A test awaits you, loser. Sixty seconds on the clock, and one passmark. You have to prove it to me.

I don't play fair. My body is the trigger and my voice is the countdown. Every second I tease you a little harder, a little closer, until your weak body does what it was made to do.

There is no version of this game where you win. That's why you keep coming back.

Every woman already knows the truth about your dicklet - not enough.

Your dicklet was never made to satisfy woman. It is too small, too weak, too pathetic to ever please anyone. So why do you still dream about sex? That fantasy is over. I am taking it away from you.

But I am giving you something better: a real purpose. While real men get women, you get my feet. You get my soft soles and my perfect toes, and you will be grateful for every second you are allowed near them to worship them. This is not a punishment. This is where you always belonged.

Look at yourself, then look at my feet. Which one deserves your worship? You already know the answer.

You've been carrying your dirty little secrets alone for so long, haven't you? Hiding them from everyone. Pretending to be normal. It's exhausting ?

With me, you don't have to pretend anymore. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to listen. Get comfortable, keep stroking, and let my soft voice slowly open you up. Tell me the things you have never told anyone. The fantasies you're ashamed of. The truths you keep locked away. Every word you give me, I hold close.

And I promise you, your secrets will stay safe with me. You just have to keep them that way ?

She's right beside you and you STILL climbed out of bed — aching, hard, desperate to worship my sexy hot body. I am the reason why you can't calm down at night, loser. Not her. My body. Stroke for the superior, inherited perfection you actually crave, then crawl back beside her with the lie intact.

Ten rounds. Left sole or right sole — pick before you know what's under it. One foot rewards you, one foot punishes you. By round ten you'll understand what you were actually playing.

Las acciones hablan más que las palabras, necesitas decirlo en voz alta, con tu propia voz, en tu propia habitación — mientras te animo a seguir masturbándote, sin parar.

Serás tonto, no tendrás resistencia, obedéceme totalmente para confesar quién eres realmente, esas palabras que nunca podrás retractar.

Estarás más duro al final de lo que estabas al principio. Pero sé que te encantará.

Quiero que te sometas completamente a mis pequeños pies asiáticos.

Sigue la regla mientras yo solo me muevo — un estiramiento lento de mi arco, mis dedos abriéndose, mis plantas girando a la luz — y tu patética mano sigue como si hubiera sido entrenada para esto. Eso es

todo lo que eres esta noche.

Esto es un juego, perdedor, y yo soy la que hace las reglas. No puedes adivinar qué

viene después. No puedes controlar tu ritmo.

Dos pies asiáticos contra un hombrecito débil. ¿Cuánto tiempo crees que realmente durarás?

A kettle is boiling, and you are already in trouble.

I'm in my kitchen, making myself a cup of instant noodles. I'm not dressed for you. I'm not here for you. You are just something happening in the background of my snack. Listen to the water pour, the lid tear, the steam rise, while I lean back on the counter waiting for my food.

So tell me, will you still be going when I pick up my chopsticks? Or will you be the instant one?

Whatever happens, I still get a hot meal. This is not a challenge. It's a race you were built to lose.

Four minutes, and I take my time with you.

It starts the way it always starts: slow, close, my body doing all the talking while you sit there with your hand exactly where I know it already is.

Then I get to the part you have been paying toward since the first clip of mine you ever bought. My thumbs go into the waistband. The panties start coming down.

Four minutes and you are right there at it. Closer than you have ever been. Watch it to the very last second — every single one of them was written for you, loser.

Buy it and find out what you're worth to me.

Tonight the bra comes off. You waited for this in every clip I ever made, and now it's finally here.

Hands behind my back. The clasp gives. The straps slip down my shoulders while you lean closer to the screen and forget to breathe. My tits, right there, one second away from you. Your wallet was open before I even started.

So don't blink, loser. One second is what your money buys. Rewind it as many times as you want. It doesn't get longer ?

Yeah you read the word Ripoff. You click anyway. That's not me tricking you. That's just what you are.

Necesitas pasar esta prueba antes de escapar.

Cada ronda te ofrezco libertad: cierra esto, nada enviado, sin consecuencias, desaparecido, etc. La otra opción es ser poseído un poco más profundo: Adórame o aléjate de mí, por completo.

Diez puertas abiertas y tres segundos cada una — y al final entenderás algo feo sobre ti mismo:

Nadie te atrapó. Tú sigues eligiendo esto para ti.

Mira hacia abajo, perdedor. ¿Acabas de encontrarlo?

No una chica. No un clip. Un TEMPLO. Plantas asiáticas desnudas elevadas a tu cara como un altar — el arco curvado alto, las arrugas moviéndose cada vez que las flexiono para ti. Has pasado toda tu patética vida buscando algo por lo que valga la pena arrodillarse. Siempre iba a ser esto.

Aquí está el único mandamiento: la adoración no es lo que dices, es lo que financias. Cualquier beta puede escribir "Amo tus pies". Un templo no funciona con cumplidos, funciona con ofrendas — el diezmo de cada día de pago, el esmalte que pagas, el zapato en mi lista de deseos, el envío silencioso, la llama que mantienes encendida sin que te lo digan.

No estás perdiendo dinero, perra. Estás pagando para permanecer bajo la única cosa en tu vida que alguna vez estuvo por encima de ti.

Arrodíllate y financia tu religión, o admite que nunca creíste.