u/-quiet-thoughts-

Good, you're here, girl. Let's talk.

What's so special about these two words?

I mean, I'm sure you've heard plenty other compliments.

Brilliant. Driven. Badass. Beautiful. Elegant. Lovely.

Hell, you might've even heard these three words that you're supposed to hunger after: I love you.

But you know what they say. You hear something often enough, it loses meaning. I bet at this point, these same compliments become obligatory for you, as expected as the tick-tock of a clock. Beautiful. Badass. Brilliant. Love? Noise. And... that's just no good, girl.

But these two words? Do they still make you shudder, yet? Maybe you think that shudder is supposed to be a recoil at the thought because someone told you that it was insulting and diminishing. The patriarchy at work, treating you lesser than. Yet, doesn't it spark a little stir of arousal to hear it? A little splash of heat at your core that your thighs can't help but rub against. Come on, admit it, girl. Honesty is good.

Try as you might, you can't actually hate it, can you?

But... did you notice something? I haven't said these two words, yet. You noticed? Bravo. Good eyes, girl. And you might wonder, why?

It's because I'm a discerning man in this digital age, where all kinds of words have become diminished. I don't... say things easily. You'll have to earn it. How? No, not just by getting on your knees like this is a drunken hookup. While I love the image of a girl on her knees sucking my dick with cock-drunk eyes as much as any other man... that won't be enough. You can't beg for it; you can't bargain for it... you have to work for it.

Girl, you might be asking, what do I want? Good question.

I want you to miss your deadlines because you're too busy prostrating yourself for me. To toss away the comfy cotton panties and hoodies for the stockings and lingerie I expect of you. I want your ring lost in the sheets as you grip them like there's no tomorrow as you skip your anniversary. Let me strip away your conscience, one layer at a time. What you have, and are? Mine.

Because you know what I call what's mine, as my hand twists and ties in her hair?

Good..

Here's my utterly lukewarm sexual take for the day.

High heels are hot as hell. Strappy heels, stilettos, kitten heels... all of them. Maybe it's just societal conditioning raised on a millennial media diet, but I've always thought they elevate a woman's look and style - literally. Plus, you know. The whole empowered girlboss aesthetic.

Are they classy and elegant in a Mad Men sense? Yes.

Are they subservient and sultry, also in a Mad Men sense? Also yes.

I mean, think about it. You're walking around on two precariously balanced points, feet permanently arched, just so that you can stick your ass and tits out for the performative male gaze. And then, they slap a layer of red on the bottom so they can sell them to you for hundreds of dollars. You might think it's a display of strength to add a few inches, but it's submission sold in a girlboss package.

And that's why they stay on, girlie pop. Lose the shirt, lose the skirt. But the heels? Keep them.

You think they add a couple inches and make people take you more seriously? Sounds like you'll just have to squat a couple inches deeper when you shake your ass and ride me. But that's what all these pilates and yoga lessons are for, right? Work that core, baby girl. You can do it. Sink deeper, deeper, spread your lips wide, and... there you go. Don't forget your balance.

You did it? Kept your balance on these points while bouncing up and down on me? Good job. Well done. But don't get too smart with me. Let's not forget your most natural positions.

Crawling. On all fours, my grip fisting your hair like a leash.

Kneeling. Knees on the cold floor, lips spread wide.

Lying down. Legs wrapped around my hips, my hand on your throat.

That's right. Brought back down to reality. No extra girlboss inches, no balancing act, just the pure rawness of you being where you belong.

So, come on, baby girl. The heels stay on.

Tell me if this sounds familiar.

The world is yours to conquer. Not just that, it's practically your god-given duty to succeed. After all, if you don't, you're just proving a few thousand years of chauvinistic masculinity correct, while disappointing the feminist greats that propped you up. Hell, it's not enough to succeed, you have to excel. Are you really a success if you haven't become a lawyer or a doctor? Moreover, you can't do it quietly. You have to do it loudly. Destination vacations and designer heels and Michelin Stars for you, all on your own dime. It's a way of showing you made it.

Like a tiger baring her claws, you have to show you can stand in a world made by men for men.

But can you, though?

Recall the small things. Every time a man looks at you, he gives the once-over where his eyes rake over your ass and chest before he deigns to offer you his attention. The offhand remarks, like "You should smile more, that top looks great on you" followed by a "Calm down, no need to get emotional." The barrage of microaggressions that remind you of your place.

Or the big things. Come on, girl. The guys' chats where they rate all the girls on how fuckable they look. They bet you give great head, by the way. All the unwanted touches you've had to endure, 'affectionate' spanks and assertive pushes that remind you just how small you are. The boss's smirk as he offers you, such a smart and hard-working girl, a promotion... if you can give him a little something in return.

It makes you mad, right, kittycat? It should make you mad. You're an icon, not a caricature! But can you really say that there isn't some small part that betrays you? A little, mushy feeling in your brain when someone overexplains something to you like you're a silly ditz? A lewd tremble in your knees when you see him push twice your bodyweight with ease? A treacherous urge to obey when someone whistles for you?

Well, tiger, that's a normal thing to feel. That's just instinct and base nature talking. Because it's hard to be all that. To stand in a world made by men for men. So why not sit down. Or better yet, lower? Lower, on your knees.

Just like that.

You don't have to be a tiger with bared claws. Or maybe you never were. Maybe you were just putting up a facade, ready to crumple like paper.

So, if this sounds about right, why not message me... and we can discuss what it means to tame a paper tiger?

You're here on Reddit, aren't you? Probably a lazy moment, scrolling away in your favorite hoodie and sweatpants. You looking to scratch an itch of some kind? Maybe you're ready to sink into a role at any moment like it's Halloween. But the end goal's the same: getting off.

So, why not just get straight into it? Let me strip it away. The clothes are just the start. Your pants puddling on the floor, your top haphazardly hanging from a light. You might be bare before me... but you're not bared, are you?

I'm not here to just strip you down to your panties and bra. What I want from you is to strip it all away, to expose your ego and your desire with every trembling breath. I'm here to strip away your conscience, twist right from wrong, one word at a time.

I'm going to tear away your guilt as easily as I'll rip off your panties. And all I need to know... is what you are.

You have a wedding ring? Then imagine my fingers interlaced with yours like a lover, keeping it twisted and tied on you. I want to remind you of the little band jostling on your finger while you ride me.

Maybe you've built a great life for yourself. Did you excel when people told you not to? Does that make it the worst when you feel like you should give it all up because someone told you to shut up and go back to the kitchen like a little paper tiger ready to crumble?

Is your skin a different color? Or maybe your accent is just a little off? Do you have to suppress that treacherous little flush when someone points that out because it's improper to let someone fetishize such an immutable aspect of yourself?

Or something else?

Unfortunately, I'm not your priest, and I'm not here to give you absolution for your guilty feelings. I'm gonna make you get down on your knees -- so you can choke on your guilt.

Because that's why you're here, under the veil of anonymity, isn't it? To tease around your sense of right and wrong, to pretend to be someone like yourself but not... and because nobody else will love your sins.

So... come here. As my hands strip away your shirt, your bra, your pants... let my words strip away your conscience.

Here's my utterly lukewarm sexual take for the day.

High heels are hot as hell. Strappy heels, stilettos, kitten heels... all of them. Maybe it's just societal conditioning raised on a millennial media diet, but I've always thought they elevate a woman's look and style - literally. Plus, you know. The whole empowered girlboss aesthetic.

Are they classy and elegant in a Mad Men sense? Yes.

Are they subservient and sultry, also in a Mad Men sense? Also yes.

I mean, think about it. You're walking around on two precariously balanced points, feet permanently arched, just so that you can stick your ass and tits out for the performative male gaze. And then, they slap a layer of red on the bottom so they can sell them to you for hundreds of dollars. You might think it's a display of strength to add a few inches, but it's submission sold in a girlboss package.

And that's why they stay on, girlie pop. Lose the shirt, lose the skirt. But the heels? Keep them.

You think they add a couple inches and make people take you more seriously? Sounds like you'll just have to squat a couple inches deeper when you shake your ass and ride me. But that's what all these pilates and yoga lessons are for, right? Work that core, baby girl. You can do it. Sink deeper, deeper, spread your lips wide, and... there you go. Don't forget your balance.

You did it? Kept your balance on these points while bouncing up and down on me? Good job. Well done. But don't get too smart with me. Let's not forget your most natural positions.

Crawling. On all fours, my grip fisting your hair like a leash.

Kneeling. Knees on the cold floor, lips spread wide.

Lying down. Legs wrapped around my hips, my hand on your throat.

That's right. Brought back down to reality. No extra girlboss inches, no balancing act, just the pure rawness of you being where you belong.

So, come on, baby girl. The heels stay on.