I Sit. You Send. He Suffers.
I’ve just arrived.
He’s on the floor already—naked, silent, waiting.
And as I lower myself onto his face, something shifts. Not just in him.
In me.
Because while he serves my body, you will serve something else entirely:
The moment.
You won’t call.
You won’t speak.
You’ll send—silently, desperately, obediently.
And he won’t know. Not at first.
Not until I shift slightly.
Not until I let out that low moan.
Not until I press down just a little harder and he realises—I’m reacting to something else.
He can’t see the screen.
He can’t see the tribute notifications.
But he feels what they do to me.
Every buzz of my phone, every alert, every quiet deposit from afar—your tributes ripple through me and land on him.
He tastes what you’re doing.
He feels my arousal grow.
And he knows he’s not the only one being used tonight.
You’re not sending to earn anything.
You’re not part of the play.
You’re the fuel for it.
And when I finally look down at him? When I whisper that someone just sent $250? $500? $1000?
That’s when he breaks. That’s when you break.
Because in that moment, he’s inside me, and you’re outside everything—but still paying for it all.
You’ll never be here.
You’ll never touch me.
But you will fund my pleasure.
And I’ll let him feel every last dollar of it.
Silence is obedience.
Tributes are permission.
And this weekend, I expect both.
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