Should I listen to porn, pray to the devil and bark like a dog to become Amy Adams’s video cum tribber troll? Should I become that?
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I have a kink that’s hard to explain to most people. It’s not just about being naked — it’s about being seen. Exposed. Turned into something that’s not quite a person anymore... but more like a filthy little trophy.
I send strangers nudes of myself — raw, slutty, degrading photos — and I beg them to use them. Not just to jerk off. That’s too easy.
I want them to keep me. I want them to slide my photo into their wallet like a secret. I want them to make me their phone background, my legs spread wide for every text notification. And when they go a step further?
God, that’s when it gets good.
One man printed out a photo of me on glossy paper and stuck it to his fridge — right between his k**s’ artwork and the weekly grocery list. He sent me a pic of it with the caption: “You’re family now.”
Another man framed one of my more explicit shots — me, bent over, plugged, drooling — and set it on his office desk like I was his fiancée. Right next to a coffee mug and a photo of his dog. His coworkers had no idea, and that made it even hotter.
But the best?
One guy told me he was having a get-together — drinks, music, friends. And right before guests arrived, he cast my photo up on his giant TV. Full screen. Full spread. Lights low, image glowing.
He said nothing. Just let it sit there as people came in and noticed.
Some laughed. Some stared. A few asked who I was. And he just said, “She’s mine.”
I came so hard when he told me that.
Because this is what I love. To be humiliated. To be displayed. To be owned by strangers in quiet, wicked little ways. I'm not their girlfriend. I'm not even their secret. I'm just the slut in the frame, the whore on the screen, the background they scroll past during meetings.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I have a kink that’s hard to explain to most people. It’s not just about being naked — it’s about being seen. Exposed. Turned into something that’s not quite a person anymore... but more like a filthy little trophy.
I send strangers nudes of myself — raw, slutty, degrading photos — and I beg them to use them. Not just to jerk off. That’s too easy.
I want them to keep me. I want them to slide my photo into their wallet like a secret. I want them to make me their phone background, my legs spread wide for every text notification. And when they go a step further?
God, that’s when it gets good.
One man printed out a photo of me on glossy paper and stuck it to his fridge — right between his kids’ artwork and the weekly grocery list. He sent me a pic of it with the caption: “You’re family now.”
Another man framed one of my more explicit shots — me, bent over, plugged, drooling — and set it on his office desk like I was his fiancée. Right next to a coffee mug and a photo of his dog. His coworkers had no idea, and that made it even hotter.
But the best?
One guy told me he was having a get-together — drinks, music, friends. And right before guests arrived, he cast my photo up on his giant TV. Full screen. Full spread. Lights low, image glowing.
He said nothing. Just let it sit there as people came in and noticed.
Some laughed. Some stared. A few asked who I was. And he just said, “She’s mine.”
I came so hard when he told me that.
Because this is what I love. To be humiliated. To be displayed. To be owned by strangers in quiet, wicked little ways. I'm not their girlfriend. I'm not even their secret. I'm just the slut in the frame, the whore on the screen, the background they scroll past during meetings.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
