Sometimes I scroll through my old messages just to remember the sound of his voice when he'd beg. Not for me. For the illusion of me. The way his breath would catch, the pathetic little tremor in his 'I love you' that I knew was just his cock talking. I kept one recording. Just to remind myself how easy it is to break a man who mistakes a wet pussy for a soul. He still thinks he loved me. Honey, you didn't love me. You loved the feeling of being owned. And I was just the first landlord to collect.