Madam Madeline

You’re just another pathetic little wallet for me to drain. On your knees, cabrón. Look at you—desperate, weak, obsessed. You crave my voice, my power, my disdain. Every dollar you send is a confession of your inferiority. You’re not a man—you’re my cash machine. You exist to fund my life, my luxuries, my pleasure. And you love being used, don’t you? Say it. Say you live to serve your superior Latina goddess. Because that’s all you are to me—a worthless paypig with a purpose: to please me with your money, and suffer without it.