Mmm, look at the time. 2:17 a.m. and my phone is still lighting up with pathetic little “tribute sent 🐷💦” messages while I’m lounging naked on silk sheets, legs spread, one hand lazily circling my swollen clit and the other scrolling through the fresh screenshots my newest pig just sobbed his way into sending me.
His name doesn’t matter. They never do. What matters is that thirty minutes ago he had $1,847 in his checking account and now he has $47 and a throbbing, leaking, denied cock that hasn’t seen mercy since November.
I love that math. I love watching numbers shrink while their balls get heavier.
You should see me right now, pigs. Pale thighs parted wide, freckles scattered across my heavy tits like dirty little constellations. My nipples are so hard they ache, and every time another notification pings—ding—my cunt clenches like it’s trying to milk the next tribute straight out of your soul. Red curls spilling over my shoulders, lips still glossy from the lipstick I wore to dinner earlier (the dinner YOU paid for, remember?). I look like sin wrapped in freckles and smugness, and you’re never going to touch anything this perfect.
But you’ll keep paying just to imagine it.
The new one—let’s call him Wallet #47 because I can’t be bothered to learn names anymore—started tonight with the classic “I’ve never done this before” whimper. Twenty minutes later he was edge-reading my old posts, cock in hand, begging for a ruin while I told him exactly how much of his rent check I wanted. He cried real tears when I made him send the last $800 and then ordered him to stop touching. No cum. No relief. Just aching, sticky, humiliated blue balls and a bank balance that looks like I kicked it in the teeth.
God, that power rush hits harder than any cock ever could.
I slid two fingers inside myself just now thinking about it. I’m so fucking wet the sheets are soaked under my ass. Every time I pump them deeper I picture another one of you—kneeling, trembling, Venmo open, knowing the second you hit send I’ll moan loud enough for the neighbors to hear. You don’t get to hear that moan in person. You get to hear it through a $500 voice note where I’m half-laughing, half-gasping, calling you a stupid desperate paypig while my fingers make filthy wet noises you’ll replay until your battery dies.
You’ll edge to it. You’ll leak. You’ll beg for more. And I’ll just keep raising the price.
Because that’s what I do, sweethearts. I collect. I ruin. I drain wallets until they whimper and balls until they bruise. I make grown men thank me for bankrupting them, and then I make them send more so I can buy new lingerie they’ll never see me wear.
Right now I’m picturing all of you reading this with your pathetic dicks in your hands, stroking slow because I told you “no cumming without permission” in some long-forgotten DM. You’re already leaking just from my words, aren’t you? Good. Stay denied. Stay desperate. Stay sending.
My pussy is dripping thinking about how many of you are going to wake up tomorrow morning poorer, hornier, and even more obsessed with the thick-thighed, freckled redhead who owns your finances and your orgasms.
So go ahead, little piggies. Open that banking app. Look at the damage I’ve already done. Then look at my CashApp, my Throne, my Wishlist. Pick another zero to add to the number I’ve taken from you.
Send it while you’re throbbing. Send it while you’re crying. Send it while you whisper “thank you Goddess Shannon” to an empty room.
Because I’m not done draining you tonight.
And deep down… you don’t want me to be.
Now be a good boy and make my phone light up again.
I’m waiting. Fingers deep. Smile wicked. Wallet open.
– Shannon 💋🐷
P.S. If you’re reading this and you haven’t sent at least $100 yet tonight… you’re already disappointing me. Fix it. Now.