June-July 2014
COWARD.
Sorry; what?
Poser.
What’s bringing this on?
Pansy-ass wimp. Fucking fake. Chicken.
What the fuck?
You know god damn good and well what, you malingering faint-hearted pussy.
Pretty sure I don’t.
Oh, bullshit. Why don’t you just let me go? Leave me the fuck alone.
No, I think you need to tell me what the hell is going on.
Why don’t you just make me?
And just how do you propose I do that?"
See? I just insulted you with what are deemed to be some of the worst things you can say to a man, and offered to lay myself open to whatever you can think to do, and you just sit there like the fraidy-cat wimpy liar you are.
Back up. Reset. Start the fuck over. Go back to the, you know, beginning.
You are not what you said you were.
I’m not?
You said you were a fucking sadist.
Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.
Which you are not.
I see. And what makes you think that?
For one thing, you aren’t pounding the shit out of me right now.
Oh. Wow. My bad.
And the truth is that you don’t ever really hurt me.
I might want to protest that.
Really? When? How?
Well, let me think now. Night before last I seem to remember spanking you.
God. That wasn’t a real spanking. That was a little play-slap and tickle. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the last time you completely went off on me and made me regret even knowing you.
Well, given that you are making such an enormous deal about the, what, lack of emergency room care, you suddenly seem to have decided you regret knowing me without me even doing anything.
Oh, no you don’t. Don’t you try to twist this into some punishing-me-by-not-punishing-me bullshit.
I don’t know; you seem pretty stressed. Looks to me like that might be working.
No dice, bunny boy. You are not a sadist. You are a fucking nice guy who’s been pawning himself off as one because you happen to be able to scare the shit out me by what you can write. It’s a world of difference between that and someone who can actually rip a strip out of me, and jerk off in the process.
Ah. The masochism is running a little hot today, isn’t it?
I don’t know what the hell you mean by that, and what the fuck do you care.
No, this is an expression of your own self-defeat, your own self-loathing. You despise yourself so fucking bad that you cannot bear the idea of someone—anyone—hating you any less than you do.
Oh, gee-shucky darn, there, mister. What an awesome analysis. Did you get that from a cereal box? And I suppose now you are going to try to tell me that to placate me that you feel exactly that way? That you however I can hate me you can hate me better? Comfort me with how much you abhor me?
I don’t abhor you.
My point exactly. You care. You think that somewhere in here is someone worth saving, someone worth having delicate tender little feelings for, and that’s where all the rot sets in. It’s already been so long since you hurt me so hard my mind erases that I can’t remember when you ever did, and soon, I’m going to be something inestimable to you, a treasure you’re going to have to protect from the big bad world out there, and you’ll put me up on some kind of god damn pedestal. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to fucking marry you, start squeezing out kids, and bake cookies. I’ll be a trophy slut that you keep in the case in the house to keep from damaging my value. Something you won’t even shit on or piss on or hit or hurt or fuck or make do things you know I don’t want to do. Because you are afraid you are going to damage me. Newsflash, buddy-boy: I’m already damaged.
Okay. So. I haven’t been pushing you hard enough lately. Point taken. So come over here and suck my cock.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
Why? You afraid you’re going to be rewarding me for my not-so-bad behavior?
Bingo, you faggy-dicked cocksucking weakling.
Alright, this does present a challenge. So, tell me something, my precious little angel—
—Fuck you—
—Ahem. My precious little narcissistic selfish angel who tops from the bottom and is nothing but a fount of complaints about how she is treated.
God damn it.
Are you trying to tell me that the satisfaction du jour that will keep you interested and engaged and willing to continue with me—the very me that you are so inventively name-calling as nothing but a pitiful charade and a fraud—is for me to cowboy up and disregard the safeties, that I should not be attentive to what I am doing to you and simply hit you for the sake of hitting you, for getting the motion to happen in my arm to happen for the sake of the motion?
You’re not helping.
No, I mean it. You’re saying that I am not doing what it takes here and what will be really satisfying to you is that I should simply not stop hitting you until I pound you into the ground, that I should basically just beat you to death, are you not?
I…well…no, I don’t want to die.
Oh, well, then, let me cater to your wish for your awesome little life to continue as an invalid, permanently maimed and disfigured, unable to do anything without the assistance of the home medical profession, leaving you a vegetable that can’t eat or shit or move or even breathe on your own, then. Since you’re being so kind as to spare me the chair for having murdered you.
What?
Oh, but that would serve, would it not? To commit assault and battery and hey, how could we forget aggravated rape upon you—and perhaps a little enslavement action; can’t forget crimes against humanity—not to mention the affront to femininity that I as a man in general represent to all women everywhere by simply existing such that I should spend the rest of my life in a penitentiary for violent offenders and get my own good self butt-fucked for the remainder of my days by the criminal element in order to satisfy you and your little longings such that you got me to commit a hard enough felony on you that might actually matter to society. Right?
Stop it.
Are you saying that you don’t want it to go that far? That maybe the notion of having to suffer brain damage or to losing limbs is maybe a higher price than you’re willing to pay for me and my cock? I know: how ‘bout I bleed you to where you pass out from the blood loss, and you can explain, in the hospital, when you wake up from all the transfusions, that no, officer, we were just playing, he didn’t mean to go too far, I’ll be fine, really.
Gross.
What limit is far enough? I myself am quite satisfied with the idea that I most sincerely believe that if I ask you to do something, something painful, something humiliating, something that you don’t even like or want to happen that you will go out of your way to make sure that it does, for the mere sake of me being able to think to myself that "yeah, she’d do even that for me," and that gets me so hot that I can’t wait and I have to masturbate myself into a frenzy to the point that I cannot perform for real, and I will leave you stranded and without the satisfaction of the penetration of a big, fat, hard, long, pounding, throbbing, dripping cock—especially one that forces its way into some place uncomfortable or unspeakable—such that you should then get to suffer long and hard through orgasm denial and that, too, feeds a part of my need for acknowledgement and acceptance that only the peculiar institution itself can take care of. I’m getting what I need; why aren’t you satisfied?
Because you aren’t asking for any of that shit.
Asking what?
Asking me to allow you to perform an atrocity upon me, or to perform one upon myself.
Ah. So you’re bored.
I…yes. You aren’t making use of me, and I feel useless and empty.
And you’re not willing to feel that way for me.
Don’t even go there. That’s the whole torture-me-by-not-torturing-me shit, and I won’t stand for it. I’ll leave.
Right. You’ll leave me because you’re bored here with me in order to go sit by yourself and be alone and be bored by yourself.
Pretty sure I won’t be bored, although a little peace and quiet would be nice. There is no shortage of available men out there who are perfectly willing to abuse a woman any way she wants. You’re replaceable.
So. We found a limit. At long god damn fucking last.
What?
The super-submissive stone masochist who has no regard for herself or her own safety, who actually needs someone to look out for her and make sure she doesn’t self-inflict any kind of final solution against herself in her efforts to find yet another new height of pain to fly through or another depth of degradation to drag herself through in her relentless quest for rapture is going to safeword because she’s not being entertained enough. She has finally come to the idea that she is maybe worth a little more than the nothing she feels about herself, and she is not willing to suffer through that kind of emptiness. She needs attention. And not just a little, she needs whoever she is with to be completely taken with her and to be perfectly adaptable to whatever mood she is in at a moment’s notice. Now, never mind that he will have to be constantly on guard against the possibility that maybe, just maybe he is not enough for her, because the important thing is that he is to devote his every waking moment and every sleeping dream-moment toward making sure she is properly treated and amused at all times. Even if her definition of "proper treatment" isn’t exactly something the rest of the world would necessarily agree with.
I…uh…
So what’s the difference between having someone who is expending all his efforts toward your perpetual suffering and constant misery and relentless agony and someone who is expending all his efforts toward adoring you and caring for you and dare I say, loving you? Because in both cases, he doesn’t matter at all. All that matters is you.
I-I don’t like how you did that.
Tough toenails. Submission is a ruse. It’s a negotiating tactic, to offer up to some poor schlepp some piece of attention that he has felt he has been denied all his life, all geared toward the idea that even though he treats you some kind of bad that he’s been taught not to do that you are alright with him getting away with that with you. He’s not really treating you "bad." Despite all the over-theatrical appearances of servitude and compliance and yielding towards him and all his little perversities, it is in fact he that is honoring you and your wishes and taking the utmost care of you in any and all circumstances by making sure you are still alright before he starts bossing you around, insisting you sexualize anything and everything about him with all the threats and realities of punishments, from slight to severe, for failing in any way shape or form. He is in fact caring for you and taking better care of you than you can care for yourself and playing into you and your little perversities and giving you what you really want above everything else, which is to be relieved of all fucking responsibility. Someone who doesn’t have a choice doesn’t have to make one. And the funny part of it all is that through all of it you are expecting that it will be he who is the one that is changing himself, tearing himself to pieces to be able to bring himself to inflict some new horror onto you that you deliberately set him up for. Doing something petty and stupid and slightly wrong to force him into the position of having to wreak something awful on you that he maybe doesn’t even want to do as long as it’s all at the level you are willing to tolerate that you feel that you deserve today. All of which is going to be completely different from how you feel tomorrow. The masochist never actually changes inside of herself because of anything anyone else ever does to her. You are fucking immutable. If I hurt you, all I do is feed you and your own self-esteem issues. And fuck me sideways with something hard over me and my cherished little feelings about all this; it’s my job to do nothing but take care of you. You do not take care of me.
Wrongo, bucko. Submission is a stance, it is a position in the world. I am beneath you, and I defer to you, to give you the bolster to your pride and your ego that you need to go back out into the world and conquer. By overthrowing me and whatever genuine resistance I might have to the most outlandish deviancy you can come up with, you can come to the idea that you can rule out there no matter what they do to try to defeat you. It is a service I perform to you and your needs and your cock, and it isn’t a casual little game, it is a way of life. When I give myself to you, you don’t get a little piece of me, you get everything. Lock stock and barrel. You get my body to do with as you please, you can tinker with my emotions. You tell me to think something, I will think it. You tell me to believe something, I will believe it with all my heart and defend it and you and everything you do to me to the death. I. Am. Your. Property. Submission a ruse? That’s—no—that’s not true.
It most certainly is. You don’t want me to kill you, remember? And here you are, threatening to leave me: my car doesn’t do that. There is a "too much," and there are limits that come on way before anything to do with any kind of final solution, and not just one. Despite how hard you tout that when you submit, you really fucking submit and you give up on choice and defer on everything and all and will simply go with whatever I say, saying "you pick, whatever you want," that is simply not true. You have more negotiations on the side and preferences and suggestions and requests and insistences and restrictions and out-and-out naggings in what you will allow and won’t allow than if you were a plain vanilla jane who only permitted me to fuck her on Saturday night with the blinds drawn and the lights out in the missionary position wearing pajamas. At least they’re up front about it.
No; I’m here to submit to you, to cater to you, to serve you, to be your slave in all things, to do what you want, to be what you want. I am here to kneel.
Horseshit. You are such an attention whore that you demand compliments on everything you do and don’t do all the god damn time, and frankly, it’s exhausting. "Good girl, you got me a cup of coffee, good girl, you sucked my cock so good, good girl, you took that whipping well." And god forbid I should leave you to fend for yourself, to allow you even the possibility you should find yourself even for just a moment blasé and disinterested in whatever you think is my responsibility to keep your sophisticated attention span from lagging. The worst sin I could commit against you is to bore you, and it is one you will not forgive me for.
Fine. You want to kill me? Go ahead. I won’t care.
No, you won’t care, because you’d be dead. And you plainly don’t care now what that would do to me. Because I am the one that is expendable here. You’ve said so yourself. If I let you get tired of anything, I will have failed you, and deserve to be punished with the worst thing you can think of: the removal of your own good company, and just let me see if I can find someone to replace such a priceless jewel as yourself. You want it both ways: you want to be treated like you are completely worthless, and you want to be treated as though you are completely valuable. Simultaneously.
Great. Now I’m the bad guy. Just as I suspected. Awesome.
Oh, grow up. This isn’t about good guys and bad guys, or nice and nasty, or right and wrong, or even sadism and masochism. This is about you and me, and whether or not we are together. If the answer to that is "yes," then everything after that is a crap shoot.
So why bother?
Because I don’t know about you, but I still have some faith to expend here.
Why does it always have to be life or death with you?
Because it always is, with or without my say so. And in case you haven’t noticed, I keep choosing life: life with you. I am not interested in having you die. Your death would take you away from me, and make it so I couldn’t do what I want to do with you. Which is what you just threatened me with. Leaving me, taking your own good self away from me, making it so I don’t have you here any more. And you are willing to do that because you don’t find me exhilarating enough. You are the second most selfish person I know.
So fuck me and all my evil ways. Haven’t you had enough of all the terrible burden I seem to be placing on you? Why won’t you let me go?
Because I still love you, and, for my own selfishnesses, I still want you around. Because I am the most selfish person I know, and I want you to stay, and I want you to suffer for me and my sake. To feel what I want you to feel. To do what I want you to do. I’m not done with you.
I…Well. When you put it that way. What do you want me to do for you, master?
Take off your god damn clothes.
Fine. Whatever.
Let me look at you.
God, I hate that. There are so many things wrong with me.
So? Stand there, put your arms down and let me look. And quit frumping.
Look, can’t you just do something to me that hurts?
I am. I am hurting your pride, your endless vanity. Just the act of looking tears you to ribbons. Now stand there and suffer.
That’s not what I mean. You know what the fuck I mean. Please?
Of course. Give me your arm.
Why?
So I can pull it up behind your back while you suck my cock. In fact, give me both of them.
That would really fucking hurt.
Isn’t that what you wanted?
Yeah, but not the way you do it. You don’t hate me enough to do it right.
What? So? It still hurts, doesn’t it?
It feels different. I can feel you caring in how you pull, in how you shove my cock down into the back of my throat. You don’t cut loose. You will not break my arm.
So you want me to break your arm? I think what you really want is to be hate-fucked.
I want to feel like I have survived. Like I have been put through the wringer.
Like you’ve triumphed. Like you have proven yourself. You want to show off how noble and strong you are.
I’m not strong. I am so fucking weak, I cannot stand it.
Nonsense. If I were to say to you that I wanted to cane you until you bleed, would you consent?
In a heartbeat. You wouldn’t even have to tie me up.
You call that weak? If I were to say to you that I wanted to plunge needles into you over your entire body, into soft spots, into bone, wherever, and hook them up to electricity and make you dance and convulse and hurt, on beyond the point that you could do anything but sweat and scream, would you allow for that?
I would totally hate that, but yes.
Such a fragile and frail little thing you are. No strength whatsoever. Shouldn’t you be fainting by now? Or are you just a girl who can’t say no?
Is that what you want me to do? Say no? Sing? You are so confusing.
How about I get a razor blade and cut you open, just enough to part your flesh and pack it with cigar ash, just enough to scar you permanently, would you say yes?
Wh-where?
That’s not what I asked you. I didn’t say "I want to put an innocuous little cut on you, so tiny it would be almost cute, so please pick a nice spot that you would be comfortable with that that wouldn’t show," I said, "cut you; scar you." Period. I pick where. I could choose anywhere: your face, your tits, your legs that you are so proud of, maybe someplace you can’t see, maybe someplace you’d have to explain to people who couldn’t help but do a double take when they look at you when they pass you on the street. Perhaps I’ll leave you in such a state as to frighten small children. I know: how about I carve and scar into you the words "slut," and "bitch," and "cunt," and "whore," and "fucktoy," and "cocksucker," and "asslicker," and "painslut," and "humilationwhore," and "slave," and "all you have to do is ask," right out there where it would be difficult to cover up, so there would be no question as to what you really are. Or maybe I’ll have you tattooed with instructions to anyone who reads it on just how to abuse you in ways you would hate, with the assurance that you would welcome it anyway. I’m sure the words "hit me" on the inside of your lower lip would do wonders for your pout. Yes or no?
…Y-yes.
Suppose let’s say that you should get all gussied up and we were to go downtown tonight to one of the bars, and I would send you off to go hit on some actual nice guy who sits up straight and wears a tie and has both hands on the table around his drink and you ask him if you can sit down with him and you pay no attention to how he stammers or stutters out his surprise at a pretty girl asking to sit next to him and you slide around to his side of the booth and put your elbow up on the table and your head under your hand and you introduce yourself and ask him his name and sit up straight and nudge in a little closer to him and you repeat his name to him and shake his hand and you repeat his name to him twice more, relishing the pronunciation of it the first time and whispering it the second and you find out what he does for a living and you make some lame comment about meeting people in bars and you bat your eyes at him and you smile at him and ask him what he’s drinking, and then you ask if you can have a sip and you drink down half of whatever he has left and you compliment him on whatever it is and slump the rest of the way over to him so that your leg is actually up against his and you laugh and put your head on his shoulder and hook your arm into his elbow and pull it towards you so that it comes in contact with your breast and you do not back away and you carry on a conversation with him and lead him on to think that you are a nice, good respectable girl that he suddenly has a chance with, and you could smile at him and engage with him on whatever he wants to talk about and you should laugh at his jokes as you squirm in the booth and adjust yourself to the music and you could maybe mention that you would want to go to church with him, and you put your hands on him in ways that are okay and innocuous at first and you persist and cross the line to make it clear that it wasn’t an accident, that it was deliberate and you put your leg over his under the table and pull his legs apart with yours at his knees and pull your leg up his as high as you can get it and you spread yours, too, and you start rolling your hips around slowly, slightly next to him and you move on to touch him in ways you maybe shouldn’t but you can’t help yourself and when he freezes and doesn’t move you pull your hands and your leg off him and be all shy and concerned that you maybe offended him so he can say "no, uh, no, it’s okay," and so you pick it back up right where you left off and make sure you leave one hand under the table and you pull up your skirt to expose your panties and you rub between your legs over them there and you make sure that he notices and take the little shake of his head that he’ll do when he does notice you doing that as the go ahead to shift yourself around so that if he looks down he can definitely see what you’re doing and if he can’t figure it out for himself you hint with your eyes that you want him to look and take the opportunity when he does do that to pull your hand up so he can see you can push it back down inside the waist band of your panties and make it clear that you are wiggling a finger directly on where your clit would be for a few seconds before you push it down further so you can get actually inside yourself and you squirm and you masturbate for him like that by moving your hand back and forth there, between playing with your clit to reaching inside yourself until his breathing changes which you will take as the indication that it would be okay for you to become familiar with his muscles and bones with your other hand and you relish squeezing him here and there and gasp out loud with an exhale when you find a stretch of flesh in his arms or his legs that makes him flinch when you touch it and you find out if he’s ticklish or not and you play with that a little and when he looks up all wide-eyed you offer up that you are very ticklish and you tell him where and position yourself so he can touch you there and you laugh and curl around all coy and cute and pull your hand out from your panties and inhale hard with it under your nose and if he’s interested, you offer it to him to do the same and you compliment him relentlessly about how this is all turning you on and how much you like this and you get him all hot and bothered and you do whatever it takes over his clothes to get his cock hard as a fucking rock right there in the booth, so hard that he is overcome by it all and is anxious to get started with what just has to happen next and you let him put his arms around you and you let him kiss you on your neck at first and make it clear that you are enjoying that and then wiggle yourself around so he can reach your cheek then you pull your head back and look deep into his eyes and then drop them down to look at his lips and you slowly reposition your head as you move in and brush his lips with yours and you linger into a kiss, a real kiss, a bride’s kiss, gentle and sweet and persistent such that it should continue forever, pushing your tongue onto his lips at first, smiling as your feel him quiver and you take a moment to compliment him on how good he tastes before you pull hard on him and force yourself into his mouth, licking his tongue and his teeth and you breathe through his mouth and moan as you do it and you keep at it and hang onto him there for dear life, relaxing into his arms, molding your body onto his, until he pulls away to inhale real air and not air that has been in your lungs and you slowly let him find his way to your breasts, encouraging him if you have to, and when he gets his tentative fingers actually onto you there you pant through your open mouth with your eyes wide and boring into his hard until he gets his palm onto the front of breast so he can feel your erect nipple and then you gasp again, inhaling a squeal this time, hard and sharp, heaving your breasts in the process, pulling his other hand up onto your other breast and pushing them hard to his hands and you do everything you can to convey in no uncertain terms that what you really want before you go to church in the morning with him is to have him inside you anywhere and everywhere you can get him and when he nods his head the little nod that he will do when you whisper that into his ear, you tell him that the time has come that you and he should go fuck and you make sure that the "f" of that word is long and the "u" is soft and the "k" is hard and sharp and clear and you pitch it so that it sounds like you want to do that right god damn here right god damn now and you tell him in no uncertain terms that you think they should go and that you should go right now and you shimmy out of the booth brushing your skirt back down and you make sure that he understands that you are reaching over to hold his hand and you pull on it gently to get him to follow you and keep looking back at him to smile at him and crook your neck and your shoulders with a "come hither" in your motions as you take him out into the back alley where I would be waiting for you to come out and you tell him to wait just a second, that you have to do this first, and you let go of his hand and step towards me with a sashay in how you cross your ankles and sway your hips as you walk towards me, taking off your dress up over your head and your bra and your panties and you don’t just drop your clothes, you throw them away from you as far as you can and when you are standing before me naked with your legs spread, with us positioned so he can see that you don’t have any pubic hair, you slowly and elegantly kneel down in front of me and open my pants and take out my cock and you open your mouth around the biggest smile you can put on and you put one hand in mine and your other behind your back and you turn to him and wink at him and then you look up at me with every ounce of adoration you have and you clearly nod and I will break the little finger in the hand of yours I have in mine and your mouth will fall further open with a groan and I will piss on your face, your hair, your body and especially in your mouth that you make a big show of swallowing and twisting around the hand I still hold and squeeze with you shaking your other hand in delight over all that is happening to you and you beg me for more, saying "please, piss in my mouth, I want you to," and "god, that hurts, thank you, I like it," until I am done and you wipe off your face and lick your good hand with murmuring sounds about how good it is before you turn toward him and you seductively crawl to him with a limp on your bad hand, swinging your hips and your body so your breasts sway underneath you across the filth in the alley with you focused on him with lust in your heart and when you reach him you put your hands on his legs and walk them up slowly, one hand on, one hand off, flinching with each press of your broken finger, up his leg a little higher with each climb, nodding the whole time until you get to his belt and you open his pants and get them to drop to his ankles and take his hard cock and hold it gingerly with your broken hand, moaning and panting as you bend it down far enough that his back arches and hold your mouth open right over what is in your fingers, tempting him by putting your mouth onto his cock as far as you can get it without touching him with your lips or your tongue or your teeth and you breathe hot breath onto his flesh, inhaling through your nose so all he can feel is heat through at least three such rasping breaths before you pull back and hook your unbroken little finger into his fist and look up at him and swear by the god you both worship that you will let him fuck you in the ass as hard as he wants after you suck his cock for as long as he wants you to starting right then and there if he would only do to you what I just did, all of it, and to seal the deal you tell him to be sure to hold my hands tight, baby. Is there any question you’d do that for me and my entertainment?
Absolutely not.
Is your pussy wet?
Fuck, yes!
Play with yourself, right now. Show me how you can get yourself off.
Talk to me, please.
I cannot remember the last time you rubbed one out for me. I want you to do it now, I want you to be loud, and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to get up and jump up and down, so your boobs bounce hard and I want you to do it so long that they ache so hard that you beg me to stop and I won’t let you, you can only stop jumping when you collapse. When that happens, I want you spread your legs as far as you can get them and curl up on your back so you can reach because what I want you to do is to get your entire hand inside yourself, four fingers and a thumb, all the way up past your palm all the way up to your forearm, right in your pussy, and I want you to get as many fingers as you can get into your asshole, too, and rub your clit with your wrist and fist fuck yourself as hard as you can and I want to sit on your face while you drive your tongue into my asshole as far as you can get it, and I want to slap your tits as hard as I can until they bruise, I want them to hurt for a week, with or without a bra, and I will pinch your nipples as hard as I can and twist them so far you’ll be afraid they are going to come off until I can’t pinch my fingers together any more, and I will fart in your mouth and you will change whatever it takes inside you to get off on all that, you will come, you will come like the god damn slut who can’t help herself that you so fucking are, you will come.
Oh my god!
Come for me now, that is an order, I want you to squirt, cunt; I want you to fucking scream. Do it right god damn now, you fucking whore.
Oh! Oh! OH! Fuck! Fuck!
…Are you alright?
Oh, shit, yes.
Did you come?
Do you have to ask? Yes. Yes I did. Thank you. I needed that. Oh. Wow.
Good. Listen, I gotta go. Call you tomorrow?
Yes. Yes, sir. Please.
Okay. Good night.
Hey?
What?
When are we gonna meet?
Someday. Promise.
I really want to.
So do I. Really.
Okay.
Tell me you love me, bitch.
Not a fucking chance, hero.
I’ll wait.
Asshole. Good night.
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