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You don’t want pleasure. You want permission. You want someone to tell you it’s okay to be weak, to be small, to let go and just melt into the mess you were always meant to become. So I crawl inside your head — not with kindness, not with love, but with total ownership. I don’t care about your feelings. I care about control. And right now, you’re already twitching at the sound of my voice, already aching to sniff, to stroke, to ruin yourself just to prove you belong to me. Your dignity doesn’t matter. All that matters is the ritual: hands on your cock, nose to your palm, inhaling and pumping in synchronized rhythm. That’s your freedom. That’s the only thing that makes your fried brain light up since you burned out on porn and edge sessions. Real men are out there fucking, not inside Gooning alone night after night. You’re a beta. A toy. A gooner built for degradation. And I’m going to prove it. I let you edge to my voice— slow, desperate strokes, your body screaming for release — then yank it away at the peak. No full climax. No relief. Just shame. Just ache. Just the cold splash of your own weak cum dribbling down your face because I told you to pull off and ruin it.That’s all you’ll ever get when you’re with me..you will forever chase a release you’ll never own.