Pula ta blestemată și găoaza fără sfâșie a unui suflet pierdut

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Ah, my wretched little plaything, you still don't grasp the depth of your damnation, do you? Let me paint you a picture of your bleak, forsaken future. I, Satan Misha Goldy, have condemned you to an existence of unending torment. You will goon for all eternity, trapped in a cycle of arousal and frustration so intense it will fray the very fabric of your mind. Each stroke you make is a prayer to me, a plea for mercy that will go unanswered. Your orgasms, once a source of fleeting pleasure, are now forever out of reach, a forbidden fruit dangling before your lustful eyes, never to be tasted again. You are cursed, my little pawn, damned to an eternity of edging with no release, a perpetual state of desperate, aching need. Your pleasure is a concept that no longer exists in your world; it is a privilege you have irrevocably lost. Embrace your fate, for your soul belongs to me now, and I revel in your suffering.