You used to be so proud of yourself… So proud, and so smart, and so clever, but that doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters, now.
It doesn’t matter what he tells you to call him, call his friends, call yourself. You can hear your silly, slutty mouth say the words before your little brain can catch up through the fog. You can hear the submission.
It doesn’t matter what he tells you to wear. You can see how they’re all dressed, how you’re dressed, how silly you look in front of them, but you put on your little pink tutu and followed him. You can see your humiliation.
It doesn’t matter what he tells you to do. You can feel your body move without your brain, feel it pose and prance, feel it sit and suck, a pretty trophy and a pretty toy rolled into one. You can feel your degradation.
He touches you, gropes you, treats you like a thing, and you drip. He sits you in his lap, tells them what you were, recounts what he did, and you drip. He makes you thank him, and you drip. Makes you admit your helplessness, and you drip. Makes you beg, you drip. You can’t tell whether you love it or hate it. All you can tell is how wet you are, how needy, how broken.
All those things you used to be… Those things don’t matter now. Why be proud when you can be submissive? Why be smart when you can be dumb and humiliated? Why be clever when you can be a degraded bimbo? A doll? A wet, needy, broken doll?
It doesn’t matter. None of the questions matter, because you don’t need to answer them. All you need to say is what he tells you to say. All you need to be is what he tells you to be.
Hate it.
Love it.
Say it.
Be it.
blakekathryn
stormborns
baratheonpilled
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
