All characters in the story are over eighteen. Tags: findom, financial domination, femdom, autobiographical
This story is a work of fiction, based on my experiences as a financial dominatrix while I was studying for my undergraduate degree.
If I were still a findom, I would never have posted this story, which undermines the myth that findommes try so hard to preserve, that we're perfect, that we're Goddesses. In this story I exhibit weakness and doubt, the two biggest character traits a true domme must eschew.
I practice mind control techniques, especially hypnosis and neurolinguistic programming. And, really, findom really is all about mind control, which is why this story is in that category.
English is not my first language. Thanks to my slave subjoey who showed his devotion to me by correcting my imperfect English and transcribing my audio clips. Any mistakes in the story are his fault 😈
* * * * *
I was born to be a findomme. It's not an act with me, it's my nature. You only have to take one look at me, and you'll instantly see that I have something about me, a kind of aloofness, almost an arrogance: My eyes and smile challenge you: "I'm beautiful, devastatingly hot, and I'm aware of it. Now show me how much you want me."
If you're self-confident man, good-looking, strong and dominant, you might rise to the challenge: You begin by trying to impress me with your charming smile, your fit body, your intelligence, verbal skills and wit. But all your attempts are all to no avail.
And when I show nothing but disdain for your failed seduction, you angrily switch tack: You say to yourself "who the hell does she think she is?" and become aggressive, sarcastic, rude. But now I laugh in your face, humiliating you.
You really ought to walk away at this point.
But you don't: Instead, you brandish your Rolex, and drop hints about your second home and your Ferrari. And now you detect in my eyes a flicker of interest: You've got my attention. You say to yourself, "So that's how I can get to her."
Now you're on familiar territory: It's now a business deal -- she's just a hooker, you realise, and all you have to do is negotiate a fair price. But you don't know the game: There is no price. You will never afford me. If you're lucky, it might take you only a short while to realise this, and you turn away, ready to walk away for good, with nothing worse than wounded pride and a tinge of regret that you're just not rich enough for me.
As you turn away, defeated, I stop you in your tracks and tell you this:
Idiot, do you think I need your money? I have all the slaves I need, and I'm not looking for any more. They provide me with an income that would make you gasp, revile and hate me for my vast, ill-gotten wealth, call me nothing but an evil, greedy manipulative bitch, nothing more than an overpriced, arrogant hooker. But deep down you know the truth, which is that the evil is in your own soul, not mine: It's your own envy of me that tries to make me the evil one. You can't bear to see a powerful, beautiful, intelligent successful woman who you know you can never have.
Now, perhaps you aren't that sort of guy at all: Perhaps you have low self-esteem, and are shy. You're a rarer breed of man, for whom the idea of a powerful, beautiful successful woman is a turn-on, not because she is a challenge for you to conquer and take for your own, but because you long to submit to her, and raise her even higher, until she becomes a Goddess.
You immediately feel a temptation to flatter me, to ingratiate yourself. You may not even notice this temptation, so subtle and subliminal, so gentle -- at first. But, caught in my gaze, that urge to please me grows until it becomes a sweet, aching, yearning to get down on your knees and beg for my attention, to yield to my commands to you, to give your money, surrender your will; hoping for nothing in return other than to hear me say to you,
"Good Boy."
And as you sink to your knees, your cock bursting with unrequited lust, I repeat the trigger words and say:
Good Boy. Tribute your Goddess.
It's for you, my good, obedient slaves, that I write this story.
* * * * *
When I was ten, every morning while walking with my three brothers on our way to school I used to look up at the big houses on the hill overlooking my town and the sea beyond it, where all the wealthy people lived, I'd wonder what it would be like to live there with so many rooms, compared with my family's small apartment with its single bathroom and three bedrooms for all six of us.
One day, my brothers and I stopped at the big iron gates of one of those houses and peered through the gap between the gates. We could see a lovely garden, like paradise; metallic-green hummingbirds hovered over crimson bougainvillea, and right in the centre of garden was a big, azure swimming pool, sparkling in the sunshine. There was a beautiful woman swimming in it. She stepped out and walked elegantly to a lounge chair, and sat down to sunbathe. She was really beautiful with her long legs, curvy shape and her long blond hair; she looked like an angel to me. My brothers, who were all older than me, and already teenagers, made jokes about her sexy body, but I just fell into a dream that one day I would be that beautiful angel, getting out of my own swimming pool, and living in a big house like that one, with all those rooms.
It took me just three years after leaving university to make my dream come true. I knew, all the way back then, as a kid of ten years old, that it was inevitable -- it was my destiny to achieve my dream.
My nearest neighbour, who I guess is some kind of crooked businessman, lives in a house 100m below mine. For a while after I moved in, he would spy on me whenever I swam naked in my pool, watching me through binoculars from his sundeck. But then he stopped doing that after a few weeks. I think he stopped because it made him so envious. I liked taunting him with my luxurious lifestyle. My house is bigger than his, my car is faster than his, and my view of the sea is better than his. And my body is way hotter than his wife's, or his mistress's, or whatever she is.
I was blessed with a beautiful face, and perfect shape, thanks to my mother, who was a model and is still beautiful. Now I can afford the best personal training and beauty treatments, and they've made me look even hotter. I have to tone it all down when I'm out and about, but even so, I receive slack-jawed stares from the guys, and jealous scowls from women. And that's when I'm just wearing casual slacks and a loose tee-shirt, and almost no makeup.
My good looks certainly helped me become successful, but looks aren't necessary. Quite a few very successful findommes are really nothing special to look at. What you need above all is three things: to be highly motivated and competitive, ruthless even; to be a good reader of people; and you need to be confident, or at least project confidence. And of course, you can't be shy -- you have to enjoy getting a lot of attention!
I've always been really competitive. Having three older brothers may be something to do with it. I learned that I couldn't beat them at wrestling, or win any running races against them, but I could always outsmart them, and beat them at chess and video games. And when I saw how they became even dumber in their teens, due to their hormones, I figured out that I could use men's horny dumbness to my advantage. And I've been doing it ever since. I make more money than my three brothers combined -- and one of them is a lawyer.
But there's more to findom than just money for me. It's also a game, almost a sport. It's addictive, and requires skill, like chess. It's a challenge, and it exercises my mind, and my powers of observation. It even teaches useful life-skills.
But there's a downside to it, which few findommes admit; findom is highly addictive, not just for the slaves, but for the findommes too. And I became addicted to it so much that I started to seek a bigger thrill than simply parting slaves with their money. I felt a need, an itch which wouldn't go away, to do something really, seriously challenging, really extreme: To take a strong, successful dominant man, and strip him of everything -- his home, his friends, his money, his wife, his job.
And that's the story I want to tell you, about a challenge I set myself, as a test of my skills, as a game. It was a cruel game, I admit; I have an extremely cruel side. Be warned!
* * * * *
I'd decided to take a vacation, and travel to London, which is a city I always liked -- it's friendly and full of different types of people. And it has great shops, which I prefer than buying online. I like the smell of leather you get in the shoe-stores and to try on lots of pairs. And they have clothes in the smaller stores which you don't see online, and again you can try them on. So it was really a shopping trip for me. Of course it was a business trip too, because the clothes and shoes were all paid for from tributes, and were a business expense.
One morning I was out running across Hyde Park, which was near to my hotel, and I saw a couple with a big dog, a lurcher. The dog was not on a leash, and he ran up to me. He was friendly, I could see, but the man shouted to him to stop. The dog ignored him, and jumped up at me, his paws on my shoulders, almost. I was not in the least bit startled by this; I told the dog in my language to sit down, and he instantly obeyed, and looked up at me happily, wagging his tail. The couple were flabbergasted that I made the dog sit just with one word; they obviously had trouble disciplining him. I went on my knees and played with the dog and kissed him. I knew that this would draw the couple's attention to me.
When I stood up, the woman apologised, but the man was angry with the dog. I guessed the real cause of his anger: It had clearly been his job to train the dog, and I had shown him up in front of his wife by controlling the dog so easily, when he'd failed to train him. And from this little interaction with their dog, I learned something of their relationship, and the man's weakness.
The man became polite with me, but it was a fake politeness. He said jokingly, "You must be a professional dog-trainer!"
I ignored him, and spoke only to his wife, who was genuinely nice. She was very pretty, and although the man was not ugly, he wasn't particularly good-looking either. I assumed that he was wealthy, and she was a "trophy wife" -- someone he could show off to people, so they could see how successful he was. I could see also, that they weren't having good sex. Don't ask me how I knew, it's just something I can detect instantly.
The three of us ended up walking together across the park. I walked ahead with the woman, whose name was Gemma, while her husband -- Dave -- walked behind us, with the lurcher now on the leash. Even though I was talking only to Gemma, I was aware of Dave behind me, and I kept his gaze on my ass, by pretending to brush grass from my tight Lycra running shorts, even though I knew there was none.
The three of us continued out of the park, and went to a patisserie for coffee and cake.
I told them I was a fashion model, over in London on vacation, which was not too far from the truth. Dave was a manager at a tech company, and Gemma called herself a "homemaker".
During our conversation, whenever Dave spoke to me, Gemma would look at him, and listen to him without interrupting. But when she spoke to me, he would not let her finish, but would take her hand, and interrupt; and he only looked at me, never at her. And when she said she was a "homemaker", he laughed, and said "don't be ashamed of not having to work", as though the only kind of work was paid work like he did.
"So being homemaker isn't work?" I asked him. Gemma liked that I came to her defence. I was tempted to add that it's similar to my own work, providing sexual gratification in exchange for security. But of course I didn't say anything like that out loud, it would be too provocative and revealing, so soon after meeting them.
After a few minutes talking with them I'd decided that their relationship was not based on love, but was more like a business arrangement, where he was definitely the boss, and she was the subordinate. I despised them both: Dave, because he belittled his wife, but Gemma too, for not standing up to him. There's no excuse these days for women to be cowed by men, it's not the middle ages.
At the café I learned another thing about Dave which made me dislike him all the more: He was mean with money. He examined the bill carefully, and gave exactly ten percent tip. I laughed at him while he did his calculations, which pissed him off. It also made me think he was from a wealthy family -- people who start out in poverty and then become wealthy are usually more generous, as they still have empathy for the poor.
My evil side whispered to me that it would be so much fun for me to seduce the man and turn him into a paypig, and drain his bank account. I made a bet with myself that I could do it in a few days, before I returned home to my country.
It was a difficult challenge; my usual way of doing things was more like fishing: I would wait for a potential slave to enter my chatroom, and then hook him and reel him in. Those sort of guys, who are into femdom are sort of complicit in my seduction -- they're predisposed to become subs, they want to play along, so it's quite easy. But Dave wasn't outwardly submissive. He was, I could see, attracted to my looks; that was my entry point to his seduction. I'd use that to get him hooked -- and I'd make him learn that to get me into bed (which would never happen) he'd have to pay. Not just pay like I was a mere hooker, but make a connection in his mind that the more he paid, the more he'd want me.
I told them I was going to do some clothes shopping while I was in London, and Gemma looked at me with a sort of hopeful, excited smile. "It's my weakness, too! But Dave hates it, of course. If you like, we can go shopping together after this. If you like."
