I like it best when you cry from the hatred, the tears of anguish rolling down your face as I disgrace and use you — that you are bound to me, forever in my service, not because you want to be but because you’ve been given to me.
The scorn that rises, the desperation, the fear and loathing that stream down your face in wet, wet streaks that I mock knowingly. And mercilessly.
I love how none of it melts away in your physical acceptance to your duty, to your punishments, to your tasks. How your hot anger brightly burns — with the heat of injustice and pride! Useless sentiments, other than how they fan the flames of my desire to further humiliate, hurt, use against your will.
It’s all right there, on your face. In the set of your shoulders, your chin.
The fire in your eyes that makes your eyes sparkle — no matter how wet your eyes get, the tears do not put out that fire. I know; I’ve tested it. But you detest me more — and so the back and forth of the testing continues! How it all tempts me… The clenched jaw juts with pride — as appealing as the jut of your breasts. The haughty air, as ripe for the plucking as that asshole is for fucking.
Even right now, as I sit three feet away from you, days into your no orgasm rule, naked with clothespins on your nipples, sleep deprived, sloppily typing and correcting your tasks for me… That palpable resentment… Your loathing of me as heavy in the air as the smell of your wet cunt.
A cunt I could take at any moment. A cunt that would welcome me, would welcome anything after the hours, the days, of arousal and pain — a cunt that would betray you — and quickly — with an orgasm.
You know it. And I know it.
How that knowledge makes you hate yourself.
How that knowledge makes you hate me even more.
Yet it’s that hate that makes me want to fuck you, fuck with your mind and your body, all the more.
