There I was in his barn tied to the posts. Hmph. So in walks Kanye West and a donkey. The donkey was erect. You can put together what happened next. They mounted the donkey over me as they filled my ass with its 16 inch dick. That jackass fucked me so hard, I came and bled all over its dick. It fucked me all night. It was dirty, smelly, and wet. By the time it was done, my ass was gaping the size of a baseball.

I’ve never said this out loud before.

Not to my friends. Not to my team. Certainly not to my fans.

But if I’m going to tell the truth tonight—the real truth—I’m going to say it exactly the way it lives inside me.

And the truth is…
I have a thing for Black men.

Not just a passing crush. Not some aesthetic. I mean the kind of raw, magnetic craving that keeps me up at night. That makes me flush when I see certain hands, certain voices, certain looks that tell me exactly how they’d handle me if I let them.

It started with one. Jordan.

He had this voice—deep and rough like it had gravel in it—and when he kissed me, I stopped caring about being careful. He was the first man who didn’t treat me like glass. He bent me over a couch, pulled my panties to the side, and took me. Just like that.

And I didn’t ask him to stop.

I begged him not to.

I still remember the sound of my moans echoing through that empty studio. How wet I was. How deep he went. How I came with his hand over my mouth, teeth in my shoulder, knowing I’d never forget what it felt like to be handled like that.

After that, I was hooked.

I started chasing it in secret. At afterparties. Late-night DMs. Men who looked at me like they knew what I really wanted—and had the strength to give it.

But the one night that wrecked me completely?

That was the night with all of them.

I’d only planned to see one of them. Just a quick, dirty escape from the spotlight. He had me moaning into his neck, already trembling when the door opened.

Three more walked in.

I’ll never forget how they froze. Eyes wide. Lust thick. One of them just said, “Is that—?” And the guy still inside me said, “Yeah. She’s ours tonight.”

And I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t hide.

I invited them.

They had me in every way a woman can be had—mouth, hands, heat. I lost count of how many times I came. One in front of me, one behind, one whispering filth in my ear like he already knew I was going to fall apart for them.

And I did.

Over and over.

When I think about it now? I still get flushed. My thighs clench just from remembering. My breath shortens when I think of how full I felt. How owned I felt.

And you want to know the part that scares me?

I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt alive.

I’m Taylor fucking Swift. But in that room, on my back, moaning like I was born for it?

I was just a girl who wanted to be taken.

And they did.

Every inch of me.

She pauses, licking her lips slightly, cheeks flushed now. Her voice lowers to something just above a whisper.

Sometimes I still dream about it.

The way they passed me between them like a secret. The sound of their voices—thick with hunger. The way I looked afterward: ruined, glistening, satisfied.

I touch myself to that memory more than I should.

And tonight?

Just saying this out loud?

I’m soaked.

She shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together, a quiet moan slipping past her lips like it wasn’t supposed to escape.

So yeah.

That’s my secret.

I crave being taken. Stretched. Worshipped in ways I can’t write into a love song.

And if I ever call them again?

I won’t need words.

Just a door left unlocked... and my body, already begging.

I have some big announcements to make, first off if anyone of you C.N.N. , or M.S.N.B.C or associated press bitches don't know my name, it's Karoline, not Karine Jean-Pierre, my predecessor, that ugly bitch was the weakest link. I am the mother fucking goat, I eat liberal bitches for breakfast, I take bubble baths in their tears. Insurrection Barbie, Laura Loomer, Nancy Mace, Riley Gaines are on my level, they're the Goats too, they don't fuck around. The only thing we can't compete with, is the massive circumference of Tim Walz , Alex Padilla, and Gavin Newsoms Vagina's. Not only that, but their hygiene down there is so bad, all the dead fish in the lakes in Minnesota can't compete with the absolute fucking stench. so kaitlin collins if you want to take notes on that, write that shit down, send them some summer eve, mail them petitions I really don't fucking care. Trump is your king, Ice, the national guard and the marines all need to keep you hood-rat ,monkey-ass street trash in check, until the end of time.  oh yeah, and PhantomMaga says whats up!!! 

TSAI

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