Control.
It’s all anyone cares about.
From Zeus who knows he has it to those in the slums that do everything just to get a taste.
Then there are those in between, those who feel like they have a grasp on what matters to them, who feel like they’re pulling the strings.
They enjoy it so much they get off on the very idea of it.
After all, that was my mother’s favorite way to please herself.
Most men couldn’t do the job but the idea they’d do anything for her could.
Every dollar they paid her felt like another string to control them, once they visited her multiple times, those little strings once easily broken now felt like steel cables.
A connection that could never be broken. If it felt like they were drifting away, my mother made sure to pull them in tighter. She would give her best performance and make it feel like their body was already aching for her the moment they left her side.
Those little strings now dug into their body like meat hooks, every step away draining their essence.
They bent to her will, came to her the moment they could afford her, felt that physical and emotional relief, and then once the afterglow subsided, they would hurt again.
That cycle continued for years with countless men. As she always said, once you have them thinking with their wrong head, they’re puppets.
Once you play with the puppet enough, they become slaves to your every whim.
At least that’s what she thought, the truth is she wasn’t pulling them, they were pulling her.
It’s why she gave a better performance when they were pulling away.
She knew that without her clientele, she would starve, if they pulled once the strings became cables, they would drag her out of our home and the streets she belonged to.
She had spent so much time creating these connections, perfecting how they moved, making sure they thought she controlled them, making sure they thought she was above them, making sure there was the perfect distance between them, close enough to feel like she cared, far enough to feel special.
Once she got older, the clients slipped away, her controlled touch became desperate grabs at who was left. Eventually, all the puppets left and she was just with broken strings.
Sure, your puppets are a little different Felix but they’re still your lifeblood, they’re the reason you feed, they’re the reason you have gotten any notoriety.
They can’t leave but your fans can, they’ll get tired of the same old puppets, bored of the same old routine.
You’ll try to introduce new characters who are somehow worse and reek of desperation, anyone who still cares about you will see right through it and follow the crowd out the door.
They will force you out into the streets, they will take their money elsewhere and they will make you realize that you never had any true control at all.
You’ll be just like her, left for someone who puts a hand in their puppet’s ass instead of pulling its strings.