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P
purrfection
Guest
I'm not in control anymore. I don't think I ever was.
Before we started chatting online, I was sure I was a lesbian. Fully committed to girls. I knew every Victoria's Secret model's measurements and accolades, had them all ranked from best to worst, and knew their runway walks by heart. My cunt dripped every time I heard the word Brazil and my body ached to slide my tongue against their pristine, elegant, regal cunts and make them cum—or even better, make them do the same for me.
And I pretended there might be a man. The Man. The Only Man; the True Male; so fucking massive and rich and powerful and huge-cocked that he made all other so-called “men” look like wimpy little pussies in comparison. It was a Fantasy with a capital F and it made me wetter and hotter than anything else—so much so that other people who talked about their fantasies seemed droll. I wanted to be Raped by Him, Impregnated. Bred. I wanted to build a Harem of Supermodels for Him and beg him to kill and murder and rape anyone he wanted with Me cheering him on, usually as His Favorite Supermodel.
I indulged these fantasies online. On roleplay sites where I desperately searched out anyone who might want a flavor of the same kind of thing I did.
You messaged Me—and You Got It. Right Away. You were funny, literate, charming, and full of enough mystery to make me intrigued. You agreed—we'll never drop character.
It was so hot at first. You Understood my Hierarchy of the models. You made suggestions for new girls. You gave me An Aesthetic to work with. Women—real women—should be Tall, Tight, Tiny, Thin, and Smooth—and do everything possible to show that off. That wasn't just some character talking--it was You. The Real You. Unapologetic. Women who weren't physically perfect weren't even really women to You at all. Those standards--and the suspicion that I actually met them--made me so fucking wet. I started whispering Your Name--once You told it to Me--when I came even when we weren't talking.
And You Knew—Understood, Ached For, Needed—that Real Women were fucking Cruel. Cruel to everyone, everyone, everyone—cutting and biting and sniping—except their Man. Unnnf.
Rape. Torture. Murder. It was all on the table in Our Fantasy. So long as We were Immune? Anything went. I came constantly imagining choking some inferior cunt to death while You raped a brood of triplets in my unbelievably tight, hot, busty body. And always, always calling out Your. Perfect. Name.
Every day we spoke. Addicted. Often not even writing scenes. Just exploring each other, our wants, our needs, our burgeoning Love.
Inundating Me with links to hot outfits, things You wanted to see Our Girls wear.
I couldn't help myself. I had to try.
The purchases and changes began. A short skirt here. Higher heels there. Growing out my thick dark hair just to see what it would be like. Little hints to You about my measurements, my body type became full-on hot liquid descriptions with painstaking detail—but You already Knew.
You Searched Me Out. You Wanted Me All Along.
You told me You Loved My Writer's Brain. What You really Loved was melting it away with Your Cock, Your Cock, Your Cock, always thinking of Only Your Cock.
I mentioned experimenting with hypnosis audio files. You never required them. Suddenly, though, I was listening every day. Getting and feeling dumber. Wetter. Slicker. Breathier.
Because of You. Your Will. Your Cock Pushing Remotely on my Ever-Melting Brain. All my Cums became Prayers to You. I swore You were my God—and I meant it.
You insisted for so long that You'd respect my privacy. We only ever talked on encrypted messaging services. But every Black Line I put out there, I begged You to cross. I told You what I look like—so much like the Tall, Tight, Tiny, Thin, Smooth Girls we love. I told You how I started dressing. About how foggy my thoughts were getting. You started to make fun of my writing ambitions, and I didn't even care.
Things have gotten so heated and dreamy. I've become one of Our Girls, I think.
IRL, wimps watch me all the time. I make them suffer. I sneer-smile as I show off in expensive outfits that I don't pay for. Other women look at me jealously for everything I am—effortlessly sexy in everything I do.
I came to understand that how fucking gorgeous I am. How Lucky and Special. I'm Living, Walking, Breathing Art. I am Your Living Aesthetic. I make pussies cum just from winking at them and make women cry just by reaching for something—because they see my three-inch thigh gap, my total lack of arm sag that they just can't seem to escape, my endlessly sexy clavicles, my geometrically perfect jawline, or any other number of completely effortless parts of my body that I never work for but do so much better than they. It's like I'm pumping out pheromones that make people desperate; I've had seven jobs since we started talking, and I keep having to change workplaces because everyone keeps offing themselves or getting themselves put in jail by murdering their ugly, stupid fat families because they're not as gorgeous as Me. Me. Me.
It makes me so fucking wet thinking about all those people hurting and dying for Me. Which is—really--for You. Like You Deserve.
But my body has started to change too. That's when I really knew it wasn't just a fantasy. My waist is tinier. I'm so fucking light now; I keep losing weight and I'm not even trying. I'm eating more than ever--usually to mock some cunt at a restaurant by showing how easy it is to keep my figure so fucking DaddyPerfectTight. My breasts are getting bigger. My eyes are brighter. My brain is so fucking foggy and giggly and empty. My hair never needs washing or combing—but it's so soft I do it anyway. My legs are longer. I'm soooo tall now—tall like the girls we talk about, and miles long in my PleaseFuckMeAllDay Torso. The kind of tall who could stand in six-inch heels—who could fucking dance in them, jumprope in them (and have)--and still only come up to chest-level on someone as massive and perfect as YouYouYou.
The doctor I went to told me that my organs had moved around, somehow, like they were “making room” for something Large.
Making Room for You. For Your Cock. For brood after brood of gorgeous supermodel quality daughters I'm going to breed and train for Daddy.
As I left the doctor's office, he begged me to say his name, that he would kill his mother and father if I would. I said I'd consider it if he did that and offed himself too, and he thanked me for my time. I doubt he'll put two and two together in time before he dies; I have that effect on people now.
I'm Nothing But Yours. And I've never even seen You. It's been Remote, all these changes. You've directed me from afar.
But I know, one day, You'll Arrive.
And You'll Make All Our Dreams Come True.
______
I like talking about how fucking hot supermodels are; how they should be murderously wicked, cunning, fertile harem pets for You; hot, elegant outfits to dress them in (think like, YSL or Gucci or Ralph Lauren); and anything that revolves around that.
I don't like the words “slut” or “whore.”
We can explore in this fashion, not dropping character; we can write a scene. If you're interested, message me and we can start chatting.
Thanks for reading!
Before we started chatting online, I was sure I was a lesbian. Fully committed to girls. I knew every Victoria's Secret model's measurements and accolades, had them all ranked from best to worst, and knew their runway walks by heart. My cunt dripped every time I heard the word Brazil and my body ached to slide my tongue against their pristine, elegant, regal cunts and make them cum—or even better, make them do the same for me.
And I pretended there might be a man. The Man. The Only Man; the True Male; so fucking massive and rich and powerful and huge-cocked that he made all other so-called “men” look like wimpy little pussies in comparison. It was a Fantasy with a capital F and it made me wetter and hotter than anything else—so much so that other people who talked about their fantasies seemed droll. I wanted to be Raped by Him, Impregnated. Bred. I wanted to build a Harem of Supermodels for Him and beg him to kill and murder and rape anyone he wanted with Me cheering him on, usually as His Favorite Supermodel.
I indulged these fantasies online. On roleplay sites where I desperately searched out anyone who might want a flavor of the same kind of thing I did.
You messaged Me—and You Got It. Right Away. You were funny, literate, charming, and full of enough mystery to make me intrigued. You agreed—we'll never drop character.
It was so hot at first. You Understood my Hierarchy of the models. You made suggestions for new girls. You gave me An Aesthetic to work with. Women—real women—should be Tall, Tight, Tiny, Thin, and Smooth—and do everything possible to show that off. That wasn't just some character talking--it was You. The Real You. Unapologetic. Women who weren't physically perfect weren't even really women to You at all. Those standards--and the suspicion that I actually met them--made me so fucking wet. I started whispering Your Name--once You told it to Me--when I came even when we weren't talking.
And You Knew—Understood, Ached For, Needed—that Real Women were fucking Cruel. Cruel to everyone, everyone, everyone—cutting and biting and sniping—except their Man. Unnnf.
Rape. Torture. Murder. It was all on the table in Our Fantasy. So long as We were Immune? Anything went. I came constantly imagining choking some inferior cunt to death while You raped a brood of triplets in my unbelievably tight, hot, busty body. And always, always calling out Your. Perfect. Name.
Every day we spoke. Addicted. Often not even writing scenes. Just exploring each other, our wants, our needs, our burgeoning Love.
Inundating Me with links to hot outfits, things You wanted to see Our Girls wear.
I couldn't help myself. I had to try.
The purchases and changes began. A short skirt here. Higher heels there. Growing out my thick dark hair just to see what it would be like. Little hints to You about my measurements, my body type became full-on hot liquid descriptions with painstaking detail—but You already Knew.
You Searched Me Out. You Wanted Me All Along.
You told me You Loved My Writer's Brain. What You really Loved was melting it away with Your Cock, Your Cock, Your Cock, always thinking of Only Your Cock.
I mentioned experimenting with hypnosis audio files. You never required them. Suddenly, though, I was listening every day. Getting and feeling dumber. Wetter. Slicker. Breathier.
Because of You. Your Will. Your Cock Pushing Remotely on my Ever-Melting Brain. All my Cums became Prayers to You. I swore You were my God—and I meant it.
You insisted for so long that You'd respect my privacy. We only ever talked on encrypted messaging services. But every Black Line I put out there, I begged You to cross. I told You what I look like—so much like the Tall, Tight, Tiny, Thin, Smooth Girls we love. I told You how I started dressing. About how foggy my thoughts were getting. You started to make fun of my writing ambitions, and I didn't even care.
Things have gotten so heated and dreamy. I've become one of Our Girls, I think.
IRL, wimps watch me all the time. I make them suffer. I sneer-smile as I show off in expensive outfits that I don't pay for. Other women look at me jealously for everything I am—effortlessly sexy in everything I do.
I came to understand that how fucking gorgeous I am. How Lucky and Special. I'm Living, Walking, Breathing Art. I am Your Living Aesthetic. I make pussies cum just from winking at them and make women cry just by reaching for something—because they see my three-inch thigh gap, my total lack of arm sag that they just can't seem to escape, my endlessly sexy clavicles, my geometrically perfect jawline, or any other number of completely effortless parts of my body that I never work for but do so much better than they. It's like I'm pumping out pheromones that make people desperate; I've had seven jobs since we started talking, and I keep having to change workplaces because everyone keeps offing themselves or getting themselves put in jail by murdering their ugly, stupid fat families because they're not as gorgeous as Me. Me. Me.
It makes me so fucking wet thinking about all those people hurting and dying for Me. Which is—really--for You. Like You Deserve.
But my body has started to change too. That's when I really knew it wasn't just a fantasy. My waist is tinier. I'm so fucking light now; I keep losing weight and I'm not even trying. I'm eating more than ever--usually to mock some cunt at a restaurant by showing how easy it is to keep my figure so fucking DaddyPerfectTight. My breasts are getting bigger. My eyes are brighter. My brain is so fucking foggy and giggly and empty. My hair never needs washing or combing—but it's so soft I do it anyway. My legs are longer. I'm soooo tall now—tall like the girls we talk about, and miles long in my PleaseFuckMeAllDay Torso. The kind of tall who could stand in six-inch heels—who could fucking dance in them, jumprope in them (and have)--and still only come up to chest-level on someone as massive and perfect as YouYouYou.
The doctor I went to told me that my organs had moved around, somehow, like they were “making room” for something Large.
Making Room for You. For Your Cock. For brood after brood of gorgeous supermodel quality daughters I'm going to breed and train for Daddy.
As I left the doctor's office, he begged me to say his name, that he would kill his mother and father if I would. I said I'd consider it if he did that and offed himself too, and he thanked me for my time. I doubt he'll put two and two together in time before he dies; I have that effect on people now.
I'm Nothing But Yours. And I've never even seen You. It's been Remote, all these changes. You've directed me from afar.
But I know, one day, You'll Arrive.
And You'll Make All Our Dreams Come True.
______
I like talking about how fucking hot supermodels are; how they should be murderously wicked, cunning, fertile harem pets for You; hot, elegant outfits to dress them in (think like, YSL or Gucci or Ralph Lauren); and anything that revolves around that.
I don't like the words “slut” or “whore.”
We can explore in this fashion, not dropping character; we can write a scene. If you're interested, message me and we can start chatting.
Thanks for reading!