No chance, that's what ya got.

Not with a bubbly bimboi experienced at butch-bustin' currently renovating your faux-pussy, every boi-breeding inch seemed bent on training that prostate into a proper bitch-switch. Every centimeter of sickeningly sweet friction on that steadily awakening bundle of nerves makes you question why you bothered fighting when losing feels so -good-. A whimper barely escapes your permanently pouty lips before your neglected cocklette is throwing up the white flag, though it's the shuddery spasms around Candi's wrist-thick root that signals to her your surrender.

You try to bury your shame by hanging your head in defeat but Candi's having none of it, one sharp tug and she has a handful of your hair in an iron vice, keepin' that moanin' mug in center-frame and makin' sure to capture every second of your very first sissygasm for the camera. 'Oh Em Gee, Barbie-ian~. I, like, totes knew you were a bratty bitch but even most closet cases wait for a proper prostate pummeling before letting out their sissy spurts, y'know~', her voice dripped with enough sugary sarcasm to make your teeth ache even as she grinded her hips with agonizingly slow speed against your padded poundcake, churning that newly conquered cunt with her sissy dipstick to milk you, and this moment, for every drop.

'Don'cha worry about a thing, sissy-snookums~. Coupla' more trainin' sessions with moi~ and we'll get that rematch scheduled in nooooo~ time, maybe even turn into a Pay-Per-Spurt card.' Those lust-tinged words bounce around in your increasingly empty head as she moves your body into position like a life-sized 'Breed-Me' Barbie, feeling too tired and weak-willed to resist her further as she rears back to continue doling out her 'lesson'. She plays your body like an instrument, the steady tattoo of THWAP, PLAP, THWAP keeping chorus to the conga-line of moans drooling from your lips, all while pounding your prostate into paste for the masses.