Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
The notification pinged, a shrill, digital cry slicing through the quiet hum of Mark’s cheap laptop. He knew what it was before he even glanced at the screen. A DM from me. Or, more accurately, the DM. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the trackpad. It was Tuesday. Rinse day. The day his meager freelance earnings evaporated, funneled willingly into the digital abyss of my demands. He’d managed to tuck away a tiny bit extra this week, clinging to the hope of finally replacing his cracked phone screen. Now, that same phone mocked him from the corner of his desk, a constant reminder of his weakness.
Mark sighed, a sound like air leaking from a punctured tire. He knew the rules. He lived by them. Or, rather, he lived for them. The thrill of the chase, the delicious self-loathing as he emptied his digital wallet, the fleeting sense of purpose it gave him. It was pathetic, he knew. Utterly and completely pathetic. He clicked the DM.
The notification pinged
“Oink, oink,” the message read, stark and devoid of emotion. Attached was a link. His heart hammered against his ribs. Mark knew that could resist, that he SHOULD resist. He could finally get that phone screen fixed, maybe even treat himself to a decent coffee. But the urge, the almost primal need to obey, thrummed in his veins.
He clicked the link. It led to a crypto address. He looked at his bank balance. The phone screen could wait. Coffee was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He began transferring the funds, each click a tiny hammer blow against his own self-respect. As the transaction went through, another DM popped up, this one from a different username, one he recognized instantly – “Silken Siren.” My screen name.
“Good boy,” the message read, followed by a string of heart emojis. “Porn owns you. And so do I. Now let”s see how long you can goon, shall we?”
A shiver ran down Mark’s spine. He’d only had contact with me a handful of times, but each interaction left him reeling, a strange mix of shame and exhilaration thumping in his chest. He typed a reply, his fingers trembling. “Yes, Ma’am.”
The reply was immediate. “Sink deeper, ruin your life for fake oiled porn tits.” He knew what came next. The humiliating tasks, the demeaning requests, the endless stream of digital currency flowing out of his account and into the pocket of the woman who held him captive with the promise of…what, exactly? He wasn’t even sure anymore.
But as he navigated to the requested website, his cracked phone screen reflecting the glow of the monitor, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of…relief. The decision was made. The burden of choice lifted. He was owned. He was controlled. And in that surrender, he found a twisted, fleeting kind of peace. For now, at least. Until next Tuesday.
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
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