#bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls
She asked for it. Begged, really. “Please get the gun,” over and over. I finally pulled it out of the drawer and leveled it at her head. When I hesitated, she tried to reassure me.
“I consent to this. I want it. I need it.” Her expression was so very calm as she spoke, as if she were reciting a mantra.
That’s when I lowered the weapon and spat in her placid little face.
"I don’t give a shit about your ‘consent’, and never have,” I stepped toward her as I spoke, and wrapped my free hand around her throat. “You think that’s what’s stopping me? You think I would ever allow your fucking opinion to determine what I do?”
I spat on her again, and this time she flinched. Her facade was cracking. I leaned in close, and breathed hotly in her ear.
"And if I ever decide to end you,” I hissed, “it won’t be with a bullet. It’ll be with my hands.”
Fuck. This made me rub my clit at work.
My opinions, my preferences, my wants, my desires, my consent. None of them matter. What matters is what you think, what you prefer, what you want, what you desire, what you feel like doing.
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