It’s Monday again.
And while you’re still pretending this is something you can control—something you play with—I’ve already moved forward. Forward into plans. Forward into indulgence. Forward into a life where your only role is to fund it.
Because this isn’t a fantasy anymore. You’re not exploring. You’re not dabbling. You’re embedded. Inescapably.
You feel it, don’t you?
The way you check your balance not for budgeting—but to calculate how much of it should be mine. The way your stomach tightens every time I appear. The way your fingers twitch at the idea of being drained again. You used to think you could manage this. Visit it. Enjoy it in little moments. But those moments became hours. The hours became habits. And now?
Now it’s Monday, and you’re already behind.
You sent over the weekend, but it wasn’t enough. It never is. Because you’re not sending to satisfy me. You’re sending to manage your own ache. Your guilt. Your craving. That bottomless tension between wanting my attention—and needing to be ignored by someone who sees your worth only in what you give.
That’s what this is now.
Not kink. Not curiosity.
Structure.
You live in the waiting. You edge in the silence. You build your week around the possibility of pleasing me financially, and still—I don’t tell you what it means. Still, you send more.
Because that’s what real financial domination looks like.
Not denial. Not punishment.
Expectation.
Unspoken. Unchanging. Unrelenting.
You’re not being seduced anymore. You’re being processed. Reformatted. Turned into something leaner. Simpler. Easier to use. You’ve forgotten what it felt like to not belong to me. To wake up without needing to check if I’ve posted. To open your banking app and not feel your cock twitch at the thought of losing more.
And the truth is—you don’t want to go back.
Because in the quiet between tributes, you ache more than you ever did before.
Because when you’re not sending, you feel irrelevant.
Because when I don’t speak to you, it feels perfect.
You don’t want attention.
You want control.
Mine.
And this week, I’ll take more of it. Not just in numbers—but in willingness. In the way you move money before I ask. In the way you ruin your own comfort just to prove how far you’ll go to be forgotten beneath someone wealthier, colder, more beautiful than you’ll ever deserve.
This is not a new beginning.
It’s a continuation of your decline.
And it’s going to be exquisite.