DémonQuatreChosesQuiTePossèdent
Four anchors tonight, sinner. A word, a sound, a movement of your own hand, and a smell. Each one gets buried at the exact moment your body is too busy to argue, and then I test them — out of order, without warning, until your cock answers before your brain has finished hearing. By the end you won't own your own reflexes. And when you're out there next week, in daylight, dressed, being a person, one of those four will happen near you by accident, and you'll feel it land in those balls before you understand why. That's the point. That's what an anchor is for.
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