The stocking of My Own minibar must've inspired me to watch a slave get drunk; and on any given night, this is not hard to find.
A drink fit for a Goddess is, of course, a matter of discerning taste, and I found a small amount of Absolut CherryKran mixed with a slightly larger part Hypnotiq turned the trick I needed for the evening. Another I whipped up from this batch is the Absolut Orient Apple with raspberry lemonade; it literally tasted like fresh apple juice.
As I sipped My concoctions and relaxed with warm thoughts of the slave who stocked My bar with such treats, it occurred that drinking with some pathetic loser would be simply TOO easy. What lonely, washed up, sexually frustrated, hollow shell of a man wouldn't want to bask in the company of a Gorgeous Female Superior? Why should he enjoy the experience as I would, why should he walk away feeling that this company is something he could delight in on a regular basis? No, he had to be made to Feel the results of the wreckage I wanted to inflict on his body from afar.
For each cocktail I downed as I ignored him over My webcam, the goal was to match Me, drink for drink. The catch was, he was drinking Wolfschmidt vodka. For all you non-connoisseurs out there, Wolfschmidt is some of the very WORST, plastic bottle, rotgut "vodka" a person could possibly drink. The only reason I know of its existence is because Divine Beings are omniscient.....
I'm not ALL cruel. I allowed him to mix the vodka with pop and pour it over ice.....for the first 2 drinks. He HAD to make those doubles. Then he was made to keep up with Me as he let the ice melt and eventually was forced to drink the vodka mixed with warm pop. Somewhere about the 5th drink his credit card details were in My delicate hands, and I was shopping for some necessities as he began to feel ill. His punishment ended by drinking the vodka warm, straight, out of the plastic bottle, My very own gift of introducing him to his ultimate low before allowing him to pass out.
Of COURSE I allowed him to pass out; with only 1 glass of water to last him the night. Not only did this allow Me to continue shopping, but it only enriched his punishment by marinating the cheap drink within his softest organs. A 5 hour sleep was key-enough for him to pass out in a deep slumber, but NOT enough for him to replenish himself after a night like that, indeed not with only a single glass of water.
He got the full benefit of that mid-college, "What have I done to my liver, what have I done to my wallet, what will I do now?", morning madness and had plenty of time to reflect on his poor judgement and pushover attitude while worshipping the only other Goddess I allow him to see; the porcelain one. Each retch brought forth a new bile-tinged flavor, each heave of the gut racked him with pain and regret. And then he opened his inbox and viewed the carnage I'd caused with his credit card. $100 here, $50 there, $275 there, $27.99 there.......the little needs add up and the most delightful moment is when they realize in their pain, intoxication, sickness and misery, that their wallet has been raped and they're now a few hundred (or thousand) in the hole; and they'll NEVER even SEE let alone be NEAR My hole, or indeed any of worth.
But as with all atms, My spending is what gives them their very worth, and that horrible, delicious feeling of waking up to small tastes of ruin is what they crave, need, want, what makes them feel alive and validates their existences. Their money buys My acknowledgement, and through THIS they learn what it's like to feel a sense of purpose.
Of course you can't wait to be brought to the brink of ruin by wiser hands than yours. Our communication begins with you sending a MoneyPack confirmation number to pannaforgold@gmail.com. Upon receipt of the confirmation number and transfer of funds into My account, our conversation may begin, if the amount is deemed suitable.
Your happiness depends on how happy you make Me. It's time to grasp your opportunity to truly serve, in hopes of invoking the favor of a Goddess.
No comments:
Post a Comment