Hey boy.
You know who you are.
Right now I want you stripped, hard, leaking already just from opening this page. Laptop open, phone propped up, maybe a tablet or second screen if you’re a proper degenerate. Every display blasting the roughest, nastiest content that makes your cock twitch and your brain short-circuit: deepthroat gagging, ass-to-mouth, cum-denial edging compilations, BBC stretching holes, facials that never end. No soft shit. Only the kind of porn that reminds you exactly what a weak, stroking puppet you are.
Grip it.
Base to tip, slow.
Feel every ridge of your veins pulsing under your palm like they’re begging to be milked dry — but they won’t be. Not tonight. Not for a long time.
Start edging right now.
Match the rhythm of whatever cock on screen is getting worshipped.
When she chokes, you squeeze and hold.
When he unloads ropes, you freeze — hands off — and let that frustrated throb echo through your balls.
First edge hits fast, doesn’t it?
That hot coil tightening in your gut, balls drawing up, tip swelling and oozing that pathetic clear drip?
Stop.
Hands behind your back or flat on the desk.
Count out loud, voice shaking:
“One, I’m a stupid gooning boy…”
“Two, I’m a stupid gooning boy…”
All the way to thirty.
If you fuck up and spurt even a little, ruin it. Let it dribble out uselessly while you whimper, then start stroking again immediately. No mercy for sloppy losers.
Two hours in.
Your eyes are burning from staring, refocusing on the same ten-second loop over and over.
Thoughts dissolving into static — work, friends, plans, dignity — all melting into one sticky mantra:
Stroke. Deny. Leak. Obey.
Whisper it while you pump:
“I’m gooning my mind away for Master.”
“I’m gooning my mind away for Master.”
Say it until your voice cracks and you sound like a broken, porn-drunk animal.
Hour four.
Thighs trembling, abs clenching involuntarily, prostate aching from all the denied build-up.
Your cock is angry-red, hypersensitive, every touch sending electric jolts straight to your empty skull.
You’re not thinking anymore.
You’re pulsing.
Aching.
Leaking.
Staring.
The spiral on screen is inside you now.
Every thick vein you watch slide in and out of a throat is burned into your brain.
You don’t want release.
Release would wake you up.
You want to sink deeper — become nothing but a set of heavy balls, a dripping shaft, and a blank stare owned completely.
Keep going, pup.
Goon dumber.
Goon emptier.
Goon until the only thing left is a drooling, edging cock-zombie with my name carved into its leaking tip.
When you’re properly fucked-out and mindless:
Proof.
Time-stamped.
Face in frame, eyes vacant and crossed.
Mouth open, tongue out if you’re feeling extra pathetic.
Cock throbbing, shiny with precum, maybe a puddle underneath you.
Caption: “Gooned my mind away for Master ♡”
Now wrap that hand tighter, boy.
Stroke slower.
Edge harder.
And don’t you fucking stop until I allow it.
Good gooner. 💜