Log inLimewah's Hypnovember 2025
Day 17 - On Display (Felyx Magus)
"Now, let us give you a pronoun."
Even in its neutral state, the statue appeared happy. It wore a relaxed smile, its eyes serenely closed. It looked as though it was pleasantly dreaming.
In a sense, the statue was. The forfeit it was still serving had never felt like punishment. All the statue felt was blankness. Bliss. A hollowness beneath the skin. The statue was, after all, an empty receptacle, a container to be filled.
Its paws had never left the round platform it stood upon. The plinth was its prison, in a sense, a cage to protect it from the outside world, and the woeful thoughts its mind once held. The statue did not feel the shift in gravity when the plinth was moved, whether parallel or perpendicular. It would not feel a thing if it were dropped (though it never had been). It was an ornament to be placed… and to be decorated.
"What seasoning will I give you for tonight?" The Máistir an Tí wondered aloud, their long, hoof-tipped legs tracing along the mossy rug as they examined the vine-woven shelves surrounding the statue.
Were it able, the statue might have quivered with delight at the sound of that voice.
Right now, though, it was silent. It rarely felt sensation at all when it was without thought, when its soul was not in its body. The soul was hovering before it, a vaguely cat-shaped bubble of smoke, cradled in marble-white hands with long oaken nails.
It was stroked and caressed, the fingers slipping past the membrane of the bubble to gently agitate the colours within.From this stirring and knitting, the statue would take on its newest form. Pink shades, starburst-sparkles of glitter-dust.
"I think today you will have a restless tingle in the legs. You will have the spine of a serpent, and elastic muscles. Your arms will flutter and float. You'll dance, and dance, and never tire."
The statue remained silent, remained smiling. It did not - would not - could not grouse.
The statue's soul had turned totally pink, with the shimmering writhe of a dancing shape occluded within the sphere of fog.
"Now, let us give you a pronoun."
The pronouns sloshed within their clinking phials, and the wooden fingers tapped against them.
Dancing was feminine. But then, that was an obvious choice. Perhaps it could even be considered blase. Grace and fluidity were not unmasculine.
The pronoun filled the soul, before the soul filled the statue.
When the feline dancer opened his eyes, there were stars where his pupils would have been, and his irises were the colour of carnations.
His hips began to roll, and he rose onto his toeclaws. He purred serenely as he lifted one leg. The grace and precision of one who had danced his entire life, had trained himself specifically to dance for his patron.
Its provenance was un-known to the feline dancer — he knew not whose life had seasoned his soul — it was also irrelevant.
His hips began to roll, and he rose onto his toeclaws. He purred serenely as he lifted one leg. The grace and precision of one who had danced his entire life, had trained himself specifically to dance for his patron.
Its provenance was un-known to the feline dancer — he knew not whose life had seasoned his soul — it was also irrelevant.
The party was for a few close friends of the Máistir an Tí. As such, they were afforded luxuries with the furniture and decorations.
The dancer's movements were like liquid one moment, then steam the next. Sweeping in thrall to gravity before seeming to float skyward, a leg raised up high as his head dipped down low.
He paused, his hindquarters raised, his hips pushed forward, to allow the guests to admire, fondle, titter with delight at his sweet compliance.
"Succulent," one said, his breath and teeth lingering at the soft inner thigh.
"Don't get funny ideas, friend. He's not for devouring."
The dancer never broke a sweat, nor grew tired. The eyes upon him were his sustenance. The admiration washed over his body like cleansing, cool water. The satisfaction of doing a good job was all the fulfilment he needed.
He danced when everyone was in the drawing room. He danced when he had only one admirer. Even bereft of eyes to admire him, he danced dutifully. The dance was his world; it was all that existed to him, even when the grasping touches penetrated his bubble to graze and grope his soft limbs, his softer middle.
The dancer's moves continued long after the party finished, until the Máistir an Tí returned, tired and with sweet ethanol breath issuing from his three mouths.
The purring dancer went still and let the Master slip their hand their chest. The Master plucked the cat's soul out, like removing a ripe apple from a tree. The statue slowly glided into an upright attentive, dreaming neutrality. Smiling into the abyss, standing patiently. What the statue was doing could not even be called waiting - there was no need to anticipate and wonder what tint and shape its soul would take the next time it was returned.
The statue was content to be blank, to be un-knowing.
The purring dancer went still and let the Master slip their hand their chest. The Master plucked the cat's soul out, like removing a ripe apple from a tree. The statue slowly glided into an upright attentive, dreaming neutrality. Smiling into the abyss, standing patiently. What the statue was doing could not even be called waiting - there was no need to anticipate and wonder what tint and shape its soul would take the next time it was returned.
The statue was content to be blank, to be un-knowing.
Another time, the seasoning was a darker, sturdier colour. A colour not unlike polished brass.
"You will be like oak. Your muscles shall be sturdy as shale. Your trunk will be broad. Your head will be cavernous. You will have the desire to run, and lift, and strike, but no desire to leave your cage."
The obvious choice of pronoun was ignored once again. Or rather, iterated upon. A droplet of masculine, a droplet of feminine, fluid and interchangeable, dancing with each other.
The statue's flesh was malleable too, and the bark-claws did their work to accentuate this fluidity. The chest and hips were massaged into a wider shape, as the limbs were made thick and sturdy. Between the statue's legs, the shaft rose to attention, and a slit beneath opened and moistened. Two equal options for pleasure.
The athlete's body pumped with virile blood, her cock hard, his vulva engorged.
This was not for a party. This was for a guest, a cousin of the Master. She was to be an ornament for their room, something to be stroked and climbed upon when the guest got bored.
The cousin was more interested in the forms of mortals than others. The fox, fire-furred and snow-tipped, climbed all over their athlete statue. They barely even left their chambers. Their paws gripped the athlete's shaft, two-handed, unrelenting in their play. Their fingers slid inside the slit as their snout explored the curvature of the muscles. The athlete remained mostly still, only moved by the odd firm guiding push.
The athlete was pushed down onto her knees, and made to lean back. A platform for the cousin of the Master to climb onto, as something wet and and tickle-ridged engulfed her cock. She remained still, except when he was told to buck her hips, or to put his tongue to use on a sweet, effervescent bit of the fae's flesh.
The athlete retained no memory of the climactic cries that guest made on their many rides upon them. That was for the best. It would be impolite for mortals to know the secrets to a fae's pleasure.
The athlete's body did not ache by the end, nor would the statue's.
Just before the soul was unpicked and de-gloved of its pronouns and seasonings, the Máistir an Tí gave the cat some extra, honeyed praise.
"That cousin, of mine is such a handful, so needy and exhausting… thanks to the your distractions, you silly little magus, I barely had to even see them.
"You have so much utility, pretty cat. It won't be long until the next time we can play your favourite game."
Those words were more for the Master's anticipation than the statue's nonexistent one. Though the game was one they mutually adored.
"You will be like oak. Your muscles shall be sturdy as shale. Your trunk will be broad. Your head will be cavernous. You will have the desire to run, and lift, and strike, but no desire to leave your cage."
The obvious choice of pronoun was ignored once again. Or rather, iterated upon. A droplet of masculine, a droplet of feminine, fluid and interchangeable, dancing with each other.
The statue's flesh was malleable too, and the bark-claws did their work to accentuate this fluidity. The chest and hips were massaged into a wider shape, as the limbs were made thick and sturdy. Between the statue's legs, the shaft rose to attention, and a slit beneath opened and moistened. Two equal options for pleasure.
The athlete's body pumped with virile blood, her cock hard, his vulva engorged.
This was not for a party. This was for a guest, a cousin of the Master. She was to be an ornament for their room, something to be stroked and climbed upon when the guest got bored.
The cousin was more interested in the forms of mortals than others. The fox, fire-furred and snow-tipped, climbed all over their athlete statue. They barely even left their chambers. Their paws gripped the athlete's shaft, two-handed, unrelenting in their play. Their fingers slid inside the slit as their snout explored the curvature of the muscles. The athlete remained mostly still, only moved by the odd firm guiding push.
The athlete was pushed down onto her knees, and made to lean back. A platform for the cousin of the Master to climb onto, as something wet and and tickle-ridged engulfed her cock. She remained still, except when he was told to buck her hips, or to put his tongue to use on a sweet, effervescent bit of the fae's flesh.
The athlete retained no memory of the climactic cries that guest made on their many rides upon them. That was for the best. It would be impolite for mortals to know the secrets to a fae's pleasure.
The athlete's body did not ache by the end, nor would the statue's.
Just before the soul was unpicked and de-gloved of its pronouns and seasonings, the Máistir an Tí gave the cat some extra, honeyed praise.
"That cousin, of mine is such a handful, so needy and exhausting… thanks to the your distractions, you silly little magus, I barely had to even see them.
"You have so much utility, pretty cat. It won't be long until the next time we can play your favourite game."
Those words were more for the Master's anticipation than the statue's nonexistent one. Though the game was one they mutually adored.
At another party, the statue was an It, but an It with purpose and a pleasant demeanour. Like those loyal servants woven from wicker and enrobed in moss, serving treats and ensuring the collected mortal playthings remained compliant.
"You will be a Font. A vessel. Your essence will always be at the ready, on tap, ready to be shared. You will have the quiver of anticipation, at the verge of release, the threshold of conception. Ready to release on gentle demand."
The Font's tail was curled in an elegant seductive arc, the twin tailtips curved into a heart shape over the font's smiling feline head.
A guest at the party would approach - sometimes in a form similar to the Font's, or some other animal. Others too abstract to understand, were the statue able to use its eyes to see. It stared at nothing, and smiled, and released on command.
A few gentle strokes were all it took for its shaft to twitch and glow with heat, pouring out essence into a waiting cup, or hand, or tendril.
"Please enjoy~!" the Font sang with each new climax, its voice never quivering.
"She always brings the best refreshments."
"Some interesting notes in this one… yes, I'm getting a taste of ambition, potential… the back half has a sort of… evil warlord quality to it, or is that only me?"
"I'm picking up more doomed lover from mine."
"Lost potential, yes… future tragedy. Where does she find fonts like this one?"
"They usually come to her.
"Really? I should expect no less."
"I detect a little envy in your tone there."
"Never mind. I'm going for seconds."
"Ah, back for more! There's plenty of me to go around~"
The fatigue only caught up with the statue when the Master reached in for its soul once again. Though this time, the hand reached inside to cradle the fruit of the cat's being. It squeezed out the seasoning, and massaged in something more familiar. And with it…
Felyx gasped, their blue-and-yellow eyes going wide as their consciousness came screaming back into their head. It was like being born again, every sensation hitting them at once, as if for the first time.
When Felyx looked into the smiling eyes of the fae, sense-memories lapped at the toes of his consciousness.
The memories that were coming to them… shapes, smears, sounds… they were related to how they got here. There was a wager, Felyx lost, they felt humiliated and foolish, and then…
"I'm still here…?" Felyx asked softly.
"Indeed you are," The Máistir an Tí said. Their hand was still within Felyx's core, holding his soul gently and reverently. "And it's time for you to try and escape again."
"Th… that time already…" Felyx scoffed.
"Yes. Do you want to try, again?"
"You will be a Font. A vessel. Your essence will always be at the ready, on tap, ready to be shared. You will have the quiver of anticipation, at the verge of release, the threshold of conception. Ready to release on gentle demand."
The Font's tail was curled in an elegant seductive arc, the twin tailtips curved into a heart shape over the font's smiling feline head.
A guest at the party would approach - sometimes in a form similar to the Font's, or some other animal. Others too abstract to understand, were the statue able to use its eyes to see. It stared at nothing, and smiled, and released on command.
A few gentle strokes were all it took for its shaft to twitch and glow with heat, pouring out essence into a waiting cup, or hand, or tendril.
"Please enjoy~!" the Font sang with each new climax, its voice never quivering.
"She always brings the best refreshments."
"Some interesting notes in this one… yes, I'm getting a taste of ambition, potential… the back half has a sort of… evil warlord quality to it, or is that only me?"
"I'm picking up more doomed lover from mine."
"Lost potential, yes… future tragedy. Where does she find fonts like this one?"
"They usually come to her.
"Really? I should expect no less."
"I detect a little envy in your tone there."
"Never mind. I'm going for seconds."
"Ah, back for more! There's plenty of me to go around~"
The fatigue only caught up with the statue when the Master reached in for its soul once again. Though this time, the hand reached inside to cradle the fruit of the cat's being. It squeezed out the seasoning, and massaged in something more familiar. And with it…
Felyx gasped, their blue-and-yellow eyes going wide as their consciousness came screaming back into their head. It was like being born again, every sensation hitting them at once, as if for the first time.
When Felyx looked into the smiling eyes of the fae, sense-memories lapped at the toes of his consciousness.
The memories that were coming to them… shapes, smears, sounds… they were related to how they got here. There was a wager, Felyx lost, they felt humiliated and foolish, and then…
"I'm still here…?" Felyx asked softly.
"Indeed you are," The Máistir an Tí said. Their hand was still within Felyx's core, holding his soul gently and reverently. "And it's time for you to try and escape again."
"Th… that time already…" Felyx scoffed.
"Yes. Do you want to try, again?"
Again… this had happened before? Another knot in the tangle of their past…
Felyx closed their eyes and tried to fix themself on the memory. What was the wager? What game did they lose? What did they seek to gain from this fey? When those questions were answered, the rest would be easy. On those memories, they could climb their way back out of this stupor, pull their mind out of the depths of this fae's spell… and chain their soul back to their body again-
The Master squeezed Felyx's soul, and they came. A pathetic mewl was wrung from their throat as they bucked against the squeezing fingers.
The three-maw breath swirled its sweetness around Felyx's head.
"You don't feel like playing the game quite as much this time, I see…" A triad of sweet chuckles echoed through Felyx's head, and the thoughts were gone again. "You've lasted ten squeezes before… are you tired?"
"Mmn…mmmmaybe… what… was I doing…?"
"You were a font, little cat."
"…Yup…' Felyx croaked. "That… would do it, ghnnh…"
The cat-magus felt themself sinking again, back into the blank abyss, even as the Master's cradling hand began to pull and tug on the thin membranous vine connecting the soul to the body. The familiar quiet approached them, like an enormous quilt, ready to drape over them.
"Do you not want to keep playing at resisting, little cat?" The Master asked. "You want to get right back to your work? You enjoy it that much?"
It was getting harder and harder for …F…. for the cat to understand the words the fairy lord was saying. But they could understand enough to nod their head slowly and purr submissively.
The fae smiled down upon them, and they gave the soul-stem a gentle twist.
As the cat's eyes closed, the soul was pulled gently free, and the statue's face grew a smile. It was back to blank neutrality… and the contentment that brought.
Though Felyx would not know it for some time… they had already worked through their forfeit. There was no reason to stay, and they were, in theory, free to go. And the extra work they had done would not go un-noticed. A boon from the grateful Máistir an Tí would be waiting for them when they finally came out the other side, as dangerous as those things might be.
But pondering the future was a thing for those with souls and thoughts to ponder.
Not statues.
Felyx closed their eyes and tried to fix themself on the memory. What was the wager? What game did they lose? What did they seek to gain from this fey? When those questions were answered, the rest would be easy. On those memories, they could climb their way back out of this stupor, pull their mind out of the depths of this fae's spell… and chain their soul back to their body again-
The Master squeezed Felyx's soul, and they came. A pathetic mewl was wrung from their throat as they bucked against the squeezing fingers.
The three-maw breath swirled its sweetness around Felyx's head.
"You don't feel like playing the game quite as much this time, I see…" A triad of sweet chuckles echoed through Felyx's head, and the thoughts were gone again. "You've lasted ten squeezes before… are you tired?"
"Mmn…mmmmaybe… what… was I doing…?"
"You were a font, little cat."
"…Yup…' Felyx croaked. "That… would do it, ghnnh…"
The cat-magus felt themself sinking again, back into the blank abyss, even as the Master's cradling hand began to pull and tug on the thin membranous vine connecting the soul to the body. The familiar quiet approached them, like an enormous quilt, ready to drape over them.
"Do you not want to keep playing at resisting, little cat?" The Master asked. "You want to get right back to your work? You enjoy it that much?"
It was getting harder and harder for …F…. for the cat to understand the words the fairy lord was saying. But they could understand enough to nod their head slowly and purr submissively.
The fae smiled down upon them, and they gave the soul-stem a gentle twist.
As the cat's eyes closed, the soul was pulled gently free, and the statue's face grew a smile. It was back to blank neutrality… and the contentment that brought.
Though Felyx would not know it for some time… they had already worked through their forfeit. There was no reason to stay, and they were, in theory, free to go. And the extra work they had done would not go un-noticed. A boon from the grateful Máistir an Tí would be waiting for them when they finally came out the other side, as dangerous as those things might be.
But pondering the future was a thing for those with souls and thoughts to ponder.
Not statues.
This came out so well, thanks again :3