You don’t want pleasure. You want permission. You want someone to tell you it’s okay to be weak, to be small, to let go and just melt into the mess you were always meant to become. So I crawl inside your head — not with kindness, not with love, but with total ownership. I don’t care about your feelings. I care about control. And right now, you’re already twitching at the sound of my voice, already aching to sniff, to stroke, to ruin yourself just to prove you belong to me. Your dignity doesn’t matter. All that matters is the ritual
