“Look at you, kneeling there, mouth open, trembling like the worthless little vessel you are. You’re not a man—you’re a receptacle, a pitiful, desperate object that exists solely to drink from me, to serve me. When I lower myself over you, when I allow you the privilege of catching my golden nectar, it’s not just liquid you’re taking in—it’s my control, my power, my disdain. Every drop you swallow reminds you of your place, beneath me, humiliated, degraded, and owned. My yellow juice isn’t just your drink—it’s your life now. You’ll beg for it, crave it, and depend on it, because that’s the ...

“Look at you, kneeling there, mouth open, trembling like the worthless little vessel you are. You’re not a man—you’re a receptacle, a pitiful, desperate object that exists solely to drink from me, to serve me. When I lower myself over you, when I allow you the privilege of catching my golden nectar, it’s not just liquid you’re taking in—it’s my control, my power, my disdain. Every drop you swallow reminds you of your place, beneath me, humiliated, degraded, and owned. My yellow juice isn’t just your drink—it’s your life now. You’ll beg for it, crave it, and depend on it, because that’s the only purpose your pathetic existence serves.”