Sia lounged on the sun-drenched deck of the chartered yacht, her tiny gold bikini barely containing her curves, designer sunglasses perched on her nose like a crown. The owner—some hedge-fund asshole twice her age—had invited her for the weekend, thinking he’d get a taste of her spoiled mouth for free. Big mistake. By day two, she’d already drained his crypto wallet for a new Birkin and a private island hop, but she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted total ruin.
That afternoon, while the crew pretended not to watch, she cornered him in the master suite. “Kneel, paypig,” she snapped, voice dripping venom and honey. He dropped like a stone, pants tenting pathetically. Sia straddled his face without warning, grinding her slick pussy against his mouth until he gasped for air, then yanked his head back by the hair. “You think this yacht is yours? Wrong. It’s mine now. Every inch.” She made him edge himself while she scrolled through his contacts, texting his wife a blurry pic of his tongue buried in her ass—caption: “He’s busy worshipping his new queen.”
Hours later, she had him bent over the railing, ass exposed to the open sea, while she pegged him slow and deep with her favorite strap-on, whispering how she’d bankrupt him for every thrust. “Beg for my allowance increase, daddy. Beg like the broke bitch you are.” He sobbed promises of wire transfers, cumming untouched across the teak deck as she laughed, counting the zeros in her app. By sunset, the yacht was re-registered in her name, his marriage in ashes, and Sia was already planning the next mark. Spoiled didn’t even cover it—she was a fucking empire, and men were just currency.