You’ve been edging for hours — panting, leaking, forgetting everything but this cock, this voice, and the woman you’re not supposed to want. Your girlfriend’s in bed, texting you sweet things, thinking you're loyal. But your body already made the choice. You’re too far gone to pretend. No more guilt, no more shame — just a brainless, dripping gooner lost in obsession. This isn’t about pleasure anymore. This is about who owns your strokes, your mind, your ruined edge. And we both know it’s not her.