My girlfriend is already amused, watching just how low you’ve sunk. Your life consists of cleaning the house, polishing my boots, and public humiliation while running errands in that shirt that says "Property of Sir Alex Nax," with cashiers and construction workers laughing at you. And now, here you are, on your knees, in your pathetic pink panties and bra, with your smooth body and your worthless cock locked in a metal cage because you’re not even worthy of feeling like a man. Look at how turned on she is by the control I have over you. She’s already wet from watching you crawl at our feet, obeying my commands like the pathetic loser you are. You don’t exist outside your role—a useless, spineless slave who lives only to serve and endure humiliation. You understand you’re not a man, right? You’re a miserable excuse for a human, and that’s why you’ll forever be on your knees before us. Soon enough, my initials will be branded onto your pathetic ass—an eternal reminder that you belong to me, like livestock. This isn’t just a tattoo, it’s a brand. Every kiss you place on my cock and balls isn’t just an act of devotion; it’s a confirmation of your worthlessness, a reminder that you’re nothing. And every time I order you to lick, you do it with eagerness, knowing you have no other choice. This is your life now—you’re our slave, our object for humiliation, and you love it.