Miranda’s Wallet Drain: Pay for Every Teasing Inch

I don’t give anything away for free. Not a smile, not a whisper, not even the sight of my perfect arched foot in a Louboutin. You want to worship? You pay. You want to hear me moan your name? You pay more. Tonight I’m in the mood to drain, and you’re the lucky little paypig who gets to fund my pleasure.

It starts simple. You send $50 just to get my attention. The second that notification hits my phone, I let my robe slip off one shoulder. You see skin—soft, golden, flawless—and you’re already throbbing. But that’s all you get for fifty. Pathetic. Send another $100 if you want to see both shoulders bare. The silk slides down, teasing the swell of my breasts, stopping just before the good part. Your cock twitches, but your wallet opens wider. Good boy.

Now the real game begins. $200 buys you my bra unclasped—slowly, deliberately, the straps falling away while I cup myself, letting you imagine how heavy and perfect they feel. But you don’t get to see the nipples yet. No, no. That’s $300 more. When the tribute clears, I pinch them hard, moaning your username into the mic. You’re leaking already, aren’t you? Keep going.

$500 unlocks my thong sliding down my thighs. You watch it drop to the floor, see the wet spot I leave behind. I spread my legs just enough to show you how glistening I am from your desperation. But touching myself? That’s another $750. My fingers circle my clit while I tell you how worthless you are, how your entire purpose is to fund my orgasms. You send it instantly. Of course you do.

Now I’m fucking myself with two fingers, slow and deep, describing every slick sound, every pulse. But you only get to hear me come if you empty at least $1,200 more—right now. I count down from ten. If the money isn’t in my account by zero, I stop. I close the call. I leave you aching and denied. Most of you break at eight. The rest at five. And when that final ping comes through, I shatter—screaming, squirting, ruining myself while your life savings disappear into my account.

After I cum, I laugh—cruel, satisfied, victorious. “Thank you for the tribute, piggy. Now send again. I’m not done shopping.” You’ll do it. You always do. Because every inch of me costs, and you’re addicted to the price.

Ready to lose it all for me?