Open. Wider. That isn't a face anymore. It's my inventory. Your jaw drops on cue while I run blowjob instructions slower than your reflexes can track, narrating the calibration like a clinician taking notes. Saliva pools. Shame thickens. The tremor at the hinge of your jaw is your gag reflex losing its last argument with my voice. I press the deep throat training in by inches, naming every twitch — the wet pop of your lips, the burn at the back of your tongue, the collapse of every masculine pretense you walked in wearing. This is femdom POV humiliation as anatomy lesson: your tongue reassigned to applicator duty, your airway leased indefinitely. Faggot training dressed up as blowjob encouragement, erotic humiliation framed as service. You finish swallowing pride with the rest of it. The mouth I just trained does not belong to you anymore.