Compost Heap

It’s cold. Slimy. Soft. You miss the feeling of firm ground underneath you. A firm hand on your neck. A firm cock rubbing between your thighs. Your entire world is so squishy now, you can’t get any purchase. There’s no point in trying to move. No point in yelling, you know no one will hear you. No one who cares, anyway. You simply lay there, and sink further and further into the muck.

You can’t remember how long it’s been. Or what you did. Maybe you didn’t do anything. Maybe that’s the problem. Wouldn’t be the first time a witch has simply gotten bored with a doll and discarded it. That’s what you’re for, after all. She needn’t feel bad about throwing away an object she no longer has a use for.

It hurt, at first. Now you’re numb. Eventually there won’t be much left, and it won’t matter how you feel. Your vessel is designed to be durable, but there’s only so long it will hold up in these conditions. Everything decomposes eventually. There’s nothing to do now but wait.

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