It’s never just about the money. That’s the first mistake they all make – thinking this is a transaction, a purchase, an agreement between two parties. As if they’re buying something. As if they’re entitled to something in return.
But you’re not here for that, are you?
You’re here for the ache. For the tension. For the erotic agony of distance. You’re not funding pleasure you get to share. You’re funding a life that explicitly excludes you. That’s what makes it unbearable. That’s what makes it perfect.
When you send, I don’t thank you. I don’t smile for you. I don’t show you where it goes. I spend it as if it were always mine – because it was. Long before your trembling hand moved toward your wallet, before your breath caught at the thought of another payment, before you even knew my name… your money was waiting to become mine. You just hadn’t realised yet.
And now? Now, it slides so easily. From your account to mine. From your trembling consent to my unquestioned command. It happens quickly, fluidly, like silk slipping from skin. You barely register the amount until it’s gone, and even then, you’re hard. Harder than before. Not from the act itself – but from what it implies.
Because you’ll never know what I did with it.
You won’t get photos. There’s no haul video. No receipt breakdown. I won’t humour you with panty snapshots or a smirk over a glass of champagne. I won’t tell you which lover was touching me while I let the waiter swipe your card. I won’t confirm whether I moaned from the spa massage or something far more personal. I might drop a hint. I might let your mind wander. But I’ll never feed you the full picture. You’ll starve for it. Because withholding is half the seduction.
This is financial domination at its most refined. No barking. No bratty demands. Just expectation. Certainty. Quiet, elegant authority that wraps around your mind like cashmere – soft, warm, suffocating. You don’t need to be told what to do. You already know. You’ve been trained by your own desire.
Every transaction is a test. Not of obedience – you’ve already failed that. No, it’s a test of endurance. How long can you go on funding a life of luxury you’ll never taste? How far can your mind stretch before it breaks, knowing that your pleasure comes from being denied mine?
And still, you pay.
You pay because not paying would tear something in you. You pay because it hurts, and because that pain feels like purpose. You pay because some part of you hopes – hopes you’ll be noticed, praised, permitted a single glimpse of indulgence. But that hope is just another kink I exploit. Hope is the hook. And I reel you in every time.
Because the more you send, the more I rise.
I become unreachable. More elegant. More expensive. More occupied. You imagine the heels I select while you calculate if you can cover rent. You picture the lace against my thighs while your own clothes become threadbare. You dream of the suites, the candles, the delicate foods I order in foreign cities – while you lick crumbs from cheap packaging and pretend it’s enough.
It’s never enough. That’s the exquisite cruelty of it.
Because this is not about mutual satisfaction. It never was.
This is about loss. Controlled, eroticised, worshipful loss. You lose your money, your control, your sense of self. You hand over power willingly, aching to see what I’ll do with it. But I don’t show you. I don’t perform for you. I perform because of you. And that distinction? That’s what wrecks you.
You crave the moment I acknowledge you. That glance, that smirk, that line in a post where I allude – just allude – to something you might have funded. And you cling to it. You replay it. You send more.
But the deeper truth?
You’re not funding me to look at you.
You’re funding me to forget you.
You want to feel small. Used. Bled out and bypassed. You want to know you gave, and that I took, and that I’m thriving somewhere without you – draped in luxury, wrapped around another’s body, laughing, sipping, moaning – because of what you sent. That’s the dream, isn’t it?
To be the forgotten funder.
To be the silent, suffering financier of someone else’s pleasure.
To ache.
To ache with every breath, every login, every bank statement, every moment you realise: she doesn’t think of me. She just spends me.
And I do. Endlessly.
Because the truth is – I don’t need to thank you.
You’re not sending for thanks.
You’re sending for pain. The elegant kind. The kind that smells like perfume you’ll never buy. That looks like lipstick stains you’ll never taste. That sounds like laughter echoing off walls you’ll never enter.
And me? I’ll keep spending.
In silence. In stilettos. In luxury.