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“I am a pathetic asswipe. And it’s an honor to sniff and clean the asses of superior Doms/Dommes.”

Your pussy makes you a boy. Sorry, you’re not allowed to be anything but a bonus hole twink, it’s your lot in life. Some boys were made to be hurt and violated, and that’s your purpose. You know I’m right, because even growing a dick couldn’t distract you from wanting it deep in your hungry cunt. You know I’m right, because you cum so much harder when you’re being treated like the bitchboy you really are. Everyone sees you as a walking pussy ready to be bred. Why else would the t make you so wet? You know, some boys can decide to be tops. Not you though. What your body wants is stronger than your will. It’s why you always end up taking it and moaning like the pathetic slut you are- like you trained to be the perfect fucktoy.

You were made to be a boy with a pussy so that you could be as fuckable as possible. You were made to take it up every hole. Your body is for pleasuring your superiors, whether you’ve accepted that or not. You should be forced to cum obediently on whatever fucks your pussy, no matter how embarrassing, so that you remember your place. Say it to yourself: I am a pussy made to be used. Self-lubing for anybody so that you can be defiled anywhere, anytime. Feel that sticky evidence coating your warm, soft little pussy? It clearly deserves this.

Some people hear “I like pain” and think that means I like being lightly spanked and told I’m a good girl.

Don’t get me wrong — I like being a good girl. But that’s not what I mean.

When I say I like pain, I don’t mean I like it soft. I don’t mean I like it ornamental. I don’t mean I want to be gently bruised just enough to say we did something edgy before cuddling for two hours.

I mean I want to feel it.

I mean I want to breathe through it. Bite through it. I want the kind of pain that makes me forget everything else — because nothing else in my life slows my brain down the way a hand around my throat or a belt across my thighs can.

I don’t want it for show. I don’t want it to impress anyone. And I don’t want it to be performative for you. I want it to mean something to me.

I like pain that makes me let go. Pain that makes me cry — not because it’s too much, but because it’s exactly enough. Pain that makes me trust you in a way I can’t explain without sounding unwell.

I use he/him pronouns in a weird jester way

I use he/him pronouns in a boy you meet at the queer bar way

I use he/him pronouns in a Richard Gansey III way