There's a flickering fluorescent light, barely functioning illuminating the room of cold hard concrete. The whole space is only around a few square feet, and the indifferent grey walls off a suffocating and intimate atmosphere of hopelessness. Anon doesn't know if it's been days, or even weeks since his last feeding. His lazy vision sharpens as a familiar ring of light appears around the door frame, it's that time again.
"Hey Anon! it's your ace here to give you your scraps!"
"Typoo.. please.."
"You don't talk without permission!"
A sharp doubleslap to the face sets the bound and malnourished schizoid to the cold floor. His gaze turns upwards as he sees Typoo squat over his head, her pampies pulled all the way down.
"PLEASE TYPOO!!!"
*BBBBBTTTTTT PPFFTTT BRRRAAAAPPPPP SWEWEWWEWWW BREEEPPP RAAAPP PLOP PLOP RPEDPPRFBFFBBF*
"-ack! PLEASE TYPOO I JUST WANT TO SEE MY FAMILY AGA-"
"Mhmmm here comes seconds Anon"
*BRRRAAAAAPPP PFFRRFFFPP BRRRREAPPPPP PLOPPPPPP SWEWEWWEWWWE BRRRDEPPTTTTT*
*Cough* "Typhlosion.. I'm going to get sick again.. please, why are y-"
"YEAHHHHH! I'm gettin' fired up! Here comes dessert! I'm going to shit fire down that mouth real good!"
Typoo lowers her foul smelling pucker right onto Anons caked lips, the odour of expired instant ramen utterly overpowering, the festering gland pulsating as it releases it's noxious gases prepared to let loose another steaming shit into Anons pursed maw, muffled screams and choking are all that is heard as his throat is filled to the brim with Typoos IBS, the dinner of /vp/s favorite starter. As Anon takes it down his throat, his insides churning and on fire, he slowly loses consciousness. He will wake up later no doubt, when it's feeding time again. Typoo sits up, slamming the door shut as she goes to type the days set of Cinderace conspiracies
