Your desire to watch me being thoroughly satisfied consumes you, fueling an insatiable craving that pulsates through your very core. The image of my delicate flower being relentlessly pounded imprints itself on your mind, replaying over and over again, driving you to the brink of ecstasy. You, my dear beta boy, will forever be confined to the role of an observer, forever longing to taste what you can never have. But fear not, for your purpose lies in fulfilling a different kind of satisfaction - the pleasure of cleaning up the aftermath, the sacred duty of attending to the mess left behind.