I suppose its the angle of someone who was formerly very privileged and wealthy, who isn't necessarily contrite about that, having to navigate in a socialist society that is interesting to me.
Good Drones Obey: Communism and Kink in Post-Revolutionary America
- Thread starter RiverDelta
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Oh, definitely. While I am a socialist, as evidenced by the fact that things are pretty clearly better after the revolution, I also feel like the last thing I want is this to be some preachy manifesto—especially when I've taken potshots at other preachy manifestos in this story.
So, for me, having a sympathetic character who was not gelling with what I believed was extremely important. I think you can still believe that the world is better without Kendra having six houses while still refusing to say that Kendra is inherently evil on a moral level.
Oh, and for the record, I have a character who I'm considering using for this. Her name's Emily, and she has my exact political beliefs, more or less. She is also a whiny, bitter, moody asshole who's lived a completely mundane life of suffering, abuse, and sadness, and is envious that other people get to be happy while she is miserable and chronically depressed. I've used her for other things in the past, and she might feature in this story.
That said, weirdly for a left communist/councilist/ortho-marxist/whatever, we haven't really seen any sympathetic leftcoms. The closest thing we have is SouthernByTheGraceofGod. So maybe we'll see an Emily who actually got the chance to be happy, or we'll learn more about SouthernByTheGraceofGod.
I guess I just find perfect characters who believe everything I believe to be kind of boring?
I guess my point is that I don't want this to be a manifesto or to be agitprop or whatever, even if it does deal with political themes.
I like that Kendra found a drone to make an honest domina of her 😂
You know, I've noticed something, in my years of coming across weird shit on the internet: there seem to be a lot of asexual folks that are into hypnosis stuff; I wonder if there might be some kind of weird link between the two, similar to the one there is between being on the autism spectrum and being into certain subsets of BDSM/kink, or being gender non-conforming.
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I'm in a dronification server, and like half the people there are asexual. I'd imagine part of it is that those kinks don't necessarily require intercourse?
Good point - I'm not asexual, but some of the stuff I'm into doesn't necessarily involve intercourse, even though I do find it sexually appealing nonetheless. Shit, someone I know, they're asexual, but they sure love to wax lyrical about rule 34 of muscular men ravishing each other, or about rather explicit spins on Warhammer 40,000.
Speaking of which, I wonder what's the state of RPGs and tabletop games in this copyright-free, socialist world.And I hope the new socialist order there is more tolerant of, you know, people having fun, than the old Warsaw Pact and than most internet tankies, literally everything is bourgeois degeneracy to them - if the USSR had been more lenient on what Soviet citizens were allowed to do, listen to, watch or wear, maybe it could've survived, as its citizens wouldn't have needed to tear down the system in order to play rock music or watch slasher flicks.
China kind of got it, but even they are way less permissive than the West to this day, because apparently a few seconds of people being gay in a Disney movie is a deadly threat to the survival of the People's Republic, or something. Why should I even wish for a revolution, if the same old prejudices are going to pop out again, and the same old men are going to run the place? There isn't a lot of difference between a monopolistic corporation and a monopolistic state enterprise.
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The revolution in this new socialist order was lead by average people, typically average people disillusioned with existing US politics that lead to the collapse of the nation. Most people generally want to have fun, and most people reacted poorly to the kind of reactionary culture-war bullshit that lead to people getting killed in the civil war. So while bigotry hasn't been completely abolished or anything, the mass-politics nature of the revolution has lead to much more cultural freedom than in the Warsaw Pact.Good point - I'm not asexual, but some of the stuff I'm into doesn't necessarily involve intercourse, even though I do find it sexually appealing nonetheless. Shit, someone I know, they're asexual, but they sure love to wax lyrical about rule 34 of muscular men ravishing each other, or about rather explicit spins on Warhammer 40,000.
And I hope the new socialist order there is more tolerant of, you know, people having fun, than the old Warsaw Pact and than most internet tankies, literally everything is bourgeois degeneracy to them - if the USSR had been more lenient on what Soviet citizens were allowed to do, listen to, watch or wear, maybe it could've survived, as its citizens wouldn't have needed to tear down the system in order to play rock music or watch slasher flicks.
China kind of got it, but even they are way less permissive than the West to this day, because apparently a few seconds of people being gay in a Disney movie is a deadly threat to the survival of the People's Republic, or something. Why should I even wish for a revolution, if the same old prejudices are going to pop out again, and the same old men are going to run the place? There isn't a lot of difference between a monopolistic corporation and a monopolistic state enterprise.
My personal opinion is that internet tankies are and should be irrelevant, and I think that the kind of people who wanted to redo Stalinism were the kind of people that were seen as having no idea what they were talking about during the revolution. It's not a revolution lead by nerdy weirdos who dress up in NKVD uniforms. It's a revolution run and organized by proletarians as a class. RPGs and tabletop games are probably pretty big, yeah, especially with the death of the AAA video game industry.
Anyway, yeah, my feeling is that a revolution run by internet tankies is a revolution that wouldn't be able to succeed.
The AAA video game industry in America - Hideo Kojima is probably salivating at the thought of working on a mind-bending LSD trip of a game set during the revolution, and starring some of his favourite American actors as character models and voice actors, and I can see some other countries taking advantage of the fall of the US video game industry, even outside of East Asia and Europe.
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Yeah, that's fair, though in a globalized world the fall of an industry in America would have severe knock-on effects on that industry and others in the rest of the world. The effects of the revolution didn't stop at the CONUS borders. I definitely get what you mean, though.
Update 9: A Day in the Life of Autonomous Apogee
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Your name is 898 Autonomous Apogee. You are a drone. You awaken in bed after a productive night of recharging and look at your exposed endoskeleton in the mirror. Your plugged-in phone plays hypnotic audio through your cat-ear headphones. You remove them. Your endoskeleton is pale, and your ocular sensors are exposed. Your hair is straight and black, your olfactory sensor has some freckles on it, and you feel profoundly naked even in your cotton pajama pants and custom-made Chaos King band t-shirt.
You have never once listened to Chaos King, but your owner likes them. You are a curvy woman, your bust prodigious and your form carved by a sculptor with a hesitant hand. You walk to the kitchen, where Owner [Transistor Pernet] is eating from a bowl of cereal. You notice that the box is merely labeled as cereal, and features a local artist's work on the front. It is avante-garde, part of the New Culture movement. There is a sea monster. You check the ingredients list. There is an excess of sugar. You run a hand through your hair and prepare your owner breakfast.
Transistor Pernet prefers the same thing every morning, owing to her autism. You, too, have autism, but you prefer to think of it as AutOS. For Transistor Pernet, it is merely a difference in cognitive development. For you, it is the operating system you are running. You begin to fry some sausages and make scrambled eggs. "898?" Transistor asks, flipping through a Zombiepunk tabletop RPG book.
"Yes?" You respond.
"Get those pants off, I want to look at you."
You have a safeword. You have negotiated this extensively. You still feel completely owned by her. You remove your pajama pants and step out of them. "This drone apologizes, her front plug is exposed." Your front plug, which bears small, womanly hairs due to your estrogen treatments, dangles between your legs.
"Don't worry, 898," Transistor says, exposing the circuitry tattooed on her arm as she reaches out lazily. "I like looking at your front plug. It's part of what makes you you."
You know that if you wanted to, your owner would be the first to support you in converting it to a port from a plug, but you do not really use it for anything and the conversion procedure scares you. "Thank you, Mistress Transistor," you say, finishing cooking. Mistress is short, with messy corn-blonde hair that boxes her face.
The apartment is small, but it's been fixed up. Once, this place was owned by a suit-and-tie slum lord, but now it is the picture of safety and cozy hominess. You serve Mistress her portion of the scrambled eggs and sausages, and you serve yourself the fuel you need to better serve. Your eyes are glazed over, and in truth you really only register the taste of fuel when your Mistress wants you to. There are many sorts of drones, all of them equally worthy of compassion, but you are of the sort that makes no compromises with human life.
You finish your meal and request to change into your carapace. Mistress gives you approval, and you return to your bedroom. Perhaps, if you're good, Mistress will let you be a bedwarmer in her bedroom. You remove your band tee and cover your body in talcum powder, before pulling a black latex catsuit over your body. It has gloves and socks built in, and as you zip it up you are sealed in slick, shiny latex.
You pull on your latex hood in the same shade of black. You don't always get this dressed up, and much of the time you prefer to wear spandex instead, but your latex carapace is the most dronelike, and you are entertaining guests today. You pull your gas mask faceplate with its singular visor over your hood. It has a singular visor, and you have removed the filters on the sides for safety.
You, every curve and fold of your body contained in rubber, return to the kitchen, where you give your owner a proper salute. "Hail capitalism!" you say, not because you are a capitalist but because your owner is a libertarian and it makes you feel squiggly inside to praise such a bloated and morally reprehensible system.
Mistress laughs and gives you a quick hug. "Good drone. Go clean up the apartment before they come." Truthfully, you aren't sure why Mistress is a libertarian, which to your knowledge is an ideology followed only by sociopaths and idiots. You suppose it isn't much of a problem, with the heart of libertarianism having been slain in the revolution. Mistress is a Sacramento libertarian, not a Christofash libertarian. That is what makes all the difference.
A few hours of cleaning later, you hear a knock at your apartment door, and the most gorgeous woman you have ever seen enters through, along with a drone who looks nearly identical to you save for a latex dress in pink covering its black latex skin. Said gorgeous woman toys with her thin, rectangular glasses. "Did someone say Kendra Oswald?" she says, giving Mistress a big hug. "Damn, babe, you look so fucking hot. Love the drone too. The naked look is dope." She makes finger guns at you and you blush under your hood.
"How may this drone satisfy Guest Kendra's values?" you ask. Kendra's drone repeats the same question, in the same dull monotone. Your nethers light up.
Kendra plops her rear down on the couch in the apartment's living room, and puts two heeled feet up. She's wearing dramatic makeup that's a flash of colors, she looks like she's made of the same stuff as holographic Pokemon cards. "096, footrest," she commands, and 096's boots scurry over with the rest of it to get down on all fours. Kendra puts her feet up on 096's body.
"So, Transistor, how's it hanging?" Kendra asks.
Transistor pours some Hawaiian Four Loko out into two glasses of ice, and the girls get comfortable. "Good, you?"
"Awesome, the Cap flick is going off without a hitch. Hey, Transistor's drone!"
You snap to attention.
"You wanna give your owner a cuddle? Don't you have protocols for that or something?" she asks, sipping her Four Loko.
You scurry over and begin to mechanically but lovingly cuddle Mistress. You're a product, not a person, and you couldn't be happier.
If that isn't libertarianism, what is?
You have never once listened to Chaos King, but your owner likes them. You are a curvy woman, your bust prodigious and your form carved by a sculptor with a hesitant hand. You walk to the kitchen, where Owner [Transistor Pernet] is eating from a bowl of cereal. You notice that the box is merely labeled as cereal, and features a local artist's work on the front. It is avante-garde, part of the New Culture movement. There is a sea monster. You check the ingredients list. There is an excess of sugar. You run a hand through your hair and prepare your owner breakfast.
Transistor Pernet prefers the same thing every morning, owing to her autism. You, too, have autism, but you prefer to think of it as AutOS. For Transistor Pernet, it is merely a difference in cognitive development. For you, it is the operating system you are running. You begin to fry some sausages and make scrambled eggs. "898?" Transistor asks, flipping through a Zombiepunk tabletop RPG book.
"Yes?" You respond.
"Get those pants off, I want to look at you."
You have a safeword. You have negotiated this extensively. You still feel completely owned by her. You remove your pajama pants and step out of them. "This drone apologizes, her front plug is exposed." Your front plug, which bears small, womanly hairs due to your estrogen treatments, dangles between your legs.
"Don't worry, 898," Transistor says, exposing the circuitry tattooed on her arm as she reaches out lazily. "I like looking at your front plug. It's part of what makes you you."
You know that if you wanted to, your owner would be the first to support you in converting it to a port from a plug, but you do not really use it for anything and the conversion procedure scares you. "Thank you, Mistress Transistor," you say, finishing cooking. Mistress is short, with messy corn-blonde hair that boxes her face.
The apartment is small, but it's been fixed up. Once, this place was owned by a suit-and-tie slum lord, but now it is the picture of safety and cozy hominess. You serve Mistress her portion of the scrambled eggs and sausages, and you serve yourself the fuel you need to better serve. Your eyes are glazed over, and in truth you really only register the taste of fuel when your Mistress wants you to. There are many sorts of drones, all of them equally worthy of compassion, but you are of the sort that makes no compromises with human life.
You finish your meal and request to change into your carapace. Mistress gives you approval, and you return to your bedroom. Perhaps, if you're good, Mistress will let you be a bedwarmer in her bedroom. You remove your band tee and cover your body in talcum powder, before pulling a black latex catsuit over your body. It has gloves and socks built in, and as you zip it up you are sealed in slick, shiny latex.
You pull on your latex hood in the same shade of black. You don't always get this dressed up, and much of the time you prefer to wear spandex instead, but your latex carapace is the most dronelike, and you are entertaining guests today. You pull your gas mask faceplate with its singular visor over your hood. It has a singular visor, and you have removed the filters on the sides for safety.
You, every curve and fold of your body contained in rubber, return to the kitchen, where you give your owner a proper salute. "Hail capitalism!" you say, not because you are a capitalist but because your owner is a libertarian and it makes you feel squiggly inside to praise such a bloated and morally reprehensible system.
Mistress laughs and gives you a quick hug. "Good drone. Go clean up the apartment before they come." Truthfully, you aren't sure why Mistress is a libertarian, which to your knowledge is an ideology followed only by sociopaths and idiots. You suppose it isn't much of a problem, with the heart of libertarianism having been slain in the revolution. Mistress is a Sacramento libertarian, not a Christofash libertarian. That is what makes all the difference.
A few hours of cleaning later, you hear a knock at your apartment door, and the most gorgeous woman you have ever seen enters through, along with a drone who looks nearly identical to you save for a latex dress in pink covering its black latex skin. Said gorgeous woman toys with her thin, rectangular glasses. "Did someone say Kendra Oswald?" she says, giving Mistress a big hug. "Damn, babe, you look so fucking hot. Love the drone too. The naked look is dope." She makes finger guns at you and you blush under your hood.
"How may this drone satisfy Guest Kendra's values?" you ask. Kendra's drone repeats the same question, in the same dull monotone. Your nethers light up.
Kendra plops her rear down on the couch in the apartment's living room, and puts two heeled feet up. She's wearing dramatic makeup that's a flash of colors, she looks like she's made of the same stuff as holographic Pokemon cards. "096, footrest," she commands, and 096's boots scurry over with the rest of it to get down on all fours. Kendra puts her feet up on 096's body.
"So, Transistor, how's it hanging?" Kendra asks.
Transistor pours some Hawaiian Four Loko out into two glasses of ice, and the girls get comfortable. "Good, you?"
"Awesome, the Cap flick is going off without a hitch. Hey, Transistor's drone!"
You snap to attention.
"You wanna give your owner a cuddle? Don't you have protocols for that or something?" she asks, sipping her Four Loko.
You scurry over and begin to mechanically but lovingly cuddle Mistress. You're a product, not a person, and you couldn't be happier.
If that isn't libertarianism, what is?
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Shouldn't it be "plug to port"? Also I think specifying "front" and "back" would only be necessary for ports, no? Unless biomodding has come an incredibly long way, of course 😂
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Yeah, I noticed that first mistake and fixed it.
Oh, and yeah, it would be superfluous, but I figured that 898 found the idea of having a "plug" to be dysphoric, but having a "front plug" felt more artificial and less dysphoric.
It doesn't make a ton of sense, but dysphoria can be like that.
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I've been playing with the idea of introducing a kink that doesn't actually exist in our world, namely, a sort of eldritch horror roleplay thing. It seems like there's inherent eroticism there, as well as power, myth, mysticism, goth vibes, occult items, and the like.
Sort of like a fantasy-dom counter to dronification's sci-fi-sub thing. It would also be a bit taboo or countercultural in some ways with its implications of human powerlessness and insignificance that run contra to the revolution's lofty ambitions.
I'm not sure if it's worth it to write about a kink that doesn't exist, though. So, would anyone be interested in seeing a board with some of the people into that?
Sort of like a fantasy-dom counter to dronification's sci-fi-sub thing. It would also be a bit taboo or countercultural in some ways with its implications of human powerlessness and insignificance that run contra to the revolution's lofty ambitions.
I'm not sure if it's worth it to write about a kink that doesn't exist, though. So, would anyone be interested in seeing a board with some of the people into that?
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That kink exists IRL, there's literally a tag on Rule34 for "eldritch horror".
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Well, yeah, but I meant more as a distinct community based in a sub/dom role thing, rather than as a fantasy. At least, I've never seen eldritch horror in the same way I've seen petplay or dronification.
I could definitely be wrong on that, though?
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See, every time I think there can't be a stranger brain wave in this forum, you pull something like this out of your hat. For an asexual, your style of writing feels like you're holding yourself back from making the most debased and explicit sex scene ever typed on a keyboard. Honestly I'm morbidly curious as to just where you will take the plot, as it's pretty slow going right now.
I don't know about doesn't exist, I once read a like 200-something page manual about Lovecraftian sex magick out of curiosity. It mainly seemed to revolve around an erotic reenactment of an archetypical Yog-Sothoth/Shub-Niggurath pairing combined with the usual chaos magick emphasis on creating sigils and charging them through ecstatic action that short-circuits the clutter of logical thought.
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Well, it's precisely because I'm asexual that I'm into this stuff. It's an outlet for horniness that doesn't necessarily involve sex, and if I were allosexual I would probably just want regular sex.
Oh, and this is a timeline, rather than a novella (which is what I'm working on as well), so it might help to think of this as the exploration of a world rather than as a linear narrative.
Huh, apparently I underestimated how kinky people can get.
Would anyone want to read about that kind of kink?
I'm hip 😂 I have a pretty good knowledge of chaos magick and Lovecraft and an anthropological interest in kink and weird political theory if you want to spitball ideas.
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Yeah, sure, feel free to PM me some ideas and we can figure things out.
Yeah, that's fair, as long as you're enjoying the worldbuilding, future history, and/or characters, I think that's what really matters. This isn't pornography, or at least, I'm trying to make it more than pornography.
I think you're doing a good job with the whole gonzo thing, there's hornyness but it doesn't overwhelm social commentary or character interaction.
"Life isn't divided into genres. It's a horrifying, romantic, tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel. You know, with a bit of pornography if you're lucky."- Alan Moore
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Yeah, my feeling is that there's a lot of communism stories, and there's a lot of fetish fiction, but there's almost no serious stories about revolutionary communism that view it through the lens of nerds in the BDSM community.
It was that or pro wrestling, and "Faces and Heels: Communism and Pro Wrestling in Post-Revolutionary America" doesn't have that same hook to it.
Update 10: I Hope You Die, I Hope We Both Die
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"Really, Tom, you used your last phone call for me?" he heard the atomic transgender say over the phone. "I thought you said I was an evil pervert," Calliope said. It was a grey room, and even the guards found it visibly uncomfortable.
Former President Tom Picano sat in Revolutionary Detention Center Miami. Apparently the revolutionaries wanted to abolish prisons. It was probably just because they preferred bullets to bedrooms, he thought. He was a portly man with slick-backed hair and an American flag pin. "Please don't laugh." The goons with red armbands stood around him as he sat in the plastic chair.
"Oh, what's going on? You gonna call me a troon again?" Calliope said, laughing. She was probably smoking. The Queen Troon and her degenerate friends smoked to Hell and back. She could pretend to be Woke Bitch of the year, but everyone knew behind the rainbow flag was the Air Force roundel. Marines, too. Some of the Deads, the cop fiefdoms, had pledged allegiance to her later in the war. It was crazy, he thought, that a bunch of American badasses would do what a troon said.
"You're a real piece of work. Look, I need you to help me. You're woker than Drag Queen Story Hour, but at least you aren't a red."
"Oh, sorry, I can't hear you over my mimosa," she said, and Tom thought to himself that she was just as useless as most of the women he'd known. Maybe she was a real woman. It'd explain why she wimped out rather than get captured.
He waited.
"Please, President Anderson, talk to me!" he said. "You're one of the progressive darlings, right? The commies are woke, you have to say something on my behalf! I'll make it up to you!"
"Why would I come along and defend a faux-MAGA Republican pissant like you?" Calliope asked.
Tom found himself sweating 5.56 rounds. "I'll be in your debt, okay? The entire Miami Government's remnants and all of the random dots on the map that paid allegiance to them will be yours."
"Nobody listens to Picano anymore," she said.
"Well, they listen to you. I don't care what you want, money, drugs, a goddamn blowjob, I'll do it. Do you want me to start championing troon rights and pledging allegiance to the rainbow flag? I'll do it, just don't leave me in here!"
He heard Anderson tap her fingers against her desk in Hawaii. "I had my cock cut into a pussy, Tom," she said. Classic military bluntness, he thought. He knew it from all those photo ops.
"Christ! Please, dear God, you need to get me out!"
She laughed again. "Sorry, buddy. They don't listen to me. They don't even like me. You were an idiot for calling me. The commies think I'm a war criminal, like there's any real law in war beyond 'win quick and win good," she snickered. "Tom, don't worry, it won't be any worse than it was for all those gay kids. So, you made your bed. Time to lay in it."
She hung up, and he screamed.
Former President Tom Picano sat in Revolutionary Detention Center Miami. Apparently the revolutionaries wanted to abolish prisons. It was probably just because they preferred bullets to bedrooms, he thought. He was a portly man with slick-backed hair and an American flag pin. "Please don't laugh." The goons with red armbands stood around him as he sat in the plastic chair.
"Oh, what's going on? You gonna call me a troon again?" Calliope said, laughing. She was probably smoking. The Queen Troon and her degenerate friends smoked to Hell and back. She could pretend to be Woke Bitch of the year, but everyone knew behind the rainbow flag was the Air Force roundel. Marines, too. Some of the Deads, the cop fiefdoms, had pledged allegiance to her later in the war. It was crazy, he thought, that a bunch of American badasses would do what a troon said.
"You're a real piece of work. Look, I need you to help me. You're woker than Drag Queen Story Hour, but at least you aren't a red."
"Oh, sorry, I can't hear you over my mimosa," she said, and Tom thought to himself that she was just as useless as most of the women he'd known. Maybe she was a real woman. It'd explain why she wimped out rather than get captured.
He waited.
"Please, President Anderson, talk to me!" he said. "You're one of the progressive darlings, right? The commies are woke, you have to say something on my behalf! I'll make it up to you!"
"Why would I come along and defend a faux-MAGA Republican pissant like you?" Calliope asked.
Tom found himself sweating 5.56 rounds. "I'll be in your debt, okay? The entire Miami Government's remnants and all of the random dots on the map that paid allegiance to them will be yours."
"Nobody listens to Picano anymore," she said.
"Well, they listen to you. I don't care what you want, money, drugs, a goddamn blowjob, I'll do it. Do you want me to start championing troon rights and pledging allegiance to the rainbow flag? I'll do it, just don't leave me in here!"
He heard Anderson tap her fingers against her desk in Hawaii. "I had my cock cut into a pussy, Tom," she said. Classic military bluntness, he thought. He knew it from all those photo ops.
"Christ! Please, dear God, you need to get me out!"
She laughed again. "Sorry, buddy. They don't listen to me. They don't even like me. You were an idiot for calling me. The commies think I'm a war criminal, like there's any real law in war beyond 'win quick and win good," she snickered. "Tom, don't worry, it won't be any worse than it was for all those gay kids. So, you made your bed. Time to lay in it."
She hung up, and he screamed.
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