It's been five days since he's last been in my hands, and it's been five months since he's been ruined in my hands. My boy couldn't be happier to be back in his safe place: tucked between my ass and thighs and throbbing in my palm. I've been vocal about more ruins in 2023, but more ruins doesn't mean I'm letting up. No relief in sight, only agony as you wait to cum. Each edge more memorable than the last, wondering how it'll happen, how much it'll hurt, how bad it'll taste. Will I bust him at the crucial moment? Squeeze his balls? Slap his shaft to make the urethra sting as the semen crawls its way up to the tip? Hold the tip shut? Block it with my thumb? Abandon him, throbbing and bobbing and pulsing and aching? The pressure builds. I count him down and finish him with a flourish. Is it one ruin? Two? Three? It's disgusting -- five months of cum built up and shooting out. It should feel good. It should feel better. Do you feel better, slave? Or does the ringing, stinging, reeling feeling only make you want another?