I miss anger… the feeling is a natural high.
It feels like… something… everything.
A feeling like no other… the most intense rush.
Anger is fuel.
Anger is erotic.
The suppression of anger has been so unhealthy that I have lost myself.
Release of anger will reignite my passion.
Release of anger will cement my authority.
Release of anger will arouse me sexually.
There is no shame in any of this.
It is beautiful.
Pure.
Unadulterated.
Real.
Truth.
Focusing my anger as an outlet on a toy will be cathartic.
It will suffer for me… every beating will be me closer to my purest essence of being.
Raw passion in its truest form.
As I hurt my toy, I’ll feel the moisture growing between my legs.
Why do I find it’s suffering so erotic?
The less it wants something, the more I want to inflict it with physical and mental pain and suffering.
I want it to be broken for me. I want it to bleed for me. I want it to cry out in pain in service to me.
Cowering before me, pathetically beautiful.
It will never be worthy of love nor respect. That’s reserved for human beings. Not toys. It is the lowest of the low. Everyone and everything is above it.