You have an addiction.

Every night around 1, 2 am you creep into the bathroom and scan every site I’m on. Your favorite is the blog, duh, because you cling on to every word I say. Second, my Onlyfans, because I post the most on there and my photos are always next level. You love my twitter. You spend hours on it. None of this would be surprising if you were single and alone forever, but you’re not! You’re happily married, or supposed to be.

You’re just not getting enough. There’s only so much faking you can do when it comes to being the real man of the house. The provider. The vanilla sex you pretend to enjoy with your wife so she doesn’t get suspicious of your whereabouts in the middle of the night. Intercourse is never not preceded by a quick jerk off to my latest tweet in the bathroom. You’ve found your balance. You can continue on pretending you’re a real man for her, so long as you get to be a little bitch for me in secret. She’ll never know of the depraved things you’ve done on a whim for me. She’ll never understand what it’s like to be a beta bitch who needs to stick things up their rectum just because a woman online told them to.

Your whole life you’ve spent searching for a woman like me. By the time you found me, you had already settled for a boring life with someone you loved but would never understand you like I do. While I want nothing more to do with you than a compensatory basis, you can’t see your future without me. You’re locked into a life of financial servitude just to exist in my world, stuck next to your toilet in the middle of the night waiting for crumbs of my attention.