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It's week one of Locktober and you're already leaking in that cage. Pathetic. Premature and pathetic, exactly where I want you. That leak doesn't go unnoticed, however. I see everything, including how fast your body betrayed you the second I started talking. Leaking counts as cumming in My book, which means you owe the Premie Tax. No touch, no relief, no sympathy for the mess you made of yourself. Your only job now is to sit with that ache and pay up for being so weak so fast. Every drip is another tribute you owe Me, and I intend to collect all of them. The longer you wait to send, the more I'll add to what you owe. How fast did you leak? Confess your time, and send your Premie Tax before I add a late fee.
