I have always had a fascination with money. An obsession. The look of a crisp, new bill. The distinct shuck of money being withdrawn from a wallet. And the smell. The smell is like none other. An earthy smell of power, and of need. Condensed and distilled onto printed paper. Held in my hands, I encapsulate the wheels of the World.
It’s interesting to me how fervent the distaste and denial of this fetish is to some. I’ve been called a Fake/fraud, Instadomme, a Crook and a Whore. Everyone has heard of Sugar Daddies. Every “Scrub” dreams that he could be a Pimp. Girls are told that there’s no reason they need to be hungry if only they’re willing to play The Game. But don’t be a Gold Digger, because those girls are Hoes. The measure of a good husband is his ability to Provide, and the Wife performs her “wifey duties” on her back with the lights off to protect her modesty. These are ALL acceptable cultural norms that we are inundated with on a daily basis. And its all the same tired song played on repeat. And it makes everyone sad, lonely and perilously unsatisfied in their lives.
So, Fuck a bunch of that. My Game. My Rules. My Money.
I fantasize about finding "The Man" in his natural environment. Slumming in a dark bar for the opportunistic hot mess hook up. Lurking in a brightly lit shopping mall scoping young girls and twisting his sweaty palms. Or in the comfort of his own home, trolling craigslist to the tagline $$$.
My Game. My Rules. My Money.
I take this man and make him my own. With a glance—a snap of my fingers—the ‘top of the sexual food chain’ forgets himself and follows me like a fucking dog. Predators recognize one another and normally permit a wide berth. But the smell of this blood is intoxicating…because it promises to be his own. I radiate Hungry, and they all wish to be devastated, masticated and swallowed whole.
At the earliest opportunity, I fit him with a shock collar. Stainless steel and beautiful. Sometimes I think I’d attach a chain for leading. Other times, I feel that I would like to keep the enslavement discreet and wholly dependent on his willpower. But the visceral thrill of yanking, its there in my wrist, a phantom limb grown by desire.
We visit the secret shops where he is made to wait patiently by the door, or trail a step behind. The shop girl and myself have a great time picking out his devices. We giggle together and fondle the delicate silky items meant for my body. And we taunt him mercilessly, waving huge, floppy cocks and big rubber butt plugs threatening to violate him then and there. When I force him to open his mouth to stuff the filthy display model inside it, he groans, wanting only to satisfy.
Sometimes in this fantasy, I go to the dressing room and fuck the shop girl while he waits chained, gagged, and restrained to the counter. Any theft that occurs while I am thus occupied are his to pay for. Often, I think that our fucking is heard clearly and it drives the fat, greasy assholes that come into these shops for the discount DVDs to take their frustrations out on him. Through the thin curtain, the anonymous thrusting and his whimpers help bring me and my shop girl to climax. We emerge, lips slick and swollen, wiping our chins and grinning. A few more passionate kisses, an exchange of money, and me and him and our new bag of toys head out into the rest of the adventure…
Stay tuned or Call Me Next Installment
