The DM’s are a Jungle
I swear, the DMs are where people lose their goddamn minds.
A single pic — nothing crazy, just a smirk, a collarbone, a half-buttoned shirt — and suddenly I’m a confessional booth. Everyone wants to whisper their filth into my inbox, like I’m gonna grant absolution.
Newsflash: I’m not your priest. I’m your problem.
And I love it. I’ll leave your messages on “seen” for hours, maybe drop a “hmm” or “cute try” just to keep you pacing holes in your floor. You pour out fantasies like spilled liquor, and I let them drip, slow, sticky, messy. The tease is oxygen to you, and I’m holding the mask.
One guy begged so hard last night I thought he’d combust through the screen. I didn’t send a single picture. Just one line:
“You wouldn’t last five minutes if I actually touched you.”
That’s the trick. You want them starved, restless, checking their phone like addicts waiting for the dealer. And me? I’m not even breaking a sweat. I’m just raising the temperature degree by degree.
And the funniest part? Half of you swear you’re in control. You type like you’ve got the upper hand, like I’m the one playing catch-up. But you don’t even realize you’re dancing to my tempo — every pause, every delay, every breadcrumb I drop is me pulling your strings.
By the time you finally admit you’re obsessed, it’s already too late. You’re pacing your room, cursing my name, hating how bad you want me while still praying I’ll reply again. That’s the jungle, baby — wild, hungry, desperate. And I’m sitting on the throne, watching you crawl.