“Good boys don’t think,” she said, “good boys just sink.”

Normally, such a silly, simple rhyme wouldn’t have hit you as hard as it did.

But you were already stroking your cock.

On your knees.

Had she told you to do that?

It just felt natural.

And it felt SO GOOD.

“Good boys don’t think,” you said, “good boys just sink.”

You already couldn’t stop the smooth motion of your hand, and now you couldn’t stop your lips forming the words.

She was locking you in the pleasure loop again.

It felt too good to fight.

“Good boys don’t think,” you said, moaning. “Good boys just sink.”

She nodded, pleased, and stroked your hair. Your eyelids fluttered, but you didn’t break the tempo of your stroking. Of your mantra.

You couldn’t stop. You couldn’t think.

Good boys don’t think.