Psychological Torture - Tumblr Posts

Whumpee gets revenge on Caretaker

Warnings: Needles, Whumpee-turned-whumper, caretaker-turned-whumpee, handcuffs, threat of eye torture.

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Whumpee was rather terrified of needles. So, when Caretaker had to administer an IV into them for their pain and injury medication, they’d expected Whumpee to be furious at them. And Whumpee was, in a way. But Caretaker never expected what they were capable of doing. They never expected to wake up after being knocked out from an argument earlier, strapped to an armchair in a dark room.

Caretaker’s eyes groggily opened, their body aching slightly. It was mostly in their wrists, where they felt something rough that was tightly and painfully wrapped around them. Groggily, Caretaker tried to move their hands, groaning tiredly at the tightness around them. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they noticed that they weren’t in their bedroom, like normal.

They were in a dark room with dirty walls, and a worn staircase leading to a brown, wooden door. The walls were fitted with old grey wallpaper, with some mould slightly forming in the corners of the room. Their feet trembling on the carpet below, Caretaker looked around them. They couldn’t see much, but they noticed that they were tied to an armchair, and that they were still in their hoodie from the night before. There was a small brown-ish stain of dried blood.

That’s when Caretaker remembered. Last night, they and Whumpee had got into another argument over the IV incident. Usually, Whumpee would be slightly argumentative for a few moments, before calming down and being overly apologetic to Caretaker. But this was different. Whumpee was incredibly aggressive that night. They were shouting and yelling louder than they usually did. Then, they punched Caretaker. Caretaker was much larger than them, but they clearly didn’t punch as well as they did to be knocked out.

Just then, Caretaker looked up, noticing the slow creak of the door. They squinted at the bright light which began to slowly reveal, only being obscured by the silhouette of Whumpee, who had brought what seemed to be a small, blue toolkit with them. Whumpee began to amble down the stairs. The worn stairs creaked with each step, Whumpee’s eyes focused on Caretaker. Despite their anger, there wasn’t any hate in their expression; only a haunted, confused but still somewhat enraged look.

“Whumpee?” Caretaker weakly asked, breaking what would have been the silence had they not been panting in fear and slight pain, “What are you doing?” Whumpee didn’t respond. Instead they placed the kit down, still staring at Caretaker as they carried on walking towards them until they found themselves chest-to-chest, Whumpee’s lower body squeezing against Caretaker’s plump stomach.

“You know why you’re here?” Whumpee asked, a little too quickly. Caretaker furrowed their brows, their mouth slightly hanging open. “You promised. You promised I’d never be hurt again.” Their voice broke into a whisper, though they quickly gained their composure. “You promised I’d never feel fear, yet you showed me my worst fear.”

“Whumpee…” Caretaker pleaded, their voice shaking and slow. “I said this many times before, if you never received that IV you’d be dead!” The sick feeling in their stomach grew as it was clear that Whumpee’s mind hadn't changed. Whumpee somehow inched closer to their face, breathing slowly and menacingly on their neck.

“You know how scared I am of needles. You know and you knew then how much Whumper used them.“ Whumpee spat, pushing themselves off of Caretaker. They walked over to the kit, the contents rustling slightly as they picked them up. Caretaker watched with their eyes wide, trembling against the chair. Whumpee slowly opened the kit, revealing a needle, the contents facing Caretaker’s direction. They screamed.

“Stop it!” Caretaker thrashed against the restraint, quickly shaking their head as tears began to form in their eyes. Their hands uncontrollably and desperately tried to seperate themselves from their restraint, metal digging into the skin and bruising it more. Whumpee smirked softly, seeing their panicked state.

“Relax,” Whumpee chuckled, “I’m gonna try not to hurt you, you need this to survive.” That was what Caretaker said to them. Slowly, they took the needle out of the kit, turning it towards Caretaker. Whumpee creeped over to them, watching their panic with glee. This was what they deserved. Whumpee brought out the needle, inching it closer to Caretaker’s face as they moved their head up, their terrified eyes still focusing on the needle.

“P-Please stop…” Caretaker whimpered. Their voice was trembling and high with fear. They weakly bared their teeth, still staring at the needle which was being inched close to their eye. Whumpee ignored them, continuing to push the needle forward until it was a few centimetres away from their eye. Caretaker squeezed their eyelids shut, unable to take the dread any longer. They could hear the quick pulse of their heartbeat drumming in their ears, along with the quick, sadistic breathing of Whumpee as they took pleasure in seeing their fear. Even with their eyes closed, they could sense the sadistic expression which Whumpee had on them.

“Hold still…” Whumpee whispered. It was also something that Caretaker said as they were administering the medicine into them, an attempt to calm them down at that moment. Whumpee slowly moved the needle to the right of their eye, before slowly pricking their skin, the needle shallow. Caretaker whimpered again, opening their eyes and looking over to where the needle had entered, a faint drop of blood slowly oozing out after Whumpee quickly released it before moving on to the other side, gently pricking that as well. Caretaker squeezed their eyes shut in fear and pain. They tried to keep their body as still as they could to prevent Whumpee from pricking their eye by accident, though their body was shaking quickly, especially their legs. After releasing the needle, Whumpee quickly dropped it on the floor, gently stroking where they pricked with their thumb, slightly coating their thumb in blood.

Carefully, Whumpee brushed Caretaker’s cheek before moving to the back of the armchair and releasing the metal restraints. Caretaker’s hands bled slightly from their tugging on the rough material. Caretaker immediately covered their eye, pressing on the tiny wounds as they sobbed.

“You know, I’d never actually stab you in your eye,” Whumpee chuckled, their tone much kinder than before. “Just some payback for how much you scared me.”

Sexual Abuse - tw for sexual assault

I have survived a series of predatory sexual experiences. Examples relevant to this post:

1. In highschool a boy asked if he could fist me. I said no, but he tried anyway. It hurt quite a bit and he did not succeed. I squirmed away.

2. While on vacation in Brazil, my friend's roommate got me ridiculously drunk on tequila (4 or 5 double shots) then proceeded to perform oral sex on me. I vaguely recall this occurring, but i distinctly remember him putting his dick in my mouth and forcing it down my throat. I proceeding to puke all over him, the couch we were on , the floor, the rug and myself.

 It was a really difficult thing for me to get over. I have since called it sexual assault.  He - my ex- called this my "Rough Deepthroat."

Sometime after he found out that I had been unfaithful, he demanded to have "all of me" - to perform all of the sexual acts that i had done with other people with him. Confusion ensued; I had explored with him well beyond what I had done with anyone else.

Funny thing was he wasn't just referring to consensual sex acts I had been a part of, he meant, among other things, the two above. I rationalized that this was the kind of punishment I deserved for the crimes I had committed, and reliving these experiences couldn't be so bad because I knew he loved me.

I agreed to the "Rough deep throat" first. He sent me home twice that night. Once I was dressed too "plain" and the second I was dressed too "slutty". I am ashamed that I begged to come back the second time.

Can you call it sexual assault after you've begged for it? He skull fucked me with no mercy. He said he wanted to have me like I meant nothing "just like they did". I vomited into a garbage can we had handy for the occasion. He told me he couldn't " be like them" anymore and I didn't have to finish him off like that. He felt too bad. Plus he was annoyed that I wasn't tilting my head back like he was asking.

So he rolled me over and fucked me till he came. Then asked me to leave. We'd save the fisting for another time.

My mind has done a superb job of fuzzing up some of my most horrible memories, but the emotions I felt this night are still vivid. I remember telling myself to smile and look pleased the whole night while the pain and panic and misery built up in me with steady pressure. I was so proud of myself that I kept it all bottled until he couldn't see me anymore. When it broke though, it came with the force of a broken dam.

I sobbed hard on my way back to my car. Ashamed I had let him do that do me. That i had asked for it. That i had begged for it knowing it was bad for me. But he had my best interests at heart; he was doing this all so we could be together again. So why and how could this be hurting so bad?

This was a terrible one for me to share. I have avoided the term for a long time. I have said he was physically abusive and certainly emotionally abusive. But his use of shame and past trauma mixed with sexual acts that any reasonable human being would know I would not want to do leads me to only one conclusion.

The “kicking” in question was me telling him he downgraded. Contrary to the message above, he made sure I was aware then exactly how much I’d hurt him by hanging up on me twice and reminding me what a good man he’s been to me despite the fact that I am a horrible person.

My comment was petty, I’ll admit that. Other than that, though, I did what he loves: stroked his ego.  Keeps things peaceful, and yet, I got to wake up to this last week.

This is probably one of the most embarrassing things I’ll ever post.  This was My List that he gave me to complete in order for us to date again.  Complete this, and I would be forgiven. I believed it too, and allowed myself to be tortured in the pursuit. 

After my abortion, I was in really rough shape. I told him that I didn’t think I could have sex for while.  He responded with this.

My response is humiliating. He made me come over at 2am and offer myself up. I did.

He told me write out all the things I deserved to reference any time I deigned to feel good.  I kept it under my mouse pad at work up until yesterday when I brought it home.

I can’t date this specifically, but I’m thinking Fall 2016.  I remember writing it.

Excuse the handwriting.

I forgot, people under 30 in NA can’t read cursive at the best of times:

All the Things I Deserve According to {HIM}:

- to be gang raped - to have acid thrown in my face - to be murdered - various forms - the be gang raped (to death) by my exes and buried in a shallow grave bc that’s what shitty people deserve. - to get Aids and die - to get cervical cancer and rot from the inside out alone in my 1 bedroom apt after my parents have given up on me. - to be punched in the face - to be miserable forever - to have multiple kids w/ multiple dads and have the world know how much of a slut and loser I am. - to always wonder if {HE} sticks w/ me bc he can’t do better or if he actually loves me. 

He told me write out all the things I deserved to reference any time I deigned to feel good.  I kept it under my mouse pad at work up until yesterday when I brought it home.

I can’t date this specifically, but I’m thinking Fall 2016.  I remember writing it.

Excuse the handwriting.

Ammo #2 - TW sex. assualt

Hi - graphic and horrible below, sexual in nature. TW - sexual abuse, assault/rape.

For context:  I don’t like anal penetration.  I’ve been able to get to the point where it doesn’t hurt, but it’s never felt good.  So between that, the prep, stress, ridiculous amount of lube required, and clean up, I just don’t want to do it.  I have no moral objection - If it’s your thing, great - but it’s definitely not mine.

At 19, I had tried anal sex, but it still hurt. So I really didn't like it then. 

My ex had broken up with me.  At that time I was devastated, as I didn’t know it was temporary, which was compounded when he told me he was actively dating.

So, my go to coping method was self destruction. And I had a knack for seeking company with the absolute worst humans with air in their lungs.

That’s how I met Rapist.  And he and I had a whirlwind fuckfest that did absolutely nothing to heal me, or make me feel better, but it did allow me to detach from my reality further and just stop feeling altogether.

Make no mistake, I knew within 5 minutes that Rapist was human garbage - he’d been to jail for violence, pushed drugs on people he knew couldn’t help themselves, regularly snorted cocaine to be aggressive, was violent with women and was harassing his ex.  He treated his mother, who I suspect survived Rapist’s dad’s abuse, terribly, and tried to control his sister.  He seemed proud of all of this.

He was also super aggressive with a cat and dog he owned because he wanted to make them “mean.” That doggie was so sweet - Hooch was his name. He used to hide behind me when Rapist was picking on him. I hope he got away.

Rapist invited me to a party at his house. There were 20+ people there, but I didn’t know anyone but his sister, who I’d met a few days prior.  She turned out to not be an ally anyway - story another time.  He and I were exchanging sexy talk most of the evening and I was content with it until he said “I’m going to take your ass tonight.”  My demeanor dropped immediately and I said “ Not you’re not.”   He responded with “Yes, I am” and walked away.

Why I did not leave at this very instant I’ll never be able to explain.  I don’t really know. It was cold out, and dark, and the walk home was about an hour. And I guess I’d hoped he was kidding?

So, when the time came to shove me into his bedroom, I was about -105% turned on because I thought he was going to try to fuck me anally. He was aggressive undressing me and pushed me onto the bed.  There was half a second of relief when I realized he was aiming for my vagina but that ended very quickly.  There was no warm up, and my fluids were definitely not flowing naturally. Furthermore my muscles were so clamped down that I’m surprised he succeeded (He remarked later that he loved how tight I was - now a trigger).

When he pushed violently in, I yelped. Not a sexy yelp.  Like an animal caught in a bear trap kind of yelp.  He proceeded roughly as if nothing had happened.  

I, somewhat mercifully, don’t remember a lot.  I remember saying “No, stop, you’re hurting me” at lease twice, likely three times.  Rapist didn’t even acknowledge that I had spoken.  He choked me a little and slapped me.  After I had realized that this was going to happen anyways, I remember trying to think of ways to make it end quicker.  I tried to please Rapist.  Mostly though, I just laid there, stunned.

After he finished and rolled off, I cried.  Rapist didn’t understand and I did not attempt to explain.  I layed there until it was morning enough to leave.  I never contacted him again.

I have always been active and I am a formidable woman. I hate myself for not fighting back. It prevented me from acknowledging it as rape. It took me 8 years to get the courage to go and talk to someone about it.

He found out about this experience two years ago when he was snooping through my things.  He found a letter I had written “to Rapist” that was part of my therapy with my social worker at the time.

When he found it at the beginning, he told me that I should do the world a favour and kill myself.

As time went on he used this experience to torture me in other ways.

I went out dancing again last night, but I didn't feel quite as at ease as the first time. I was with some younger folks, so there was some drama that had nothing to do with me afoot; the interruptions that ensued were admittedly annoying.

But no, my memory was jogged because I had been in this bar before. Halloween 2016. He wanted to go out, and he had no one else to go with( I was last choice, you see, and he wanted to make sure I knew that).

So we went. However he was there to pick up girls, so we couldn't actually spend time together. He said he wanted me find us a 'third'. I said I would try.

I didn't. I have difficulty starting conversation at the best of times and as I had recently stopped drinking at that point there was no hope for artificial courage. I meandered around mostly.

But no matter, he was fine on his own. When I headed to the washroom, I found him sitting with a woman sprawled across his lap. He smiled at me as I walked by, enjoying my discomfort. I went to the washroom, regrouped mentally and decided that I couldn't stay. So I went to sit in my car and texted him to tell me when he was ready to leave and I would pick him up.

Later when he was in the car he told me that I should have stayed. He wanted me to watch. It was punishment. Justice. And if I actually loved him I would have endured.

Voicemail received 2:31am

  Transcript:

{My name},

I..... apologize for trying to reach you as much as I have.  What I wanted to say to you I figured you wanted to hear.... So.... that being said from tonight on I won’t call you anymore.  If you get this message and you want to know what it was..... call me....Thank you.

I try to pronounce words and names correctly.  Not in a pretentious “Oh, well actually, Gloria, the q is silent” type of way, but  a trying-to-be-respectful-and-not-a-shitty-white-person type of way.

He took a special interest in ridiculing me incessantly for this.  He made me feel like an idiot and insecure about every attempt I made. He loved it when I failed. I stopped trying when he was around.

Occasionally I have to make calls to clients at work.  I spend at least twice as much time practising their names under my breath as I do going over the details of their case. 

I still hear him laughing in my head.

This is really humiliating.

And slightly disgusting.

I have a hang up with seeing people on the toilet and vice versa. I know it’s not common for someone to really like that, but often couples or close friends sort of ‘get over it’ and do it if the situation demands.  

I can’t.  It makes my skin crawl.  Multiply it by 1000 if they are pooping.

He took every possible opportunity to force me to come in to the bathroom while he was taking a dump.  Be it he was out of tp or he just wanted to tell me something.  

He walked in on me a handful of times. I felt vulnerable and powerless most of the time, but never so much as those moments.

He knew this.  He knew I hated it so much.  He knew it would drive me to drink and that it actually made me cry once.   Even now I’m having to break to pace the floor.  But he thought it was funny.  He also liked that I’d have to smell his shit.

I am so angry.

My pervert uncle is still here; it's been a month.

Confession: The muscle memory of being constantly on edge I'm fairly certain is causing me to regress. As in reverting to hating myself and contemplating unblocking him sort of regression.

I am just, so tired.

I nearly did.

On Wednesday I had a flashback as I was walking into therapy.

It was the first few days of January in 2016 and he was confronting me about my transgressions. He had found a letter I had written to Rapist. I think I've told this story before, but reliving it this time made me drop like a tonne of bricks.

He asked what the deal was with Rapist and what he did to make me hate him so much.

I was cornered, so I told him. Telling anyone is hard, but telling someone who is unreservedly hostile and violent? He had just closed a door on my arm and kept pushing on it. It bruised purple immediately.

This was one of the hardest moments of my life ever.

After telling him I collapsed ( literally) into tears. He came over to me real gentle like as though he was going to comfort me. He whispered real softly and real close to my ear "you know, it would really make it better if you just killed yourself."

I felt his hot breathe on my ear on Wednesday.

The Twelfth

For about three years we lived on a county road.  Our home was a detached “mother-in-law” suite on the property of a woman who really didn’t know how to maintain property.  

We had countless issues that never got resolved: the hot water heater purged itself onto the floor semi-regularly, the heat would suddenly and unexpectedly cease causing our pipes to freeze, the ceiling had holes in it that were supposed to be fixed before we moved in (hah) and we had a mouse problem like you’ve never seen.

He got me in the habit of romanticizing living in the middle of no where.  Parts of it I really did enjoy; I used to love running out there at night.  It was also quiet at night and dark, plus I could lay out on the back porch naked and no one was the wiser. 

But some of the very worst moments of my life are out there.

All those issues I listed above became the list of grievances he had against me.  We had to deal with these problems because I still wasn’t making enough money, and that was because I was a lazy stupid cunt with no ambition and no respect for him and how hard he had to work.

He screamed at me so hard some times that he gave himself a nose bleed.  I didn’t even know that was possible. The physical abuse really gained a foothold here, too.  

Which made sense.  There were fewer neighbours to hear me crying.

Late Night Realization

I didn’t want to buy a house yet, and he was so angry.  He threatened to leave me.  He told me that I was keeping him down, and that I loved watching him suffer.

My reluctance was my subconscious throwing up warning signs: Get out!  Don’t invest financially in this this too!

His threats won, my subconscious lost, and he and I started “living the dream.”

After my indiscretions came to light, he told me that he pursued other options when I showed resistance and had been carrying on periodic dalliances online  since then. Though nothing as serious as what I did, of course as he wasn’t that sick. They provided emotional ‘support’ when I was ‘hurting’ him.

He never met up with any of them, so he says, despite having plenty of opportunities. Realistically it doesn’t matter now, and I don’t care if he did.

What stings is that I allowed him to hold me under his thumb and torture me as punishment for my own infidelity.  And he was out there likely doing the same thing, or something in the same vein at the very least .  

It doesn’t justify what I did, but it does render his disdain and condemnation illegitimate.

This has all just sunk in tonight.  If I had any guilt or shame left for what I’ve done, it’s fucking gone now.

Two years ago I was pregnant. I screamed at my dash and punched my steering wheel and melted down hard after taking the second one. I was stoic and unfeeling most of the time, but this... This was too much.

I don't know why I can't bring myself to throw these things out.

Borrowed Time

"I’m going to leave you at some point.”

He left it open ended so he could use me, keep me anxious, and hating myself all at the same time.

I wish he’d just done it. Maybe I would have fewer nightmares by now.

The difference between me and fully functional adults is that when they make a mistake, they just move on. When I make a mistake, the world crashes around me, the air escapes my lungs and i simultaneously want to hide under my blankets and scream like a banshee out into the void.

I feel unlovable, incapable and inhuman. I want to claw my skin off and jam a stick through the part of my brain that remembers.

My woman has to spend an hour telling me I am still worthy of love and talks me down from running away.

My brain can't yet process that mistakes no longer equal humiliation and pain. And since I'm not getting the punishment on the outside my brain does it to me on the inside.

Tumblr ads forcing me to watch knock off Dipper Pines and Ferb Fletcher drown