Trushel knows exactly who he is: sissy pay pig—loyal, breathless, and utterly devoted. He doesn’t flinch when she raises an eyebrow; he straightens his posture, smooths the satin of his dress, and asks the only question that matters: “What would please you, Miss Deborah?”

The answer is rarely simple. Sometimes it’s a task list scrawled in lipstick on a mirror. Sometimes it’s a midnight errand in heels that click a little too loudly down the hall. And sometimes—especially on days when she feels like a queen—Deborah wants to watch him prove it. Prove his worship. Prove his obedience. Prove that a sissy pay pig glows brightest when he’s spilling generosity like champagne.

Trushel adores the assignment. He lines up the tributes like trophies: a bouquet delivered to her door before dawn, silk that feels like water against her skin, and tips—oh, the tips—stacked, sent, and confirmed with a glittering stream of receipts. Tip after tip, the numbers climb, and Trushel gets lighter, happier, sweeter. Each transfer is a little kneel. Each confirmation is a whispered yes, Miss.

When Deborah says, “Smile for me,” he becomes a smile. When she purrs, “Be brave for me,” he becomes brave: costumed, polished, and perfectly pretty—ready to flirt with men who can’t stop staring. It’s not about them; it’s about her. Every conversation becomes a love letter to Deborah’s power, a living advertisement for the standard she sets. And when the evening ends, the final tip lands with a satisfying chime, and Trushel’s chest swells with pride. He did well. He did as asked.

Deborah doesn’t have to raise her voice; her approval is currency all its own. “Good boy,” she says, casual as a sigh, and Trushel melts. Tomorrow he’ll do it again—more satin, more service, more sparkle. He’ll spend anything to make her world softer and brighter. He’ll do anything to see that slow, knowing smile.

Because this is his truth and his joy: a sissy pay pig with one purpose—pleasing Deborah. And if you’re wondering whether tonight’s gifts, flowers, and very generous tipping reached her… oh, sweet thing, the ledger is glowing. Trushel made sure of it, line by line, digit by delicious digit. Now he waits at her heel—polished, present, perfect—ready for the next instruction.