Porn and control

[rever]

Documentary which I watched which led me to this inspiration.
https://www.fmovies.hn/tv/confessions-o ... girl-98848

Here a redhead was telling about how she had men wrapped up in her finger and had a boyfriend in every city. Then when I thought why simps pay these bitches instead of using free stuff I realized that you have to spend hours to find the right clip . These simps pay the gal to dress up in perfect way that it fits their fetishes and if they go to a free site in their opinion they will have to waste hours sorting garbage wanting the right clip.

Their are Billions of hours of porn videos and we men have different tastes. We know that porn sites collect and share data of what videos are watched and from which device . Hence with AI and algorithms if used by giving your watch history for years just like youtube does it can recommend you perfect videos which suit your taste.

Now if someone contacts you a porn user for years and shows you a preview of the perfect clip you will salivate like a dog for a bone and willing to do anything for it just like in olden days when they threaten to kill your wife and children the man complies.

Personally if someone shows me the perfect clip which fills all my tastes then I would give my dad's credit card details and obey their instructions . Hence just for a clip I am selling out my family. For searching the perfect clip to cum we spend hours so when we get it and it checks all our fetishes it makes us just like addicts.

After being handed down the perfect clip we despise the porn sites and then wait for them to give more and more hence becoming slaves.

I will put it in perspective of a cigar addict so you can understand

I’m writing this as if I’m that guy, the one who used to scrounge for half-smoked butts in the gutter, piecing together a drag from the dregs of other people’s habits. It’s not a pretty story, but it’s mine—or was.

The craving was a beast, always clawing at my chest. I’d spend hours wandering alleys, eyes glued to the pavement, searching for cigarette stubs with a bit of life left in them. A good find was a butt with an inch of tobacco, maybe a faint lipstick stain or the acrid tang of someone else’s spit. Didn’t matter. I’d light it up, inhale deep, and for a moment, the world wasn’t so heavy. Those moments were rare, though—most days, I was just a scavenger, chasing scraps to feed the hunger.

One night, under a flickering streetlamp, this guy approached me. Clean suit, sharp eyes, like he owned the shadows. He held out a full cigarette—unlit, pristine, the kind of thing I hadn’t touched in years. “You want this?” he asked, voice smooth as whiskey. I nodded, hands trembling. He lit it for me, and that first drag? It was heaven, pure and simple. The smoke filled my lungs, warm and familiar, like a lover I’d forgotten I missed.

“There’s more where that came from,” he said, smiling like he knew me better than I knew myself. “But nothing’s free.” I should’ve walked away. Should’ve known better. But the beast was roaring, and a full cigarette—a whole pack, maybe—was a dream I couldn’t resist.

The jobs started small. Steal a car, he said. Easy enough. I’d done worse for less. Then it was breaking into a warehouse, grabbing a bag of something I didn’t ask about. The pay was always the same: a fresh pack of smokes, sometimes two. Each drag felt like freedom, but the leash was tightening. I was his dog now, trained to heel for a hit of nicotine.

The jobs got uglier. Smuggling drugs across town, slipping past cops who eyed me like they knew my soul was already gone. One night, I had to rough up some guy who owed money. His blood stained my knuckles, and I smoked three cigarettes to forget his face. The man in the suit kept smiling, kept handing me those pristine cigarettes, and I kept taking them. I told myself I could stop, walk away, but who was I kidding? I was hooked—not just on the smokes, but on the life he’d built around me. A slave to the rhythm of his orders, each one more dangerous than the last.

I don’t know which job killed me. Maybe it was the deal gone bad, bullets flying in a dark lot. Maybe it was the package I carried that wasn’t what he said it was. All I know is I’m not here anymore. The last thing I remember is lighting up, the glow of that cigarette cutting through the night. It tasted like heaven, like always. But it wasn’t worth it.

That’s the perspective. A guy chasing a high, trading his life for it, one puff at a time. The cigarettes were just the bait; the real trap was the choices he made to keep them coming.

End of perspective

[Raider919]

so, you're comparing porn to cigarettes? makingme feel glad i don't like them. they are supper processed. all this shit makes me feel glad i do porn less. screw the hub its all soycial engineering now

[whitemonster]

avoid BBC porn guys if you're not black