Insights

I leave on Friday.

Not for business. Not for a break.
For pleasure. For control. For use.

He’ll be waiting in Cornwall—obedient, eager, desperate to serve.
My submissive. My lover.
He exists for one purpose: to bring Me pleasure.

Not on his terms. On Mine.
He’ll do as he’s told. He’ll wait until I’m ready.
And when I am? He’ll make himself useful.

But just because he’s permitted to be in My presence doesn’t mean you are free from responsibility.
Quite the opposite.

A weekend like this has a cost—and you are expected to reimburse it.

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Airport Transfer – The Departure

$45. One ride to the terminal. One reminder of your place.

I don’t travel economy. I don’t queue for cabs.
You pay for Me to glide through the city without pause.

No thanks. No recognition. Just the quiet understanding that this is your job—covering My movement, while I prepare to be worshipped in person.

He gives Me his mouth. You give Me your money.

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Executive Lounge Access

$30.
While you sit in silence, refreshing My feed and hoping to be noticed, I’m reclining in the lounge—legs stretched, drink chilled, texting My submissive instructions he’ll follow without question.

You’ll never hear what I send him.
You’ll never know what I make him do.
But you’ll still pay for the space I enjoy while giving those commands.

That’s your role:
Not to serve directly.
To fund the time it takes to prepare him for Me.

He anticipates My every desire. You just cover the cost.

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Arrival Transfer – Cornwall

$50. The final leg. A coastal road. A submissive waiting on the other end.

He’ll be naked by the door. Eyes lowered. Hard already.
He’s not there to be loved—he’s there to be used.

You’ll never touch Me.
He will—because I allow it.
But the privilege of My arrival? Still your burden.

You don’t get to watch. You don’t get to beg.
You get to pay for the car that delivers Me to My pleasure.

He makes Me moan. You make Me money.

---

This weekend belongs to Me.
His body. Your wallet.
All serving the same purpose: My satisfaction.

The reimbursements are not symbolic. They are required.

I leave Friday.
He’ll be on his knees.
And you?
You’ll be scrambling to keep up.

(You Just Haven’t Fully Realised It Yet.)

You like to believe you’re in control, don’t you?

You wake up early, suit up, and step into your little role — proud of your title, your targets, your tidy little salary. You imagine you’re building something. That you’re climbing the ranks. That one day, all that hard work will mean something.

And yet, here you are.

Reading this.

Drawn, as ever, to me.

The truth is: you don’t work for your company. You don’t work for your boss.
You work for The Smyth Fund.
Every hour, every deadline, every frantic email — it’s all just a means to an end: growing my wealth.

You haven’t been promoted.
You’ve been positioned.
Higher earnings mean higher expectations.
More pressure, more stress, more responsibility… and all it earns you is the privilege of sending more.

You don’t get to enjoy your success.
You get to surrender it.

The more you earn, the more I demand. That is not a threat. It’s policy.

You don’t get a break. You get a budget to stretch — for my benefit.
You don’t get bonuses. You get directives.
And if you’re lucky — if you’re very good — I’ll let you feel useful.
Briefly.

Because here’s the most delicious part:
You don’t even hate it.

You like being pushed. You need to be told what to do with that money.
It unsettles you, doesn’t it? That no matter how hard you try to keep up, I will always be a few steps ahead — more demanding, more decadent, more deserving.

That’s the brilliance of The Smyth Fund.
I don’t have to chase.
I set the standard.
And you… you chase me.

So go on — keep checking your payslip. Keep pretending your career belongs to you.
But every time you refresh your banking app, remember: I already know what you should do with that money.

The only question is:
Are you finally ready to obey without delay?

I’m watching.

It’s funny how many of you believe your paycheck means something. That your promotion somehow earns you respect. That your success is yours.

Let’s clear that up.

If you’re under The Smyth Fund, your earnings are not for you. They’re for me.
Your raises? My tributes.
Your bonuses? My new heels.
Your overtime? Oh, how I love the desperation behind that.

You work harder, and I demand more.
You climb the ladder, and I turn it into a staircase I make you crawl up — wallet open.

The Smyth Fund isn’t interested in your excuses, only your outputs. And the more impressive they are, the more excess I expect.

There is no finish line here. Just a beautifully endless ascent — where I rise, and you reach deeper.

Ask yourself: are you keeping up with my expectations, or are you falling behind?
And if you’re falling behind… how do you plan to fix it?

There was a time when you thought money was yours. A time when your paycheck meant freedom, when a rising balance in your account brought comfort. But that time is gone, isn’t it? You’ve felt the shift. The way your thoughts have rearranged themselves, the way your desires have reshaped, aligning with something far greater than your own needs.

You wake up thinking about me.
You check your balance with me in mind.
You feel that undeniable pull, that irresistible conditioning taking hold.

Every interaction, every word, every tribute—each one strengthening the rewiring of your mind. You are not simply giving; you are evolving. Becoming something more. Something better.

The Slow, Delicious Shift

It started subtly, didn’t it? The first tribute, the first indulgent moment of sending. You told yourself it was nothing, a passing thrill, a one-time surrender. But what began as an isolated act became a pattern, a rhythm you couldn’t ignore.

The way your pulse quickens before a transaction.
The satisfaction that floods through you as the number in your account drops, knowing it’s in my hands where it belongs.
The way your thoughts orbit around me, financial devotion becoming less of a choice and more of a certainty.

It’s not just submission—it’s restructuring. Your brain has been rewired to prioritize me, my wealth, my comfort. Your financial habits have been reshaped, not by force, but by a craving. A hunger to obey.

You used to budget for bills. Now, you budget for me.
You used to worry about expenses. Now, you revel in them.
You used to hold onto money. Now, you let go—because letting go feels better than holding on ever did.

Turning Instinct into Obsession

What once required effort is now instinct. The more you give, the easier it becomes. The more you send, the more natural it feels. Your spending habits have been rewritten, like code overwritten by a stronger, more dominant command.

Your wallet twitches when you hear my voice.
Your fingers hesitate over a purchase—because deep down, you know that money isn’t meant for you.
Your mind whispers the truth before you even realize it: This belongs to her. Fix it.

And you do. You fix it. Again and again.

Because that’s the difference between you and everyone else, isn’t it? They still believe in ownership. They still believe in choice. But you? You’ve reached a higher understanding.

Money was never meant to be hoarded. It was never meant to sit useless in your account. It was always meant to be sent, to be surrendered, to be funneled into my wealth where it belongs.

A Mind Fully Rewired

You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The moment where you stop questioning. The moment where hesitation dies and all that remains is obedience.

The moment you realize that resistance is pointless.

It isn’t about what you want anymore—it’s about what I demand.

Every message, every trigger, every command I give only strengthens the neural pathways already forming in your mind. Your thoughts no longer serve you; they serve me. Your spending habits are no longer random; they follow a single, unbreakable rule: She comes first. Always.

And you love it.

You love the structure. The purpose. The relief of no longer needing to decide.

No more guilt. No more second-guessing. No more fighting the inevitable.

Just the ease of knowing exactly where your money belongs.

Your Future, My Design

There’s no turning back. You wouldn’t want to, even if you could.

Your mind is conditioned. Your desires are aligned. You are fully, completely mine.

And now, there is only one thing left to do.

Check your balance.
Calculate what can be sent.
And then—send.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because this is who you are now.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

You hesitate. You pause. You linger on the edge, questioning whether you should send, whether you should give, whether you should fulfill your purpose.

But hesitation is failure. And failure is unacceptable.

Because what you owe me is more than you’ve ever admitted to yourself. More than the numbers in your account. More than a simple tribute, a fleeting transaction. What you owe me is everything.

And deep down, you know it.

The Weight of Obligation

It’s amusing, really. The way you convince yourself that this is a choice. That your hand hovers over the payment button out of free will, that your reluctance means something. As if your purpose isn’t already written into the very core of who you are.

You were never meant to keep your money. That’s why it burns in your hands. That’s why the weight of your wallet feels like an unbearable pressure, a responsibility you were never meant to shoulder. You were never meant to hold onto wealth—you were meant to give it to me.

You feel it, don’t you? That suffocating sense of obligation. That ache, deep in your chest, whispering that you aren’t doing enough, that you aren’t giving enough, that you aren’t serving enough.

It gnaws at you in the silence. It lingers in the back of your mind when you check your balance, when you stare at your pay slip, when you see a number that should bring you relief but instead fills you with guilt.

Because you know.

You owe me.

And every second you hesitate to make things right, you only make it worse.

What Is Yours Is Already Mine

Let’s not pretend this is some casual indulgence. This is not a game. This is your reality.

Every penny in your account? Already mine. Every paycheck you receive? Already allocated, already spoken for, already destined to be surrendered.

You don’t truly believe that money belongs to you, do you? Not really. Because if you did, it wouldn’t feel like this.

It wouldn’t feel like a struggle every time you hold onto it. It wouldn’t feel like you’re betraying something fundamental when you hesitate to send. It wouldn’t feel like a mistake every time you delay fulfilling your obligation to me.

And that’s exactly what hesitation is. A mistake.

How disgusting. How shameful.

To think you would hoard what was never meant for you. To think you would delay in fulfilling the one thing that makes you useful.

Because that’s what you are, isn’t it? A vessel. A means to an end.

And yet, here you are, clinging to what is mine, as if your pathetic attachment to numbers on a screen changes the truth.

Fix It. Now.

I don’t have time for your uncertainty. Your weakness is not my concern.

I am not here to soothe you. I am not here to tell you that you are enough. Because you aren’t. You will never be enough.

Not until you give more. Not until you prove yourself.

Your hesitation? Unacceptable. Your excuses? Worthless.

This is the part where you fix it.

This is the part where you stop pretending you have control and act.

Because the only thing standing between you and absolution is a simple, inescapable truth:

You owe me more than you know.

And it’s time to pay.