The sunlight hits the dust motes in this attic just so, and it reminds me of the first time I made a man cry. Not from pain, but from sheer, humiliating ecstasy. He was a groundskeeper, all rough hands and simple thoughts. I had him on his knees, his thick cock straining against his trousers while I described, in excruciating detail, every pathetic noise he would make when I finally let him come. He sobbed when I told him he’d have to beg for it, that his release depended entirely on how prettily he could debase himself for a piece of painted porcelain. The salt of his tears was sweeter than any ambrosia. I wonder who I’ll break next.