I am not an equal-opportunity humiliator. I don’t do it because I’m a misogynist

I am not an equal-opportunity humiliator. I don’t do it because I’m a misogynist, or because I enjoy watching a woman degraded, devolved into a begging, whimpering wreck at my feet. I don’t want to objectify because I think you’re an object, just a fuck thing to enjoy, toss aside, and let wipe itself down on its own time. I don’t tear you down because I want to see you in pieces on the floor. It’s not respect that drives it, but that’s in there somewhere, a throughline that holds the whole thing together. No, I want to marvel at your tenacity, watch this personality that I care about so much, that I’ve explored with, bounce back from whatever I can throw at it. I want to see how plucky you are, see how stubborn you can be, and I want to see you wallow in the muck then wash yourself off and walk among the princesses again. I call you a whimpering, cock-hungry babyslut and you revel in it, your body twitching like each syllable is a jolt of electricity bringing the Frankenstienian patchwork of your subsconscious to life. It’s tugging at something deep inside you, and it’s a something you want to let breathe. I strip away the pieces of you so that you can finally know the truth inside, before putting your clothes back on and stepping away, armed with new knowledge. Pride comes before a fall, but they forget to tell you of the wisdom that comes from picking yourself up and walking away in one piece. That’s why the depths of me are dredged to the surface, some deep pleasure that I can’t quite vocalise, when I push you off that cliff with terrible words and worse actions. The depravity of it is a fire, purging you clean. -- source link

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