My life is like a fucking David Lynch movie. Truly, this shit is Kafkaesque. I bring it on myself. I know I’m to blame. I’m pathologically attracted to this shit. I invite it in, beat it up, fuck it, and take a perverse pleasure in watching it disintegrate and cum hard as it recalls its life of abuse and exploitation.

The sort of slut who:

-            Tells me the best place to sit at Caffe Nero Braehead so I can grope them the first time we meet, without too many people noticing.

-            Begs me to send them pics of the last kitten and her bruises so they can masturbate over what I did, and will do to them.

-            Rubbed one out repeatedly imagining Heathcliff violating Cathy when they had to do Wuthering Heights for their Nat Fives.

-            Sends me photos of themselves at their 9^th birthday party and asks me whether I’d have given them a special present if I were their real Daddy.

-            Feels useful when I get super hard inside them, as they cry and tell me what the men their parents sold them to did to them.

-            Developed amazing oral skills from a young age, so that it wouldn’t have to last any longer than it needed to.

-            Enjoys hearing how I’ve already picked a spot to tie them up in an abandoned factory in the East End, and have rope and gags hidden in the boot of my car.

-            Loves pillow talk classics like:

o   “There’s no point in telling, no-one will believe a slut like you over me.”

o   “You’re ruined now, there’s no getting away.”

o   “Look how you’re dressed, you were asking for it.”

o   “You came so hard, don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

o   “You know I only did it because I love you.”

o   “You made me do it, the bruises will remind you of that.”

I’m ill, and so are you. We go to work and fill in spreadsheets and give presentations and answer phones and pretend we’re okay. But we’re fucking not, are we kitten? We need it this way. No safe words. No protection. No possibility of backing out. Just a vague hope I’ll only leave bruises in places people can’t see, or you’ll be able to lie convincingly enough about falling over for the ones they notice.

There are men reading this right now wanting to save you from me. Little keyboard knights in shining internet armour.

They don’t understand, do they kitten?  These aren’t just my fantasies, they’re yours. They don’t know how much you need this. How uncomfortable and unsatisfied you are with your nice boyfriend when he “makes love” to you, and expects you to cum from his gentle caresses. How broken and inadequate he makes you feel.

The cravings you have to be broken down, tied up, used, abused, beaten, fucked, loved, accepted. How safe you are inside when that happens. How whole it makes you feel. How you can’t live without that reset button being pushed hard by a fucking nasty man who ignores your pleas, and insists he’s only doing it because he loves you.

Ignore them. Don’t tell your friends. Only I understand you. Hit me up.