Hush, baby — I'm not talking to you tonight. Lie there and listen, because tonight I'm talking to your cock, and the two of you are going to hear some things out loud that you've both been pretending about for months. It goes soft for her. It goes hard for me before I've finished a sentence. That's not an accident, that's a preference, and your dick has been making it for a long time behind your back. So get it out and keep your mouth shut while a woman negotiates with the only part of you that's honest. By the end of this one it comes for me while you just hold it — and you'll be lying there knowing exactly which of you is in charge of the other.

You already took them.

Pink. Lace. Three days on me. Unwashed, because I knew your nose would come looking.

Don’t explain it, step-daddy. I counted. I liked it.

Tonight I install you.

Inhale — your hand moves.

Hold — it des.

One word.

Breathe.

Your cock just answered, didn’t it? You haven’t even pressed play.

She poured the tea. You smiled. You were smelling me. She still doesn’t know whose cum she washed out of my lace.

After this, the panties aren’t the habit. The word is.

Buy. Then inhale. Don’t cum without my word.

Tonight is the last one, sweetheart. Last time your hand gets to touch that cock without asking, last time you decide anything about it at all. I'm going to read you the conditions on which the key comes back, and you're going to agree to every single one with your fist moving — and then you're going to hear how the conditions are written, and realise the key isn't coming back at all. You'll cum anyway. You'll cum harder than you have all month, because nothing makes a man finish like knowing it's the last one, and I want that sound on record before I take the decision off you completely.

Sit down, sinner, and get it out — I'm doing rounds and you're the last patient of the night. This is an examination, so it goes in order: complaints, inspection, measurements, response tests, diagnosis, prescription. I'll be writing the whole time. You'll answer into the dark, you'll do every procedure I ask for with your own hand, and at the end you'll read your diagnosis back to me in your own voice. It isn't a kind one. It's accurate, which is worse, and once it's written down you don't get to argue with it again.

Ding. That's the bell, cutie, and you're in my gym. Pink gloves, pink bag on a chain, spirals on the wall, tits out — and you, on the mat, with your cock in your hand. Tonight we fight in rounds. Every bell changes the rule for your fist. Every time my glove lands on the bag, your dick jumps like it's the one getting hit. Between rounds you go to the corner and I wipe your face and tell you how badly you're losing. Want to know how the fight ends? On the bell. Every fight in this gym ends on the bell, and you're the one on the floor.

Watch the pendulum, sweetheart. That's all you have to do tonight — watch it, and obey it. It swings, I say a number, you follow the order attached to that number, and the count goes down. Twenty to zero, and at zero you finish. The catch is that I control the speed: sometimes it hangs there for half a minute, sometimes three numbers come at once, and you never know which. So you can't pace yourself, you can't get ahead of it, and you can't hide. Eyes on the crystal. We start at twenty.

Three loops tonight, sinner, and they go inside each other. The first one is your breath. Inside that I open a litany — six lines you say back to me until they stop being sentences. And inside that one I open the gold spiral, and that is where your hands come off, because tonight you are going to finish without touching yourself at all. Then I close them in reverse and leave the last one open, so a part of you stays down there until I come back. No mercy, no aftercare, no soft voice. Kneel and breathe.

Your phone is open on my knee, sweetheart, and I'm not reading your messages — those are boring. I'm reading your contacts. The one you write to more than anyone. The one who answers you inside a minute. The one who calls you by your surname. The one whose photo you keep. I'm going to say what each of them would think of what you sound like right now, and you're going to jerk off while I do it, because that's how you buy the next minute. Stop stroking and my thumb moves toward the top of that list. Keep going and nothing happens tonight. Nothing happens tonight, sweetheart. I said nothing happens tonight — I didn't say anything about tomorrow.

Your hands stop being yours tonight, sinner. I pour lead into the right one until you can't lift it off your own cock, and then I weld it there, so stopping isn't an option even when you want it. Then the left one goes somewhere you've been thinking about for years and gets stuck there too — two fingers deep, pressed against the part of you that answers to me and not to you. Four pours, one current, and a machine on the other side of the screen deciding when your body is allowed to finish. Kneel on the concrete.

So me and tiny me have a bet going, cutie. She says ninety seconds. I said sixty, because I've heard you breathe. We're both watching that cock in your fist, both counting, and whoever's closest wins — and honestly? Neither of us loses, because the only person who loses here is the one who blows it in under a minute with a girl giggling in his ear. I'm going to make it worse on purpose, obviously. That's the whole game. Get it out, get it wet, and try — really try — to make me wrong.

Five times down tonight, sweetheart, and five times back up — except the fifth one, where I leave you at the bottom. That's the whole trick and I'm telling you up front: every time I drag you back up to the surface you get a little dumber, a little wetter and a lot easier, and by the fourth trip your mouth stays open on its own between the orders. In the meantime you're going to learn what my mouth is actually for in this room, and it isn't your cock. It's the gold. Open it, keep it open, and don't swallow until I say.

Lie down, sinner. I'm going to walk across you, and everywhere my foot lands I'm leaving a mark — five of them, chest, stomach, throat, mouth, and last of all that cock. Each print turns into a rule you keep after tonight, said to my back in your own voice while your hand works for it. They don't wash off in the morning, because they were never on your skin. They're in the places you'll feel them: when you breathe, when you swallow, when you speak to somebody in daylight and your throat remembers what was standing on it. Five prints. Then I step off and you finish under the memory of the weight.