I want you to imagine my stiletto heel pressing down on your chest. Not hard enough to kill, no—just enough to remind you that I could.
Got it open? Good.
Now, tell me: how much do you have?
…That’s it? Pathetic. You work all week like a good little worker bee and that’s all you have for your goddess? Shameful. But I’ll forgive you—if you’re willing to show some real tribute.
You’re trembling. I can hear it in the silence between your breath. That’s the sound of submission, baby. That’s what I live for.
Let’s rewind a little. Let me tell you a story. Our story. How you became mine.
You were just some stressed-out office drone. Swiping through your phone in bed at 3 a.m., ashamed of your urges. Your pants were around your ankles. Your bank account was untouched.
Then you found me. Found her. The voice that promised you pleasure, powerlessness, and permission.
Permission to fall.
To give in.
To stop pretending you were in charge of anything.
I remember your first call.
You thought you were in control.
You came in all confident, trying to talk back, trying to act like this was just a game. But I knew what you really wanted. I didn’t even have to raise my voice. I just told you—kneel.
And you did. Not physically, maybe. Not right away. But in your soul, in your pathetic little wallet—you dropped.