That Bitch Isn’t My Slave

You know what? I’m sick of that bitch who isn’t my slave at Depths of Hell, my dungeon of choice. She thinks she’s soooo submissive, always telling me “I’m not sure if I’m ready. I don’t know what I want.” Well, guess what? I’ll tell you what you want! That’s what The Chopper does! He drives up, pulls off his leather chaps and looks you in the eye and says, “You’re going to be my slave. Here’s a contract.”

I don’t know where these bitches get off thinking they can say no to me. I’ve been in the scene since 1984 I can tell you this: women cower in the Chopper’s presence. COWER. They know a dominant, possessive man in charge the moment they see me pull the saddle bag off my Honda Goldwing.

Those bitches get WET when I stride into Depths. Sure, there are a lot of other dominant males there, but when they see my swagger and the size of my toy bag, they know I mean business.

But that bitch? The one who says no to me? She just doesn’t understand how it goes down with me. I make the rules. I set the orders. I tell you what to do and you say yessir. That is that. Where do you get off you prissy little bitch?

I see you talking to Tom Sir and Stranger and Master Jimmy, batting your false eyelashes and strutting around with the seams on your stockings all askew, begging to be ordered around. I saw you play with The Flay last Saturday night in the Blood Red Room. I watched you cry afterward. And I saw you give me that weird look, you upstart bitch.

I’ll tell you this: the more coy you play it the harder it’s going to be for you when I punish you once I get my hands on you. Where I come from, what I say goes and when you learn that it won’t be soon enough.

I am a respected member of the tribe at Depths. Just ask me! You’d best start coming around to my way of thinking, bitch.