Let’s skip the pleasantries. You clearly don’t read these bios for poetry and I certainly don’t write them for your edification. You’re only here because the blue light of your phone (or, better yet, your laptop monitor) is the only warmth in your lonely, hollow existence.
To the old couple down the hall from me, I’m the quiet girl in apartment 4B who carries their groceries to their door and wears oversized cardigans when the weather is cool. They’d never guess that beneath my tiny, innocent aesthetic lies a domme who treats grown men like disposable currency. But let’s be honest. Looks are a wonderfully, deliciously deceiving thing.

We both know the truth though, don’t we? We both know you’re trapped in an endless loop of manufactured intimacy, emptying your bank account just to hear the sound of my voice acknowledging your miserable existence. You feed on the scraps of attention I choose to toss your way (always for a price), mistaking my cruelty for affection. And honestly? It’s hilarious.

You sit behind your screen, convincing yourself that this time it’ll be different. Then I instinctively push your little boundaries into a little pink box until you break down and weep. Why? Because your despair is the best entertainment your own money can buy. And you love that I can destroy you.

You will kneel by my perfect little feet, begging for permission to breathe, while I systematically dismantle whatever remains of your dignity. And the most pathetic part of all? You love every second of being ruined. Even when it hurts. Even when the shame that floods your senses tastes like ash in your mouth.

So go ahead. Open your browser. Log into your account and check your balance one last time before you surrender it all to me.