Let me explain my masterpiece. Her name is Stacey, at least that's her new name. She's a 7/10 brunette with blue eyes. Looks about 19 years old, and was a barista at a nearby café, before I made her mine. I watched her for months, secretly recording her insult me. She’d smile at chads but would laugh at me if I were to ask for her number. But I decided to go down a different path...
A few months ago, I followed her home. Parked my van behind her apartment, chloroformed her in the stairwell, and drove her to my basement. It’s not a basement anymore—it’s our home. Soundproof walls, no windows, doors welded shut, fully furnished. The vents? Pump sleeping gas if she tries to scream. Cameras in every corner. You don’t get it yet? Let me walk you through a day in my paradise.
THE WIFE CONTRACT (10 Rules):
Wake up at 6 AM, make breakfast, and greet me with “Good morning, my king” in the apron only.
No clothes unless I say so. Strip on command.
Meals served at 7 AM, 12 PM, 6 PM. No salt, no spices. Smile while cooking.
Keep the house spotless. Dust the “family photos” (my face photoshopped into her childhood pics) twice daily.
Refer to your past life as “my time of sin and vanity.”
Ask permission to speak. Nodding is allowed but discouraged.
Daily “marital duties” at 8 PM. No tears. Roleplay as a virgin each time.
Read incels.is posts out loud for me on command.
Thank me after punishments. Verbally. Enthusiastically.
Never look at the doors. They don’t exist anymore.
AN AVERAGE DAY IN MY LIFE:
6:00 AM: The alarm blares. She’s already awake, staring at the ceiling. I know because Camera 3 caught her clawing at the collar around her neck at 3 AM. She shuffles to the kitchen in the floral apron, nothing else. Her thighs have bruises from last night’s “lesson.” Eggs sizzle on the stove. No salt. She sets the plate down. “Good morning, my king".
7:30 AM: I let her put on some clothing- a yellow sundress. I bought it for her after I burned her old clothes. She’s scrubbing the floor when I say, “Clothes off. Now.” She hesitates. I tap the gas remote. The vents hiss. She strips. “Thank you, sir,” she whispers.
10:00 AM: I institute a new rule—“Posture Protocol.” She must balance a stack of incel manifestos on her head while scrubbing the baseboards. If they fall, she must read them to me. Today, she trembles too much. The papers scatter. I feel kind today and only make her read a few paragraphs: “Females are biologically wired to despise subhumans..." tears stream down her face as she reads.
12:00 PM: Lunch is unseasoned chicken and boiled potatoes. She serves it with a smile so forced her jaw twitches. I make her list three things she’s grateful for. “My king’s protection,” she recites. “My purpose. My… my freedom from sin.” I reward her with a sip of water.
1:30 PM: Lunch is interrupted by “Family Time.” I drag the reborn doll—now fitted with a voice box that plays my laughter—to the table. She must spoon-feed it mashed carrots while cooing, “Daddy loves you". The doll “spits up” (I squeeze a mustard packet into its mouth). She scrambles to clean it. I take back her water rations for “bad parenting".
2:00 PM: She dusts the "family photos". There’s one of us “honeymooning” at the Grand Canyon (Photoshopped). Another of her “holding our baby” (a doll with my eyes glued to its face). Dust isn’t allowed.
4:00 PM: She tries to escape. Again. Jams a butter knife into Camera 4. Doesn’t know I have backups. I drag her to the “reflection room”—a closet with mirrors on all sides and speakers blasting her mother’s voicemails. “Emma, where are you? The police won’t help…”. She screams.
5:00 PM: She attempts to poison me. Grinds glass shards into my tea. I catch her—Camera 12 never lies. For punishment, I staple her hands to the dining table and force-feed her the shards mixed with honey. “Sweetness masks sin,” I say. She thanks me between each swallow.
6:00 PM: She serves meatloaf. Crying again. Tears are against the rules. I activate her electric shock collar for 20 minutes. "Thank you for correcting me, sir".
7:15 PM: “Gratitude Journaling.” She writes 100 lines in a notebook:
“I am blessed to belong to my king.”
“I am blessed to belong to my king.”
“I am blessed to belong to my king.”
...
8:00 PM: Marital duties. She stares at the ceiling. I tell her to call me Chad. She vomits. I make her lick it up. “You’ll learn,” I say.
9:30 PM: Story time. She reads from incels.is: “Women are born liars. Their only purpose is servitude.” I fall asleep to the sound of her voice shaking in fear.
10:30 PM: She whispers to the air vent again. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.” I flood the room with recordings of her own voice from the café: “Ew, that guy’s probably a school shooter.” She claws at her ears until they bleed.
11:00 PM: She whispers to the camera, “If anyone is there, please help.” I turn up the volume of her mother’s voicemails. The vents hiss. She passes out.
Midnight: I test a new rule—“Eternal Union.” I carve my initials into her thigh with a soldering iron. She doesn’t scream anymore. Just stares. “Now you’re perfect, Stacey” I say.
2:00 AM: I make her pray to me: "I am nothing without my king" she whimpers.
A few months ago, I followed her home. Parked my van behind her apartment, chloroformed her in the stairwell, and drove her to my basement. It’s not a basement anymore—it’s our home. Soundproof walls, no windows, doors welded shut, fully furnished. The vents? Pump sleeping gas if she tries to scream. Cameras in every corner. You don’t get it yet? Let me walk you through a day in my paradise.
THE WIFE CONTRACT (10 Rules):
Wake up at 6 AM, make breakfast, and greet me with “Good morning, my king” in the apron only.
No clothes unless I say so. Strip on command.
Meals served at 7 AM, 12 PM, 6 PM. No salt, no spices. Smile while cooking.
Keep the house spotless. Dust the “family photos” (my face photoshopped into her childhood pics) twice daily.
Refer to your past life as “my time of sin and vanity.”
Ask permission to speak. Nodding is allowed but discouraged.
Daily “marital duties” at 8 PM. No tears. Roleplay as a virgin each time.
Read incels.is posts out loud for me on command.
Thank me after punishments. Verbally. Enthusiastically.
Never look at the doors. They don’t exist anymore.
AN AVERAGE DAY IN MY LIFE:
6:00 AM: The alarm blares. She’s already awake, staring at the ceiling. I know because Camera 3 caught her clawing at the collar around her neck at 3 AM. She shuffles to the kitchen in the floral apron, nothing else. Her thighs have bruises from last night’s “lesson.” Eggs sizzle on the stove. No salt. She sets the plate down. “Good morning, my king".
7:30 AM: I let her put on some clothing- a yellow sundress. I bought it for her after I burned her old clothes. She’s scrubbing the floor when I say, “Clothes off. Now.” She hesitates. I tap the gas remote. The vents hiss. She strips. “Thank you, sir,” she whispers.
10:00 AM: I institute a new rule—“Posture Protocol.” She must balance a stack of incel manifestos on her head while scrubbing the baseboards. If they fall, she must read them to me. Today, she trembles too much. The papers scatter. I feel kind today and only make her read a few paragraphs: “Females are biologically wired to despise subhumans..." tears stream down her face as she reads.
12:00 PM: Lunch is unseasoned chicken and boiled potatoes. She serves it with a smile so forced her jaw twitches. I make her list three things she’s grateful for. “My king’s protection,” she recites. “My purpose. My… my freedom from sin.” I reward her with a sip of water.
1:30 PM: Lunch is interrupted by “Family Time.” I drag the reborn doll—now fitted with a voice box that plays my laughter—to the table. She must spoon-feed it mashed carrots while cooing, “Daddy loves you". The doll “spits up” (I squeeze a mustard packet into its mouth). She scrambles to clean it. I take back her water rations for “bad parenting".
2:00 PM: She dusts the "family photos". There’s one of us “honeymooning” at the Grand Canyon (Photoshopped). Another of her “holding our baby” (a doll with my eyes glued to its face). Dust isn’t allowed.
4:00 PM: She tries to escape. Again. Jams a butter knife into Camera 4. Doesn’t know I have backups. I drag her to the “reflection room”—a closet with mirrors on all sides and speakers blasting her mother’s voicemails. “Emma, where are you? The police won’t help…”. She screams.
5:00 PM: She attempts to poison me. Grinds glass shards into my tea. I catch her—Camera 12 never lies. For punishment, I staple her hands to the dining table and force-feed her the shards mixed with honey. “Sweetness masks sin,” I say. She thanks me between each swallow.
6:00 PM: She serves meatloaf. Crying again. Tears are against the rules. I activate her electric shock collar for 20 minutes. "Thank you for correcting me, sir".
7:15 PM: “Gratitude Journaling.” She writes 100 lines in a notebook:
“I am blessed to belong to my king.”
“I am blessed to belong to my king.”
“I am blessed to belong to my king.”
...
8:00 PM: Marital duties. She stares at the ceiling. I tell her to call me Chad. She vomits. I make her lick it up. “You’ll learn,” I say.
9:30 PM: Story time. She reads from incels.is: “Women are born liars. Their only purpose is servitude.” I fall asleep to the sound of her voice shaking in fear.
10:30 PM: She whispers to the air vent again. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.” I flood the room with recordings of her own voice from the café: “Ew, that guy’s probably a school shooter.” She claws at her ears until they bleed.
11:00 PM: She whispers to the camera, “If anyone is there, please help.” I turn up the volume of her mother’s voicemails. The vents hiss. She passes out.
Midnight: I test a new rule—“Eternal Union.” I carve my initials into her thigh with a soldering iron. She doesn’t scream anymore. Just stares. “Now you’re perfect, Stacey” I say.
2:00 AM: I make her pray to me: "I am nothing without my king" she whimpers.
