You work, Goddess plays. That’s the natural order of things, isn’t it? Your boring 9-to-5 has meaning only because it fuels My luxury. Every dollar you send is a tribute to My divine presence, a pathetic little offering to the altar of My curves, My power, My perfection. You don’t deserve excitement in your life. You deserve the humbling monotony of labor while My days are spent lounging, teasing, and draining wallets like yours. And you love it. The thought of Me spending your cash on silky lingerie, expensive dinners, or towering heels makes your cock twitch, doesn’t it? Every curve of My body was designed to ruin men like you. My tight waist, My thick thighs, the sway of My hips in designer skirts you’ll never touch. You’re obsessed. And that pathetic cock of yours? It throbs when you imagine Me blowing your rent money on champagne baths. It leaks when you picture Me laughing with My lovers, your pitiful tributes funding their nights between My legs. You ache knowing I’d never waste a second glance on you… unless your wallet is open. This is your purpose. Your addiction. You’ll grind through another soul-shift, just to send Me one more tribute, one more pathetic plea for My attention. And when you do? I’ll sigh, roll My eyes, and let you watch just enough of My perfect life to keep you hard, desperate, and forever beneath Me