You used to be so smart. Everyone was so proud of you. Your parents. Your teachers. Your friends. You’d gotten into a fantastic PhD program and were developing new methods to simulate general relativity in extreme environments. Even got a tattoo of an Einstein-Rosen bridge.
But look at you now. You’re not a smart girl anymore are you? I broke your brain. Well, we broke your brain together, didn’t we pet?
It started when one day I got rough with you in bed and called you a stupid cunt. You didn’t understand why, but you came instantly. Afterwards you were so conflicted, but you’d loved it so much, you decided you wanted to explore it more.
And so we opened up more. I hurt you, and degraded you, and told you were pathetic for liking what I did to you, and it made you so wet didn’t? So needy. So lusty you couldn’t hardly think isn’t that right? And you loved it.
I took over deciding what you’d wear, and increasingly when we went out I’d make you wear things you found embarrassing. Short skirts and low cut tops, colorful and bright like a good little girl for me. It made you squirm, and so did I when I’d inspect you and see how you liked everyone thinking you were my dumb tart, not some brilliant scientist on the rise. And it made you so wet.
You begged me to take away more, to make you squirm and writhe and need all the time. And so I helped you, whispered sweet nothing’s about what a fucked up slut you were. Sent texts reminding you of your extracurricular activities when you were in meetings. Ordered you to watch porn while in your office at the University. Made you repeat over and over mantras about letting go, being dumb, how all you were good for was sex.
I encouraged you every step of the way. I bought weed for you so you could assuage your anxiety, and beat you so you could experience true blankness for a while. And you sank deeper and deeper. Untill you stopped going to the office. Stopped doing homework. You said it was dumb, just like I whispered in your ear and subtly hinted at.
You tried to get back into it, tried to stop. But I helped you. I’d tempt you back. Make you remember how good it felt to let go and be dumb and silly and horny all the time for me.
Eventually you topped trying. Died your hair. Stopped reading things that weren’t porn, because I took them from you and convinced you it was your idea. And that brilliant mind just atrophied, useless in your skull.
And now here you are, my dumb little fucktoy. You had so much potential. And you threw it all away, and for what? For some orgasms? For a guy? Look at you, you get off on me reminding you how far you’ve fallen. How much you’ve lost and given up in your pursuit of base carnal pleasure and a life free of care. The shame makes you wet, which makes your brain all fuzzy and hot, and that deepens your addiction to all this.
There’s no going back now. You’re mine. There’s no escape, as even your guilt and shame drive you deeper now. You’re nothing. Just a thing for me to play with.
And that’s how we want it, isn’t it, pet?
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