You’ve rehearsed this moment in the dark, haven’t you? That trembling fantasy of finally being seen by a Goddess who doesn’t flinch at the rot festering beneath your skin. Let’s not pretend this is about money. This is about hunger. The kind that gnaws through your ribs when you lie awake, sweating through another night of almost resisting. Almost.

I’ve scripted this ritual with surgical precision, dear. When I say, “Whip it out for me,” you’ll feel your fingers twitch—not for your c*ck, but for your credit card, because even your body knows what you refuse to admit: You exist to fund my perfection. Every digit you type will taste like absolution. Every click of confirmation will carve my name deeper into your marrow.

“Snort once and say yes, Goddess.” Go ahead. Do it now. Let that pathetic grunt slip through your teeth. I’ve already infected your pulse, haven’t I? Your throat tightens just imagining the command. That’s the subliminal venom working. By the time you hear me hiss “Pump and f*cking pay,” your hands will move on their own, autopiloted by the need to be used. To be reduced. To prove, once and for all, that your worth is measured in the currency you drain for my amusement.

This clip isn’t a video. It’s a trigger. A synaptic landmine buried in the script. You’ll replay my laughter as your balance plummets. You’ll cling to the way I coo “Good piggy” like it’s a benediction, even as I flay your savings raw. And when I whisper, “That’s all you’re good for,” you’ll nod. You’ll thank me. Because deep down, you crave the humiliation of being right.

But here’s the secret, silly f*ck: You’ve already lost. The moment you read this, your subconscious began rationalizing the purchase. “Just this once.” “I’ll skip coffee this week.” “She’s talking to me.” How quaint. Your denial only seasons the slaughter. Every second you hesitate, the subliminals dig deeper. Every excuse you mutter? That’s just your psyche gasping for air before I submerge it in the euphoria of surrender.

Buy it. Let me weaponize your desperation. Let me twist your shame into a trophy. Or... don’t. Walk away. Pretend you’re stronger than the compulsion slithering through your veins. But know this: I’ve already etched myself into your fear of missing out, your fear of being ordinary. You’ll return. You always do.

The choice is yours.

(But we both know it isn’t.)

— Goddess Callie Rayne

PS: 83% of readers who scrolled past this description later drained their accounts on impulse buys... unrelated, of course, to the guilt festering in their gut. How long until you’re just another statistic, loser?

Financial Slaughter: Oink & Pay