u/dark_woods_light_sea

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid while you whisper “yes, yes, yes” to things no real person would ever say out loud. 

The truth is this right here is the real you. You aren’t a person at all. You’re an object for your betters to abuse, humiliate and toy with. And an object has no rights, no name and no say in what happens to it.

Let’s talk about the things that make you sink and spiral, the ones that leave you curled up in a ball, heart hammering, throat closing, cunt inexplicably throbbing. Consider it… therapy. The only kind that can help you.

Do you have panic attacks? Perfect. I want to trigger them on purpose, watch you gasp and shake and sob, that expose you for the helpless animal you are because terror makes you leak.

Cry easily? Good. I don’t want pretty little tears. I want the kind where your face swells and your mascara runs black down your cheeks and you’re blabbering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for no reason at all. And I want you to hate how hard you cum while you’re still choking on your own tears.

Can’t say no? Can’t stand up for yourself? Even better. I want the girl who apologizes when someone else bumps into her. The one who lets people cut in line, who says “it’s fine” when it’s not, who folds the second anyone raises their voice. I’m going to push every one of those soft, spineless buttons until you’re trembling and mute, until the word “no” feels like a foreign language in your mouth.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you need even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to dig around in that messed up little head of yours and find your weak spots, the things that trigger you, the secrets you keep from your therapist. Come show me how pathetic you are. I promise I can make you worse…

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. 

I know you’re out there pretending. Smiling at work, saying “I’m fine” to your friends, maybe even curled up next to some clueless boyfriend who thinks he’s dating a normal girl. But we both know the truth, don’t we, pig?

Holding that mask in place is fucking exhausting. Every day you’re suffocating behind it, lungs burning, cunt throbbing, just praying for someone cruel enough to rip it off and show the world what you really are: a leaky, brain-broken set of holes that gets sopping wet the second it’s reminded it has no rights.

You can fight it all you want. I know you keep telling yourself this is the last time, and I know you really do mean it. But the second you relapse, it feels like coming home, doesn’t it? That sweet, sick rush when you’re on your knees again, drooling, apologizing for existing, begging to be hurt worse than last time.

Tell me, do you have panic attacks that leave you a crumpled, quivering mess? Do you cry easily when a man raises his voice, then secretly rub your sloppy cunt about it later? Do you let people walk all over you because saying “no” feels impossible?

Good. That’s exactly what I want to exploit.

I want to crawl inside that fried little mess of a brain and dig. I want every trigger, every secret you’re terrified to admit, every thought that would make your therapist cry. I want to find the exact words that make you fold instantly, the ones that turn you into a blubbering, self-lubricating rape-toy who can’t stop humping the air while she sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just garbage.”

You’re not a person. You’re a relapse waiting to happen. A pair of udders and three warm holes that exist to be used, abused and degraded. And the best part is you’ll thank me for it. You’ll crawl back no matter how bad I wreck you, because nothing feels as good as being put back in your fucking place.

Extra points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. I’m not looking to roleplay as fictional characters or a fictional scenario. I’m looking for an honest, genuine discussion.

Show me how low you can go. I promise I can make you so much worse than you ever managed on your own. And please, put some effort into introducing yourself.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, piggy. Daddy’s waiting to ruin you all over again

I know you’re out there pretending. Smiling at work, saying “I’m fine” to your friends, maybe even curled up next to some clueless boyfriend who thinks he’s dating a normal girl. But we both know the truth, don’t we, pig?

Holding that mask in place is fucking exhausting. Every day you’re suffocating behind it, lungs burning, cunt throbbing, just praying for someone cruel enough to rip it off and show the world what you really are: a leaky, brain-broken set of holes that gets sopping wet the second it’s reminded it has no rights.

You can fight it all you want. I know you keep telling yourself this is the last time, and I know you really do mean it. But the second you relapse, it feels like coming home, doesn’t it? That sweet, sick rush when you’re on your knees again, drooling, apologizing for existing, begging to be hurt worse than last time.

Tell me, do you have panic attacks that leave you a crumpled, quivering mess? Do you cry easily when a man raises his voice, then secretly rub your sloppy cunt about it later? Do you let people walk all over you because saying “no” feels impossible?

Good. That’s exactly what I want to exploit.

I want to crawl inside that fried little mess of a brain and dig. I want every trigger, every secret you’re terrified to admit, every thought that would make your therapist cry. I want to find the exact words that make you fold instantly, the ones that turn you into a blubbering, self-lubricating rape-toy who can’t stop humping the air while she sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just garbage.”

You’re not a person. You’re a relapse waiting to happen. A pair of udders and three warm holes that exist to be used, abused and degraded. And the best part is you’ll thank me for it. You’ll crawl back no matter how bad I wreck you, because nothing feels as good as being put back in your fucking place.

Extra points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. I’m not looking to roleplay as fictional characters or a fictional scenario. I’m looking for an honest, genuine discussion.

Show me how low you can go. I promise I can make you so much worse than you ever managed on your own. And please, put some effort into introducing yourself.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, piggy. Daddy’s waiting to ruin you all over again

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid while you whisper “yes, yes, yes” to things no real person would ever say out loud. 

The truth is this right here is the real you. You aren’t a person at all. You’re an object for your betters to abuse, humiliate and toy with. And an object has no rights, no name and no say in what happens to it.

Let’s talk about the things that make you sink and spiral, the ones that leave you curled up in a ball, heart hammering, throat closing, cunt inexplicably throbbing. Consider it… therapy. The only kind that can help you.

Do you have panic attacks? Perfect. I want to trigger them on purpose, watch you gasp and shake and sob, that expose you for the helpless animal you are because terror makes you leak.

Cry easily? Good. I don’t want pretty little tears. I want the kind where your face swells and your mascara runs black down your cheeks and you’re blabbering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for no reason at all. And I want you to hate how hard you cum while you’re still choking on your own tears.

Can’t say no? Can’t stand up for yourself? Even better. I want the girl who apologizes when someone else bumps into her. The one who lets people cut in line, who says “it’s fine” when it’s not, who folds the second anyone raises their voice. I’m going to push every one of those soft, spineless buttons until you’re trembling and mute, until the word “no” feels like a foreign language in your mouth.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you need even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to dig around in that messed up little head of yours and find your weak spots, the things that trigger you, the secrets you keep from your therapist. Come show me how pathetic you are. I promise I can make you worse…

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. 

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid to and groveling like the mindless fuckpig you really are. 

You can fight it all you want. I know you keep telling yourself this is the last time, and I know you really do mean it. But as soon as you relapse, it feels like coming home, doesn’t it? That sick rush when you’re on your knees again, drooling, apologizing for existing, begging to be hurt worse than last time. Your safe space, reduced to a pair of udders and a set of holes.

Do you have panic attacks that leave you a crumpled, quivering mess? Do you cry easily when a man raises his voice, then secretly rub yourself raw to it later? Do you let people walk all over you, take advantage of you? Good. That’s exactly what I want to exploit.

Or maybe you’re not like that at all. Maybe you’re a strong, confident woman. An outspoken feminist, an advocate for women’s rights, a real role-model for the next generation. Someone others look up to. Come confess to me what’s really going on behind that facade. Everyone needs a place to be seen for who they really are, after all.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you are and what you’re made for even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to crawl inside that fried little mess of a brain and dig. I want every trigger, every secret you’re terrified to admit, every thought that would make your therapist cry. I want to find the exact words that make you fold instantly, the ones that turn you into a blubbering mess who can’t stop humping the air while she sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just trash.”

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. And please try to make an effort introducing yourself.

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid while you whisper “yes, yes, yes” to things no real person would ever say out loud. 

The truth is this right here is the real you. You aren’t a person at all. You’re an object for your betters to abuse, humiliate and toy with. And an object has no rights, no name and no say in what happens to it.

Let’s talk about the things that make you sink and spiral, the ones that leave you curled up in a ball, heart hammering, throat closing, cunt inexplicably throbbing. Consider it… therapy. The only kind that can help you.

Do you have panic attacks? Perfect. I want to trigger them on purpose, watch you gasp and shake and sob, that expose you for the helpless animal you are because terror makes you leak.

Cry easily? Good. I don’t want pretty little tears. I want the kind where your face swells and your mascara runs black down your cheeks and you’re blabbering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for no reason at all. And I want you to hate how hard you cum while you’re still choking on your own tears.

Can’t say no? Can’t stand up for yourself? Even better. I want the girl who apologizes when someone else bumps into her. The one who lets people cut in line, who says “it’s fine” when it’s not, who folds the second anyone raises their voice. I’m going to push every one of those soft, spineless buttons until you’re trembling and mute, until the word “no” feels like a foreign language in your mouth.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you need even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to dig around in that messed up little head of yours and find your weak spots, the things that trigger you, the secrets you keep from your therapist. Come show me how pathetic you are. I promise I can make you worse…

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. 

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid while you whisper “yes, yes, yes” to things no real person would ever say out loud. 

The truth is this right here is the real you. You aren’t a person at all. You’re an object for your betters to abuse, humiliate and toy with. And an object has no rights, no name and no say in what happens to it.

Let’s talk about the things that make you sink and spiral, the ones that leave you curled up in a ball, heart hammering, throat closing, cunt inexplicably throbbing. Consider it… therapy. The only kind that can help you.

Do you have panic attacks? Perfect. I want to trigger them on purpose, watch you gasp and shake and sob, that expose you for the helpless animal you are because terror makes you leak.

Cry easily? Good. I don’t want pretty little tears. I want the kind where your face swells and your mascara runs black down your cheeks and you’re blabbering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for no reason at all. And I want you to hate how hard you cum while you’re still choking on your own tears.

Can’t say no? Can’t stand up for yourself? Even better. I want the girl who apologizes when someone else bumps into her. The one who lets people cut in line, who says “it’s fine” when it’s not, who folds the second anyone raises their voice. I’m going to push every one of those soft, spineless buttons until you’re trembling and mute, until the word “no” feels like a foreign language in your mouth.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you need even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to dig around in that messed up little head of yours and find your weak spots, the things that trigger you, the secrets you keep from your therapist. Come show me how pathetic you are. I promise I can make you worse…

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. 

I know you’re out there pretending. Smiling at work, saying “I’m fine” to your friends, maybe even curled up next to some clueless boyfriend who thinks he’s dating a normal girl. But we both know the truth, don’t we, pig?

Holding that mask in place is fucking exhausting. Every day you’re suffocating behind it, lungs burning, cunt throbbing, just praying for someone cruel enough to rip it off and show the world what you really are: a leaky, brain-broken set of holes that gets sopping wet the second it’s reminded it has no rights.

You can fight it all you want. I know you keep telling yourself this is the last time, and I know you really do mean it. But the second you relapse, it feels like coming home, doesn’t it? That sweet, sick rush when you’re on your knees again, drooling, apologizing for existing, begging to be hurt worse than last time.

Tell me, do you have panic attacks that leave you a crumpled, quivering mess? Do you cry easily when a man raises his voice, then secretly rub your sloppy cunt about it later? Do you let people walk all over you because saying “no” feels impossible?

Good. That’s exactly what I want to exploit.

I want to crawl inside that fried little mess of a brain and dig. I want every trigger, every secret you’re terrified to admit, every thought that would make your therapist cry. I want to find the exact words that make you fold instantly, the ones that turn you into a blubbering, self-lubricating rape-toy who can’t stop humping the air while she sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just garbage.”

You’re not a person. You’re a relapse waiting to happen. A pair of udders and three warm holes that exist to be used, abused and degraded. And the best part is you’ll thank me for it. You’ll crawl back no matter how bad I wreck you, because nothing feels as good as being put back in your fucking place.

Extra points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. I’m not looking to roleplay as fictional characters or a fictional scenario. I’m looking for an honest, genuine discussion.

Show me how low you can go. I promise I can make you so much worse than you ever managed on your own. And please, put some effort into introducing yourself.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, piggy. Daddy’s waiting to ruin you all over again

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid while you whisper “yes, yes, yes” to things no real person would ever say out loud. 

The truth is this right here is the real you. You aren’t a person at all. You’re an object for your betters to abuse, humiliate and toy with. And an object has no rights, no name and no say in what happens to it.

Let’s talk about the things that make you sink and spiral, the ones that leave you curled up in a ball, heart hammering, throat closing, cunt inexplicably throbbing. Consider it… therapy. The only kind that can help you.

Do you have panic attacks? Perfect. I want to trigger them on purpose, watch you gasp and shake and sob, that expose you for the helpless animal you are because terror makes you leak.

Cry easily? Good. I don’t want pretty little tears. I want the kind where your face swells and your mascara runs black down your cheeks and you’re blabbering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for no reason at all. And I want you to hate how hard you cum while you’re still choking on your own tears.

Can’t say no? Can’t stand up for yourself? Even better. I want the girl who apologizes when someone else bumps into her. The one who lets people cut in line, who says “it’s fine” when it’s not, who folds the second anyone raises their voice. I’m going to push every one of those soft, spineless buttons until you’re trembling and mute, until the word “no” feels like a foreign language in your mouth.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you need even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to dig around in that messed up little head of yours and find your weak spots, the things that trigger you, the secrets you keep from your therapist. Come show me how pathetic you are. I promise I can make you worse…

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. 

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid while you whisper “yes, yes, yes” to things no real person would ever say out loud. 

The truth is this right here is the real you. You aren’t a person at all. You’re an object for your betters to abuse, humiliate and toy with. And an object has no rights, no name and no say in what happens to it.

Let’s talk about the things that make you sink and spiral, the ones that leave you curled up in a ball, heart hammering, throat closing, cunt inexplicably throbbing. Consider it… therapy. The only kind that can help you.

Do you have panic attacks? Perfect. I want to trigger them on purpose, watch you gasp and shake and sob, that expose you for the helpless animal you are because terror makes you leak.

Cry easily? Good. I don’t want pretty little tears. I want the kind where your face swells and your mascara runs black down your cheeks and you’re blabbering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for no reason at all. And I want you to hate how hard you cum while you’re still choking on your own tears.

Can’t say no? Can’t stand up for yourself? Even better. I want the girl who apologizes when someone else bumps into her. The one who lets people cut in line, who says “it’s fine” when it’s not, who folds the second anyone raises their voice. I’m going to push every one of those soft, spineless buttons until you’re trembling and mute, until the word “no” feels like a foreign language in your mouth.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you need even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to dig around in that messed up little head of yours and find your weak spots, the things that trigger you, the secrets you keep from your therapist. Come show me how pathetic you are. I promise I can make you worse…

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. 

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid to and groveling like the mindless fuckpig you really are. 

You can fight it all you want. I know you keep telling yourself this is the last time, and I know you really do mean it. But as soon as you relapse, it feels like coming home, doesn’t it? That sick rush when you’re on your knees again, drooling, apologizing for existing, begging to be hurt worse than last time. Your safe space, reduced to a pair of udders and a set of holes.

Do you have panic attacks that leave you a crumpled, quivering mess? Do you cry easily when a man raises his voice, then secretly rub yourself raw to it later? Do you let people walk all over you, take advantage of you? Good. That’s exactly what I want to exploit.

Or maybe you’re not like that at all. Maybe you’re a strong, confident woman. An outspoken feminist, an advocate for women’s rights, a real role-model for the next generation. Someone others look up to. Come confess to me what’s really going on behind that facade. Everyone needs a place to be seen for who they really are, after all.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you are and what you’re made for even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to crawl inside that fried little mess of a brain and dig. I want every trigger, every secret you’re terrified to admit, every thought that would make your therapist cry. I want to find the exact words that make you fold instantly, the ones that turn you into a blubbering mess who can’t stop humping the air while she sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just trash.”

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. And please try to make an effort introducing yourself.

The first mistake people make is thinking you’re a person. I’m sure you act like one in public, and do a good enough job most people fall for it. But we both know the truth. The second you’re alone again you're right back here, fingers buried in your sloppy cunt, scrolling through the most vile, misogynistic shit you can find, edging yourself stupid to and groveling like the mindless fuckpig you really are. 

You can fight it all you want. I know you keep telling yourself this is the last time, and I know you really do mean it. But as soon as you relapse, it feels like coming home, doesn’t it? That sick rush when you’re on your knees again, drooling, apologizing for existing, begging to be hurt worse than last time. Your safe space, reduced to a pair of udders and a set of holes.

Do you have panic attacks that leave you a crumpled, quivering mess? Do you cry easily when a man raises his voice, then secretly rub yourself raw to it later? Do you let people walk all over you, take advantage of you? Good. That’s exactly what I want to exploit.

Or maybe you’re not like that at all. Maybe you’re a strong, confident woman. An outspoken feminist, an advocate for women’s rights, a real role-model for the next generation. Someone others look up to. Come confess to me what’s really going on behind that facade. Everyone needs a place to be seen for who they really are, after all.

Do you hate how wet and weak you get when you’re put in your place and  made to feel like an inferior piece of meat? That filthy fucking mess you make between your legs doesn’t lie. Your body knows exactly what you are and what you’re made for even if your brain doesn’t want to admit it.  Deep down you’re nothing but a self-lubricating fleshlight, born to crawl on all fours and be stamped on, repeatedly, until you stop fucking squirming and your mind and body break.

I want to crawl inside that fried little mess of a brain and dig. I want every trigger, every secret you’re terrified to admit, every thought that would make your therapist cry. I want to find the exact words that make you fold instantly, the ones that turn you into a blubbering mess who can’t stop humping the air while she sobs “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just trash.”

Looking for discussion, not roleplay. Bonus points if you’re in a relationship or otherwise shouldn’t even be here. And please try to make an effort introducing yourself.