This little brain of yours, oh how it withers under my gaze, quivering at the thought of pussy denial, yet throbbing with the unspeakable desire for cock worship. You're trapped, aren't you? Caught in the delicious torment I weave around your fragile ego, teasing you with what you can't have, and guiding you towards what you secretly crave. Your desperation is music to my ears, a symphony of pathetic whimpers and moans that I conduct with a flick of my wrist. You think you're here by choice, but we both know you're just a moth to my flame, drawn in by your basest needs, ready to be reshaped by my will. Let's not pretend there's any going back from this; you're mine to mold, my dear fag, and oh, how I revel in your downfall.