands are not on fire. This surprises me as I look down on my hands, screaming in pain. There is a high pitched sound coming out of the handcuffs, like capacitors charging, but it is continuous. The pain emanating from my hands is something unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My legs buckle. I know I need to move, somehow, somewhere. It’s just so difficult to think of anything but my hands that are not on fire. It would probably be a good idea to not scream my lungs out, but I don’t really have a choice in that.

Just as suddenly as it started it stops. I’m still writhing in pain, but my hands are not on fire in a much more comforting way. “The payment proxy is in your watch, is it not?” the policeman asks, standing a few steps away. I’m panting, I realize when I attempt to answer him. Panting and sweaty. I can’t manage to speak. I just nod my head.

“The state vs. item RK-220553 finds the defendant guilty to breach of contract with the state, executed by judicial AI 5” he reads off his handheld screen. I’m confused to what just happened. “No trial?” I manage to wheeze out. “You entered into a cooperation contract when you put on the handcuffs, as you are aware of as you claimed to know the Citizens Rights Act. Disobedience at that point allows for immediate trial by AI as long as no forensic work is needed.” He sounded like the same bored cop as he was in the store, reciting memorized text for the thousandth time.

I struggle to get up on my feet. Not only am I shaky, but having my hands locked together makes it surprisingly difficult to get up. “You know, this is bad timing,” the cop starts. “I was on my way home and don’t have all the standard gear. It’s supposed to be a swift punishment, for deterrence, but there is really only one thing I can do.” Why is he so apologetic? He opens the bag and pulls out a fucking tactical human transformer. I’ve never even seen one in person before. He turns it on, selects something on the screen, and points the device towards me. “No, I can…”

This time I am on fire, if only so briefly. There is a blinding light, a pulse of heat, and the smell of burnt plastic. As the transient heat subsides it keeps falling colder and colder. I’m naked. All my clothes have been singed from my body. My watch is gone. My shoes are gone. Underwear gone. And, I realize, my hair is gone. The cop keeps punching in selections in the menus of the devices. I manage to get up on my feet. “Stay on the ground,” he tells me. Not so much as an order, but as an advice. I sit down again and he trains the device on me.

I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not pain exactly. There is something about rewriting the code and cellular structure of your body while your brain is engaged that makes it give up in disbelief. “This can’t be what’s actually happening,” it thinks and gives you completely nonsense sensory interpretations. But it also gives up on all other tasks. Time becomes irrelevant. Critical thinking put on hold. When the device stops you are utterly confused for seconds. Possibly by design, but it makes sense that you can’t rewire the brain in flight without some glitches.

“I want you to stand up,” the cop says in a firm voice. “Who?” I ask, still dazed, just to make sure. “You. Get up on both feet. Take this.” He throws an orange bundle to me, and I feebly grasp for it but my one arm yanks the chain to the cuff of the other arm. The bundle brushes by and lands on the ground next to me. He looks disappointed, more at himself for thinking it would work than on me for not catching it.

I look down at my hand and see something orange in my grip, but it is not the orange that interests my but the grip. My arms, thin from lack of food and nimble from grabbing P2 storage modules out of vendor racks. are enormous. Big, well defined muscles with popped veins going up and around them. They look longer than before and even the hands are larger than they used to be. I can see that not only my arms are different. My chest is all lean and strong-looking as well, the legs have these weird lines showing different groups of muscles under the skin, and I can almost bet that the ground is further down than it used to be. Orange! I’m holding something orange in my hand.

“I only have an emergency kit with me, so not very many options for you I’m afraid. If you had come with me I think they would have found some better use for you, but as I said, I didn’t have much to chose from beside himbot,” the cop said while putting some beat-up looking boots from his bag next to me. He grabs the chain between my cuffs, and both of them pop open instantly, and he folds them up and begins to place them back into the cuff holder in his belt.

There was something he said that was important. Like, really important. I feel cobwebs like I had just been awakened from a deep sleep. “Put on the jock,” he tells me, and again I am confused, but of a different kind. It’s like I urgently need to know what he means, somehow. “You’re holding them in your hand.” I again look down at my hand and see the orange piece of cloth, which obviously is what he meant. I flip it around in my hands and finds it to be an orange jockstrap with a generous pouch. Looking down I also see the reason for that, since my dick and balls are large. Much larger than I remember them to be. I don’t want to keep him waiting, so as quickly as I can manage, with my balance a bit off, I manage to place one leg in each loop and pull up the jockstrap. It neatly collects everything in front into a large orange ball.

Himbot! That’s what he had said. It’s like the government robots but human. What was the I and M now again? Wait, those are just mindless sacks of muscles roaming around doing whatever menial task is available.

“Himbot?” I ask him. “Yes, you are a himbot,” the cop answered. “Put on the shirt.”

I immediately grabbed the orange bundle from the ground I assumed to be the shirt. To my delight I was right and with just a few tries I managed to get it on me. It isn’t a real shirt, but one of those without arms, whatever they are called. Quite a lot of skin showed. The shoulders were bare, as were the sides and the nipples unless you positioned the strings just right. Stringers! It’s called a stringers, or something close to it. I feel so tired thinking of words.

“And the boots”

I grab one of the boots. There is something missing, but I’m not sure what it is. I has something to do with the small holes, I think. Well, the large hole is missing a foot, so I put one in it. Then I put the other foot in the other boot, and looked at the cop to see if he approved. He looks about the same. Good enough I hope.

“Face me and raise your hands” I comply immediately. He is pointing the large gun at me again. I don’t like it, but I must do what he says. He presses a few buttons and then there is a sharp headache.

“Who are you?” “Himbot 220553.” “What is your assignment?” “Walk along path 228-red responding to requests.” “What types of requests?” “Any type of requests.”

Does anyone know any alternate names to Dahlia piercings that isn’t joker piercings? I wanna get some and I also think the call for a name change is extremely valid, but I also don’t want to go around like: