Take the cap off. Breathe in. Good — not that you had a choice. Tonight I'm running a little aroma training session in nothing but lace, and the rules are humiliatingly simple: when I say, you inhale; when I giggle, you stroke; when your knees wobble, you thank me. Somewhere around the third deep sniff your eyes cross, your jaw drops into that slack ahegao look I love mocking, and a tiny asian brat starts edging you through a slow, dizzying JOI you already know you'll lose. Every sniff pairs with a fresh round of masturbation humiliation — me laughing at how little it takes to turn a grown man into gooey gooning sludge with just a brown bottle, a whisper, and the smell of my lingerie in your head. By the time the head rush fades, regular porn won't even load anymore without my voice in the background telling you when to breathe.
