Category: financial games

Serving the Kids but Catering to Daddy

Mary 1844-332-2639 ext 350

I thought the first year of college was going to be a struggle, seeing how my parents couldn’t afford to support me. My only interest was serving kids and catering to Daddy. I needed a job quickly, one that offered room and board and a hot meal. I responded to an ad for a live-in nanny. When I arrived at the house, a man answered the door. He was tall, handsome, and looked stressed. He knew right away I was there for the nanny position. He told me his wife was leaving for Spain for work, and he was going to need some help with the kids while she was away. He told me how much the pay was, showed me my bedroom, which was in the fully finished basement of the house. The house was huge. I basically had my own apartment down there. There was one room, he said was off limits, so I agreed not to go in there.

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cheater

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Today is February 13th. The eve of the great lie. And that, my darlings, is why you must spoil me. First, the obvious. Spoil me to prove you can. The florist delivers on Valentine’s Day. The cliché. But a bouquet of black calla lilies arriving today, a day early, at my door, not hers? That’s a secret. That’s power. It whispers, “I am thinking of you while I am picking out the safe, red roses for my boring wife.”

Spoil me for the silence I keep. Your wife asks how your day was and you say, “Fine. I had a long budget meeting.” You weren’t in a meeting. You were here, with the curtains drawn, tasting the expensive caviar you told her you were saving for a “special occasion with the guys.” I am the living, breathing secret you tuck into your suit pocket. Simply put, I don’t call. I don’t text at inopportune times, either. My discretion is an art form and good art is never cheap.

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findom

Cory 1-877-332-2639 ext 407

I’m a woman with a penchant for Prada and a talent for turning pitiful, low-status men into personal ATMs. My specialty? Convincing pathetic loser betas to drain their meager savings so I can buy another designer handbag or book a spontaneous trip to Bali. It’s not just about the money, though. It’s about power. The sweet, syrupy kind that comes when a man with a Netflix-and-chill résumé hands me his Black Card like it’s a sacred offering.

The process is almost artful. I spot them before the see me. Shiftless guys in ill-fitting suits, with confidence levels lower than the tips some of you leave at brunch. I approach with a smile that could thaw the Arctic and a voice that purrs like a V8 engine. Then I start complimenting their “untapped potential,” pretending to be “starving artist” or “aspiring entrepreneur” (code for “I need money but also validation”). By the third round of $25 drinks, they’re confessing their deepest insecurities while I nonchalantly swipe their credit card for a “gift” that costs $300. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an investment in my affections.

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findomme

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

My journey into findom began innocently enough. I was posting cryptic Instagram captions about “liquid assets” and “monetizing my worth,” when a guy slid into my DMs asking if I’d ever considered “roleplaying a trust fund beneficiary.” Little did he know, I was all about roleplaying!

The first time I hosted a findom session for a man I’ll call Kevin (not his real name, though honestly, I’m sure someone named Kevin will read this and think it is him), I wore a tie I’d bought for $12 at a thrift store and demanded he pay “pay the lady” up front, as is customary in this profession.

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findom blog

Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

The worst color in the world is the pale yellow bubble hovering over my chat box. It means they are typing. They are pouring out their sad feelings, treating the glowing screen like a confessional booth, all for free. They know I trade attention for currency. Simple, brutal, and utterly true. I’m Quebecoise, which means I’m precise about my costs, and the cost of having me pretend to care about your awful Tuesday is non-negotiable.

Right now, it’s Edgar. He’s forty-something, lives somewhere humid, and sends me paragraphs about his failing marriage and his collection of vintage model trains. He keeps sending me these long, dense messages, hoping that sheer volume of misery will somehow earn him a response. But he’s not getting one unless he pays.

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findom blog

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

Corey was always so eager. It was almost endearing. But then, softness wasn’t what he paid for, was it? He paid for the sharpest edge of my expectations, the cold precision of my demands, and the delicious humiliation that bloomed in his chest with every transaction. “Are you ready, sissy?” I typed, watching the ‘typing…’ indicator flicker on our private chat. A beat of silence, then his reply: “Yes, Mistress. Always ready.”

I smiled, a slow, controlled thing. He called himself a finsub, but to me, he was just Corey, my little piggy bank dressed in a perpetually apologetic expression, even through text. And a sissyboy, of course. That was the real fun of it. “Good. My new Louboutins are calling to me. They’re a rather fetching shade of scarlet, don’t you think?” I sent him a picture I’d pulled from the designer’s website – the most impractical, yet undeniably beautiful, pair of stilettos. “I think they would look perfect on me. Don’t you agree?”

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gooner

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

Across the digital ether, I was spending my day with a loser. We all know the type. He wasn’t anything special or out of the ordinary, just your average gooner who’d found my corner of the internet. He paid me for my time, of course. What he bought, primarily, was attention. Curated, commodified attention. Sometimes a few pics—nothing too wild, just enough to keep the illusion alive. But what he really wanted, what he truly craved above all else, were those trigger words.

You know the ones I mean. Those exact phrases, spoken or typed, that would unravel some tightly wound spring inside him. Words that would trigger him to stroke and edge himself stupid, lost in his own private loop of self-abasement and gratification. I, the puppeteer, tugging on invisible strings with carefully chosen syllables. He, the puppet, dancing to a rhythm only he could hear.

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hotel

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

I saunter into your Vegas hotel room, my hips swaying hypnotically as I approach you, the high roller of the night. I’m here with my friend, and together, we have a plan to entice you into giving us your winnings. But first, we want to give you a show you’ll never forget. I turn to my friend, giving her a wink as I begin to slip out of my dress. It pools at my feet, leaving me standing there in nothing but a pair of lacy panties and a seductive smile. My friend follows suit, and soon we’re both standing before you in nothing but our undergarments.

I can see the surprise and desire in your eyes as you take us in. I step closer, my hand reaching out to trace a finger along your chest. “Like what you see?” I ask, my voice low and sultry. You nod, unable to speak as you take in the sight of us. My friend and I exchange a wicked grin, knowing that we have you right where we want you. I move closer, my lips brushing against your ear as I whisper, “Why don’t you sit back and enjoy the show?”

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Diana 1-844-332-2639 Ext. 248

This past weekend, I waltzed into an exclusive charity gala at a grand mansion, dressed to the nines in a scandalously tight red dress that barely covered my ass. The dress hugged every curve, my tits practically spilling out of the low-cut top. I was on the prowl for a wealthy sugar daddy to wine, dine and 69 me.

As I mingled and sipped champagne, my eyes locked with a silver-haired gentleman who looked like he could buy a small country. Not the sexiest man, but money is the best aphrodisiac. He introduced himself as Marcus, a “venture capitalist” – code for trust fund baby. I made sure to bend over extra low to refill his glass, giving him an eyeful of my cleavage.

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tease

1-844-33-CANDY EXT 404

“Amber, you’re such a cock tease,” you groan, leaning back in your chair. “I swear, you love driving me wild.” “Would that be so bad?” I purr, grinning as I cross my legs. I’m wearing a short skirt and a tight top that shows off my cleavage, and I know you can’t take your eyes off me. “Maybe I love making you beg for it.”

You love it when I tease you, when I make you work for it. It’s all part of our little game. “And you love it,” I say, standing up and walking over to you. I lean down, my breath hot on your ear. “You love how I make you feel, how I make you want me so badly you can’t think straight.”

I cross my legs again, my skirt riding up to show even more of my thighs. You swallow hard, your eyes locked on mine. I straddle your lap, my skirt riding up to show my bare pussy. “Let’s begin.” I lean down, my breath hot on your ear. “I want you to send tribute to my account right now,” I whisper. “And then, we’ll see where things go from there.” You

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