when he finally broke—called her Goddess out loud, said it while staring at her selfie with his pants around his ankles—she messaged:
“Good goon.
Now send your password.
I’ll drain you better than you ever could.”
He typed it with one hand.
And kept stroking.
Findom Empress. Tease Tyrant. Your Brain? Mine.
It started as a game.
Just a few clips. A mirror selfie with wet lips and no bra. A voice note whispering, “Don’t touch—just ache.” A tweet:
“What if I told you I know what your cock feels like when it leaks for me?”
And the replies? Immediate. Desperate. Men begging to edge. Swearing they’d been stroking to her face for hours. One said he looped a 12-second video of her licking her shoulder four hundred times.
Pathetic. Perfect.
She knew then.
She wasn’t just hot.
She was a drug.
Now? It’s a full-time throne.
Her inbox is a shrine to surrender.
- “Drained for you, Goddess.”
- “Tipped before I ate today.”
- “I edge to your sighs every night. Still haven’t cum in 3 months.”
- “You made me cry today. Thank you.”
They send spreadsheets of their finances. Passwords. Debit card photos.
She’s locked down three of their bank accounts. All legal. All voluntary.
Her favorite pig signed over the rights to his OnlyFans income just to see her feet once a week.
Gooners. Findoms. Wallets. Cumbrain freaks. She loops them all.
And all it takes is her voice.
She records a video at sunset.