My Canadian Moneyslave

The message arrived at two twenty-three on an ordinary July night.

“Hi mistress.”

I was lying in bed, naked under a light sheet, with my smartphone illuminating my chest. The fingers of my free hand were already sliding slowly between my thighs, almost out of inertia.

I answered with detachment, bordering on boredom, but within a few exchanges I realized I was not dealing with a simple submissive: he was a potential moneyslave. A man willing to sacrifice not only his body, but also his wallet, just to be destroyed under my command.

I ordered him to masturbate five times to the edge of orgasm, stopping every time just a moment before giving in, and to send me the video. No video calls: I didn’t want to see his face. I was only looking for his sex, naked and tense in suffering.

He obeyed without hesitation. The first video lasted a little over two minutes. His hand moved up and down with desperate precision; his dick was already swollen and red, his testicles heavy, following every movement. Every time he reached the point of no return, he squeezed the base tightly, gasping, before starting over. On the fifth repetition, his dick was throbbing on its own against his abdomen, shiny with the fluid dripping onto his skin in a continuous thread. I watched the sequence a single time and replied with only four words:

“I like watching you suffer.”

From that moment on, I began to bend him to my will.

In the days that followed, he never stopped seeking me out. He sent anxious messages at all hours, made continuous pleas, attached one video after another. I always replied on my own time: sometimes after hours, sometimes a full day later. I let the delay feed his need.

“Again. Take yourself to the limit.”

“Your dick must vibrate only for me.”

And above all: “Worm.”

The first time I used that term, he didn’t voice any protest. In fact, the subsequent videos grew even more intense. His dick beat against his belly like a frantic heart, his testicles turgid and dark, the pre-ejaculatory fluid flowing incessantly. I lay watching, stretched out on the bed, slowly working on my clitoris while he pined on the other side of the screen. Every now and then I allowed him to prolong the torture, forcing him to edge ten, fifteen times in a row. In those moments, his desperation took on an almost aesthetic form: the short breath, his thighs trembling, his sex visibly on the verge of exploding before stopping at the thousandth of a second.

When I discovered he lived alone, I tightened my grip. I forbade him from ejaculating. Not for a day, not for a week, but until further notice. He obeyed. He continued to take himself to the edge of ecstasy daily, documenting the surge of his sex and the pain of a tension never released. Every plea for relief was rejected with rigid firmness.

“No.”

Or, draining all empathy:

“Keep them full.”

When he went on vacation, I ordered him to maintain the deprivation for the entire duration of the trip. He followed the rule. He sent me secret shots from the hotel bathroom, with his erect dick strained against the fabric and his swollen testicles aching with every step. I reviewed them while having dinner with my boyfriend, or while he slowly possessed me, and I smiled. One evening I simply wrote to him: “You’re hot, but you won’t get any surrender.” He returned home worn out, completely inclined to pay just to obtain any margin of concession.

That was when I imposed the masked video on him—I intended to publish the material on the blog I run together with my partner. I made him wear a black balaclava, and he had to reach the edge of orgasm ten times.

He executed. Mask on, he began the ritual. A slow, almost liturgical cadence. The suspension a moment before ejaculation, repeated time and time again. His dick twitched involuntarily, crossed by raised veins, turgid. The recording was long, degrading, flawless. I watched it multiple times: sometimes touching myself, sometimes while my boyfriend watched me from behind the screen. Then I uploaded everything online. The worm never knew how many people had seen it, nor how many times it had been played.

Later, I gave him increasingly extreme orders:

Kneel on coarse salt until feeling the flesh burn, keeping his sex erect and beating against his abdomen.

Lick the soles of his own shoes, slowly, with his tongue, without losing his erection.

Clean the inside of the toilet bowl with the brush, staying on all fours and panting from the humiliation.

Insert an unlubricated thirty-two centimeter dildo into his rectum, with the balaclava pulled over his face, pushing it back and forth for several minutes while the pain tore tears from him and his sex continued to throb, unheard.

He submitted to everything. Every single time. With his member perpetually hard and pleasure perpetually denied. Whenever he hinted at breaking, I reminded him of his condition with a few clear words:

“You are nothing but a worm.”

One day, he made a mistake.

He was taking himself to the edge, as usual. His sex was too sensitive, the accumulation of weeks of deprivation unsustainable. He couldn’t hold back. The sperm spurted violently, staining the floor. He wrote to me immediately, terrified, begging and offering any compensation. I replied with meticulous detachment:

“Without your mistress you are nobody; continuing to be used has a price.”

He paid. He immediately sent the gift card redemption codes. Only then did I grant him the possibility to resume controlled masturbation, without ever allowing him to reach the end.

From that moment, the dynamic settled into its definitive nature: the coded relationship between a Mistress and her moneyslave. Every exception had a cost. Every approach to orgasm had a cost.

Every minimal gesture of attention had a cost. He paid for the privilege of suffering; he paid for the content I published; he paid for the right to call me mistress; he paid to avert abandonment. I collected everything, without granting anything beyond the bare essentials. Only orders. Only humiliations. Only the constant, cold confirmation that he was a worm, and nothing more.

Night after night.

Video after video.

Suspension after suspension.

Transaction after transaction.

That worm had made his entrance with a mundane greeting on Telegram.

I had taken away his sex, his body, his breath, his dignity, and his money.

And I had no intention of giving anything back.