She trembled, shaking, dropping the knife, looking at her bleeding thighs, both of them bleeding. She couldn’t stop herself, she couldn’t deal with the sea of gray that she coasted through every day. Even this wasn’t enough anymore, and she hated that. She knew she should stop, but instead she pulled up her shirt and took several pics of her bloody legs, her pussy (no, she had to call it a cunt per his orders), and her tits and sent them to her Master.

At first, she thought he was just jacking off to them, but he soon gave her a link and saw that he’d posted everything she’d ever sent him but pictures of her face. He told her that if she ever told him no, those would go online as well, and everyone would know how broken and damaged she was. She knew he would too. Part of her liked that he would, that he did post those pictures. The damaged, ruined part of her wanted to do more and more. She could easily tell her Master no. It was herself that she couldn’t stop.

She came alive briefly when he texted her good job, her desperate need for approval giving her a brief moment of happiness. Then more orders. More escalation. When he saw the faded scars on her thighs, he’d wanted fresh ones. Then on her arms, her belly, her tits. She cried as she wrote with a razor blade the word slut on her belly. She was a plain girl no one noticed, but he did, and she felt so alive.