I’ve always known that I wasn’t born to lead or to be some untouchable queen; I was born to be owned, used, and completely broken by a man who knows how to claim what’s his. My life became a blur of bondage phone sex and dark rooms the moment I realized that my only value is in how well I can satisfy my master’s filthiest desires.
I don’t need a soft bed or a kind word when I have the cold floor of a basement and the heavy weight of a man who bought my submission before I even knew how to say no. I’m just a hollow vessel, a “personal sex slave” waiting for the next command to crawl and beg. Richard is the one who really understands how to handle a girl like me, mostly because he treats me like the property I am.
He loves the fantasy that I started serving men when I was just a young, developing thing, sold off to please any horny need that walked through the door. He doesn’t want to hear about my day or my feelings; he just wants to hear the sound of my breathing hitching as he describes the nasty things he’s going to do to my body.
He wants me trapped in his basement, chained up and waiting for the moment he decides it’s time for his next “cum release”. The way Richard uses me is a cycle of pure, sticky degradation that never seems to end. He loves to get himself worked up, imagining me restricted and helpless while he spreads his warm, “thick cum” all over my trembling skin. He doesn’t let me clean up, either.
He wants to leave his mark on me, letting his load dry on my belly and deep inside my yummy “nigger pussy” until it’s stiff and crusty. He’ll leave me there in the dark, smelling like him and wearing his filth like a uniform, only to return the next day and repeat the entire cycle over again. There’s something so addictive about knowing I belong to him and him alone.
Every time he calls, I sink deeper into that submissive headspace, picturing the grime of the basement and the rough way he’ll handle his personal slave. He wants to see me gagging and struggling against my restraints while he gets his rocks off, uncaring about the bruises he leaves behind.
To him, I’m just a toy to be played with and put away until he’s ready to make a mess of me again. I crave the weight of his expectations and the suffocating feeling of being his “total property”. I’m the girl who lives for the filth, waiting for the next time my master decides to remind me exactly where I belong.
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