Fuck using you for porn, Iām gonna use you for inspiration.
Youāll help hundreds of girls find happiness in serving just like you did. Youāll become the flashing gifs you use to get dumber. Youāll become the moans in the hypnosis videos you edge to. Youāll be the shaking tits in the gooner edits you canāt stop watching. Youāll become some other girls first taste of degeneracy.
Every day my inbox fills up with the same confession:
Iām at work and Iām wet. Iām in a meeting and I canāt stop thinking about rubbing. Iām in the bathroom on my lunch break rubbing my clit and I had to tell someone.
We need to talk about this. Because what Iām looking at, when I read these messages, is evidence of a massive labor allocation crisis.
There is, at this very moment, an entire class of sluts hunched over keyboards across the world, performing the rituals of productive citizens while their cunts pulse under the desk. Answering emails one-handed. Nodding thoughtfully at quarterly projections a few minutes before sneaking off to the bathroom stall to edge themselves for the third time today. Cameras on. Mics muted. Thighs pressed together so hard theyāre shaking.
You sluts have a calling. You deserve so much more than this.
Imagine the depths of cock drunk, cum brained, chronically soaked devotion you could reach if you redirected the focus you currently waste on corporate KPIs toward the singular pursuit of edging yourself stupid for strangers on the internet. All that ambition. All that perfectionism. Channeled into one mind melting purpose.
Being the best slut you can be.
I'm not saying you have to quit your job and go full time... but I certainly think it'd be a better use of your time.
Not just logged out. Deleted. Watched the confirmation screen, typed DELETE in the box, and felt a chapter of her life close when the screen redirected to a generic homepage. She cleared her browser history. Changed her passwords to things that didn't include the word slut. Put away the collar she'd bought herself, the one she used to sleep in.
She got better.
That's the word she uses now. Better. Like she'd been sick and then recovered. In a way, she had been sick. Her work suffered. Friends degraded to acquaintances because she was always canceling plans to stay home and ruin herself. All those hours lost to edging and kink blogs and the particular shame spiral of cumming to things that made her hate herself after.
She got a new job. A good one. Marketing director for a company that made something boring and necessary, the kind of job that came with health insurance and a 401k. She showed up early. She stayed late. She impressed people. Her boss used the word "high potential" in her six-month review, and she didn't just hear it as "you'd make a good pet," which was progress.
She started running. Not far, not fast, but enough that her body felt like something she inhabited rather than something others used. She ate vegetables. She called her mother on Sundays. She went on dates with men who were nice and respectful and didn't make her feel like she was under their thumb.
She had sex too. Normal sex. The kind where both people cum and then talk about their days and fall asleep in each other's arms. Not to mention, she stopped calling herself a slut in her head while she did it. Stopped imagining someone else was watching. Not everything had to be a kink.
She was better.
Except.
Her phone still autocapitalizes "You" sometimes, a memory from years of typing it as a proper noun. She changes it when she notices, but she doesn't always notice.
Kneeling during yoga still does something to her. The instructor says "child's pose" and she folds forward and feels her forehead touch the mat and something in her chest unlocks. She breathes through it. Tells herself it's just a stretch.
She still begs sometimes when she touches herself. Not every time. But sometimes the words slip out, quiet and desperate, "please" and "let me" and "I'll be good," and she doesn't know who she's talking to and she doesn't let herself think about it too deeply. Oh, and she lets herself cum. That's a big one. Normal, healthy orgasms. Not the hours-long edging sessions that used to leave her stupid and shaking. Just regular masturbation, like regular people have.
She was doing really well, all things considered, but unfortunately forward progress can only last so long for fragile things that try to put themselves back together.
It's a normal Thursday when the cracks start to show.
She's home early from work, a rare thing, and she's done everything right. Made dinner. Gone for a run. Called a friend. She's sitting on her couch with a book and a cup of tea like a person with no baggage at all.
But she's bored.
Bored in a specific way. Like something is missing and she can't name it and the not-naming is only making it worse. The book isn't landing. The tea is too hot. Her skin feels tight.
She puts down the book. Picks up her phone. Opens Instagram, closes it. Opens TikTok, closes it. Her thumb hovers...
She could just look. That's not relapsing. Looking isn't doing. She's a different person now. She can handle it.
She types the blog name from memory. Of course she remembers it. Six months is nothing. Especially when she spent years there.
The blog looks the same. The familiar layout, the font, the cadence of the posts. She scrolls without reading, just getting a feel for it. Just checking in. She's anthropologizing her past self. That's healthy, probably. Confronting where she came from.
She reads one post.
It's nothing special. Short, almost throwaway. Something about how good girls don't need to understand why they obey, they just need to feel how right it is. She's read a hundred posts like this before. A thousand maybe.
But it still hits. Her thighs press together.
She knows she should get off this app. This is the exact sequence of events that led to all the bad times before. Late night, boredom, one post, two posts, suddenly it's 3am and she's edging on the floor of her bedroom, begging an empty room to let her cum.
She reads another post.
This one is longer. About corruption. About how the girls who come back after trying to leave always fall harder than they did before. About how the "better" never really takes, it just builds pressure, and when they finally break they shatter into something even more desperate than they were the first time.
She should definitely get off this app.
She doesn't.
Her hand moves without her deciding. Slides under the waistband of her leggings. She's wet. Just from two posts and the memory of who she used to be.
She reads another post. Touches herself while she reads. Doesn't let herself cum. That would be giving in. That would be admitting something. She can edge a little and go to bed and pretend this didn't happen.
An hour passes.
She's on the floor now. She doesn't remember moving to the floor, but here she is, on her knees, one hand between her legs, scrolling with the other. Her leggings are around her thighs. She's making sounds she hasn't made in months. Whimpers. Little pleas. The begging she told herself was beneath the new her.
She doesn't cum. She won't let herself cum. If she doesn't cum, this doesn't count. If she doesn't cum, she's still better. She's just having a moment. A slip. Everyone slips.
Two hours.
She's crying now. Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that happens when you've been edging so long your body doesn't know what else to do with the sensation. Her clit is swollen and throbbing and she can't stop touching it and she can't let herself finish and she can't get off this fucking app.
The posts keep coming. She reads them all. Drinks them like water after a drought. Her brain is getting fuzzy, that familiar fog she used to chase for hours. She missed it. God, she missed it. All those months of being better and she never felt like this. Never felt this alive, this desperate, this much like herself.
"I'm a slut," she whispers, testing it out.
The word lands in her chest and explodes into warmth. She says it again. Adds more words.
Dumb slut. Desperate slut. Pathetic, needy, cock-drunk slut who can't stop scrolling.
She cums.
Six months of healthy orgasms revealed as pale imitations of this. She screams into her empty apartment and shakes and cries and keeps rubbing because one isn't enough, she needs more, she needs to make up for all the time she wasted pretending she didn't need this.
She cums again. And again. Until she's too sensitive to touch and too fucked out to move and she's just lying on her floor in the dark, leggings around her ankles, phone still glowing with the blog she never should have visited.
The next morning she calls in sick to work. First time in six months. She spends the day on her knees, edging, reading, scrolling. She creates a new account. Follows all the blogs she used to follow. Reblog, like, reblog, like. Her thumb knows the motions.
She finds the collar she'd tucked away. Some part of her knew. Some part of her was always waiting for this.
She puts it on. Wraps it around her neck so tight she can barely breathe.
By the weekend, she's worse than she ever was before. The job is a distant concern. Friend's texts left unanswered. The nice men's numbers are blocked. She's back to sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too comfortable, too human, too much like something a better person would deserve.
She edges for five hours on Saturday. Eight on Sunday. She loses count of the orgasms, the denials. She talks to herself constantly, narrating her own destruction, telling herself what she is.
On Monday morning, she opens up a blank doc on her laptop.
She starts to write.
About how she tried to get better. About the job and the running and the nice men. About the residue that never washed off. About the autocapitalized You, the kneeling, the begging. About the Thursday night when she finally stopped pretending.
She writes about what it felt like to fall. How the six months of "better" had only made the drop sweeter. How she'd been so afraid of becoming this again, and now that she's here, she can't remember why. She writes about the collar around her neck as she types, about the wetness between her thighs, about how she's going to post this and then edge for hours thinking about strangers reading it.
When she's finished, she reads it back. Fixes a few typos. Considers, for one brief moment, deleting the whole thing. Then she posts it.
She sits there, collar on, cunt aching, watching the notes climb. Watching other girls reblog her words, add tags about how seen they feel. Girls who tried to get better too. Girls who are thinking about getting worse. Girls who are exactly where she was six months ago, staring at a screen, telling themselves they can stop whenever they want.
She reaches down. Starts to touch herself again. Rubbing to the fact that she's not the only one getting worse. The disease is spreading.
Take a moment to think about your female anatomy. Each part is designed to encourage and allow for breeding. Your shiny pink clit brings pleasure so youāll let your pussy be touched and played with. Your vagina starts to loosen and drip when you get turned on, to allow a penis to easily penetrate it. Its walls are designed to stroke a manās penis and make him cum inside you. When you orgasm, your vaginal walls tighten and your cervix lowers, to milk out a manās sperm and allow it the best chance for implantation. Past your cervix is your womb, designed over millennia to nurture and protect a fetus. You have eggs inside your ovaries right now, which are just waiting for the hormonal signal that itās time for them to travel down your fallopian tubes and wait for fertilization. All of this happens whether you like it or not. It is your evolutionary purpose. You were made for this. Look at you, getting wet just thinking about it right now. Who are you to reject biology?
You are not a reporter.
You are not a scientist.
You are not an engineer.
You are not a doctor.
You are not respectable.
You are not a person
You are meat, you are porn for men, be useful.
Is that clear?
Itās easy to keep women in line if you remember our basic operating instructions. Stimulation of the cunt will induce obedience, sexual excitement, and craving for humiliation.
To maximize the potential of the female mating response, it would make sense to implement public fuck stations. Basically these would be phallic objects for women to casually impale themselves on during the day.
Imagine going to a restaurant and the server asks how many are in your party. The next question is how many cunts are with you. When you get a table, the place settings for the bitches are chairs with fat dildos securely fastened on them. Your wife, daughters, and any free use sluts you picked up can lift their skirts and sink down to impale themselves for the meal.
Buses, subways, and commuter trains all have lines of plastic cocks for women to bend over and secure themselves on. Men can experience the entertainment of watching bitches struggle to balance on a rocking train solely by clenching their cunts on the stabilizing pricks.
Movie theaters and sports stadiums have bitch seats for any females accompanying a man. Even grocery carts are modified to have an extended arm with a fake cock so women can shop while filled, waddling down the aisles with their staked cunts on display.
It will become second nature for females to plan their day around cock. To walk into a board room filled with men and complacently take the bitch seat in the corner to take notes. To use the fuck stations next to vending machines hoping to catch a manās eye while heās on his lunch break.
Since no dildo will ever replicate the feeling of being stretched on a manās cock and feeling his cum drain into the bitch hole, women will be in a constant state of desperation and humiliation. Even a stray glance from a man will leave a bitch panting and fucking her cunt on the nearest fuck station or bitch seat. When sheās finally lifted off a dildo and onto a manās cock, sheāll whimper in gratitude as her body latches on to the cunt plug about to fill her with semen.
Living as a bitch in this society requires constant attention for the cumsleeve. The natural female addiction to being impaled is encouraged rather than suppressed, to the point where women have difficulty thinking about anything else.
Every bitch wears skirts that barely cover their crotch, which is of course instantly exposed by any movement at all. Pussies are expected to be bare and well-maintained so men can appreciate watching them get stuffed.
Every morning, I walk to the bus stop. Today I recognize the man already waiting there; he was my younger brotherās best friend growing up. I was bossy to both of them, something theyāve each made me regret many times.
He eyes me as I approach. āHi, bitch.ā Casual, barely interested.
I nod to him as I approach the stopās fuck stations. I hate to do this in front of him, but my cunt is already aching from being empty. I turn around, bend over slightly, and sink my pussy down on one of the dildos protruding from the bus stop wall.
He chuckles. āI love watching you get bitched,ā he smirks. My cheeks burn as my eyes drift to his pants, wondering if heāll decide to replace the plastic in my hole with his cock. I shudder in anticipation even as my face flushes in shame.
He sees where Iām looking. āDonāt get excited, cunt. I already had a bitch this morning.ā But he reaches out to squeeze one of my tits anyways. I groan loudly, as Iāve been taught, making him chuckle again. My cunt squeezes harder on its fuckpole.
He casually degrades me until the bus finally comes. The one at this hour is very full. Thereās only one fuck station left, and I groan as I realize itās covered in semen. But I have no choice. I sink down on it, feeling the still warm cum coat the walls of my pussy. Itās not unheard of for a bitch to get pregnant this wayānot even getting the benefit of a fuck.
The idea of getting seeded by a strangerās leftover cum activates my bitch hole even more. Some females are simply slumped on their stations, passively impaled with an occasional bounce as the bus hits a dip. My cumsleeve is too needy for that today, though.
I start pumping myself back on the fuck station eagerly. I squeal when the bus hits a big bump and the dildo thrusts hard inside me, almost knocking me down. A few men turn to watch my display. I meet their eyes as I thrust back on my station, my feet barely touching the ground so the bulk of my weight is suspended by my pussy.
Itās times like this that I feel the reality of being a woman. The way my flesh crawls with shame at displaying myself like a prize breeding pig. How good the shame makes my bitch pussy feel. The overwhelming drive to earn a real cock in my jizz drain.
I keep eye contact with the men watching for the entire ride. Any of them could decide to stop the show to fuck me, but it seems today theyāve decided my humiliation is better. I nearly sob as my stop approaches, since I know itās forbidden for a bitch to cum unless impaled on a flesh cock. Itās for the greater good, so women never forget that a real fuck is a privilege and not a right.
When the bus rolls to a stop, I groan and lift my pussy from its station. Itās raw and gaped, twitching with the need to cum. One of the men who watched me casually gropes it as I pass. I barely suppress the urge to beg him to fuck me, knowing that would make me late. I can only hope to have better luck over lunch.
I'm a gen z feminist but I've been so corrupted by Tumblr I can only get wet when I'm being degraded and I can only cum with my tongue out and recording myself so I can be porn for men like you on the internet.
Can you degrade me please? Can you make me worse?
corrected dumb Gen Z sluts make the most submissive fuckpets for the patriarchy
It's really simple. There's no trick to it. It's super easy so even the dumbest of girls (like you) can follow it without getting too confused. It's so easy!
Be porn, suck cock.
You've watched porn. You've seen what the girls do in it. You know what you need to do! The sounds to make, how to move. You won't be as good as them right away but that's fine - practise makes you perfect, and practising this will be fun!
Be porn, suck cock.
Maybe you're worried. Maybe you're worried you'll look stupid or people won't take your seriously or whatever. Don't be! Because you will! You'll look stupid and no-one will take you seriously! But that's the whole point. Right now you just think you don't want that, but that's just because you're all mixed up and turned around. You do want that!
Be porn, suck cock.
It'll feel new. It'll feel different. But it won't feel bad. And once you get over how new and different it feels you'll realise that it feels good. That you want to feel it more. That letting yourself sink to your knees and sink below being taken seriously is like a weight being lifted. Down on your knees with your mouth full everything is easier. With his hand patting your head all of those things you were worried about before seem so far away. Safer down there. Happier.
Be porn, suck cock.
Be a slut, be a doll, be empty, be mindless. Just let yourself switch off and let your needy cunt guide you. You don't need your brain for this - you don't want your brain for this! Switch off. Focus. Good girl.
Let's be real. For so many of us, our old life was about chasing a rebellion that eventually became safe. Expected, even.
But what's the real taboo? What's the one act of surrender so profound, so shocking to the world we came from, that it makes everything else look like child's play?
Giving it all up. To a man.
To look at a strong, stable man and to say, "You lead. I will follow. My trust is yours." That is the ultimate act of submission. It is the kink at the very heart of the world.
Don't think of it as becoming a boring, traditional woman. Think of it as entering the most intense, 24/7 power exchange dynamic imaginable. Every moment of your life becomes part of the scene. And the pleasure you get from itā¦ well. Thatās the secret theyāll never understand.
His grip on her hips got stronger, his breathing picked up, he started going even faster. It wasn't exactly subtle, but it wasn't anything he needed to hide anyway. She kept doing what she'd been doing from the moment he slid in: moaning, pushing back, being for him.
He came. She did not.
They stayed locked together panting a few moments. His cock twitching, emptying into her. Her head hung low. He gave her a squeeze and a kiss on the back of the neck.
It wasn't as though she used to cum from being fucked, at least not all the time. It was just that she used to care that she didn't. There's be disappointment, there'd be frustration.
Now, she didn't even notice. It didn't cross her fluffy, mostly-empty mind. The constant need was normal. The itch to be scratched had stopped being an itch, just become part of how she was. That she even could have cum from being fucked had long been forgotten.
Good girls don't cum, so... what?
Nothing was missing.
When he pulled out she turned around straightaway, like she'd been trained, and took his cock into her mouth. To clean herself off of him, to clean whatever drops of him he hadn't left inside her already, and to thank him for letting her be useful.
It had felt good, obviously. So good. So, so good. But it wasn't for her.
It was for him. Just like all of her was. She had purpose now, not like before. He'd saved her from that, given something better to her. Given her what she'd really been meant for.
So being thankful was important.
Certainly, much, much more important than cumming could ever be.
writing, āMasterāsā, across my cunt feels so good because Master really does own everything about me, including my cunt!
I hope more girls can start to understand how good it feels to be owned by a man thatās so superior to you in every way.. it makes everything in my head leak out my cunt if I think about it too muchš£ my body is really enslaved to him.. just makes me so confused but so happy and so so wet.. my cunt drips at the mere thought of his cock andā oh gosh! Iām rambling.. what I mean is just that,
Iām owned by Master, I worship Master, and Iāve never ever been so happy!
Feminism can always be fixed! <3
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