“Someday,” he says as he squeezes my throat, “when you look, act, and smell like a pristine pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar heels, and you’re married to a lawyer or a banker who tastes like glue and parades you around like his little trophy …” He flicks his tongue over my ear, taunting me. “I can wonder if it’s my son he’s playing Daddy to.”
Holy fucking moly.
— Jul 30, 2024 04:53AM
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