Your cock barely lifts when I walk in, and I love it. I don’t even have to try—I’m not wearing anything special, just a slip of lace and the smirk you’ve learned to fear. You’re already hard, sort of, that half-cocked twitch of desperation that says you’ve been fantasizing about me But we both know it won’t last. Nothing with you ever does. So I pull out the timer. Not for edging. Not for pleasure. Just to document the pathetic arc of your failure. 47 seconds in, and your shaft’s already softening like a forgotten balloon. No warning. No control. Just deflation under my cold stare. You don’t get to hide behind “stress” or “mood.” I see the truth. You don’t fail because you’re tired—you fail because your body knows the truth before your mind does. You’re not a man. You’re a sissy. A pouty, blushing, lace-pantied girl who gets off on being laughed at, on being told how useless your dick is. So I make you wear it. The frilly pink set. The one that chafes your thighs and makes your hips wiggle when you walk. I make you stroke that flaccid thing like it’s worth something, then slap your hand away when you actually think you might finish. And when you whimper? When your eyes glisten like you’re seconds from spilling tears instead of cum? That’s when I lean in and whisper how proud I am. Not of you—but of me. For creating this. For reducing you to a shivering, soft-cocked worshipper who only gets hard for humiliation. This isn’t dysfunction. It’s design.
