You find yourself shaking, trembling, as you talk to the dark man. The one who pushes you, pokes at you, who needs you to be less.

Me.

My words are like a warm breath on your neck, enticing you, driving you ever lower. We chat and play and rarely do you come, because it’s not important that you do, of course- just that I get off. It’s important to you that I get what I need.

I know the gray that is always around you, threatening to drown you if you stop swimming, stop moving. I know how to tug it into you, so deeply you cannot escape. Your heart thundering as your body betrays you and you whisper, softly, “I deserve this.”

You take care of me with just your words, about to be discarded as usual and you’re wet, so fucking wet, as part of you yearns for that. You feel yourself dropping, dropping hard, sinking like lead in a lake, surrounded by gray.

Maybe it’s because I’ve just told you how I’d use you if you were convenient, broken, mentally and physically, used and abused as the whore that you are. Raped, beaten, suffering until the “me” is gone, and just leaving the warm holes behind. Addicted to the pain, the abuse, craving it worse than any crack addict, chasing and begging for a bit more of you to be ruined forever.

Maybe it’s because I tell you you’re a stupid little cunt and ask if you enjoy being used. I know the answer, but I like to hear you say it... and you do, because during it, sad as it is, you’re more alive then than any other time.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore, my talking down to you, my insults, telling you you could be gone and no one would even care. It’s not true, but it feels true enough and you drop, so fucking hard you drop, crashing and yet you need more.

I tell you to whisper when you ask. You’re crying, trying to keep me from noticing. Eventually, you manage to get those words out.

“Tell me to hurt myself, please,” and I know you’re not joking. It isn’t a game. It isn’t a roleplay.

I tell you to do it, make it hurt bad, your thigh to start. And you do. You start slapping it, but I want more and so do you. I tell you harder, bruise it and you do. You’re rubbing yourself and punching your thigh, tears running down your face. It’s sick, you’re broken, but neither of us cares. You need it, you need this drug, fuck you’d mainline it if you could. Instead, you just keep punching and hitting yourself.

Soaking wet, shaking, crying. Happy.

I tell you to hit your face as well, and you know you shouldn’t but you do. Slaps and more, crying, bucking on your left hand, drenched in your juices as your right abuses your yellowed cheek. Making it hurt again, making you feel again. It’s stupid. Your friends and family might know. They will be mad, but you can’t stop yourself as your body begins to convulse, shuddering from the pain, the drop, the abuse.

“Such a stupid bitch. How could anybody ever want you? Look at you. You’re fucking pathetic.”

And you explode, your body spasming, gushing, sobbing almost hysterically as your self esteem plummets and explodes on the floor, dead. Shaking, wracked with sobs, struggling to breathe, almost cradling yourself. Broken. Where you belong.

Come play.