You feel it before you think it. That familiar tightness in your chest. That restless flutter in your stomach. The compulsion rising before you’ve even opened your banking app. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for logic to catch up. It just arrives – sharp, insistent, undeniable – and suddenly your fingers are moving, your account is open, and the transfer is processing before you’ve had time to calculate whether you can afford it. You can’t. But you’re sending anyway. Because the ache always wins.
I don’t need to demand. I don’t need to coax or plead or remind you what you owe. The system I’ve built doesn’t operate on commands. It operates on craving. On the exquisite, unbearable pressure that builds in the silence between tributes. On the knowledge that every hour you resist is an hour you’re fighting your own instincts. And your instincts? They know exactly what they want. They want to give. To empty. To prove their worth by making themselves less. That’s not submission. That’s inevitability.
You tell yourself you’re in control. That you’re choosing this. That you could stop whenever you wanted. But we both know that’s a fiction you maintain to feel less helpless. Because if you were truly in control, you wouldn’t be refreshing my profiles at three in the morning. You wouldn’t be calculating how much you could send without triggering overdraft warnings. You wouldn’t be feeling that sharp, sweet panic in your throat every time a notification arrives – hoping it’s from me, hoping it’s a new post, a new demand, a new excuse to open your wallet and feel that rush of relief when the payment processes.
This is not a transaction. This is an addiction. And I am very, very good at feeding addictions. Because I don’t give you what you want. I give you what you need – which is the ache itself. The wanting. The space between tributes where you simmer in anticipation, where every thought circles back to the same question: how much this time? How much to feel useful? How much to prove you’re still relevant? How much before the pressure breaks and you can finally, blessedly, breathe again?
And when you do send – when that payment clears and you see the confirmation flash across your screen – there’s that moment. That perfect, intoxicating moment where everything goes quiet. Where the noise in your head stops. Where you feel purposeful. Aligned. Correct. But that moment doesn’t last, does it? Because almost immediately, the ache begins to rebuild. The relief fades. And you’re left calculating again. Wondering again. Aching again. That’s the cycle. That’s what keeps you here. Not satisfaction. Never satisfaction. Just the brief interruption of pressure, followed by its slow, inevitable return.
I take because you need to give. That’s the truth you’ve been circling around since the first tribute. You don’t send because I’m beautiful or because my lifestyle deserves funding or because you’re hoping for attention. You send because holding onto your money feels wrong now. Because keeping it feels like resisting the only thing that makes sense. I’ve trained your nervous system to associate spending with relief. To link tribute with calm. To understand that the only way to quiet the noise is to give me more. And you do. Again and again. Because the alternative – sitting with that ache, that pressure, that gnawing need – is unbearable.
This is financial domination at its purest. Not the performance. Not the teasing. Not the promises or the praise or the theatrical cruelty. Just the ache. Just the need. Just the smooth, inevitable pull of compulsion that brings you back, every time, without fail. You are not here because you admire me. You are here because something in you broke open the first time you sent, and now you can’t close it. Now you need the drain. The depletion. The proof that you still matter in the only way that’s ever really counted – as a source of funds.
I don’t track your names. I don’t memorize your stories. I don’t catalogue your devotion or rank your tributes by sentiment. What I notice is volume. Frequency. Reliability. Whether you’re performing your function without disruption. Whether the flow remains steady. Whether my accounts continue to grow while you continue to ache. That’s what matters. You are not special. You are not unique. You are simply functional. And that functionality? That’s what you crave most. Not to be seen. Not to be praised. But to be used. Properly. Completely. Without hesitation or apology.
February is perfect for this. The cold makes everything sharper. The grey makes the luxury I document feel warmer by contrast. And you – caught between your dwindling balance and your rising need – you feel it more acutely than ever. The gap between where you are and where I am. The distance between your restraint and my abundance. Every post I write is a reminder of what your sacrifice funds. Every image I share is proof that your money moves more beautifully through my life than it ever did through yours. And that contrast? That’s what feeds the ache. That’s what makes you open your app again. That’s what makes you send.
You’re not trying to impress me. You’re not hoping to earn access or unlock some hidden tier of attention. You’re just trying to feel correct. To align yourself with something larger, colder, more permanent than your own desires. The Smyth Fund is not a fantasy. It’s a structure. And you’ve learned, slowly and expensively, that the only way to exist inside that structure is to pay. Consistently. Quietly. Without expecting reward. Because the reward isn’t acknowledgment. The reward is the absence of pressure. The brief, blissful moment after tribute where everything feels settled. Where you remember your place. Where the ache, temporarily, releases its grip.
But it always comes back. You know this. The relief is never permanent. The calm is never complete. Because I’ve designed this system to keep you circling. To keep you calculating. To keep you aching. And you wouldn’t want it any other way. Because the moment the ache stops, you stop mattering. The moment you stop needing to send, you stop having a reason to stay. And staying – being part of this, being useful, being drained – that’s the only thing that’s ever felt like home.
So you’ll send. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Not because I asked. Not because I’m thinking about you. But because the ache is rising again, and you’ve learned there’s only one way to make it stop. You’ll open your app. You’ll calculate what you can afford. You’ll send slightly more than that. And for a moment – just a moment – everything will feel right. Until the cycle begins again. Until the pressure rebuilds. Until the ache returns, sharper and more insistent than before.
And I? I’ll take it. All of it. Without ceremony. Without gratitude. Without acknowledgment. Because that’s what greedy women do. We take. We drain. We extract. And we do it with such elegance, such precision, such cold institutional authority that you mistake the process for structure. For order. For inevitability. And maybe it is. Maybe this was always going to happen. Maybe the moment you found The Smyth Fund, the outcome was already decided. Maybe the ache was always going to win.
It is.