Luxury Exists for Me—And You Fund It.

Luxury is wasted on you.

It was never meant for your hands, never meant for your skin, never meant for your pathetic little life of limitations and lack. Luxury belongs to me. It always has, it always will. And you? You exist to fund it.

That’s the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say out loud. Every transaction, every tribute, every drained account is just another step in fulfilling the role you were always meant to serve—ensuring that my world remains adorned in the finest, the most exquisite, the utterly untouchable.

Oh, you try to rationalize it, don’t you? You tell yourself it’s just a game, just an indulgence, just a fleeting thrill—but the truth is far deeper, far more inescapable. You don’t choose this. You need this. You need to work, to struggle, to grind away at your insignificant little life, all so that I can live in effortless excess.

And I do.

The Things You’ll Never Touch

As you sit there, staring at your balance, knowing full well where your next paycheck is destined to go, I want you to picture something.

Picture the luxury you’ll never have. The pristine leather of designer handbags, the intoxicating scent of high-end perfumes, the delicate clink of crystal champagne flutes, filled with the finest vintage. Picture the crisp, freshly pressed silk against my skin, the softest cashmere wrapped around my shoulders as I lounge in utter relaxation—knowing that every moment of my comfort, my indulgence, my absolute pleasure, has been paid for by you.

You don’t get these things. You don’t even get to dream of them.

All you get is the bill.

Your Place in This World

It’s funny, isn’t it? How I get to wake up in sheets that cost more than your monthly rent, while you wake up to an alarm clock dragging you back to a job you despise. How I get to decide, on a whim, to indulge in something extravagant, while you stand in the grocery aisle debating whether you can afford to splurge on name-brand coffee.

And yet, despite all of this—despite the sheer, inescapable contrast between my world and yours—you keep sending.

Because deep down, you want this.

Not the luxury itself—no, that was never meant for you. You want the ache, the deprivation, the knowledge that your suffering fuels my indulgence. That every hour you spend working is another drop in my ocean of wealth. That every luxury I experience is made all the sweeter by the fact that you’ll never, ever have it.

And that’s what keeps you coming back, isn’t it?

The Cost of My Comfort

This morning, while you were shuffling through your mundane little routine, I was deciding whether I should spend your money on a new pair of heels or another spa day.

While you were staring at spreadsheets, answering emails, nodding along to yet another pointless meeting, I was sipping coffee brewed from beans sourced from a region you’ll never visit, prepared exactly to my liking, in a setting designed for my pleasure.

And tonight? Tonight, I’ll be wrapped in indulgence, sinking into luxury while you wrestle with the consequences of your devotion. You’ll feel the emptiness in your bank account, the tightening of your budget, the creeping realization that yet again, you’ve given more than you should. And yet… you’ll still crave more.

You’ll still send more.

Because you’re not funding a fantasy. You’re funding a reality.

My reality.

Your Debt, My Wealth

There’s something poetic about it, don’t you think? The way your earnings move from your hands to mine. The way you toil, sacrifice, and deprive yourself—all for the sake of ensuring that my life remains as indulgent and effortless as it was always meant to be.

It’s not just about money. It never was. It’s about control. About knowing that no matter how much you resist, no matter how many times you swear this is the last deposit, the last transaction, the last sacrifice—you will always come back.

Because you belong in this cycle. You belong in this debt.

And I?

I belong in wealth.

So, go on. Open your wallet. Send. Fund another indulgence you’ll never experience, another luxury you’ll never touch. And as you do, remember:

This was never a choice.

It was always your purpose.