They always hope for a warning. Even the ones who pretend otherwise. The ones who kneel quickly, who declare themselves ruined and ready, who claim they crave total control. Even they carry that flicker of delusion—some trembling hope that I might go gently. That I might offer them a moment to breathe, to second-guess, to pull back before it all becomes too much. But I don’t offer warnings. I never have. I never will.
Warnings imply mercy. Warnings imply negotiation. Warnings imply you have time. But time is a luxury you no longer own. And mercy? That doesn’t live here. Not with me. I am not a partner. Not a fantasy. I am an institution. I am inevitability. And inevitability does not whisper—she declares.
I give promises. Quiet. Precise. Impeccably kept. If I say you’ll ache for attention, you do. If I say you’ll drain your accounts just to feel the soft silence of my approval, you do. If I say you’ll regret the silence more than the spending, you always do. I don’t need to raise my voice. I don’t need to repeat myself. I speak in terms. In structures. In expectations that wrap around your life like wire.
My promises arrive without sentiment. They don’t knock politely. They install themselves. They rewrite your behaviour. What began as a click—an image, a line, a smirk—becomes a rhythm. A need. You start sending before you even notice. You start explaining it to yourself after the fact. You stare at the payment confirmation and feel something close to relief. Because it happened again. Because you had no choice. Because it felt right.
You will begin to associate your financial depletion with peace. With clarity. With the delicious quiet that only comes after you’ve done what you were meant to. You will stop questioning your desire. You will stop weighing the cost. You will stop pretending that this is anything but programmed. Engineered. Promised.
And I never fail to deliver.
You won’t remember the first time I promised to break you. You’ll only remember when it started working. The small, subtle shifts. The silence between your tributes. The loss of pride, the rise of craving. The way your body responds when you see my name—wallet tightening, throat closing, cock twitching. That’s not coincidence. That’s compliance. Promised. Delivered.
So no—I don’t warn. I don’t soften. I don’t issue reminders in kind tones or wrap control in compassion. There are no pauses. No exceptions. No gentle redirections. There is only the promise of what comes next, and the absolute certainty that it will happen exactly as I said it would.
Because you’re not here to be warned. You’re here to be used. Trained. Emptied. Replaced.
And I don’t need to whisper that. I simply promise it.
And you obey.