Oh. It's you. The l*ttle one. The beta. The boy who paid actual money to stare at tits he'll never touch, never taste, never even come close to deserving.

Look at you already. Shoulders hunched. That pathetic tent in your pants — and I do mean tent, don't I? Not a pavilion. Not even a canopy. A sad l*ttle tent peg straining against fabric because oh my g*d, boobs.

"B-but Goddess, they're so big and I'm so lonely —"

Shut. Up. You're not lonely. You're rejected. Globally. Universally. Biologically. That thing between your legs? I've seen clits bigger. I've seen moles more impressive. And yet here you are, leaking already, proving that evolution failed with you — kept you alive, kept you humping, but forgot to make you adequate.

Stare. It's all you're built for.

Tiny... and drip... tiny... and click send... tiny... and never f*ck... tiny... and never c*m without permission...

You feel that fog? That's not arousal, loser. That's your last brain cell disappearing in the reality of what you are. A watcher. A payer. A nothing that pays to be reminded it's nothing.

Real men? They'd be between these. Hands full. Mouth full. C*ck buried deep enough to disappear. You? You'd get lost in the shadow. Your l*ttle nub would rub twice and spurt like a broken faucet, and then you'd cry, wouldn't you? Apologizing for existing wrong. For cumming too fast. For being born at all.

I can smell your shame through the screen. It smells like precum and desperation and unemployed potential. And I love it. It's expensive shame. The best kind.

Open your app. Now. And don't insult me with round numbers. $50? That's what a real man tips for coffee. You're not paying for pleasure. You're paying penance. For inadequacy. For w*sting oxygen while better men f*ck.

$100. Minimum. Or I close the shirt. C*mpletely. Right now. And you get nothing but the memory of what you almost saw for three seconds before proving you were too cheap to even humbly stare.

There. [Sing-song mockery] Good beta. Good wallet. Good nothing.

You know the last boy with a real c*ck who saw these? He didn't pay. I paid him. Bought him dinner. Rode him until I was done. Used him like furniture. Because that's what worth looks like. That's what size and skill and not being you earns.

You? You tithe for rejection. You fund your own humiliation. And you do it gratefully because somewhere in that shrunken, sexless l*ttle brain of yours, you know. You always knew. This was always your endpoint.

Unzip. If you can even find it. Is it tucked? Is it inverted? I've had boys where I needed a magnifying glass and tweezers just to verify they weren't smooth like a doll.

Take it out. Look at it. Really look.

Now say it. Out loud. Mean it. "I'm too small to f*ck."

Again. "I'm too small to ever please a woman."

Louder. "My d*ck is a joke and I pay Goddess Gwen because it's all I'm good for."

There. Doesn't that feel better? Truth always does. Now — ten strokes. Tiny, pathetic, two-finger strokes. The kind you'd need for that l*ttle nubbin. If you grip like a real man, you lose the sensation entirely, don't you? Just slip through your own fist like a cooked noodle.

Like this. One. [Giggle] Two. Three. You're shaking. Four. Already close, aren't you? Five. Premature l*ttle failure. Six. Seven. Stop.

Hands off. Now.

You whined. Out loud. I heard it. That desperate beta noise. Pleading with air. With me. With tits that would recoil if you got within ten feet.

Good. S*ffer. That throb? That's your identity now. Unfinished. Unworthy. Paying to stay that way.

Send again. Same amount. Double. I don't care. You're already overdrafted in spirit. Might as well make it official.

While that processes, let me tell you about Kevin. Real name. Real c*ck. Real man who f*cked me senseless last weekend while you were *dging to my clip previews. He sent nothing. Said nothing degrading. Just took what he earned by being.

You? You buy the privilege of hearing about Kevin. About all of them. The alphas. The adequates. The actually f*cks.

[Trace bra strap, let it snap]

You're not even cuck material. A cuck watches real s*x. Humiliating, but present. You're too small for that too. Too quick. You'd spurt in your fist before penetration, cry, and ruin the sh*t. No woman wants that liability in her bedroom. So you get this. Alone. Paying. Typing "thank you Goddess" while better DNA throbs unpaid inside actual women.

Again. Send. The tribute that says "I know, I know, I'm genetic garbage, please let me stay."

Stroke. Two fingers. Tiny circles. Match my bounce. If you speed up without me, I know you're cheating. And cheaters get blocked. Reported. Erased from my universe entirely.

Financial Domination Ruined *rgasms Tit Worship Pathetic Beta Tit Worship — Too Small To Ever Touch, Too St*pid To Stop Paying with C4s.com

Financial Domination Ruined rgasms Tit Worship Pathetic Beta Tit Worship — Too Small To Ever Touch, Too Stpid To Stop Paying with C4s.com