You already clicked. That part is done. Whatever you tell yourself you came here for, your c*ck decided first, and it decided you were the one who doesn’t get any. Not a taste. Not a maybe. Not a girl who might, if you were taller, funnier, less obvious. P*ssy is something other men are inside while you sit here with your pants off, waiting to be told what you are.

Say it before you even touch the bottles. I’m a p*ssy-free r*tard and proud of it. Slow. Like you’re introducing yourself to the only audience you’ve got. Again. Don’t dress it up. That’s the name. That’s the condition. Proud is the part you use so you don’t have to say lonely. The video knows the difference. It’s going to make you say both.

Hot sauce. Icy Hot. Not a punishment you survive. A recipe. The only two things that are going to bother getting on you tonight. Pour the red into your palm until it runs over your wrist. Slap it onto your b*lls. Both of them. Under them. Into the seam, the wrinkles, the soft skin that tightens when you’re embarrassed. Rub it in like lotion you earned. Then the cream. A thick rope. Mixed through the red until your sack is shining, hot and cold at once, marked. That’s your lube. That’s the wet. A p*ssy-free r*tard doesn’t get slicked up to go inside someone. He gets seasoned so he remembers he isn’t going anywhere.

Reach back. Two fingers. Lather your *sshole. Around the rim. Over it. Circles. Press and don’t enter. Coat the h*le nobody asked for. Clench on the cream. Unclench. Do it again. Feel how eager it is for nothing. That’s the joke you live in. Empty, greased, flexing like it still thinks company is coming. It isn’t. Say it with your fingers still there. No one is going to f*ck me. I don’t get p*ssy. I’m proud.

Then your c*ck. One stroke. Filthy hand. Base to tip. Stop. Look at the leak. Clear, immediate, humiliating. Wipe it down into the mess on your b*lls so even that joins the recipe. Now you may stroke. Slow. Five. Count them out loud. Stop. Hands on your thighs. Feel it bob with nothing around it. That nothing is the point. Women don’t want a man who needs a voice in his ear to know when his own hand is allowed to move. They want someone already inside them, not someone seasoning his unused h*le and calling it a s*x life. You can’t be that. You need the instruction. You need the no.

Back on. Ten. Loose, eager, a l*ttle st*pid. Faster when your stomach tightens. Edge. Hold. Don’t c*m. Ask. Hear no. Thank the voice for the no. Thank you for not letting me c*m. Thank you for keeping me p*ssy-free. Thank you for reminding me this c*ck doesn’t get a home. Your b*lls draw up under your hand, heavy from every other time you were left like this. Decorative. Say that too. My b*lls are decorative. They don’t finish inside anyone. They just hang there and ache while I pretend the ache is pride.

Both hands. One stroking, one rubbing your h*le in the same rhythm. Stroke, rub. Stroke, rub. For a second you can imagine the finger is someone else’s. Take the second back. It isn’t. No one is pushing in. No one is spreading you. No one is going to let you put this wet, twitching thing inside them. You’d last four pumps and apologize, and the apology is why you’re here. Faster. Get sloppy. Leak over your knuckles. Edge until your breath breaks and your hips try to cheat. They don’t get to cheat. Fist only. If you thrust, you start over, and you say the title until your voice thins out.

This is the tension. Not p*in. The almost. The way your c*ck stays hard while you’re told exactly why it shouldn’t. The way pride and pathetic occupy the same mouth. You don’t deserve a woman. You don’t deserve to c*m. You rub hot sauce and Icy Hot into your b*lls and your *sshole because that’s the only touch that fits you, and you leak anyway. Say the long version while you stroke. Mean it. The video isn’t going to give you a softer sentence to hide in.

Then the count. Ten down. You stroke on every number. You stay on the edge. You do not get one. Every count is a door you watch close. Ten, full strokes, b*lls swinging into your coated hand. Nine, thumb over the head, thinking about p*ssy you will never feel. Eight, talking while you stroke, admitting you’d embarrass yourself inside a woman and that’s why you don’t get one. Seven, tip only, h*le still being circled, clenching on nothing. Six, both hands, drooling because no one is going to kiss you. Five, slow, cruel, thanking the voice again. Four, chasing it, told your c*ck’s whole relationship is a countdown and a denial. Three, light fingers under the head, base squeezed shut so the c*m climbs and stops. Two, hands locking you down, pulse once, pulse twice, ready, convinced.

One never arrives.

Hands off. Away from your c*ck. Away from your b*lls. Away from your h*le. Don’t wipe. Don’t sneak the last inch. Don’t finish into your fist and c*ll it an accident. You get zero. The throb with nowhere to go. The shine drying on your sack. The rim still flexed around a finger that was always yours. Sit there. Look at it. Red, wet, pointless, proud.

Say it wrecked. I’m a p*ssy-free r*tard and proud of it. Again. I’m a p*ssy-free r*tard and proud of it, and I didn’t get to c*m. Again, eyes on it. I edged for nothing. I seasoned my b*lls and my *sshole for nothing. I stayed p*ssy-free on purpose, and I still don’t get to finish.

That’s the sale. A long, mean, p*ssy-free denial. Your b*lls and your h*le worked over until they shine. Your c*ck stroked, edged, talked down to, and cut off before the last number. No secret release. No girl on the other side of the audio. Just you, leaking, empty, and told not to touch it again tonight. Buy it if the title already made you hard. Buy it if you want the voice that keeps you right on top of it and then takes the one away. Bottles out. Pants off. You knew what you were before you pressed play. This just makes you say it while you lose.

Humiliation Foot Fetish Mouth Fetish I'm A P*ssy Free R*tard And Proud Of It with C4s.com

Humiliation Foot Fetish Mouth Fetish I'm A Pssy Free Rtard And Proud Of It with C4s.com