The Art of My Control.

The Art of my Control

The soft thump of ambient music floated through the dim room, barely louder than the hum of her computer. The glow of the screen flickered across her face, casting shadows that danced like secrets. Sandalwood and vanilla curled through the air. her signature scent. Familiar. Lush. A calculated presence.

She smiled, slow and deliberate, as the chime echoed through her speakers—another tribute. Another offering.

From him.

"Goddess, please use me."

She didn't reply straight away. Letting the silence stretch was half the fun. Her pulse quickened, a slow burn just under the skin. That phrase never got old, his desperation, his surrender. This wasn't about money, not really. It was about control. Ritual. Power wrapped in zeros and begging.

She ran one finger along her bottom lip, then typed, precise and unapologetic:

"Send $500 now. And address me properly."

She didn't hit send right away. She waited. Made him wait. It was all part of the game. Power lived in the pause.

Then

ping!

Payment confirmed.

"Thank you, Goddess,"

came the reply, quick and needy.

That was the start.

Rules followed: daily tributes, no exceptions. He'd message on her terms, not his. She demanded transparency, bank statements, income, savings. He gave it all up without question. His privacy, his pride. it all belonged to her now.

Every day he sank a little deeper. She watched it happen with satisfaction. This wasn't about humiliation alone. It was devotion, twisted and raw. She didn't just take, she redefined him.

The tasks grew bolder. More personal. She wanted his secrets. His fears. His weaknesses. And he offered them freely. "Worthless Wallet" became more than a screen name, it was who he was. Who

she

made him.

He was hooked. Chasing her approval like a fix. One cruel message from her could unravel his whole day. One "good boy" would light him up.

She asked for proof of pain, of debt, of his financial fall. Maxed-out cards. Overdraft notices. Pay slips drained dry. He gave her everything. Willingly.

Late one night, she leaned back in her chair, eyes locked on the screen, the room heavy with scent and silence. Her final demand was simple. Brutal.

"Empty your account. Show me your loyalty. Everything, now."

Nothing came for a moment. Then another. Her heart thumped slow and steady, certain.

Ping.

Payment confirmed.

She tilted her head, smiled. There it was. The end.

Her last message:

"Good boy. Now disappear."

No reply. Just silence.

She exhaled, let the moment settle into her bones. He was gone. The connection severed. But the rush lingered.

A goddess needs no crown. just a screen, a scent, and the sound of submission.

Tomorrow, there'd be another. There always was. And she'd be waiting.

End of The Art of Control.