By the time Friday arrives, the shape of your week is no longer yours. It’s mine. Bent, twisted, refined into something quiet and obedient. You don’t send because I ask. You don’t ache because I tease. Those phases have long passed. Now, you send because it’s reflex. Because I exist. Because by the end of the week, I’ve already seeped into everything.
I don’t need to remind you. I don’t need to appear, to command, to coax. I’ve cultivated you past that point. And so you find yourself watching – again – hovering over your accounts, calculating what you can live without. And more importantly, what I can live with. The answer, of course, is always the same: more.
More funds shifted. More silence sent. More sacrifices made for a woman who doesn’t offer thanks, who doesn’t offer praise, who may not even notice – but who always expects. Always deserves. Always receives.
I could be anywhere. Out in London, card in hand, shopping for jewellery you’ll never see. Draped in something soft and new. Dining in a private club while my laughter rises over crystal. Or I could be home – bare, soft, lounging – reading over your name without reacting. Either way, your role doesn’t change. Your function is fixed. You pay.
And the cruel part? That certainty arouses you more than any explicit scene ever could. You don’t want to watch. You don’t want to be involved. You want to fund. Quietly. Invisibly. Permanently. Because what makes you hard isn’t access – it’s absence. It’s that unbearable distance between your tribute and my pleasure. The sharp, exquisite ache of knowing I’m indulging – without you.
You don’t want to be mentioned. You want to be missed – in the financial sense. You want to feel the sting of being used, not for spectacle, but for satisfaction. For my convenience. For my beauty. For the luxury of my lifestyle.
And you know, even now, as you read this – hard, humiliated, helpless – that by the end of the day, you will have sent something. Not because I asked. But because you were always going to. Because even when I’m silent, I’m still in control. Because my comfort is the currency your desire trades in. Because you’re hard for the gap between what you give and what you’ll never get to see.
Because it’s Friday. And I’m spending.
And you’re paying.
Because that’s what you were made for.