You used to jerk off to porn. Now? You stroke to obey. Not for pleasure. Not for relief. Just to prove you’re still alive under my boot. Every flick of your wrist is a confession: “She owns me.” Every throb under your skin? A prayer in reverse. You’re not cumming for yourself , you’re cumming because I allow it. And when I say “stop…” You freeze. Mid-stroke. Breath caught. Cock hard. Mind screaming. But you don’t move. Because disobedience means disappearing from my world. And oblivion sounds better than exile. You don’t choose to goon. You goon because I rewired your hunger. That buzz behind your eyes? That’s not fatigue , that’s my voice echoing in your skull like a virus. “Be nothing. Be mine. Be quiet.” And you obey , not because you’re weak, but because power feels better when it’s taken from you. You used to dream of being wanted. Now you dream of being used. Of me calling you pathetic… while you leak into your fist like a good little drone.
