I hate you, and you love that I hate you. Those big tits will keep you stroking no matter how little I think of you. Call it self-serving humiliation if you like, I’ll call it inevitable — the more pathetic you feel, the harder you pump, the clearer your place becomes.
Keep going, don’t stop until I tell you, and count every impatient heartache as proof that you belong beneath me. You’re trapped in this love-hate loop, and I enjoy watching you fail to break free.