My name is Stella. And today (as well as every other day in your impossibly pathetic life), I’ll be the architect of your ruin. I’m that pint-sized little terror who knows exactly how to shrink a grown man down to the size of a pea. I’ll make you beg for a fraction of my attention, only to watch you weep into a puddle of your own unbearable shame as soon as you realize it’s too late for you. Why do I do it, you ask? Because it makes me laugh, dummy!

We both know what you are. But only one of us is willing to say it out loud. You’re a pathetic simp trapped in an endless loop of blue light and pixelated curves, pumping yourself stupid because women like me only give you the attention you crave when you pay us to. I collect men like you, beta boy. I collect you, I torment you, I control you.

Some of my neighbors look at me and think I’m the cute little girl next door type, but I say looks can be deceiving. I know what I am, I know what I crave, and I know how to drain a gooner (like you) dry until he’s shaking like a pathetic little leaf, wondering what just happened to his soul (and his wallet). Simps like you think you can handle me, but then I tie you up and push your neat little boundaries into a dark little box until you break down and cry. Again, because it makes me laugh. YOU don’t get the privilege of touching me. YOU stay on the carpet. YOU kneel by my feet. YOU allow me to ruin your orgasms and sometimes even you life, because YOU actually love serving your domme. Even when it hurts.