There have been persistent clamorings for me to share my “secret” version of this pic. I am not a heartless god, I sometimes listen to those pleadings.
I have the best boyfriend in the world. He’s comfy and quiet. Soft and pliable. We never argue. He’s always there when I get home and always happy to see me - a slack jawed smile on his cherubic face. He’ll never leave me, I’ve made certain of that.
/rambles about the picture
/rambles about the story
/wanders off to watch The VVitch
You know I’m in trouble when I’ve started coloring and still don’t have a head or the rest of the scene figured out… Dammit all. :p
Also those are some really inconsistent scars. Third-rate surgeon or DIY job.
Dagotto. That was his name now. He didn’t know what it meant. It was some kind of Swedish word. All Matt knew was it was tattooed on the back of his neck. It was also all his Master ever called him now.
In the months leading up to the surgery they visited many tattoo and piercing parlors. Each time he felt more and more ashamed going out in public as piercings proliferated and tattoos of offensive words encroached on spaces of skin that had once been just “empty canvas” as Sir was fond of saying. It made him feel sub-human.
The days of “people” time were becoming fewer and fewer. Dagotto, as he was always called, spent much of that time on all fours, his former clothing and possessions locked away in a trunk upstairs. The trunk was only opened for the occasions on which Sir took him out in public. But, even then, he never had a choice in what he wore.
While Sir was at work, Dagotto lounged around the house listlessly. He knew there were cameras - everywhere - so that Master could supervise him, ensure he was safe. He went out through the doggie door to piss on the big maple in the backyard. The TV only ever had porn on it, a lot of which was actually OF Matt. That made him horny, a lot. Everything did. He wanted to hump anything within reach all of the time. Dagotto knew it had to be something in his food, changing his personality and his desires.
And he was okay with that. He welcomed it. Dagotto pined for the moments when Sir was at home. Moments when he could “exist” for his Owner. He welcomed the changes too. And the changes yet to come. The surgery.
Weeks later Matt finally learned the meaning of his new name. “Dagotto means footstool,” said Sir, minutes before the boy went under the anesthesia. “I found it in an Ikea catalog.”
***
This pic started out as so many different things XD A footrest, a puppy pic, a sissy pic, an amputee pic. And it changed a ton along the way. So many details came and went. Ultimately it became a showcase pic for some cool pet gear. Poodle tails! This is definitely one of my busiest pics.
Thanks to Jenny for her input. Even if it did result in numerous revisions and re-visitations XD
I so want to tattoo a pup with text in that font. Does that make me a bad man?
They called him the Flesh Farmer, though his name was Karloth Kurtz. Few people in the back alleys of London knew or even cared to know his true name. All they needed to know was that he payed very well for fresh flesh and that he was to be feared.
Urchins and work-house rats and runaways were fair game, nobody would miss them when they disappeared. They’d find their way onto Karloth’s damp and dreary operating table. None walked away without some wild and drastic change. Some never walked away at all.
When the stitches healed and the scars paled Kurtz would unveil them at his gala'ball’ - really just a sick parody of the glamorous parties held by the city’s elite. Only the most perverse or monstrous individuals were invited to the ball where they were allowed to bid for the twisted mockeries of humanity that Karloth paraded before them.
***
If this isn’t your thing then you probably should look away now. :p
I hope we all remember the good doctor from ages ago. I’ve been wanting to invest in a slight return to some of my older, darker stuff. And he seemed like a good way to do that. This is definitely darker than recent imagery.







