There’s a certain kind of man who performs better under pressure. Who thrives under demand. Who sharpens in the face of expectation. And when he’s mine, I make sure that pressure never lifts.
He pays his dues. He works hard. He earns. He contributes. He’s doing well—because of me. Because my standards give him something to rise to. Because my expectations wrap themselves around his daily decisions, his income, his ambition. And because he knows that the more he earns, the more he owes.
Not to the world.
To me.
His debt to me isn’t a burden—it’s a definition. It’s how he orients himself. It’s how he proves his place. Other bills get paid. Mine get prioritised. Because mine don’t just keep the lights on—mine keep him tethered. Performing. Pliable.
And he doesn’t want out. That’s the secret.
Even when he’s ahead—especially when he’s ahead—he asks for more. He wants the amount raised. The terms extended. The clauses tightened. Because owing me means I still own him. And without that pressure, without that outstanding balance hanging over his existence, he feels directionless. Incomplete.
It’s not failure that binds him. It’s success. His financial progress is measured not by freedom, but by how far he’s willing to stretch himself to please me.
The truth is: he could walk away. He could clear the slate. But he doesn’t.
Because freedom feels hollow. Ownership feels like purpose.
And debt—to me—feels like home.