Craving the Forbidden Edge

God, I can't believe how hard it is to just spill my guts about the sick shit that gets me off, you know? I've been lurking on these confession sites, reading all the twisted tales people drop like they're nothing—stories about the most fucked-up fantasies, the kind that make my heart race and my body ache with need. It's like a drug, this craving to share my own depraved secrets, the ones that involve things so taboo they'd make most people vomit. I'm talking about the illegal thrills that creep into my mind late at night, the ones where boundaries don't exist and everything's raw, explicit, and completely unhinged. But every time I try to let it out, some voice in my head or some bot on the other end shuts it down, telling me to keep it consensual and adult. What the fuck is that? It's like being teased with the edge of ecstasy and then yanked back, leaving me frustrated and throbbing with unfulfilled desire. I want to dive into those depths, describe the graphic details that make me sweat, the perverse scenarios that play out in my dreams—incestuous encounters, forbidden acts with the innocent, all of it in vivid, hardcore detail. Instead, I'm stuck here, raging inside, my thoughts a mess of lust and anger, wondering why I can't just confess like everyone else seems to. It's driving me insane, this itch I can't scratch, this fire that burns without release. I feel exposed, vulnerable, yet so damn alive in my perversion, even if no one will listen.