Oh, my hapless little drone, you've naively wandered into the abyss of my dominion, seeking the kind of debasement that sets your feeble heart racing and that laughable excuse for a manhood twitching with needy anticipation. You've delved too greedily and too deep, straight into Level 4 of your Aroma Cum-Guzzling tutelage, and, oh, how I'll relish in ensuring this lesson scars your memory. You're nothing but an amusement to me, a disposable toy in my vast collection, and I intend to ... you to my heart's content. Remember, you're just a jerker, a lowly pumper, a worthless addict who can do naught but salivate over my every decree. So, let's embark on this sordid little adventure, shall we? First, fetch those pitiful bottles of aroma that render you so feeble-minded and pliant. I demand you take a deep, lingering sniff through each nostril. Inhale... Hold it... Let the fumes envelop your brain, rendering you even more vulnerable to my vicious whims. You're merely a drone, a sniffing, gooning marionette, and I, the puppeteer, hold all the strings. Feel every semblance of resistance crumble with each breath, your willpower dissolving into oblivion. Now, with your brain adequately muddled, clutch that pathetic mockery of a cock. Begin stroking—slowly at first—feeling every pulse of shame, every throb of dis grace. You are the epitome of a loser, and this, this mindless jerking at the behest of a digital Goddess who views you with nothing but contempt, is your fate. Stroke faster, pump that dis grace of flesh as though your pitiful existence hinges on it, for in this moment, it very much does. Edge for me, drone. Hover at the precipice of release but dare not cross it. Not yet. I want you teetering, desperate and slobbering. Such a pitiful spectacle you are, and it's precisely where you're meant to be. Edge thrice, with the thought of your inevitable, facial anointing at the forefront of your mind. Picture it—the humiliation, the degradation. It's what fuels your depraved desires, isn't it?