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Sadomasochistic Cylcle


Fuck you.

I fucking hate you.

And I hope I never see you again.

I’m not going to miss you, no matter how hard I try. I won’t miss that look in your eye, that stare that brings me to my knees before you. I will never crave the feeling of your hand behind my head, slamming my face into your abdomen, your rock hard cock digging into the back of my throat.

Choking me.

Spit running from my mouth.

I refuse to long for the way you pull me up by my hair and toss me upon the bed, the sofa, the bathroom sink. I no longer want to feel your hands around my neck, squeezing, squeezing.

Don’t fuck me.

Don’t call me Daddy’s little cum slut.

Don’t make me cum.

Stop it some more.

I’m not going to miss you or the way you slap me back when I strike your face, the way you slap my tits, hard, harder, and harder, still. I won’t miss wrapping my tiny hands around your thick neck as I ride you at the dinner table.

Cameras rolling.

Director, direct me.

I will not dream of your raw, glistening shaft, sliding in and out, out and in as you give me that look, again.

That fucking look, again.

Cum for me, baby.

Come for me, baby.

Defile me and let me shame you, let me call you out and tell the word what dirty boy you are. How you keep coming back for the pain and the pleasure, for the pushing and the pulling.

You love it.

You feed from it.

I won’t miss you, so just go. And, when you’re done leaving, when we’re done going to extremes, to the edges and corners of that square, those sharp, connected lines, I’ll see you back here for more.

And you’ll make me beg for it.

And I’m gonna fucking love it.

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