You are no longer a man. Not a slave. Not even a body. You are my living condom, a meat sheath—slippery, warm, pliable—made not for pleasure but for servicing someone else’s cock. I prepare you. I lubricate you. I test your flexibility. And when the alpha enters, you’re no longer there. You’re stretched against him. His pulses move through your flesh, and I moan from real pleasure, not from you. You feel everything, but you’re only a shell. When he cums, you’re filled. Warm. Thick. With no right to orgasm. You are just a container, a biological sac for holding his seed. You are no longer a person. You are auxiliary tissue. A function. A soft, dense case into which his cock is shoved so I can be fucked for real. This is not your story. This is your reboot. You are no longer needed. You are used. Closed. Tied. Soaked.