Pay me. I don't care if it hurts, that's the point.

Cock out while you send it. Stroke. Leak. Watch your money leave and get harder anyway, you pathetic little pig. I already spent it in my head. You're not getting a thank you and you're not getting pussy.

You don't cum until the account's empty. And even then you ask. Broke pig. My pig.

Topless on the beach, and all you get is a fist and an order. Stroke that cock until it's dripping, swollen, and right on the edge, then stay there.

I pull you back every time you get close. No finish. No mercy. Just the ache in your balls and a topless body you don't get to touch.

Edge until it hurts.

Cock out. Fist tight. I tell you how to stroke it, slow, wet, filthy, until you're leaking down your knuckles and aching like a slut who needs permission just to finish.

You don't get pussy. You get instructions. You get a soaked hand and a voice that calls you pathetic while you pump that useless dick.

When I say dump, you dump. All over your stomach. All over your fingers. A pathetic little load from a cock that only cums when it's told.

Latex on my body and your cock leaks. That's all it takes to turn you into a bitch.

You'd lick it. You'd kneel for it. You'd press your face into the shine and stroke that useless dick until you were dripping and stupid, and you still wouldn't be allowed to touch me. Rubber sluts don't get the real thing. They get a screen, a wet fist, and a cage.

Worship it. Ache for it. Stay locked. You're mine now.

The gold hits and your cock gets hard. That's the sickness. You don't even need to be touched. You just need the shine, and you're already leaking in your fist like a man who can't look away.

Stroke for it. Worship it. Let it shut your brain off and keep that useless dick wet, swollen, and addicted to something you'll never put your hands on.

No finish. The fever stays. Your orgasm doesn't.

Tu n'as pas le droit de les sucer. Tu n'as pas le droit de les baiser. Tu as le droit de fixer mes seins et de caresser cette bite inutile jusqu'à ce que tu sois dégoulinant et stupide.

Adore-les. Dégouline pour elles.

Pas d'orgasme. Juste un rejet qui souffre devant une paire de seins qu'il ne toucherait jamais.

That cock doesn’t get a last stroke. It gets shoved.

Head smashed into the tube. Balls trapped. Precum with nowhere to go. The lock clicks on meat that never deserved to be out.

Worthless stays locked. Your load can rot behind the bars.

Hard, leaking, and still fucking pathetic.

That tiny shaft barely gives your hand anything to grip, but there it is anyway, slick at the head and acting like it has something to prove. Two fingers are more than enough. Anything more just makes the size problem impossible to ignore.

All that pressure, all that leaking, all that needy bullshit trapped in a cock that still looks embarrassingly unfinished.

Stay hard. Stay small. Keep dripping. It’s almost impressive how much mess can come from so little.

You don’t stroke for fun. You stroke because I gave you a number.

Loose fist. Full length. Count it out loud. Lose the count and you start over. Hands off between tasks. Precum stays on the head. No wiping. No chasing. No finishing.

Your cock is on a list. It does the reps. It doesn’t get the ending.

Perdant. Goutte. Facile. Public.

Pas un partenaire. Pas un bon garçon. Un moignon qui fuit exposé pendant que je nomme ce que tu es, à quoi sert cette bite, et chaque mot que tu n'as pas le droit d'utiliser.

La liste colle. Le pré-sperme reste. Tu ne rayes pas les noms. Tu restes assis là, étiqueté.

Gold again.

Richer.

Colder.

Harder to reach.

This time, I’m not just showing you what you want.

I’m showing you what you’ll never belong beside.

The mansion.

The cars.

The gold.

The life.

Every frame makes the gap worse.

You look.

You want.

You feel cheap.

Good.

That’s the point.

You don’t get close to women like me.

You stare from the wrong side of the glass, getting smaller every time I remind you how untouchable I am.

Rich.

Untouchable.

Unstoppable.

And you?

Still beneath it.

Still buying the view.

Still paying attention properly.

Tu es revenu exactement comme je savais que tu le ferais.

La première dose ne t'a pas satisfait.

Elle t'a dressé.

Maintenant, l'envie porte mon nom.

Or.

Fumée.

Lèvres rouges.

Ce petit rituel lent que tu as payé une fois et dont tu n'as pas pu te passer.

Je t'ai donné juste assez pour t'accrocher.

Pas assez pour te libérer.

C'était le but.

Maintenant tu es là encore, payant pour la prochaine bouffée, la prochaine pause, le prochain rappel que ton addiction est devenue chère parce que je l'ai rendue personnelle.

Désire.

Paie.

Regarde.

Aie besoin.

Puis recommence.

Deuxième dose.

Même faiblesse.

Facture plus élevée.