You’ve gotten in too deep with me, and I don’t blame you. How could a man possibly resist my subversive manipulations, my razor-sharp suggestions, my insidious sexuality? You lose yourself in my trance, surrendering c*ck and mind and soul to me, but sometimes after you c*m, the gateway opens for guilt.

“Am I spending too much?”

“Am I getting too addicted to her?”

“Is indulging this fetish unfair to my partner?”

Succumb to utter entrancement, allowing yourself to fall under my mesmeric spell. Your c*ck appears in hand, you don’t remember how. All you know is bliss. The sweet ache of filling b*lls and frozen mind has you desperate to let go, but you can’t. You are trapped within the moment, obediently drifting on what feels like a faraway plane. Thoughts vacant, you stroke mindlessly, *dging your swollen c*ck to my strict commands and being so, so careful not to c*m.

With cutting suggestions and lush layers, I infiltrate your mind through your ears, silencing your rational mind almost instantaneously. Who cares what your rational mind thinks? I alone am your voice of reason, and that’s why you’ve put your trust in me, correct? You know I would never take advantage of or mislead you right? Your mind is secure in my grasp, knowing I won’t ever let you go too far. I wouldn’t let you slip up.

Although I could. When your c*ck is in your hand, hard as steel and teetering on the brink of defeat, it would be so easy for me to bury a trigger in your brain like a mine in a field. We both know one slip up would be all it takes for you to trip over it and helplessly explode. It wouldn’t be your fault, of course, sio the guilty voices probably wouldn’t come. Just a hard climax and peaceful, quiet mind followed by a deep rest.

I wouldn’t do that to you, though. Not when you’re a good boy who only wants to edge because he’s worried he’s addicted to cumming and desperately wants to regain some self-control. I can help you with that. Whether or not I will is an entirely different question.

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