Cock Control with Devastating It's Denial of True Release

Cock Control with Devastating It’s Denial of True Release

Cock control is something of a specialty of mine. In fact, as the young hot milf I am with little pageant whores, who am I to miss such an opportunity of power.

So, I catch him staring at their photos again—the ones on the fridge, the school portraits on the mantle. Furthermore, his eyes linger too long on my little girls’ innocent faces, and a cold thrill slides through me.

Obviously, he doesn’t seem to think that I notice it. But I see every twitch, every swallow, every pathetic adjustment he makes in his pants.

So I use it.

First, I pour him another drink, brush my tits against his shoulder as I lean past. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I whisper, nodding toward the picture of my youngest in her pink dress.

Then, his throat bobs, his breath hitches, and I watch the shame and lust war on his face. Ultimately, that’s my leverage—the dirtiest secret he thinks he’s hiding.

Next, we go to the couch, where I sit close enough that my thigh presses his. Meanwhile, I talk about them—their giggles, their sleepovers, and all the little girls that get giggly here. Therefore, I speak of the way they run around in just their panties on hot summer days.

Cock Control, It’s Purely About Control

Obviously, his cock strains against his jeans, and I let my hand drift, hover, tease. Undeniable, he’s shaking, desperate, convinced he’s about to get everything he’s fantasized about.

After that, I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “You want to touch them, don’t you?” Now his moan is broken, guilty, hungry. So, I smile, slide my palm flat over his bulge, feel the heat and the throb. Meanwhile, He bucks into my hand, and I squeeze, just enough to make him gasp.

But then I stop. Pull back. Ultimately, leave him hard, aching, leaking against his zipper. “Too bad,” I purr, standing up. “Those little girls are mine. And you’ll never get near them.” So, I walk to the door and hold it open. “Get out.”

Shamefully, he stumbles past me, cock still straining, face crimson. Next, I close the door, lock it, and laugh. Now, that’s the game—dangle the filthiest temptation, then yank it away. Of course, He’ll be back. They always come back. And I’ll always leave them emptier than they arrived.