It’s too late for me. Just last night, while I was sleeping, Micky Mouse snuck into my room, pulled my boxers down, and he pushed my face into the pillows while simultaneously pushing his huge black cock into my soft, vulnerable anus. He spent the whole night fucking my brains out, dominating me, humiliating me, using me like I was something cheap and disposable, something he enjoyed using but wouldn’t be bothered if it broke. With each stomach-punching thrust of his thick monopolistic cock, he grunted into my ear, “Ha-ha! You like that, don’t you bitch. Ha-ha! I own Marvel now! Ha-ha! I own Fox now! Ha-ha. I own Pixar, bitch! Ha-ha! Now I own you! Ha-ha!”

He came inside me, and then he came on me. Afterwards he sat in my bed next to my sweaty, bruised, battered body, and he smoked a cigarette. He knows how much I hate the smell of cigarette smoke, and how it lingers in my small, dirty, expensive apartment, but he doesn’t care. Nothing about what happens has anything to do with what I want. The only think that matters to Micky is what Micky wants, and what Micky wants is anal-sex and cigarettes. My apartment, like my body, is nothing but a dumpster to him. He’d never smoke a cigarette inside his own home, his giant mansion in the hills of California, the one he shares with Minny, but I don’t think he’s fucked her in years, not since he met Pixar.

We didn’t talk. Micky doesn’t like talking after sex. When he was finished with his cigarette, he put it out on my buttocks.