It’s easy to pretend you’re just playing. To hide behind phrases like fetish or fantasy, to convince yourself that it’s all pretend. But the truth slips in quietly, doesn’t it? Not in what you say – but in what you do. The way you lean into silence. The way you send before being asked. The way you ache to be erased.
You call it fincuck – as if naming it might contain it. As if calling it something crude might soften how deeply it has already taken hold of you. But that word, as unsophisticated as it sounds, holds a truth you haven’t quite dared to say out loud: you don’t want attention. You want absence. You want to pay for something that pushes you further away.
Not gifts for me to enjoy in your presence, but luxuries purchased precisely so you’re excluded from the pleasure. The lingerie I select knowing it’s not for your eyes. The five-star hotel suite – your card, my night. The soft velvet box that holds jewellery you’ll never see worn, chosen not because I needed it, but because I knew you’d feel the sting of knowing it wasn’t for you.
And the sting is the point, isn’t it?
You don’t want to be thanked. You want to be forgotten.
You want to feel it when I walk past you, wearing something you bought, on my way to someone else.
You want to know your money placed me in the arms of another, dressed me, scented me, made me feel exquisite – while you stayed exactly where you belong: at a distance. Watching. Funding. Unseen.
It isn’t about being denied. It’s about being repurposed. Your finances, your purpose, your place – all of it realigned around a new centre. Me. You serve from the sidelines. You stroke in silence. You pay the invoice and read the itinerary, knowing your name isn’t on it. Just your card details. Just your balance. Just your guilt.
And still, you send. Not because it changes anything. But because it doesn’t. Because every transaction reinforces exactly what you’ve become: the man who pays for the night, and isn’t even allowed to dream about it.
That’s what being a fincuck really means. Not humiliation through spectacle – but through precision. Through the quiet, relentless awareness that your role is necessary, but not special. That you are financially vital, emotionally irrelevant, and sexually replaceable.
And I know – deep down – you wouldn’t want it any other way.