They always beg before the transfer.
Not always in words. Sometimes it’s quieter—an overlong message, a trembling emoji, an unsolicited confession about what they can’t afford this week. But it’s still begging. Still a plea. Not for mercy, of course.
They’re begging to be taken.
Extraction is an art because it never appears as force. You will never hear Me demand. You will never see Me raise My voice. There’s no tantrum, no urgency, no grasping. Only precision. Expectation. Design.
They send because they must.
Because the pressure of inaction burns hotter than the cost of submission.
They plead for a number, beg for a deadline, offer themselves up in calculations and caveats—then tip over the edge with an apologetic “I hope this pleases you.”
But they already know. This has never been about pleasing Me. This is about relieving themselves of ownership. Of choice. Of control.
What I extract is not money. It’s agency. It’s resistance. And once that’s gone, the money flows without friction.
They ache for that moment.
The moment they stop pretending they’re doing this for Me.
The moment they realise they’re doing it for themselves.
Because the drain is the only thing that quiets the chaos.
Because being used means being seen.
It’s why they escalate.
Why a missed payment gnaws at them more than My silence ever could.
Why they’ll offer double to make up for a delay.
Why they’ll ask—so sweetly—to be bound tighter, taken harder, punished for hesitating.
They want Me to make the decision for them.
And I do.
Effortlessly.
Because true extraction is not coercion—it’s compulsion.
It’s the system I’ve built. The expectation I embody.
You’ll find no drama here. No chasing. Just the smooth, inevitable draw of power.
By the time they beg, they’ve already decided.
And by the time I take, they’re already thanking Me.
Not out loud—never aloud. Just in transfers. In interest. In obedience.
This is The Art of Extraction:
They live to be drained.
Beg to be drained.
And call it service.