Apr 22
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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It's my right to fetishize my own mental health. It's better than feeling shitty about it, right? Like would be objectively better if, every time I had one of my "episodes", my body changed in accordance with it. My hair getting darker alongside my thoughts, my eyes turning to rings as spirals that mimic my own thought patterns, my chest and my hips growing to strain my dress to highlight the one thing I ever believed I'm good for. I start taking up more space just like I always believe I do at the bottom of the spiral. Built just like the busty, thicc freak of their dreams, huddling into the smallest spot on the couch I can, my breasts spilling over either side of my knees, my hips and thighs bursting out to take up an entire section.
Having a breakdown and turning into something someone would prefer to use and hit than help. Maybe a well-meaning loved one decides to push me deeper down the spiral; they wanna watch me change more, lose more and more of myself to my madness, begging them to stop as they start putting their hands on me, touching me in all the ways I swear I should never be touched yet am only good for. A body that highlights everything about me and makes me irresistible at my worst.
Maybe I get pushed so far down I forget my name. I'm not used to being spoken to like a person, now that I'm so used to putting myself below them. I only answer to words like "freak" or "maniac". Even if they want to pull me out, they have to do it along those lines, with those terms, the only words I've ever believed were true about me. And would they even want to? What would the benefit be of restoring my sense of self, my sense of truth about them or the world? What would they get out of reminding me I can say no?
Even if they did pull me out, it would be done with so many of those abusive words, so many controlling things, I'd be fundamentally changed by them. Sure, I know what I am again, but I'm not Salem. Not the one they knew. I'm the one they beat back into shape, the one whose body and face is forever changed by the things I was forced to endure, so obviously broken to anyone who looks at me.
Is it so wrong of me to believe the force of my desire alone should alter the entire world to suit it?
It could be so easy. Sometimes people wouldn't even notice it's happening; they exist around me and they want to behave in accordance with my will. It's nothing too complicated; deference to my speech, for instance, would come easily to them. It would never occur to them to talk over me. It would feel wrong to even think about, even; some small, unidentifiable pain the back of their head when they do think about it that pushes them away immediately. Crowds would part around me. When people got dressed, they'd do so hoping I liked what they chose. They wouldn't notice any alterations to their bodies, instead writing off the new weight spreading across them as a welcome dietary change.
Some people struggle more with being made to obey, though. Some of them would fight that feeling, believing there's some kind of justice is speaking up against a force that tells them how to behave, even when the force itself is endlessly just, even when following it is endlessly comforting.
This behavior annoys me. Addressing it requires some circuitous work; that's not to say they're better than me, of course. It's not challenging. Dogs make great listeners, and people make great dogs. If that's what I want, it's what they will be; the transformation takes hold in their mind before their body, and once it's in their mind their desire to please me, to suit my world, becomes their world too.
They likely wouldn't be suited to much at that point. It's not their fault; they're just a stupid dog now, after all. They're happier that way, assuming I want them to be. Maybe I'd let them keep enough of themself to feel shame but with no way to express it. Something only I could know.