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Planetoid
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2013
A myopic view would call me an exceptionally wealthy, devastatingly handsome, scarily intelligent serial killer and rapist.
Because I do kill, and often. Fucktoys who disappoint me (and don't they all, eventually?). Assholes who cross me (and I go out of my way to make sure they do). I go prowling on the town to start fights (no one ever starts a fight with me, no matter how drunk or stupid they are) and snap necks like toothpicks. The law never bothers me; the police I don't own are too scared of me to say anything. As they should be.
And I do rape, and really fucking well. My Cock breaks women down; it transforms them; it makes them into servile little fuckpets that beg to do the slightest service to make Me happy.
When I first indoctrinated Miranda, my latest trinket-fucktoy-trophy, she begged me to stop so many times that I was able to get several good recordings of it. I make her play them back inside a tiny, hidden earpiece when she goes to important business dinners with me, just to watch her squirm and moan and writhe while I finger her stupid. She gets breathy and moany and spacey and starts stroking me urgently through my tailor-made pants, totally unaware of the spectacle she makes of herself.
My dinner guests—invariably some CEO I'm hoping to destroy for all the money they have—get so turned on from seeing her so turned on that they forget all their reservations about the money they're signing away.
Fucking up people's lives is a hobby for me. I daydream about meeting a really special girl and giving her an outfit made entirely out of blood diamonds; I think of her tongue quickening its pace along my enormous Cock, the intoxicating pitter-patter of her lust dripping down her legs, as I describe to her how many suffered, starved, and died to mine the stones out of the rock.
Perhaps I'm the world's loneliest, wealthiest hybristophile.
Miranda's not that girl, much as I hoped. But, she is tall and beautiful. She's a nineteen out of ten and My Cock fucked up her mind so much that her own fucking rape is intensely erotic to her. I think she had an IQ of 143 when I started on her; I doubt she can even identify that number on a sheet anymore.
I don't think of myself as a serial killer and rapist. I think of myself as an appreciator of art. An artist, even. Though I'm missing a true creative spark.
I'm out with Miranda tonight at a gala for some fundraiser or another. Her dress is sick as fuck, plunging and clinging, and my hand has a permanent handle between her tight ass cheeks. She clings to my rock-hard body, like she fucking should, and she can't stop thinking about the loveydovey slurping blowjob in the limo she gave me on the way there or the way I'm going to fuck some daughters into her—she hopes—later tonight.
The gala is fancy, all the best people there. Models, celebrities, royalty. I don't really know the occasion, what the fundraiser is for; all their money flows back to me via one shadow corporation or another. I have so much fucking money that I fuck up the faces and lives of assholes who call me rich—I'm fucking *wealthy*. I was born into it, just like I was born with a fantastic body and a life-altering Cock, and I'll take any chance to fight some fucking wimp that I can because it's really *fun* to hear bones crunch under the steel-hardness of my fists. It's fun to hear their girls moan when they watch me beat the fuck out of them. It's fun to smell the dampness of their cunts when they realize I'm so much fucking better than the man I'm with. And it's especially fun to see the embarrassment on their faces when I reject them.
Scanning the crowd, idly thinking about finding a back corner to have Miranda suck me off before dinner, I see You.
Elegant. Gorgeous. Sneering. Wicked. Cruel. You.
I see You in a spectacularly beautiful dress, cosmically cruel in how simple it is—the neckline plunging nearly to your utterly defined waist, backless, sleeveless, a slit so high that your sharp hipbones are positioned like the lethal weapons they are. It's barely there, and yet every girl here is looking at it and thinking the same thing: I could never get away with that like her.
You don't just get away with it. You excel. You elevate the dress. You are its apotheosis. The atoms that form it could only have ever aspired to be closer to Your Immaculate Fucking Form.
Jesus Fucking Christ, You're Gorgeous. I do something I almost never do: I groan.
My monumental cock stiffens seeing You. Miranda, clinging to me how she is, whimpers with need. I think about how expensive that dress is and also how You'll probably never wear it again, and My Cock surges again.
But I don't just notice You. I see You taking a drink from a tray and a waitress. I can't hear what you say. Something remarkably cutting. The waitress's face from one second to the next turns from hopeful pride at being so close to a pricelessly gorgeous beauty like you to abject, existential horror as she realizes she doesn't even fucking register on your radar as a living being. I can imagine already the suicide note she's planning for later tonight; my Cock gets harder still.
Something in Your gorgeous countenance, the tilt of your chin while You put up with small talk from inferiors, the absolutely stunning hatred in Your eyes that fools would mistake for heated interest. You're like Me.
You want to watch them suffer and burn. You want to feel them fail.
Soon, I'll introduce myself. I think about how forgotten Miranda will be; how forgotten she'll feel--that makes me Harder too.
My Cock straining against my pants, the scent of my precum practically filling the hall, I stride towards You. Massive. Handsome. Wealthy as all fuck and ready to make every one of Your last evil dreams come true. I envision You at my side, pushing urgently on my hips, begging me to fuck Miranda even harder while our hands clench together around her neck.
Fuck. I'm smitten.
* * * * *
Evil, beautiful people falling in love with each other, doing terrible things with each other. This can go in all kinds of directions, and I'm open to this sticking closer to reality or being more supernatural/fantasy/sci-fi. I get off on mind control, corruption, harems, power imbalances, and a lot more. Message me if you're into it. I love hot smutty chat almost as much as I like writing hot smut.
Because I do kill, and often. Fucktoys who disappoint me (and don't they all, eventually?). Assholes who cross me (and I go out of my way to make sure they do). I go prowling on the town to start fights (no one ever starts a fight with me, no matter how drunk or stupid they are) and snap necks like toothpicks. The law never bothers me; the police I don't own are too scared of me to say anything. As they should be.
And I do rape, and really fucking well. My Cock breaks women down; it transforms them; it makes them into servile little fuckpets that beg to do the slightest service to make Me happy.
When I first indoctrinated Miranda, my latest trinket-fucktoy-trophy, she begged me to stop so many times that I was able to get several good recordings of it. I make her play them back inside a tiny, hidden earpiece when she goes to important business dinners with me, just to watch her squirm and moan and writhe while I finger her stupid. She gets breathy and moany and spacey and starts stroking me urgently through my tailor-made pants, totally unaware of the spectacle she makes of herself.
My dinner guests—invariably some CEO I'm hoping to destroy for all the money they have—get so turned on from seeing her so turned on that they forget all their reservations about the money they're signing away.
Fucking up people's lives is a hobby for me. I daydream about meeting a really special girl and giving her an outfit made entirely out of blood diamonds; I think of her tongue quickening its pace along my enormous Cock, the intoxicating pitter-patter of her lust dripping down her legs, as I describe to her how many suffered, starved, and died to mine the stones out of the rock.
Perhaps I'm the world's loneliest, wealthiest hybristophile.
Miranda's not that girl, much as I hoped. But, she is tall and beautiful. She's a nineteen out of ten and My Cock fucked up her mind so much that her own fucking rape is intensely erotic to her. I think she had an IQ of 143 when I started on her; I doubt she can even identify that number on a sheet anymore.
I don't think of myself as a serial killer and rapist. I think of myself as an appreciator of art. An artist, even. Though I'm missing a true creative spark.
I'm out with Miranda tonight at a gala for some fundraiser or another. Her dress is sick as fuck, plunging and clinging, and my hand has a permanent handle between her tight ass cheeks. She clings to my rock-hard body, like she fucking should, and she can't stop thinking about the loveydovey slurping blowjob in the limo she gave me on the way there or the way I'm going to fuck some daughters into her—she hopes—later tonight.
The gala is fancy, all the best people there. Models, celebrities, royalty. I don't really know the occasion, what the fundraiser is for; all their money flows back to me via one shadow corporation or another. I have so much fucking money that I fuck up the faces and lives of assholes who call me rich—I'm fucking *wealthy*. I was born into it, just like I was born with a fantastic body and a life-altering Cock, and I'll take any chance to fight some fucking wimp that I can because it's really *fun* to hear bones crunch under the steel-hardness of my fists. It's fun to hear their girls moan when they watch me beat the fuck out of them. It's fun to smell the dampness of their cunts when they realize I'm so much fucking better than the man I'm with. And it's especially fun to see the embarrassment on their faces when I reject them.
Scanning the crowd, idly thinking about finding a back corner to have Miranda suck me off before dinner, I see You.
Elegant. Gorgeous. Sneering. Wicked. Cruel. You.
I see You in a spectacularly beautiful dress, cosmically cruel in how simple it is—the neckline plunging nearly to your utterly defined waist, backless, sleeveless, a slit so high that your sharp hipbones are positioned like the lethal weapons they are. It's barely there, and yet every girl here is looking at it and thinking the same thing: I could never get away with that like her.
You don't just get away with it. You excel. You elevate the dress. You are its apotheosis. The atoms that form it could only have ever aspired to be closer to Your Immaculate Fucking Form.
Jesus Fucking Christ, You're Gorgeous. I do something I almost never do: I groan.
My monumental cock stiffens seeing You. Miranda, clinging to me how she is, whimpers with need. I think about how expensive that dress is and also how You'll probably never wear it again, and My Cock surges again.
But I don't just notice You. I see You taking a drink from a tray and a waitress. I can't hear what you say. Something remarkably cutting. The waitress's face from one second to the next turns from hopeful pride at being so close to a pricelessly gorgeous beauty like you to abject, existential horror as she realizes she doesn't even fucking register on your radar as a living being. I can imagine already the suicide note she's planning for later tonight; my Cock gets harder still.
Something in Your gorgeous countenance, the tilt of your chin while You put up with small talk from inferiors, the absolutely stunning hatred in Your eyes that fools would mistake for heated interest. You're like Me.
You want to watch them suffer and burn. You want to feel them fail.
Soon, I'll introduce myself. I think about how forgotten Miranda will be; how forgotten she'll feel--that makes me Harder too.
My Cock straining against my pants, the scent of my precum practically filling the hall, I stride towards You. Massive. Handsome. Wealthy as all fuck and ready to make every one of Your last evil dreams come true. I envision You at my side, pushing urgently on my hips, begging me to fuck Miranda even harder while our hands clench together around her neck.
Fuck. I'm smitten.
* * * * *
Evil, beautiful people falling in love with each other, doing terrible things with each other. This can go in all kinds of directions, and I'm open to this sticking closer to reality or being more supernatural/fantasy/sci-fi. I get off on mind control, corruption, harems, power imbalances, and a lot more. Message me if you're into it. I love hot smutty chat almost as much as I like writing hot smut.
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