It's Friday night. Your paycheck hit hours ago - and you haven't touched a single pound. Not for groceries. Not for rent. Not for fun. Because you already know what it's for. It hums in your account like a live wire, every number pulsing against your better judgment, making your cock ache with purpose. You tell yourself you'll hold back this time. But we both know the truth.
You're not even thinking about what you'll keep. You're thinking about how fast you can send. How deep you can go. How good it'll feel when it's gone. You're not here to spend wisely. You're here to empty it. To give it over. To ache for approval you'll never quite receive. Because that's what Friday night means now: stroking to the sound of loss.
This isn't your payday. It's mine. You're not celebrating. You're submitting. And when I've taken it all? You'll be left right where you belong - aching, obedient, and broke.
It's Friday night. Your paycheck hit hours ago - and you haven't touched a single pound. Not for groceries. Not for rent. Not for fun. Because you already know what it's for. It hums in your account like a live wire, every number pulsing against your better judgment, making your cock ache with purpose. You tell yourself you'll hold back this time. But we both know the truth.
You're not even thinking about what you'll keep. You're thinking about how fast you can send. How deep you can go. How good it'll feel when it's gone. You're not here to spend wisely. You're here to empty it. To give it over. To ache for approval you'll never quite receive. Because that's what Friday night means now: stroking to the sound of loss.
This isn't your payday. It's mine. You're not celebrating. You're submitting. And when I've taken it all? You'll be left right where you belong - aching, obedient, and broke.