And as quickly as it began, it ended. You don't have to make sense of it all. It was a crack in time where we went to get lost, and we did, in eachother. And it was enough.
Little girl–chasing popularity, squirming for approval. I see right through you.
Your insecurities are blatant–glaring even. Who are you trying to impress? Your followers? Followers?! Do you really think they give a FUCK about you?
What they came to see is a free show as they churn their meat, scrolling through an endless flesh feed in their available hand.
Exposed vanity–a consequence of her anxiety at being alone with no reassurances, no feedback, no likes, no chatter.
She makes social media her life's work, setting her foundation on shifting sands. But vanity rusts artlessly in an air of mediocrity.
Her latest sadistic pleasure has been the dragging of barbed wire across My liver and abdominal muscles.
Shallow breathing helps, but I've had a cold, so with each forceful cough I feel the rusty metal pierce indiscriminately.
She scorns Me throughout the day with stabbing zeal, and I can hear the heckles of her heels as she dances with unfeigned malevolence.
Little does she know I have murderous intent, and her days are numbered.
It was a daily cat and mouse game–between looking, and looking away. I couldn't help it. She never wore any panties, and the way she sat persecuted my cock's throbbing ambition.
Eventually though, the shyness surrendered to our impudence.
It wasn't that I was a horrible Spanish tutor, I just knew what my priorities were.
Although it was a botched breeding, the psychological assault had been executed.
His semen was weak–the result of sleep deprivation, poor diet, and uninspired technique; not to mention flaccid meat, induced from the cocktail of drugs.
Upon hearing of the egregious offense committed against her, I vowed revenge–not because I cared (she was merely a concubine), but because El Duende that co-inhabited My lair spurred Me to do it, and he was very persuasive at times.
There would be retribution to pay, preferably sodomy by meth pipe–an ironic sentencing for the perpetrator, whose screams would soon be nothing more than a smear on My walls.
Perhaps He would keep the details of her lustful transgressions forever undisturbed in the catacombs of their carnal knowledge, she hoped.
Surely He wouldn't resurrect the embodiment of her sin for her newly-wed husband to behold. Would He?
The vindictive smirk on His face answered her question.
The DragnMaster rights all wrongs. Let it be known.