He didn’t mean to follow her.
The first time was innocent enough—an explore page stumble, a late-night thirst trap: her in sheer red mesh, back arched, phone angled low to catch the swell of her hips and the smirk that promised ruin. A caption below:
“Don’t jerk yet. Just look. Just crave. Good boys wait.”
He obeyed without realizing.
And just like that—he was gooning.
The next night she posted again. Then again. He turned notifications on. Every time her thighs showed, his brain went soft. She wasn’t naked. She didn’t need to be. A new reel, lips glossed, whispering into the mic:
“Stroke slow. Don’t cum. Not unless I say.”
Her voice played like a spell. He looped the sound. Again. And again.
His hand barely left his cock anymore.
And then the link appeared in her bio:
💰 “Tribute for the privilege to crave me.”
He clicked before thinking. His cock twitched as the payment page loaded.
$30.
Caption: “Let me know you’re a good little paypig. Or leave.”
He paid. Fast.
A minute later:
“Cute. Try $100 next time.”
His phone buzzed. DM unlocked. She sent a short video—nothing but her licking a spoon slowly. No words. Just eye contact. And that smirk again.
He tipped $150.
And it still wasn’t enough.
She didn’t even call him by name. Just “wallet.”
She posted screenshots—anonymous tributes in the thousands. One guy sent her a whole paycheck. One maxed out a credit card just to buy her a latex catsuit.
“Findoms don’t beg,” she typed one day. “We command.”
He was already stroking when he read it.