It started off so harmless, didn’t it? I’m sure you can still grasp onto the memory of that gushing, warm excitement of dropping the act of normality with me, falling for every sweet word I carefully selected to keep you hooked. There really was an intoxicating thrill in watching your naïve submission to all those dormant desires you kept hidden for years, lovingly enabling and encouraging you to indulge in them for me. I mean, I truly seemed so harmless.
You were far too entranced with desperately earning my attention to realise how slowly I’d been guiding you to your demise, anyways. The extremities of it seemed like such a distant sexual fantasy for you, of course I’d never actually do all of those things you’d begged for in a lustful haze, right? It was all sweet talk at the start, utterly harmless. Plus, you’d do absolutely anything to keep me interested in you, I’d been so addictively obsessive and adoring, how couldn’t you? You were so easy to gain access to, so vulnerable and intensely drawn to the attractive future I’d sincerely promised you as I’d pressed another spoonful past your lips and stroked your increasingly swollen cheek.
I’d gained so much control over your pathetic little mind I had you blissfully ignorant to my sinister, true intentions far beyond playful indulgence and temporary fantasies. You didn’t question me when I’d revoked your contact with your friends, dismissing it as my jealousy, drowning in my superficial admiration and slowly growing control. You’d desperately humiliate yourself to please me, to earn my touch, you foolishly let your future and body slowly slip into my hands all for the irresistible approval I’d give you every time. Swallowing your doubts, you’d looked straight past the occasional freudian slip where I’d get a little too excited, a little too rough with you. I was still harmless in your eyes, what’s the worst I could do? You didn’t really think I’d feed you to death, after all. I seemed too loving, almost too genuine, especially as you grew softer and more docile for me.
It’s a shame I couldn’t hold onto the act for longer, pig. I simply couldn’t bear the nauseating romance I’d fabricated to gain your trust, and your life, for any longer. You’d so willingly let me pour the sedatives down your gullet, so clouded with unconditional adoration towards me.
That bewildered, transfixed look on your face was precious as you felt yourself grow heavy, your senses dulled and excruciatingly numb as I gently caressed your clammy forehead and whispered all the sick things I’d do to you, now that you were completely mine to take. God, I loved your inhumane squeals and horrified, hysterical crying that carried on until your voice broke, your throat torn up and raw after all that screaming, all in vain, of course. I understand, it must’ve been so incredibly distressing to not feel anything from the neck down, to discover nothing but bloodied, tightly bandaged stumps instead of your useless little hands. It’s so sweet how unsuspecting you were, and now there you lay, spinal cord snapped, half mutilated, absolutely mine. A limp, useless pig to be force fed and slaughtered, choking on the laced slop crammed down your gullet, and on your pitiful tears. I never liked empty promises in moments of desperation; I took them far too literally, and here you are now, facing the laughable consequences of your own weakness, so easily taken advantage of.
I’ve had a lot of fun with your disgusting body since, my little project pig. Don’t you just adore the sickening snout I’ve carved into that pretty face of yours, now truly piggish and permanently swollen to obscure your features? I’m sure you love all the adorable insults I’ve carved deep into your ripe lard as a persistent reminder of your pathetic status, though sometimes you seem a little ungrateful for all the hard work I’ve put into building you into my engorged, feeble fuck toy. Though I’ve taken care of your persistent squealing, you still occasionally seem desperate to use human words, unsuccessfully however, with those unfortunately severed vocal cords of yours. Your ankles are all gruesomely crushed up, left to heal far too wrong to ever allow you to drag your obscene pig carcass away from my care, an extra measure aside from your orchestrated paralysis that’s left your muscles agonisingly atrophied and plainly useless. I no longer have to pretend I ever saw you as anything but a fresh piece of bloated flesh to play with, a shameful animal to lay my perverted touch on and release my frustrations upon. I’ll have so much fun with you, my experiment. It’s not like you could ever say no to me, can you, pig? You can’t stop me from playing with your oxygen for fun as you feebly try to gulp down air. You can’t object to me slipping down a stream of sugar down your throat until your blood almost crystallises, you’ll never have the power to stop me from injecting your veins with my new formulations, or from wearing out your strained pig heart I’ll have to jolt alive with a defibrillator. But I’m so harmless, aren’t I? I’m only doing this because you wanted it, after all, piggy.
You’ll soon be my beloved trophy, a cautionary tale for the next, naïve and vulnerable victim. All because of a harmless little fantasy you couldn’t help but submit your humanity and life to.
