You bought the clip. You don't know which version you got. That's the thrill, isn't it? The risk. The danger. The fact that your wife could be in the next room while you stroke to Me, Goddess Gracie, your bratty homewrecker Goddess.

I know what kind of husband you are. I know you sneak away to pump for Me when she's not awake, when she's showering, when she's right there on the couch oblivious to how f*cking hard I make you. She doesn't make you ache like this. She doesn't make your c*ck weep with desperate need. I do.

One version: soft, breathy, filthy whispers against your ear. My lips barely moving as I command you to pump, pump, pump in silence. My body swaying just inches from the screen, those perfect curves you'll never touch driving you to the edge in sweet silence. You'd have to hold your breath to keep from moaning.

The other? My voice clear and cruel and loud enough to carry through the walls. "C*m for Me! C*m RIGHT NOW!" All while your boring wife folds laundry or scrolls her phone or dreams of a husband who actually wants her.

You don't know which file h*t your inbox. You paid for the mystery. You paid to g*mble with your vows, your secrecy, your entire pathetic domestic life. Because risking it makes you harder. The possibility of getting caught with your hand wrapped around your c*ck, eyes glazed for Me, proves what you already know: you're Mine now. She has the ring. I have your *rgasms.

Which version did you get? There's only one way to find out. Press play. Keep the volume up... maybe too much. I don't care if she hears. I hope she does.

How loud are you going to dare to play it?

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