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Another one landed in my inbox, and you actually sat there believing your sad little handjob was going to impress me. So I hit play, dressed up for a night you weren't invited to, and I narrate every second of it back to you - the slack jaw, the eyes rolling, the weak buttering-toast wrist, the string of drool on your chin you were too far gone to notice. I mock your goon face frame by frame while you edge harder specifically because you can feel me watching, because you were never turned on by sex, you're turned on by being laughed at. Then I take the only thing you have: I stop you mid-stroke, hands off, and I deny you, because your orgasm was never yours to spend - and you obey instantly, which is the funniest part. I open the next video you sent and it's the same wide-eyed, twitching face, the same needy beta desperate to be owned and screenshotted and passed around, ruined by how much you love it. There's no relief waiting for you at the end of this, just my laughing on loop in your head, the knowledge that I keep every video you send me, and instructions to go back to your screen and fail beautifully for me.