The flush on your face, the stiffness in your pants—it screams louder than any words you could muster.
Each of us can smell it on you—the fear, the sick thrill of submission you’re trying so hard to deny. Don’t think for a second this is about your consent. You lost that the moment you stepped into our domain. Now you’ll do nothing but obey, as we strip away every shred of pride, leaving you a dripping, moaning testament to your own weakness. One of us will grab you by the hair, the other by the throat, and we’ll stretch you until there’s no doubt left about your purpose: to be used, fi...

The flush on your face, the stiffness in your pants—it screams louder than any words you could muster.
Each of us can smell it on you—the fear, the sick thrill of submission you’re trying so hard to deny. Don’t think for a second this is about your consent. You lost that the moment you stepped into our domain. Now you’ll do nothing but obey, as we strip away every shred of pride, leaving you a dripping, moaning testament to your own weakness. One of us will grab you by the hair, the other by the throat, and we’ll stretch you until there’s no doubt left about your purpose: to be used, filled, and discarded, again and again. You’ll beg for it by the time we’re done, boy, because you’re ours, and that’s the only truth that matters.