She walks in beauty, but tonight beauty crawls.
Tonight, she’s on all fours—collar tight, drool stringing from her lips, ass up, hair yanked into a makeshift leash. 🐩
The room is hot, the lights low, and there’s no audience but me and the shadow that’s already claimed her soul.
I start with my voice—
low, thick, hypnotic—
telling her how worthless she is,
how perfect her filth,
how every hole is open because she was made to be used.
🌸
“You’re not allowed to speak unless it’s to beg, slut.” 🫦🤫
She nods, shuddering, her mind already pliable, hungry to disappear.
I rub the crop between her legs, just a whisper on soaked, swollen cunt lips.
She’s leaking—💦 shameless, desperate, making a mess on my floor before I’ve even touched her right. 🌊
I slap her cunt.
She gasps, flinches, presses her face into the carpet, thighs shaking.
“You like being treated like this, don’t you? Dirty little bitch.” 🐾
She moans—
a garbled “yes, Sir,” already broken, her cheeks burning,
and the shame in her eyes just makes me harder.
I bend down and spit on her asshole, 🍑 watch her shiver, then shove a plug in—rough, no warning, no care except that she feels every inch. ❄️
She yelps, drools, the humiliation so deep she can’t look at me, but she pushes back all the same.
“That’s it. Take it. Show me how badly you need to be ruined.”
Now the mindfuck starts. 🧘🏾♀️
I make her repeat after me, each phrase filthier than the last,
her voice quivering, barely more than a whimper:
“I’m a hole. I’m your filthy little thing. I love it when you use me. Please, ruin me.” 🕳️
Each line drives her deeper—her mind falling away,
her body nothing but nerve endings,
her face a mess of spit and tears and desperate, animal need.
I snap the crop on her ass until the flesh is striped and hot.
Her cunt drips onto the carpet,
her legs slick, thighs trembling,
the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and submission.
I shove two fingers into her, curl them, and watch her collapse—her whole body jerking, choking on a scream.
I don’t let her come. 🐕🦺
Not yet.
“Hold it. You only come for me. Only when I say.”
She whimpers, drools more, begs through sobs, hips rocking,
her brain so fucked she can’t remember her own name,
only that she belongs here, now, being broken for my pleasure.
I make her crawl to me, mouth open, tongue out.
“Clean my boots, whore.” 🎿😢
She laps at the leather, the taste of dirt and polish and her own spit,
lost in humiliation,
but her pussy gushes, soaking the floor,
because every act of degradation feeds her need.
Now she’s mindless, glazed, shaking with want,
so I grab her by the throat and force her to look at me.
“You’re going to thank me for using you. You’re going to beg me to make you come. You’re going to promise to take more, be filthier, let me break you for real next time.” 🩼
She nods, desperate, face red and wet, body ready to collapse.
“Please, Sir, please, I need it, I need you to fuck me, to ruin me, to make me your little cumslut, please, please, I’ll do anything—”
🙏
That’s when I shove her down, cock in hand,
and I fuck her—hard, merciless, no rhythm but need,
one hand on her throat, the other slapping her ass,
driving into her while she sobs, screams, and finally, finally shatters.
Her orgasm is violent—a gush, a wail, her whole body spasming so wildly I have to hold her down,
and she comes so hard she leaves a puddle, trembling, whimpering, the carpet ruined beneath her.
But I don’t stop.🛑
I fuck her through it,
make her come again,
and again,
until her voice is gone and she’s nothing but a raw, used thing.
My thing.
Her mind is empty. 🫥
Her holes are wrecked.🫠
Her body marked, leaking, sobbing out gratitude and shame and worship all at once.
🫴🏾 🧎🏾♀️➡️
When I finally let her rest, she’s a heap at my feet—cunt gaping, ass red and plugged, drool and tears streaking her cheeks.
I pet her hair, let her kiss my boots again,
and whisper,
“You’ll remember this every time you close your eyes.
You’ll crave it, beg for it,
until I bring you back and break you all over again.
Because you were made for filth—
and I was made to write it in your soul.”
She smiles, dazed, a ruined masterpiece,
and the look in her eyes says it all—
she’s never been more alive than here,
on my floor, dripping, humiliated, worshipped, and claimed.
And you—reading this—
don’t pretend you don’t want to be next.
Because in the House of Sin,
there’s always room for another to crawl.
My weekend was Lord Byron and Kink…. How did you spend your weekend?