n042 I leaned forward, just enough so my face hovered over his, and started spitting. Not gentle little drops. No. I hacked up thick, white, viscous g
n042❤️I got home, my legs aching from the heels, and I was in the exact mood to crush something beneath me. And there he was — already on his knees by the door like the obedient little dog he is. I didn’t even say hello. I just jabbed the toe of my boot into his chest, for@ed him to crawl backward, and made him lie flat on his back right there on the cold floor. I sat on the edge of the bed, swung my legs up, and planted my heavy leather boots — those razor-sharp stiletto heels — squarely on his shoulders. The spikes dug into his skin, leaving deep red marks. He didn’t dare whimper. He knows better. I lit a cigarette. Took a long, deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs until the cough came — thick, wet, and productive. I leaned forward, just enough so my face hovered over his, and started spitting. Not gentle little drops. No. I hacked up thick, white, viscous globs of phlegm straight onto his pathetic face. They landed heavy — on his cheeks, his lips, his eyelids. He opened his mouth on instinct, trying to catch every bit like the trained trash bin he is. I took my time. Coughed again and again, working up bigger loads each time — fatter, stickier, slower to drip. I wanted him to feel the weight of each one as it slid down his skin like warm cream. I flicked the ash from my cigarette straight into his open mouth; he caught it on his tongue, swallowed it down with my spit and phlegm without being told. His whole face was already glistening — forehead, nose, cheeks, chin — completely coated, utterly claimed. “Open wider, you human garbage can,” I said quietly. He stretched his mouth as far as it would go. I let a long, stringy thread of spit dangle from my lips, watched it hang there for a second, then dropped it right onto his tongue. He swallowed hard, gagging, but never turned away.
This is what I love most: using him like a rag, like a toilet, like the filthy dumpster he was born to be. Me, my friends — anyone who comes over — we all empty ourselves into him
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This is what I love most: using him like a rag, like a toilet, like the filthy dumpster he was born to be. Me, my friends — anyone who comes over — we all empty ourselves into him
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