You’re sitting there, squirming in your seat, a pathetic little man trying to hold onto your fragile facade of “heterosexuality,” and I, Psydomme, am right in your face, smirking as I see through every fucking lie. You think you’re fooling me with that “I’m a straight husband” bullshit? Oh, please, you sniveling faggot —I can smell the desperation on you, the way your eyes glaze over every time big, black cock crosses your mind. I lean in close, my voice low and vicious, dripping with disgust as I tell you how that thick, throbbing BBC is better than your wife’s sad little white cunt—better than anything you’ll ever deserve. You’re salivating, aren’t you? Drooling over the thought of it stretching your lips, filling your throat, pounding you into the whimpering slut you are. I don’t need to touch you to own you—I’ll just keep talking, describing how you’d crawl for it, beg for it, dress up in your secret sissy panties just to feel worthy of it. You’re not a man; you’re a cock-obsessed bitch, and I’m here to make damn sure you know it, tearing you apart word by filthy word until you’re a trembling, leaking mess.