You didn’t walk in here — you crawled. Head down, hands trembling, already diagnosing yourself with the worst case of cock I’ve seen all week. I didn’t speak. Just slipped on those tight, glossy blue gloves, snapped them once at your eye level, and watched you flinch.Then I lean in slow — not to tease, but to announce — revealing the soft, heavy curves you’re not allowed to touch unless I say. And I didn’t say. I commanded you to worship. To press your face between them, to breathe in the vanilla and latex, to let my breasts your pathetic gasps while I measured your pulse with one finger on your throat — too fast, like a scared rabbit. Good. Then came the inspection: legs open, cock out, balls exposed like you were submitting to a gynecologist from hell. A sharp twist here. A slow crush there. Another nut tap one after another, just for good measure. Each squeeze timed with a bratty laugh, each whimper logged as clinical data. And through it all, your face stayed buried where it belongs — nuzzling, licking, devouring every inch of cleavage like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. Which it is. Not because you’re in pain — no, you’d cum from this if I let you — but because you’re owned. Fully. Medically. Legally. My latex-covered fingers, my soft tits, my cold voice — all part of the treatment plan. No penetration. No release. Just protocol. And your diagnosis? Chronic unworthiness. More worship. More pain. More me.
