You’re a masochist. Orchestrating the universe’s workings for your own pleasure, transforming everyone into a whip-wielding master.
Pervert.
Not satisfied with mundane dungeons and pro-dommes, you’re into the lifestyle, baby. 24/7.
You procrastinate on your quarterly report till the day before. Stay up all night panicking, but leave the typos in. Then you conceal your erection beneath the boardroom table, humiliated when your co-workers realize you’re an incompetent idiot.
The boss is edging you about whether you have to work overtime this weekend, changing his mind every few hours. Ooh yes, Daddy, jerk my chain, I’ve been so, so bad.
All this aligns with your deepest desires. Because you chose your fate as a collared slave to this employer. Sure, it was the only job you could find when the economy tanked, but hey, you’re the one who decided to incarnate on Earth during this cosmic shitshow.
You kinky bastard, you.
Check your teeny-tiny bank account daily, confirming that you’re a worthless, insignificant worm.
Don’t pay your bills till well past the due dates. Jerk off in the darkness when your power gets disconnected, a pathetic sissy for PG&E.
Guarantee the most painful hangovers possible: order well liquor only. Don’t drink any water. Stay up all night doomscrolling—phone in one hand, dick in the other—flogging yourself with posts from famous former classmates.
This type of self-service scratches the itch, but without anyone else to regularly punish you, it feels a little empty. Lonely.
Multiple trainers at the gym have fired you for moaning yes Sir, I’m your dirty little piss piglet during your workouts. No one there consented to participate in your scenes.
So try this: forget to call your mother on her birthday. The barrage of guilt-laden reminder texts from your father will confirm that you’re a useless beta cuck.
Befriend a replica of your high school bully, who’ll mock your outfits and tag pics of you on social media with #worstdressed. The comments section will send you right into ecstatic subspace.
And don’t forget about the airport’s unlimited potential for power play!
Arrive moments before your flight departs, your carry-on filled with soda cans and dildos. Stuff your underwear full of socks, guaranteeing a full-body pat-down in front of the long line of irritated travelers. The paramilitary force that is the TSA will transform you into a bootlicking sub.
You want to take it to the next level?
Well, you’re in luck, because your country has just elected a petty tyrant. Boner city!
Join an activist group who’s chaining themselves to the White House. Pre-pumped from the airport’s humiliations, you push your way through the sea of signs and protesters flooding Pennsylvania Avenue, until you stand before the White House Gates. Throb with heart-pounding electric excitement as you snap the bike lock around your neck and the fence.
You’re already hard when the cops arrive, their Kevlar armor gleaming in the sun. The sight of their tasers and beanbag launchers pushes you over the edge; you squirm with delight as the phalanx marches closer.
They can’t hear you squeal thank you, master, thank you over their squawking megaphones as they beat you with batons.
Flooded with happy brain chemicals, you dream of getting arrested—a whole new world of bondage and domination. Talk about corporal punishment!
You cum in your pants as they cuff you with zip ties, leading you to an unmarked van. It’s all unfolding as it should. Because you’re a cosmic pain slut, and the universe is conspiring for your ultimate bliss.
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Joelle Killian is a queer Canadian living in San Francisco whose fiction has appeared in Fusion Fragment, Mythaxis, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. One of her doppelgängers is a psychologist writing about psychedelic therapy. Another was once in an undead dance troupe. “Existential BDSM” was first published in Unorthodox Stories in July 2024.