Gentle-Sadist

Some nights there is nothing pretty about you. Good. Keep the tired eyes. The silence. The empty stare. Stop spending what little energy you have pretending to be pleasant. Come here. Head down. My fingers through your hair. No talking unless you want to. I’ll notice whether you ate. Whether you drank. Whether you started disappearing into yourself again. You get quiet. I watch closer. You were never required to be easy to keep.

The pretty ones always try to hide the ugliest hunger. That is why I would take my time with you. I would make your mask slip slowly, make your pride feel stupid, make your body shake with the kind of need that turns a sweet girl into a soaked little fucktoy begging for more.

If you get shy when you’re on your knees, don’t worry. I’ll hold your chin, keep your eyes on me, and teach your mouth what devotion feels like.

I need you addicted to both. The comfort and the corruption. My arms when you are overwhelmed. My mouth when you need softness. My hand on your back when your thoughts get too loud. And then the other side. You spread open, messy, desperate, begging to be used like a worthless little fucktoy, begging to be filled until you cannot tell if you feel safe or ruined anymore.

The dangerous ones are rarely the conversations you remember word for word. It is lying there for hours, talking about absolute nonsense, watching the night disappear without either of you wanting to leave. Nothing important gets said. Somehow everything important is understood. That kind of closeness gets under the skin quietly. One day their voice is just company. Then silence without it starts feeling wrong. By the time you notice the difference, they already live somewhere in your ordinary thoughts.

Hide behind being sweet. Hide behind the soft voice and those innocent eyes. Keep pretending the darker thoughts belong to someone else. Then he puts on the mask, steps a little too close, lowers his voice, and suddenly your little performance gets harder to maintain. Fear and desire have always shared an uncomfortable amount of space in your head. You know the difference. That is why you keep imagining it.

She can act sweet all day. But when she’s in my bed, soaking through the sheets, she’s just a filthy little slut waiting to be used properly.