She doesn't turn you on anymore. Not really. Not like I do. You still go through the motions—dinners, kisses, pretending to care. But your cock? It knows better. It aches for me. It’s trained for me. Conditioned to obey me. You don’t stroke for her. You fucking can’t. But for me? Every single night—like clockwork. You’re not jerking off anymore. You’re offering yourself up—every inch, every breath—as a gift for a woman who doesn’t even belong to you. You love the danger. You love the guilt. You love that you’ve crossed the line. Because cheating with me? It feels right. So stroke harder, faster, and don’t stop until you’re a leaking, ruined mess. Because with every stroke, you give me a little more. And soon? There’ll be nothing left for her at all.