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You don’t just want My tits, you crave them like oxygen. These aren’t just breasts. They are soft, heavy altars. Divine. In this clip, I lower them over you like a sentence. Each bounce, each sway, each slow, teasing press is a reminder: you were born beneath Me. You’ll edge to the weight of My cleavage, lips parted, brain melting. Every curve commands you. Every inch of soft, perfect flesh makes you forget your name. You don’t stroke to feel good. You stroke to obey. To ache. To crown Me with your surrender, again and again, until you’re nothing but breathless worship beneath My tits. You may never touch… But you’ll never stop needing them