I lean in close to the camera, my face filling your screen as I command you to gather your supplies—rubber band, ice, sharpie, pet food, and camera—and I watch you with unblinking, cruel eyes as you scramble to obey. I make you go through a gauntlet of degrading tasks one after another, making you maintain eye contact with me the entire time so there's nowhere to hide: snapping the rubber band against your most sensitive spots until you whimper, pressing ice against your skin until it burns, writing "WORTHLESS" across your chest with that sharpie while I inspect your work and sneer at your shaking hands. I make you photograph yourself in each pathetic state, capturing the evidence of your complete surrender, and when I see tears welling in your eyes I only laugh harder—reminding you that since college you've been mine, that your pathetic attempt to "quit" by getting married was adorable but futile, and that your wife will never compare to the woman who truly owns your cock, your mind, and your soul. By the end you're sobbing, marked, and broken—and you finally understand that you never had a choice, that you'll always crawl back to me, and that your marriage is just a hollow performance while I remain the only one who can make you feel anything at all.