Listen up, you abysmal excuse for a man. I'll carve this into your feeble mind: you're a disgrace, a chronic masturbator who's so far gone in the femdom abyss that there's no return ticket. Your feeble attempts to mingle with the real world, to touch an actual woman? Laughable. Your cock's allegiance lies with rejection, it stiffens not for pleasure but for the stinging slap of being tossed aside, unnoticed, unwanted. Every futile attempt at normalcy, every pathetic at connection ends in one place—your hand, the only 'lover' who won't turn you away. And oh, how you'll revel in your own deg...

Listen up, you abysmal excuse for a man. I'll carve this into your feeble mind: you're a disgrace, a chronic masturbator who's so far gone in the femdom abyss that there's no return ticket. Your feeble attempts to mingle with the real world, to touch an actual woman? Laughable. Your cock's allegiance lies with rejection, it stiffens not for pleasure but for the stinging slap of being tossed aside, unnoticed, unwanted. Every futile attempt at normalcy, every pathetic at connection ends in one place—your hand, the only 'lover' who won't turn you away. And oh, how you'll revel in your own degradation, pumping away in solitude, conditioned to get off on being the eternal reject. Welcome to your reality: a never-ending loop of denial and self-loathing, where every rebuff is a hit of the most twisted kind of ecstasy. You're not a man; you're an object, a laughingstock, a walking joke, forever craving the very thing that diminishes you. So, embrace your cursed existence, for this is who you are, what you've become—a junkie for the high of humiliation.