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The moment Uncle's car disappears down the driveway, the atmosphere in the house shifts. It grows thick and heavy with a forbidden electricity. Aunt Elsa's usually cool and dismissive eyes lock onto yours with a predatory gleam. It always begins the same way: a dropped vase, a misplaced book or a fabricated slight that she hangs around your neck like a noose. 'You've been a very, very naughty boy,' she'll purr, her voice a silken threat. Then she makes you fetch the cane. But her punishment is not only painful. It also serves to tend to the neglected heat between her thighs, with your mouth becoming the instrument of her release. She will use you, drain you and leave you breathless and trembling — a secret kept in the suffocating silence of a house where she is the absolute queen and you her willing, helpless subject.
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