She started giving orders. Not to cum. Not to think. Just to edge. Always edging.
“Goon for me, idiot.“
“Edge on my thighs.”
“Loop this reel 50 times. Don’t blink.”
He obeyed.
He loved obeying.
The moment she sent a selfie with “#drainedpig” across her tits, he spent $200 without hesitation—and came too fast, too hard.
“Did I say you could cum?” she messaged.
He apologized.
She blocked him.
Two days later, she unblocked him—with one new message:
“Double your last tribute. Prove you’re learning.”
He sent $400.
That night, she finally said his name.
Just once.
Over a video of her laughing—naked this time, but blurry, filtered, fleeting. “Look what I do to you.” She panned the camera down to a stack of packages. Labels read: heels, perfume, silk robe, leather gloves. All things he’d bought for her.
And then the screen went black.
“Edge. And wait.”
He gooned for hours. No orgasm. Just loops of her teasing, riding pillows, biting her lip. Every stroke emptied a little more thought, a little more money. His cock owned him now. She owned his cock. So she owned everything.
Her next post was brutal:
📸 A picture of her toes. Caption:
“Rent’s due. Worship wisely.”
He drained his account.
That weekend, he skipped groceries.
Now she has a Goon Tier on her site.
$999/month.
No perks—just the honor of gooning in her name. His name’s on the list. So are hundreds of others. She calls them her “looped pets.”