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You’re here because you can’t resist me. From the moment my hands slide over my own body, your cock twitches and you become my obedient little toy. I see you rock hard, already edging before I even give the order. This isn’t a race to the finish. This is slow, deliberate, addictive control. I want you to take that cock out and stroke it for me the way I tell you to slow, deliberate, raw. Pretend my hand is wrapped around you, teasing you, squeezing just enough to make you ache. Every moan, every drop, every tremble belongs to me. I decide when you get to blow, not you. You’ll stroke, stop, fondle, edge, ache, and crave, because my voice has you hooked deeper with every command. You’re my gooning puppet now, my good little stroker. You don’t get my pussy. You get my control. You get addiction. You get the ache that makes you beg. And maybe, if you’re good enough, you get to ruin it for me leaking, trembling, mind blank, cock throbbing. This is your ritual, your obedience, your surrender. Stroke for my hot body. Stroke for my voice. Stroke because you can’t stop. By the end, you’ll be nothing but a desperate, leaking toy who knows exactly who owns his pleasure.