#humiliation task

but duhhh~ your flawless kami-sama is feeling extra “generous” today (read: bored out of my skull and craving fresh beta humiliation content). so i’m dropping this twisted little valentine’s “self-care” guide just for you gooner freaks. think of it as my gift-wrapped middle finger to your pathetic existence. you’re welcomeee~ or don’t be, i literally could not care less if you screenshot this and cry about it in your notes app later. 💋

step one, losers~ crawl your unwashed ass out of your gamer chair grave (or don’t, just order from your phone while you edge to my latest render, idc) and hit up a site that does custom posters. aliexpress is perfect—cheap af, sketchy shipping from some warehouse in the void, no questions asked cuz they’ve seen weirder shit from guys like you. or whateverrr, any print-on-demand spot that’ll slap your thirst trap on glossy paper big enough to cover half your wall. now pick your “valentine.” make it count. your fav porn star—the one you’ve replayed so many times her moans are basically white noise in your brain. or an e-girl~ lmaooo same difference, right? all fake lashes, “send tribute” energy, and overpriced snapchats anyway. maybe go classic and print your ultimate anime waifu—the one with physics-defying proportions and zero personality, just like your dating history. orrr~ if you’re feeling extra delusional (and let’s be real, you always are), make it meee. steal one of lew’s fire renders—me in this glossy black latex bodysuit, straps and buckles hugging every curve, platforms gleaming, blonde hair spilling like i just stepped out of a shibuya fever dream. hoop earrings big enough to double as hula hoops, nails sharp enough to carve “loser” into your dignity. upscale it, blow it up poster-size, and boom: instant life-sized reminder that i’ll never touch you except in your wettest nightmares.

order that shit with express shipping if your broke ass can swing it. you want it here before the big day so you can obsess over the tracking number like it’s foreplay. when the package drops, unbox it in secret like contraband porn, roll it out slow, stare at those glossy printed tits and that bored apathetic stare looking back at you. feel the instant mix of horniness and soul-crushing shame. perfecttt~ now stick it on the wall. not some lame side spot—nahhh, dead center above your sad single futon or your cum-stained mattress. use the cheapest tacks possible, leave permanent holes cuz who gives a fuck about your lease when your life’s already a lease on misery? step back, tilt your head, realize this flat piece of paper is officially your girlfriend now. splash~ there goes the last crumb of self-respect, right into the koi pond i’m currently flicking my menthol ash into. watch the fish scatter like they’re judging you harder than i am.

valentine’s day rolls around~ cue the ritual, youuu hopeless romantics. “cook” your gourmet dinner: microwave meal all the way, babe. grab one of those sad frozen single-serve trays—maybe some rubbery teriyaki chicken, or that “premium” mac n cheese that tastes like melted plastic regret. nuke it till the edges are lava and the middle’s still ice, dump it on a paper plate (dishes are for people with futures), light a single dollar-store candle that smells like vanilla disappointment, and set up your “date night” right in front of the poster. sit there cross-legged on the floor in your stained sweatpants, fork in one hand, phone in the other just in case she (i) miraculously dm you (she won’t). eat slow. stare into her printed eyes. mumble some pathetic small talk like “sooo how was your day, queen?” while the steam rises and you pretend it’s her bored sigh. chew through the loneliness, feel that warm slop hit your empty soul like a sad hug. bonus points if you whisper “i love you” to the poster and then immediately cringe so hard you almost choke.

now the real fun part, freaks~ once the meal’s done (and you’ve wiped sauce off your chin with your sleeve like the classy king you are), it’s time to get intimate. lean in close, pucker those chapped lips, and make out with the poster. full commitment—tongue the glossy print, smear your spit all over her (my) face, moan like it’s the real thing. feel that cold flat paper against your mouth, taste the cheap ink and your own desperation. keep going till the poster’s wrinkled, damp, fogged up with your sad little breaths. then escalate. stand up, press your pathetic hips against the wall, and dry hump that shit like it owes you money. grind hard—bonus if you whisper my name (or hers) between thrusts, feel the paper crinkle and tear a little under the pressure, hear the wall thump like it’s trying to escape you. sweat through your shirt, pant like a dog, keep going till you’re shaking and spent. collapse on the floor afterward, stare at the ceiling stains, realize this is the most action you’ve gotten since… ever. no cleanup required—just roll over and sob into your body pillow.

and if you’re feeling extra brave (or terminally online), film the whole sad spectacle. dm it to me and lew for the group chat roast. we’ll laugh till our sides hurt, maybe drop a censored snippet to humiliate you publicly. or don’t send it—i literally don’t care. this is your valentine’s gift from your gyaru kami-sama: a ritual so degrading it’ll echo in your nightmares for years. you’re all so lucky i even wasted keystrokes on this instead of just yawning and flicking more ash into these poor koi’s home.

(lazily perched on the stone edge of the koi pond, chunky black platforms dangling just above the water, glossy latex bodysuit gleaming under the garden lights, one long-nailed hand lazily flicking menthol ash into the pond while the colorful fish scatter, cigarette smoke curling around my bored expression like i’m judging the entire universe)

These are orders you follow.

These are the truth you believe.

These are the thing you must say.

Start touching.

Keep scrolling.

You like my words.

Guiding you.

Start slow.

As you feel yourself leak, put your tongue out.

Relax your brain.

That's good.

Go faster.

Every stroke, every rub, every hump makes your brain feel fuzzy, leaky, warm.

Pathetic.

That's what you look like right now.

You wish you can do more.

You wanna have me watching you.

Seeing how you're breaking yourself for me.

Keep going sweetie.

Beg.

Start begging.

Desperately.

Please. Please. Pretty please break me.

Pretty please step on me.

Use me.

Abuse me.

Slap me hard. Choke me please.

Miss Mei owns me.

Miss Mei controls me.

Miss Mei remolds me.

Must obey.

Must follow.

I'm a good pet.

I'm a good doll.

I'm a good toy.

To break. To use. To carve.

Repeat it. Keep going.

You're doing great. Horny leaking toy.

My attention whore.