Fulfilling all of my sadistic fantasies builds up a bit of a barrier inside me, a weird wall that makes it hard for me to enjoy myself, so sometimes I need a palette cleansing. How does a sick and twisted twat like me attack such a daunting task as wiping my corroded conscience clear? I cover myself in all the gutter muck and shit I can find and cleanse my body in filth and funk.
It probably sounds counterproductive to you, but there’s something about sewage and squalor that makes me feel like, just maybe, everything is going to be okay. The cool splatter of creamy clay and excreta as it hits my skin is exhilarating! The slimy feel of the sludge slowly sliding off of my flesh is better than the most expensive rub down at a day spa.
When the pungent aroma hits my nostrils, it makes my eyes roll back in my head in pure ecstasy every time. You haven’t lived until you’ve inhaled the combined stench of who knows how many people’s foulness blended with the earthy musk of watery, slip-like mud. When little bits of sticks and leaves get into the mix, the fragrant tang is pure perfection, nostalgia at its finest. Reminds me of being young.
Of course I rinse myself but not until the thick caking of crud dries and hardens before flaking off of me in a myriad of jagged little shapes. I like to run my nails all over myself, getting all the gunk built up in my nail beds so I can pick it all out, one finger at a time. I find it to be extremely satisfying.
That’s pretty much it. I might throw some piss into the mix during my rinse off but not always. Just depends on how I’m feeling, like everything I do. How else would you expect a psychotic sex succubus like me to clean her body and soul? Relax in a fucking bath with a glass of wine surrounded by candles? Yeah right, go fuck yourself and your polished pedestrian outlook on life. Not every woman in the world is your dumbass mom or dipshit wife.
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