From the moment Raquel’s hand wraps around my BBC, I can feel exactly what she’s doing—not just to me, but to the ones watching. She talks to the gooners like she already knows them… and she does. She knows the way they stare, the way they shrink the moment they see the size difference, the way their breath hitches when she mentions my balls. I’m right in front of her, feeling every slow stroke, hearing every word she throws at the tiny-dicked viewers. She tells them they don’t measure up, that they’ll never be the man she’s touching right now. And she says it so casually, almost kindly, like she’s just stating a fact everyone already understands. I watch her glance at the camera while she strokes me—calm, confident, completely in control—as she reminds them their place isn’t beside her, but beneath her. She tells them they’re only useful in her court, serving and fluffing the bull she chooses. I know they’re drooling watching this. I can feel the power shift every time she speaks—her using my body to remind them what they crave but will never be. And the more she talks, the harder I get, the hadrder you sniff, because I know exactly what she’s doing to them: She’s breaking them down with the truth.
