Look at you, trembling and desperate, your fingers twitching to grab that pathetic little nub you dare to call a cock. Go on, loser, I dare you. Stroke it for me. Feel that fleeting, worthless moment of pleasure while knowing what it costs you. Every pathetic tug makes your tiny cock shrink even further, disappearing into that mound of useless fat you call a body. And don’t pretend you’ll stop—your weakness is predictable, inevitable. You need this, don’t you? You need my voice to guide you, to push you into your own destruction. With every stroke, your belly grows softer, heavier, more dis...

Look at you, trembling and desperate, your fingers twitching to grab that pathetic little nub you dare to call a cock. Go on, loser, I dare you. Stroke it for me. Feel that fleeting, worthless moment of pleasure while knowing what it costs you. Every pathetic tug makes your tiny cock shrink even further, disappearing into that mound of useless fat you call a body. And don’t pretend you’ll stop—your weakness is predictable, inevitable. You need this, don’t you? You need my voice to guide you, to push you into your own destruction. With every stroke, your belly grows softer, heavier, more disgusting—until no woman would ever look at you without gagging. But let’s be honest, no one touches you anyway. You’re just a swollen, sweaty wreck, jerking off into your own shame because you have nowhere else to dump that useless ache in your balls. So go ahead. Stroke. Shrink. Get fatter. You know you can’t resist me.