Kneel before the porcelain throne, you wretched worm. I command you to grip that pathetic, ringed nub and pump until your filthy essence splatters the rim like a disgraceful offering. Watch it drip, mingling with the grime—now lap it up, tongue delving into every crevice, swallowing your shame while I tower over you, my laughter echoing in this den of degradation. Your tears mix with the residue, proving your utter submission to my cruel whims. Beg for more, slave; your torment is my delight.
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