Wish You Were My FinCuck?

You dream. You listen. You ache.

You wish you were my FinCuck—the one who works endlessly to keep me in luxury, the one whose every overtime shift, every exhausting hour, every paycheck is poured directly into my indulgence. While you sit there dreaming of serving me, he’s actually doing it.

And now? You get to eavesdrop on exactly what that feels like.

This isn’t some scripted tease. This is real. A genuine call with one of my devoted FinCucks, a pathetic little workhorse grinding through 12-hour shifts just so I can live decadently. While he begs to serve, I remind him of his place—mocking him, draining him, controlling him completely.

And you? You’re just listening in. Just another voyeur, lurking on the sidelines, desperate to be noticed, desperate to be used the way he is. But let’s be honest—you don’t measure up, do you?

Still, I’ll allow you a taste. Listen. Suffer. Accept the truth. Then send. Because watching from a distance isn’t enough anymore, is it?

Find out where to buy it here.