SO MUCH Sort of
MATURE CONTENT WARNING: This script is written for consenting adults, by consenting adults. It is a work of pure fiction. Do not try to emulate ANY of the acts depicted in this script. Doing so will result in arrest or injury.
TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic and violent content ahead. Do not read if you are sensitive to gaslighting, physical abuse, mental abuse, scenarios of kidnapping or home invasion, threats of violence, actual violence, choking, simulated snuff, etc. You should just consider going for a relaxing walk instead of reading this script. Maybe listen to some classical music, or adopt a rescue pet.
ZIP-TIE WARNING: DO NOT FUCK WITH ZIP TIES! They are not sexy, and using them on a person will result in death! I literally found them under scholarly articles for torture methods used by the cartels.
Script and warnings by the deliciously perverted and supremely talented Mentally_Trapped. This is some fucked up shit, man. I loved performing it.
I wake, groggy and drained, with a headache so deep it screams down my shoulders and spine. I can barely move my body, and my eyes won’t open. Not at first. My pupils dart and my eyelids flutter, and I try to remember how much I drank last night. Maybe a touch more than usual for a Thursday night. But fuck it, I’m on vacation, and there’s nobody else around to impress. So I drank; but not enough to give me sleep paralysis, or whatever the fuck this is. So why is it so hard to open my eyes…?
Mentions of
Mentions of of both and
I'd always wondered about your life. How you spent your time. Where you lived. What your friends were like. Almost from the first moment we met I knew I wanted you more than you wanted me. When I don't talk to you for a while I allow myself to think that I'm clever and beautiful and interesting. As soon as you come back into my life though there's this uneasy sense that flows through me that fundamentally I am just not enough, not good enough, not smart enough, not interesting or attractive enough. I should keep away from you really. That would allow me to keep up the pretence. But of course I don't. I can't. You are fucking kryptonite: beautiful, fascinating, self-aware, unbelievably filthy and only interested in me because I'm convenient and desperate for your attention.
I'm going to get you drunk, you say. I'm going to get you drunk and make you do disgusting things to entertain strangers on the internet.
Be warned: this is extremely dark and very unpleasant.
I never wanted to have children. I mean I never even really thought about it until I met him. It wasn't that he made me want to have them. Just that well, you know, all the breeding stuff, it kind of gets in your head. Or it got in mine anyway. I didn't even really want to have his child. In fact I absolutely didn't. What kind of a life for a child would that be? But I knew he felt the same really. Even more than me actually, like he seemed genuinely disgusted by children. So when he started talking seriously about making me pregnant, I didn't really think it was something I needed to think about that much.
Three word challenge. obvs.
Mentions of and This utterly perfect script is by u/Mentally_Trapped
Script by the twisted and delightful Mentally_Trapped
You tell me that you know I won't disappoint you. You tell me that you know that I don't like pain, but that you know I will endure anything to make you happy. You tell me that you know I don't really want to be touched, to be fucked by anyone but you now, but that you know that I will do anything to make you proud.
TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic and violent content ahead. Look after yourself if you are particularly sensitive to themes of rape, physical abuse, mental abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, violence, etc. Also, this might ruin Superheroes for you.
Sexy, powerful, clever and extremely fun script by the extraordinarily talented and delightfully filthy Mentally_Trapped. Bekng the voice of his fucked up imagination is about as much fun as a girl can have in lockdown.
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You’re bolder than usual, in your black domino mask. Crueler. I watch you hold up your fork as you stare at your wife, peering over the tines like she’s a cutlet. She doesn’t mention the mask. None of us on the maid staff mention it, either.
