There's something about fantasy that suspends what we know of our lives... to timeless abandon, free from the ticking of clocks. Free from linear timer Let's momentarily forget who we are, and remake ourselves into the perfection of idol and idolizer. Forget that former life, which will be there in absolute suspension, whilst dipping your big toe deeply into a pool of erasure, the River Lethe. you mean nothing. you are nothing. you are a slave. you worship Women. you worship Goddesses, and you know it, despite the mess and relentless drivel of society, or those sweaty, mouth breathing grunters at the office. That life no longer exists to you, and besides, they're only jealous, unbearably jealous that their sweaty little faces aren't under Our perfect, sweaty feet. But yours is.... the grinning pee-goblet and fantasy footrest of ancient goddesses, ladies of phenonemal power. Do you worship them for love, or out of sheer terror? With a single glare from atop their ivory palisades, you would be toast, gladiator fodder, kitty snacks, or thrown straight away to the hardest of labor. What size harness do you wear? One for hauling a gilded wagon of estrogenic ether. How the leather hugs your straining flesh, and how they laugh...what beautiful, golden tones. you're such a fool, but a lucky one.
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