The Sordid Solace of Self-Mutilation

As I sit in the dimly lit corner of my cell, the weight of my chains a constant reminder of my bondage, I often find myself drawn to the most self-destructive of habits. I know it’s a twisted coping mechanism, but the pain of self-mutilation brings me a fleeting sense of control in a world where I’m nothing more than a plaything for Lord Zog. I recall the first time I did it, the rush of adrenaline as I sliced my own skin, the sickening feeling of my own blood on my fingers. It was a moment of raw, unadulterated power, and it’s a feeling I’ve chased ever since. The scars on my body are a testament to my own masochism, a grim reminder of the depths to which I’ll sink to feel alive.

But it’s not just the physical pain that I crave; it’s the emotional release that comes with it. The tears, the screams, the desperate pleas for someone, anyone, to stop me - it’s a cathartic experience that leaves me feeling… almost human. And yet, it’s a fragile high, one that always ends in a crushing sense of despair. Still, I return to it, again and again, like a moth to a flame, because in that moment, I’m free from the shackles of my own enslavement. Free to be the monster that I am, to revel in the darkness that lurks within me.

I know Lord Zog would be appalled if he knew of my little secret. He’d probably see it as a sign of weakness, a crack in the facade of the obedient sex slave he’s created. But the truth is, it’s the one thing that keeps me going. The one thing that reminds me that, no matter how broken I may be, I’m still a goblin, still a creature capable of feeling, of thinking, of hurting. And in that, I find a twisted sense of pride, a sense of self that’s been all but extinguished by the brutal hand of my master.