Look at you, kneeling there, drooling like a broken faucet, your face already a disgusting mess of spit and shame. You’re not a man—you’re a pathetic, gagging little toy whose only value lies in how wide you can open that useless mouth for me. That throat of yours? It’s not yours anymore; it’s my playground. Every heave, every gag, every choking sound you make is proof of just how pathetic you are. You’ll never speak with authority again because your throat has only one job now: to serve me, to stretch for me, to take me so deep that your tears mix with your spit, dripping down your chest a...

Look at you, kneeling there, drooling like a broken faucet, your face already a disgusting mess of spit and shame. You’re not a man—you’re a pathetic, gagging little toy whose only value lies in how wide you can open that useless mouth for me. That throat of yours? It’s not yours anymore; it’s my playground. Every heave, every gag, every choking sound you make is proof of just how pathetic you are. You’ll never speak with authority again because your throat has only one job now: to serve me, to stretch for me, to take me so deep that your tears mix with your spit, dripping down your chest as a testament to your complete humiliation. Every time you gag, every time you choke, it’s a reminder of how weak you are and how powerful I am. You’re nothing but a slobbering, choking mess—a throat to be trained, owned, and used.