Right now, I need to beat more than I need to fuck. Or, I suppose I should say, I need to beat before I need to fuck. Any slut will give me her pussy. And what does it profit me? To end up with chlamydia, and my right arm still shaking for want of caning and paddling and beating bruises and welts into some prime untouched flesh.

Maybe you think you can seduce me into beating you less badly? Maybe you think I’m really a pleasure Dom, and I’ll check how wet you’re getting and not be able to resist pushing it inside you. Don’t fool yourself my love. I’m going to fucking destroy you. I won’t gag you. I want to hear you thank me. I want to hear your take responsibility for deserving this. And I want to hear you beg me to stop. I will check how wet you are getting alright, and then I’ll make fun of you for being a pathetic little pain whore.

I want my right arm to ache from the punishment it delivers. I want to leave bruises that last for weeks and change colour several times. I want you to send me video and photo diaries on a daily basis, telling your Daddy how thankful you are for the daily reminders of who you belong to. To describe the little daily pains you get moving, sitting, standing, and walking – that remind you what a little abused whore deserves.

You started on this path early, didn’t you? The path of utterly debasing yourself to please men. Was it your father? Uncle? A priest? A teacher at your boarding school? Don’t worry kitten, we have lots of time to explore who used you first, for you to tell Daddy everything that happened while he’s slowly filling you from behind and laughing as you cum. To prove to you beyond a doubt that it was your fucking fault for being such a wet, broken, vulnerable little whore.

They sensed it. They smelled prey. You were too naïve to understand at the time, but now you look back and you see what they saw, and it makes you wet. You were ripe for the picking, and they sensed it. And now, quite consciously, you want to attract that same predatory energy and give it everything it needs to be satisfied. You see it in me, you sense it from the frankness of my words, you smell it from the vivid descriptions and loving little details.

You’re looking for me kitten, and I for you. You need a man who doesn’t take no for an answer, who has a little lock box with implements to hurt you with under his bed, who has a map of abandoned factories to take you to in his head. Who measures his boot to see if it would fit your unconscious body. Who enjoys videoing what he does to his little drugged ragdoll so she can masturbate to it later with the cum that’s still leaking from her as he watches and laughs.

Your body will become my canvass. Your holes will become my muses. Your womb will be my breeding ground. Your supplicant cries and begging entreaties my entertainment. Your pathetic tears as you shamefully, involuntarily cum while you recall your abuse will be my drink. Your milk-engorged breasts my food. Your shaking neediness afterwards as I tell you I love you, that you’re the only little girl who does this for me, will be my comfort. Your growing stomach and stretch marks my reassurance that I have ruined you for other men.

Your boyfriend or husband doesn’t understand kitten. He can’t. His gentleness makes you feel broken and disgusting in a way my cane and cum and piss never could. Your friends don’t get it. They beg you to be interested in men your age, to accept his proposal, to be normal so they can feel more comfortable about themselves. But they only make you feel even more fucked-up that you can’t accede to their demands.

Only I understand you darling. The secrets we will keep will come to rewrite us. The abuse we share will be so loving. The crimes I commit will be our sacred communion. The ways I force you will become your deepest desires. The ways I degrade and put your in your place will come to define you.

This is who you are. You can’t escape your reality. You can’t escape me.