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You don't need to tell me all about it. See, we haven't met, but I know you. Hours spent rubbing. Wasting time, day after day, spent mesmerized with your hand between your legs. Are you squatting, on display? On all fours? Laying on your back in bed? Doesn't matter. You're still obsessed with misogynistc, depraved porn teaching you how to be.
Sure, captions can be fun. Something to read. Telling you what to say and think. But all they've done is push all these nasty, humiliating fantasies into your little head. You know what you need. Or at least, your body does.
Face the truth, you crave that direct contact. Being told what you are. Being given the realization that your thoughts are just static and your words are just empty noise. None of it matters, does it? Because when you finally do fall to your knees, only Master's words are important.
You don't need to be that prideful, confident whore flashing pictures of your tits on command with me. Just enthusiastic, depraved and desperate, and literate. At the end of the day once you're on all fours with a belt around your neck, serving as your collar, it won't matter if I've seen you or not.
You'll still beg to cum, because you've always needed the control. You'll still need to come back tomorrow once you've realized you need to only cum as an owned slave. You'll still need rules, training, and guidance. But all this? It's just the first step to the life you deserve, my future little slave. So why are you waiting?
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