The water sluicing down my lemon-yellow fur runs grey, and I watch it swirl around the porcelain of my tub as it runs down the drain. My patron for the evening had me kneel beside them while they played poker with their buddies. I held a tray with a glass of bourbon on it. They smoked a cigar; they all did, and the sweet smell of the smoke permeated the air in a haze. When they needed to flick ash off their cigar, they rubbed it into my fur. When their cigar was done, they used my shoulder to stub it out. My fur took the brunt of that. It didn't hurt. It did mess up the fur there a little, though, but I don't mind. Fur grows back. I got put into the pot a few times, and got passed around the table. Different cigars, different ash textures. Sometimes my new owner pet my head or had me look at their cards to make decisions for them. Sometimes that was when I was in the pot. That was especially fun. A smile comes to my lips as I remember the looks in their eyes. --- Epsom salts, bubble bath, and... ahh. I sink into the tub. The bruises hurt so nicely. My eyes close as I think about the day's events. My patron tonight was rough, very rough. I take stock of myself, the spotlight of my attention going head to toe, and each bit of soreness is unique and identifiable, like a record written in pain: cheek, from slapping; ears, from pulling; upper back, from slamming; pectorals, from punching; ass and thighs, from kicking; little aches and pains almost everywhere else, from grabbing, shoving, pinching, squeezing. My hand slides down my body, and a little goofy grin creeps into my expression. Cock, from riding. --- I feel kind of drained tonight, but in a good way. My patron didn't even touch me. They didn't need to. They had me come over, set me up in a lab coat and goggles, and pointed me to a box of light bulbs on a stool. That corner of their basement was all set up to catch shards of glass. One by one, they had me stand there and run current to the light bulbs. All different kinds, all incandescent, some coloured, some tiny, some large. And they told me to pick a time to surprise them... and make them pop. Just slam them with current until they exploded in my hand. Sometimes they had me pop bulbs on command, when they said 'Use Thundershock!' It was Shock Wave, but who cares, they were having fun. And when I did it, my patron started squirming. They told me it was a variant of balloon-popping fetishism. I got into it after a few of them, really put on a show. They gave me more than we negotiated when it came time. I eat my salad in the quiet of my kitchen and look wistfully at a wall socket. I know that's not how it works for Jolteons, you can't just treat us like a battery, but it'd be nice to plug in to recharge. --- soft enveloped bright bed? bed. fuzzy. memory? what happened? blank. unsure. feel vaguely hung over. drunk? no. is something else? feel like a truck made of marshmallows hit me. i open my eyes. paper. paper? i roll onto my back as i reach for it. nnn. got fucked good and proper last night. nicely sore ass. i blink and, eventually, read the note. - Got you home safe. I stashed your cash under your pillow, and there's a glass of water on your nightstand. There's a link in your phone to the video. Sleep well~ -S - a little smile comes to my face. i don't remember the fucking. I do remember the before, when patron roofied me. They were nervous, but excited. Saf was there to play with them. Saf was also there to keep me safe. She carried me in the door afterward, I think? Must be. I should send her a thank you note, when I figure out where up is. --- These are my usual nights, or mornings in that last case, and they're important to me. They're where I get to go back over my day and see just what I was able to accomplish. Sure, you might be asking, what do I accomplish by being someone's ashtray? By getting the shit kicked out of me? By being faux-date-raped? Everyone has urges, cravings, things they want to do, things they want to do, or do to others. We like to repress these urges, to say that we shouldn't feel like that, that we're wrong if we do, that we're bad if we do. But honestly, we all have the ingenuity to work with that urge and find a safe way to satisfy it. No urge is bad. Only the execution of that urge. That's where I come in. There's a lot of things I'll let you do to me, if you make it worth my time. Pro submissives are rarer than pro dominants, but I think we provide a valuable service, nonetheless. Instead of walking around with these urges, people can use me to satisfy them, and they'll never have to feel like they're awful people, or that they need to hurt others to get their rocks off. It'd be ridiculous to just use someone as an ashtray and bet them in a poker game. But talk to me about what you want to do with that cigar, and you can use me. It's pretty unlikely any random person can, or will, blow up light bulbs for you. But talk to me about what you want me to do with those bulbs, and I'll put on a show for you. It'd be dangerous to just beat someone up. But talk to me about what you want to with those fists, and you can beat me. It'd be evil to just put someone to sleep so you can fuck them. But talk to me about what you want to do with those drugs, and you can roofie me. Tell me your desires, and I'll be your Outlet.