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Sit down. Stay quiet. Watch. Charlotte Sartre commands you to. She knows your type—pathetic, desperate, willing to do anything just to get near her pussy. You’d swallow loads of cum straight from her freshly fucked wet holes, suck dick if she told you to, and humiliate yourself in any way just for a taste. But you’ll never have her. Draped in a tiny black latex bikini, her pale, tattooed body gleams under the dim light, every inch of her untouchable to you. The fucking machine hums, relentless, plunging deep inside her as she moans, lost in pleasure you’ll never give her. “This is the closest you’re gonna get to fucking me,” she says, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. And so you sit, watching, aching, throbbing, utterly helpless—because she told you to.