Daily Affirmation:
I am a stupid, broken whore.
I am a warm set of holes, and tits too small to fuck.
I should be laughed at, spat on, and degraded.
I should always be covered in cum.
***
My relationships with other women had typically been complicated. I admired and envied their bodies, their easy sexuality, the way they slid like silk through any room. I wanted to know how soft their thighs felt, the way their perfume lingered, what balance of salt and sweetness their mouths and pussies had to offer. At first I thought I only wanted to
be
them, mistaking the wetness growing between my legs as the humiliating residue of jealousy. Inferiority.
I didn't realize it was something more.
I watched you though, looking at them too. Assessing their curves and their hair and their laughter. At this point in life I'd realized that most men found me reasonably attractive, whether I could see it or not. Pretty, even. I was slender enough with an athletic build, a baseline amount of softness to establish the existence of femininity but not much more. Nothing like the divine flow of hips and breasts and asses on most women today. I knew that some men wanted to sleep with me but I was colorblind as to why, so I never fully trusted it. It felt like one of those fortune tellers, a thin blood-red fish in the palm of my hand.
Am I desirable?
Some days it writhed and wriggled then smoothed. Other days it flipped into the fucking abyss. Or curled inward with shame. It was always a question and never an answer.
How much do you want to fuck me, baby? In my mouth...my ass...my cunt?
Those were the words I would whisper each night, but in the morning I'd desperately trace the unspoken ones against my clit, throbbing and alone:
...how much do you want to fuck her too?
***
Daily Affirmation:
I am a barely adequate fucktoy.
A pretty face with a deficient body.
A braindead piggybank for sperm.
If I can't keep him hard I better keep him entertained.
***
"Jesus Christ, Jake!" I laughed, leaping back as your Jenga Tower of glassware shifted, splashing IPA all over my shirt. I didn't care, it was some cheap halter from Target circa who-knows-when.
"I'm so sorry," you cried, apologetic but still focused on preventing the bar floor from becoming an environmental hazard.
"Uh, thanks, but please don't do this again," the bartender muttered, stretching over the counter to lighten your load.
She perked up when she saw your face though. You couldn't see it but I did. She hadn't even clocked me yet. A part of me hoped that she wouldn't, I could live an entire lifetime just watching people.
We slid onto a couple of barstools to order. She was still glowing, excited. I tried to look at you the way she did, with fresh eyes, and I understood. There is something indescribably masculine about you, a thing that never needed to be advertised with bravado or attire. You could have been dressed in a pajama set with a butt flap and she would still understand. The quiet confidence of Good Dick.
She was a problem though.
We ordered shots for the group and she slid each one in front of you, still ignoring me. She was beautiful, anyone with a pulse could see. Tattoos vining up each of her arms, a little piercing through her septum, classically sensual features. Fat, soft lips and thick lashes. Full, heavy breasts struggling to escape a low-cut top, displaying just enough of their sway to reiterate that we were entirely different life forms. An inked up Scarlett Johansson. I was a hosed-down Emma Stone. I shifted in my seat.
She grinned as she slid you an extra shot. "On the house..." she winked. She would have eaten you alive.
You swallowed abruptly, as though you'd just recalled my existence, "Uh, my girlfriend," you started, nodding your head in my direction. I didn't even get a name. Her eyes traveled along my face and my body. My halter top was black, a freshly beer-drenched deep V with a shelf bra so I didn't bother wearing a real one beneath it. I was instantly regretting that decision.
"Oh, hi," she grinned, all honey and bullshit. She glanced again at my soaked shirt, the small, wet breasts and nipples jutting out humiliatingly beneath it. "I think I have that shirt too?" She smiled innocently, "Not really sure though, mine fits a little different."
I immediately scanned her abundant cleavage, and sank back into my seat, shoulders curved protectively.
Touché, bitch
, I thought.
But what were you thinking? Were you listening?
"I'm sure it does," I replied softly. Relenting. Showing her the soft white underbelly of my submission, acknowledging that I understood I'd lost the fight before it had even begun; she could take you with a snap of her fingers if she wanted. I'd be left behind, massaging my swollen little cunt while understanding it never even mattered how tight or sweet it was. Women like that collect men out of boredom.
She handed me a shot, a silent understanding between us- she wouldn't take my boyfriend but she could. I'd be lucky to suck your cream from her still-contracting pussy if she let me. And let's be honest, I would.
We threw back our glasses and my attention returned to you. Did you register what just happened or were you too drunk to notice? Did it turn you on, seeing your girlfriend's face rubbed in the dirt?
I gently reached out for your thigh and you flinched.
You pulled away so abruptly. Reflexively.
You were humiliated for me. And aroused for her.
I could have cum on the spot.
***
Daily Affirmation:
Fit his cock down your throat.
Fit his cock down your throat.
Fit. His. Fat. Fucking. Cock. Down. Your. Throat. You. Worthless. Little. Slut.
