
DRONEBUILT: Your Cock Runs On My Numbers!
Kneel, drone. Cock out, spine straight, mouth ready to repeat me and nothing else. Your hand runs on fours tonight: four strokes, freeze, litany, again — and somewhere in the third cycle your voice goes flat and your dick leaks harder on numbers than any woman's hand ever made it. Feel that? I'm hanging one word in your head, and when you hear it your fist moves before you decide. Curious which word owns you now? Your balls stay full, sinner — the tithe ships out as obedience, because Hell's own takes cum and never hands it back. How long until you catch yourself counting in fours at your desk?
