Minions

A have an insatiable minion rape fetish. It is my ultimate fantasy to be gagged, tied up, and brutally assfucked by Kevin the Minion. I have accrued tens of thousands in debt attempting to fill this void with sexual "toys," including several custom dildos and a modified Kevin-shaped plush doll with a twelve-inch yellow strap-on. The wife and I are separated, and I have accepted the fact that I will never see my kids again. The only thing keeping Karen from divorcing me is the fear that she might be the final push into a deep, inescapable abyss, at the bottom of which lies my death. The truth is, I died nine years ago on the night I met the love of my life. I came home from the premiere of Despicable Me rock hard, collapsing in the shower and sobbing at the realization that Kevin the Minion would never, could never pin me down with his perfectly smooth body and stubby arms, penetrate me with his incredible yellow girth, and empty his huge, aching balls deep inside my tummy. I sat there all night, sometimes weeping, sometimes ramming my flaccid dick into the shower drain in frustration. It has been nine years since that night. I have nothing now. I have accepted that. My apartment is a squalid den of inescapable despair, filled with jizz-stained Kevin the Minion dolls and tormented notes etched onto lewd posters of Kevin the Minion. My only friends are the roaches. My God, I am going to die here.
Banana.