“Give this loser gold, and he finds a way to ruin it with his useless, soft little prick”

Doc had spent an entire month preparing for this moment. Every day, she worked on herself, tightening up with relentless kegels, visualizing the control she would exert. He was a talented writer, and she was genuinely impressed, but his lack of confidence was obvious. He seemed like one of those “fake it until you make it” types, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

But when the time finally came, and she mounted him, it was like the universe played the cruelest joke on her.

His little, semi-limp Jewish prick was a joke — a fucking disappointment.

His twisted fantasy involved being gassed by an evil mistress, Nazi-like in its execution. But first off, he probably didn’t even have the money to afford being gassed.

It exposed the pathetic depths of a shallow, undeveloped fetish that never broke free from the programming of his ethno-culture, seeing himself as nothing more than filth and disease.

You’d think a man of his background would recognize how poorly developed his fantasy was, shaped by the marketing practices of current porn trends. Pathetic, lonely fans with fake tits strapping on gas masks — probably behind some paywall he’s shelling out $17.95 for, like a complete loser. No wonder he can’t even write a book.

You expected more from a mind like his — but I guess not. Turns out, he’s just fucking stupid too.

Doc herself has a Jewish mother from Sweden, so she’s got no patience for idiots trying to play out twisted fantasies that revolve around clearing society’s so-called “shit stains.” To her, it’s just another layer of stupidity in BDSM she’s not willing to indulge.

BUT…

It was soft, tiny, and utterly useless, slipping out no matter how hard she tried to keep it in. This was what she had prepared for?

Months of anticipation, kegels, for this pitiful, unsatisfying excuse for a dick?

It was like trying to fuck a soggy crouton, and not even a good one — more like the kind that comes at the bottom of a cheap salad bag, half-stale and completely forgettable.

And then there was him. Lying there under her, like a big, whiny baby. If his cock was pathetic, his personality was a goddamn catastrophe. All he did was complain.

“My …. hurts,” “My knees are acting up,” “I don’t feel so good.” Jesus Christ, the guy couldn’t even get it up properly, and all he could do was gripe like the world was out to get him.

Doc tightened her grip around his neck, almost hoping he’d trip over himself — maybe into traffic or something — because honestly, what else was he good for? This guy could win the lottery, and he’d still find a way to bitch about the taxes. It was like he had some kind of superpower for complaining, a unique ability to suck the joy out of any situation, even when the universe was practically handing him wonderful things.

She closed her eyes and tried to block out his whining, focusing instead on the fantasy she had built in her mind. In her head, she was riding a real man, not this miserable excuse for a human being who probably tripped over his own feet trying to get out of bed in the morning.

As she rode him, she imagined what it would be like if he wasn’t such a pathetic, useless piece of shit. Maybe he’d actually try to please her instead of just lying there like a sack of whining potatoes, doing nothing but reminding her of how much he didn’t deserve her time. But no, instead, she was stuck on top of a guy who couldn’t even handle a stiff breeze, let alone a woman like her.

The only thing hard about him was the fucking time she was having trying to stay interested. Doc squeezed harder, not just to choke him a bit, but to drown out the reality that the only thing she could feel was disappointment. His whining faded as she slipped deeper into her own world, creating the pleasure he could never give her.

When she finally came, it was out of sheer mental willpower, not because of anything he had done. She climbed off him, feeling nothing but disgust. As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think that if there were any justice in the world, this guy would trip over his own complaints and end up face-first in a pile of dog shit. It would suit him, the whiny little prick.

As she walked out, she knew one thing for sure: she didn’t need him.