You'll never be Good Enough.
It doesn’t matter how well you choke back the sobs. It doesn’t matter how many pounds you lose. How much you tighten and tone. How much you focus your entire existence on making the head of my cock touch your windpipe. It doesn’t matter how much you project all the feelings you’ve ever had for all the men who’ve disappointed you in life.
You’ll never be good enough.
There’s always a skinnier cunt who’d look better bouncing on my lap. There’s always a whore who’ll do everything I ask without me even needing to. There’s always another victim who desperately needs to be browbeaten into the perfect little picture of domestic hell. There’s always a good little girl who secretly wishes that all those old men would just have gotten a little handsy. Just once.
So, you’ll have to be better than all of them, now won’t you?
You’ll need to be physical perfection. You’ll drop those pounds and eat like a bird. If you can’t manage it, I’ll ram my fingers in your throat until you don’t have a choice. You’ll starve for me, little swallow. You’ll waste away until there’s nothing left but perfection. Say thank you.
You’ll fulfill my every desire. Every sick, twisted whim. You’ll wear a patchwork of scars and bruises on the inside and the outside. You’ll think nothing of fucking anything, anyone, any way I desire. You won’t think at all, probably. Just follow your aching cunt to the next thing that fills that pit inside you. Say thank you.
And you’ll never leave. You’ll be told, truthfully, that this is the best you could ever hope for. To be in the orbit of a man who is strong, and silent, and powerful. A remote, disengaged, capricious god that turns your world inside out for fun. A god of a church with one member. You’ll welcome the rest as they come. It’s what you should do.
But you’ll never, ever be good enough. There will be no rest. No respite. Just an endless cycle of degradation and filth, for as long as you prove to be entertaining.
So, entertain me. If you can.