Already twitching, and I haven't put my heel down yet.

You know what the pink one is. You know what you are under it.

I don't ask. I press. One word — Crush — and your hand ds around it. You'll hear the pop. You'll beg to stroke through.

You don't get to.

On five, you ruin. Hand off. It leaks. Short. Not yours.

Buy. Then don't cum until I say Crush.

Tonight I'm not teasing you, sweetheart, I'm installing. Three words go into your head, one at a time, properly, with repetition and a wet fist to bolt them down — and then I test each one on you without warning, because a trigger you can see coming isn't a trigger, it's a request. After that we do the part you pretend you don't like: the ledger. Every word that fired gets a price next to it, and you'll hear the total while your hand is still moving. Look at the rubies in the air. Those are yours, and you're never getting them back. Squeeze the crown on every word of this. Your cock pays, not your mouth.

Three doors tonight, sinner, and they open in one direction. Behind the first one you only look. Behind the second there's a mouth and you say clearly whose it is. Behind the third you're on your knees and there's nothing of the old version of you left standing in the corridor. You'll pay for each door with your own hand, you'll say the words at each threshold in your own voice, and I'll be standing on the other side of every one of them, unimpressed, telling you to keep walking. The interesting part is that nobody's pushing you. You've wanted this corridor for years and tonight there's finally somebody holding the handles.

I'm turning my back on you tonight, cutie, and I'm bending the clock. Five stretches of work, and after each one I'll tell you how long it took — and I'll be lying every single time. Forty seconds becomes ten minutes. Four minutes becomes twenty seconds. By the third one your body stops keeping time and starts taking my word for it, and by the fifth you'll swear you've been in that chair for an hour with paint drying on a wall and my behind two feet from your face. You'll finish in what feels like slow motion. It'll take eleven seconds. Squeeze the head on every single word. That cock has no idea what time it is.

Two seats at my stage tonight, sweetheart. Yours, and his. I'm going to work the pole for both of you and keep score of where your eyes actually go, and here's the twist that's going to ruin you: when you look at me, your hand slows down. When you look at him — at his hands, at his lap, at what he's holding — your hand speeds up. That's the whole rule, and your cock will learn it inside a minute, because your cock is honest even when you aren't. By the end you'll be jerking off at the speed of a man you'd never admit to looking at, and I'll let you finish only when you're looking the right way. Wrong way, I mean. You know what I mean.

There are three of us tonight, honey, and only one of us is counting — me. My friends watch that little cock work and say out loud what they think of it: one calls you desperate, one calls you cheap, and I agree with both. Every round you either earn strokes or you lose them, and then we vote. Want to know what a two-to-one verdict feels like? It feels like your hands in the air while it leaks out of you with nothing touching it. Kneel and let us decide, cutie — you have never been this hard for women who are not choosing you.

Tonight you're a machine and I'm the hand on the switch, sinner. Six gears: I set the pace, the grip and the revs, and you hold whatever gear I put you in until I change it. You'll climb the whole way, you'll feel it coming, and at the very top — right at the point where your body has already decided it's happening — my thumb comes down on the k switch and your hands leave that cock. It comes out anyway. Flat, slow, wasted, with nothing touching you. Then we idle, and then I let you believe there's a second attempt. Sit down and put it in first.

Aww that compact tip looks so serious while I smile like a brat with a better plan than mercy. I will mock the inches first, then teach your hands how obedience outranks length when the JOI gets wet and mean. Press play for SPH that mutates into praise the second you follow filthy instructions.

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.

I can see your window from mine, cutie. Daytime. Curtains open, like always, because you never think about it. So today we're doing this with the light on and me watching the window across the road, and I'm going to tell you exactly what I can see from here — your shape, your shoulders, the way you move when you think nobody's looking. Every time something happens over there — a door, a light, footsteps — the rules change. And you finish standing right where I can see you, because that's the whole point of living this close to a girl like me.

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.