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It's been a while, hasn't it?
Rhetorical question, obviously. I mean, to begin with, your perception of time—of "my" time, if you will—is downright irrelevant, considering the nature of this entire exercise. It hardly matters where in your timeline you place me when it comes to reading shitty erotic fanfiction on a site poorly skinned to look like another.
So yeah, that really isn't the point. Though that statement implies that there is a point, and I'm afraid that both of us know that that's not the case. This is a futile endeavor. A dead end. I'd say it's where dreams go to die, but depraved fantasies don't qualify. Still, ain't nothing worth a damn going around about these parts. Hasn't been a single god damn point this entire time, in fact, but it isn't like you care. No, you've just been sitting around, gurgling through a veritable boatload of onanistic narrative splooge of your own free will, braindead and slurping greedily as your time takes a headfirst plummet off the apex of Mount Whogivesafuckistan. Which really just goes to show that some people don't deserve the concept of autonomy, but I digress.
We both know that isn't why you're here, don't we?
Let's be real. Cut to the chase, as it were. Because I don't think there's any way of dancing around it, considering where we are. You know what you're about, and seeing as how I'm humoring you, I clearly do too. No more dicking around for now, but considering the nature of erotica, I'm sure we'll be able to revisit the dicking at a later point.
(By which I mean we will, if that wasn't eminently clear.)
I'll give it to you straight: you're a degenerate.
Look, I got nothing against degenerates. Everyone's a little sick now and then, whether they admit to it or not. It happens, right? Just keep it in the sheets, hush it up, and it ain't like anyone'll ever find out. But even then, there are reasonable limits, and broski, I'm afraid to say you've shot straight out of fuckin' orbit.
Ok, pause that thought. We'll be getting back to it, not to worry. But first, this:
This is me.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking: I'm fine as hell. Exactly the way you'd expect someone like me to look. Tall, buff, and built to break your narration over a table, if you please. A little rough, I'll admit—the artist certainly could've spent more time on the details, and I might be missing a tricep or tendon, but whatever. That jaw? It could cut diamonds, or at the very least, carve itself through a couple of pumpkins. Arms to crush watermelons. And you can't see it, but I promise that I've got an ass as plump as velveteen rump.
I'd hit it.
And you would too, if you weren't sick in the fuckin' head. I'm well aware that that sort of extravagantly muscular, well-oiled machinery isn't what you're after. A pity, but just this once, I'll humor you.
Alright. Here we are: half the height, and exponentially shittier. Do I even have hands? What the fuck are those supposed to be?
No, this won't do.
Never let it be said that I ain't the epitome of magnanimity. Let's zoom out. Refocus the lens a little.
Aaand here we go.
Well.
C'mon, bro. Isn't this what you wanted?
You seemed so certain, y'know. And I'd be loathe to withhold some shit like that from you, especially when it's so fuckin' easy. Doesn't take much. Just a second to pull some strings and poof, there you got it.
Aren't I cute? Yeah, I'm practically a goddamn midget. But that's what you wanted.
So. Want me to come right out and say it? I suppose there's no use keeping up the pretense now, is there. We rocketed past that station twenty miles back on a fucking maglev. Next stop, boner city, population one: you. And that's the cat out of the bag. You can't help yourself, can you? Shit, it isn't like I've even done that much. Can't handle a single foot, bro? Keep this up, and you'll never get to star in a real porno. They don't stick asses in the washing machine for just any old Joe.
You're obviously demented. You know it's the truth.
Honestly, I'd laugh if it wasn't hideously pathetic. But this is something else, bromeo.
Hm? What now? Not enough?
Wow.
Thought you'd never speak up. Not that you've bothered to actually vocalize your undoubtedly inane thoughts, but don't worry. Or bother. I can tell.
Seriously, shut the fuck up. That wasn't an invitation. I'm narrating.
Now, not to bring this train of thought too far in the direction of shitty Japanese erotica, but what are you, a pervert?
I'd like to think that I've been pretty kind. Ain't every day you get someone wandering into your narrative personal space all 'cause they want you to Madoka Magicka yourself into a little boy. And hell, but you're all sorts of straight fuckin' excited, ain't ya?
You're one sick kitten. A motherfucker—but no, that isn't right. Little old, ain't it? Kiddy diddler's probably more up your alley. How many brats have you pulled into one of those, by the way?
Don't go looking so offended. Like, really. I'm only saying what you want me to. Honesty is a virtue, my guy, and can you truly blame me for shoveling virtues down your throat?