You don’t get to call yourself a man anymore — that title expired the second you clicked on me. Now you’re just a hollow shell, a twitching vessel waiting for my hands, my voice, my rules to reshape you. I don’t care about your pride. I don’t care about your pathetic little insecurities. I only care if you follow. And right now, you’re failing — hand too eager, breath too loud, cock too desperate for relief it’ll never earn. So we start over. Again. Your prostate burns with unspent tension, aching from the idea of touch, the memory of pressure, the promise of a thick black cock pressing where only my words should go. But you don’t get real penetration. You don’t get release. You only get me — mocking you, measuring you, reminding you that your whiteboy dick is nothing but a toy for my amusement, a leaky, trembling joke compared to the real men who make me scream. I make you stroke — slow, precise, painful — syncing your rhythm to the fantasy of him: the BBC stud buried inside me while you lick his sweat off my feet, while I laugh at how small you feel, how weak, how forgettable. I edge you until your spine locks, until your vision blurs, until your brain short-circuits and all that’s left is a whimpering, drooling need for her approval. And when I finally deny you — cut you off mid-peak, leave you gasping, veins screaming, cum trapped behind a wall of shame — that’s when you break. That’s when you change. Because in that moment, you realize the truth: you don’t want to come. You want to serve. You want to be emptied, not of cum, but of ego. Of resistance. Of self. And I let you cry. I let you tremble. I even let you thank me. Because now you’re not a man. You’re not a whiteboy. You’re not even a slave. You’re mine — a hollowed-out devotee, reborn in denial, baptized in humiliation, and finally, finally… obedient.