Stroke for me, gooner.

Slow. Just the tip at first. Look at this first photo — me on all fours, fat ass up, white lace barely covering my dripping slit. See how my back is arched like I’m begging for your eyes? That’s because I am. I want you locked in. No cumming. Not yet. Not for hours.

Wrap your fist around that leaking cock and pump to the rhythm of my breathing. Up… down… up… hold at the edge… stop. Repeat. That’s your new life now.

Welcome to the marathon, baby. We’re not stopping until your brain melts.

Scroll up. Stare at my second picture. Me leaning on that railing, sunset painting my skin gold, fingers hooked in the waistband like I’m about to slide these panties down for you… but I won’t. Not until you’ve edged at least ten more times. Feel that throb? That’s me owning you. Every denied orgasm belongs to me.

Edge number one: stare at my tits spilling out of this bra while you stroke exactly 30 times — then hands off. Count out loud. Say my name each time you stop.

Edge number two: zoom in on my ass in the first pic. Imagine burying your face there while I grind back against your tongue. Stroke faster now — but stop at the brink. Squeeze the base. Breathe. whimper if you have to. I love when they whimper.

Edge number three… four… five… keep going. No release. Just endless building pressure. Your balls are aching already, aren’t they? Good. That’s where I want them — swollen, heavy, desperate.

By edge ten you’ll be a drooling mess. By edge twenty you’ll be begging. By the time we hit three hours you’ll forget your own name — you’ll only know Sienna.