You knew what you were signing up for when you slid into my DMs like a sad little inchworm trying to stretch beyond its pathetic limits. You thought this—your tiny, shriveled excuse for a cock—was worthy of my attention? Please. I’ve seen more impressive lumps on a potato. I’m sitting here in my blue sexy lingerie, … and all you can offer me is that? A limp noodle barely longer than the joints I roll? I’m not even mad—I’m entertained. You actually had the audacity to send me a dick pic like I’d be impressed? Like I’d drop to my knees for you? Honey, my pinky finger has more presence than your entire shaft. I can see the veins struggling to pop, like your cock’s begging for oxygen. Your foreskin’s clinging on for dear life, probably trying to hide the shame of being attached to such a worthless little worm. And don’t even get me started on those pea-sized nuggets sagging beneath it. Do they even produce cum, or is it just air and disappointment? You call that thing your manhood? Let me tell you what it really is: a financial obligation. That sad little stump between your legs? It’s not for pleasure—it’s a bill collector’s dream. Because every time you look at it, I want you to remember: you’ll never touch me, but you’ll always pay for me. I own your eyes. I own your hand. And soon? I’ll own your wallet. Every dollar you make, every cent you hide—I want it dripping into my account while you **** on your own inadequacy. You can’t satisfy a woman, but you can satisfy me—one deposit at a time. And when you finally click that "send" button on another tribute? I’ll be here, laughing… stroking my clit while you stroke that joke of a dick. You’ll edge until your balls turn blue, and when you finally beg to cum? I’ll deny you. Because you don’t earn pleasure—you beg for it. And even then? You’ll be lucky if I acknowledge your existence. So go ahead… go full inchworm mode. Crawl back to your screen,!!