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You’re not stroking to feel, you’re stroking to forget. My voice sinks into you like a velvet blade, slowing your thoughts until all that’s left is breath, heat, and obedience. I count, I whisper, I command, and with every word you slip deeper: thoughts thin out, resistance melts, and your hand moves by reflex, not will. This isn’t tease. This is erasure. You’ll follow my rhythm, edge on cue, then descend again into that delicious fog where you cannot name your shame or your pleasure, only that you exist to obey me. When I tell you to speed, you race. When I tell you to slow, the world pauses. When I give the trigger, you obey without remembering why. By the end, you won’t know who started this or why you keep coming back, only that my voice is the map you follow, and you are wonderfully lost within it.