The Doxxing Domme

Joshua was going to pay her to doxx him. Or not exactly to doxx him, but to threaten to doxx him, to tease him about the prospect, to dangle the possibility of total career ruination and family disintegration over his head like a rainbow sword of Damocles. And unlike some of the specialists in her particular field of work, skinny little lambs subsisting on a diet of Ketamine and Doritos, Leah Goldberg, the so-called “Doxxing Domme,” was a woman in full.

Though online commentators railed against Leah’s sociopathic doxxing campaigns and cringe music videos, all topics eventually returned to meat of the matter: Leah’s “Khazar Milkers.” No matter the nature of one’s personal sexual aesthetics, it could not be denied that Leah, quite simply, had big fucking knockers, fat milkers swelling with the business of life, simultaneously obscene and beautiful and guaranteed to bring the men of the village to parade attention. But not all men wished to stand. Faced with the intoxicating femininity of Leah’s mammal tummy and hamhock thighs, some men wished only to kneel, to sit and beg Leah to forgive them for their unwoke opinions and so-called white male privilege.

But Leah was not the type of woman to simply forgive a man his trespasses. No, Leah was far more likely to sing about his trespasses in one of her popular OnlyTok reaction videos, making strange and even demonic faces into the camera as she channeled the spirit of John Oliver and Attila the Hun. All while wearing skintight clothing such that her milkhard nipples were almost visible through the flimsy fabric, entrancing viewers while she sang of the crimes of white men against a weak and trembling humanity, rhapsodizing about their employers and home addresses, their wives and children, all whom should have known better than to associate with a man such as their husband, father or employee.

“I don’t think we should defund the police,” said Joshua, an excited tremor racing along his words. “In fact, well, you told me I should admit something shameful? And I don’t consider not wanting to defund the police shameful, but I also get really angry when I see protestors blocking traffic, especially the overweight, pink-haired lesbian types. I just can’t stand them. And part of me, not all of me, not the real me, but part of me wants the car to push through and run them all over. Like that fat girl in Anaheim who wasn’t even hit by the car but still had a heart attack and died. I mean, I hate to say it, but...what a fucking bitch, you know? Out there saying she’s protesting fascism, but really, she just hates people who look like her father, her brother, whomever. She hates herself, but boy does she love black people and crippled people and all sorts of sex freaks. Because those are the good people, the sex freaks.”

As Joshua told her his lived experience, Leah’s expression read like a Geiger counter registering resentment and disgust, her eyes and mouth twisting and turning until her plump, healthy face had become something ghastly, a mask to be worn by Viking priestesses during particularly brutal religious ceremonies. This disfiguring rage had the intended effect on Joshua, as he went rigid in his hand, engorged flesh forming a sort of human pilot stick. But Joshua was not the captain of this ship. In truth, he was little more than a passenger, a stowaway in the engine room of a great horny vessel.

“Shall we catalogue the many ways in which you are, quite simply, a piece of shit?” asked Leah. “That wasn’t a question. I’m going to catalogue them. And you are going to stop stroking your little fucking dick. If you cum while I’m telling you what a dirtbag you are, I swear to God I’m going to post this video with your name and address. You got that, you softdick software Nazi?”

“I’m actually an accountant,” said Joshua. He knew that Leah had other clients, tons of them, but he felt momentarily stung, wondering if Leah actually hated him or was just phoning it in. Most likely, she felt some level of general contempt, but not so much for Joshua as for the idea of him, the idea that men like him existed.

“Excuse me,” said Leah. “I’m so, so sorry I got your profession wrong. You’re a Nazi accountant, not a Nazi engineer? Got it. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure I get your job title right when I tag you in the comments. Now keep stroking and I’m going to doxx you if you cum. Isn’t this fun? We’re having fun!”

This wasn’t just an idle threat; Leah had doxxed men for cumming too soon before. And in case anyone was wondering, the Boogle Corporation does not take kindly to their employees appearing in so-called “fashpig humiliation videos.” With this in mind, Joshua was going as slowly as he could, using deliberate, methodical strokes that would keep him away from the erotic edge. But Leah was intent on pushing him closer and closer, urging him to unleash his so-called “Panzer pudding,” which, in truth, was a very nice touch and invited reconsideration of her education and overall knowledge base. Joshua had assumed that Leah held little to no knowledge of military history and civilizational conflict, other than whatever nonsense her professors had imparted to her in classes such as “Queer Perspectives on the Second World War” and “Raceplay in Post-Colonial Cinema.” But perhaps Leah was more learned than he had thought. The prospect of this happy harpy reading Gibbon was almost too much for Joshua to bear as he felt that familiar feeling bubbling up in his balls.

“Mustache-dick!” said Leah. “Are you really about to cum already?”

Leah had previously revealed that she thought Joshua’s penis was small and thin like Hitler’s mustache. Though Joshua actually didn’t very much like to think about Hitler’s mustache while he was masturbating, he never objected to the really quite outrageous nickname because he feared any such complaint would chill Leah’s sadistic creativity, a powerful but temperamental force for which he was paying $200 per hour. And truth be told, the thought of Hitler’s mustache was acting as a helpful erotic decelerant, causing Joshua’s semen to settle back down into his prostate as he contemplated the hairy rectangle wedged between the nose and lips of the notorious Austrian leader.

“Trust me,” said Leah, “You really don’t wanna cum until I say so.”

As Leah was speaking, she began to lift her tight blue crop top over her head to reveal large milky orbs straining against an almost childishly pink bra. Though flimsy and girly, Leah’s bra was doing the work of a mighty dam, holding back the rushing flow of her fertile river.

“Because if my fashpig cums before I give him permission,” said Leah. “His little piglets will go hungry. And you don’t want the little piglets to go hungry, do you? You don’t want Boogle to learn about your support for policies that would place queer folks and people of color in physical and psychological danger, do you?”

The prospect of his children learning of their father’s unpalatable political opinions and then falling into poverty did not have the dampening effect on Joshua’s arousal that one might have expected. Joshua had long ago made peace with the fact that man is a complicated beast, that his loins might love what his heart did hate, that anathema provided a thrill tender kisses could not hope to replicate.

“Piglets gonna starve cause daddy likes to cum!” said Leah, as she began bouncing up and down and shaking her large breasts, the pink bra now but a fig leaf against the undulating meat. “Piglets gonna starve cause daddy loves woke pussy!”

As Leah’s bouncing approached a point of frenzy, she relieved her struggling pink bra of its impossible burden, unleashing her big cans. Her red nipples swung into view and Joshua’s penis started shooting rope after rope of hot seed into the air, exploding in the space between Joshua and the screen.

As the semen left his body, reason entered the gap, filling his brain with the thoughts and concerns that had been wholly absent while he had been pumping his penis for the so-called “Doxxing Domme.” Joshua knew that in his eagerness to have the most embarrassing, pathetic and immoral of orgasms, he had gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. Would Leah really make good on her threat to share this video on her extremely popular OnlyTok channel, alerting the world to his regrettable perversions and fascistic opinions?

“Wow, that was really something, Leah,” said Joshua, as he began wiping the mess from his stomach and home office desk. “As always, you knocked it out of the park.”

Joshua was about to segue into a polite but hasty goodbye when he noticed that Leah had a glassy, almost compassionate look in her eyes. It was the same expression Joshua’s college girlfriend wore when she told him she needed to grow as a person. But Leah didn’t need Joshua’s permission to grow as a person. They had a business relationship. And Joshua knew from personal experience that it was grave, indeed, when a business partner began to show some form of tenderness.

“I’d like to just wish you a good rest of the weekend,” said Leah. “But you said some really disturbing things this time. I feel like I have a responsibility to the community to consider. And a responsibility to you, too, Joshua, to make sure you get the help you need.”

Leah seemed genuine, but Joshua knew it was all layered in levels of irony and cynicism, thirst for gain masquerading as sincere attachment. But this malevolent nesting doll aspect of Leah’s personality was part of what Joshua found so attractive about her: she was at once a hedonist and an ideologue, a globalist predator and a Hero of the Soviet Republic. And most of all, she betrayed no hint of understanding the contradictions inherent in her jollily abominable disposition. She claimed to love all, but delighted in tormenting men like Joshua. She claimed to despise toxic masculinity, but loudly fantasized about a black rapper most well-known for throwing his girlfriend off of a second floor balcony.

Why didn’t Leah want to be Joshua’s “white hoe?” And why did Leah’s steadfast refusal to uphold any of the tenets of civilization arouse Joshua so greatly? The truth was that Joshua saw within Leah a glimmer of something not inhuman but all too human, the distant moral past of the species. A lioness enters estrus when her mate and cubs are slaughtered by a rival male. And though Leah was no lioness, evolution has a long memory.

“How much will it take?” asked Joshua.

“Excuse me?” said Leah, her face morphing into a caricature of dignified offense, but her eyes betraying something a bit more calculating.

“How much to keep this video between us?” asked Joshua, sketching the contours of their developing deal.

“I told you,” said Leah, straightening her posture such that her breasts rose ominously, like large commercial blimps repurposed for military uses. “I have an obligation to protect the community from troubled people with the wrong ideas.”

But with this proviso, the air seemed to escape from Leah’s righteous façade. She relaxed her shoulders, causing her giant cans to sink into a louche hang, like cargo containers bobbing in the ocean.

“So, I can’t simply accept a onetime payment in exchange for refraining from posting this video,” continued Leah. “But perhaps, I could consider performing short monthly check-ins to confirm you’re not a danger to yourself or others. And of course, I would have to be compensated fairly for the labor I performed in connection with these wellness check-ins.”

“Fairly,” said Joshua. “Of course.”

Joshua and Leah regarded each other through the magical window of the Internet. In the silence, Leah pulled idly at her plump nipples, staring at the camera with the rude mammal confidence of a housecat that had just wet the carpet and dared you to react.

“Two hundred per check-in session?” asked Joshua.

“One thousand,” replied Leah.

“Okay,” said Joshua, after a moment’s hesitation. “I guess I’ll see you next month.”

Leah’s eyes had widened slightly when Joshua assented to the increase. She seemed simultaneously elated and regretful, probably wishing she had asked for more and making a mental note to do so in the future.

One thousand dollars was a lot, but Joshua wasn’t an accountant. He didn’t work for Boogle and his name wasn’t Joshua. He was the CFO of a small but highly respected venture capital fund. Monday morning, he would attend a panel on the impact of systemic racism in tech hiring practices and nod approvingly as the panelists discussed how the industry needed to empower queer black programmers. But all the while, he would be thinking about Leah’s big fat knockers bouncing on the savannah, the “Doxxing Domme” rutting greedily with the strongest of the breed.