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Nico had never sent a tribute in his life. Not really. He’d bought a pair of worn socks off eBay once, from a seller whose profile picture was a cropped stock image of a leg in fishnets. But that didn’t count. That wasn’t her.

She was Mistress Vyxen—capital V, because the woman oozed venom and velvet. A real findom, not a girl playing pretend for pizza money. Everything about her screamed power: the leather, the dead-eyed stare, the smug captions. Her pinned tweet read:

Tribute before words.
CashApp | PayPal | Throne
No small talk. No exceptions.

And Nico read it every day. Literally. Every. Day. It didn’t stop him from DMing her, though.

Hey Mistress, can I ask you a quick question?

He waited. Saw the "seen" notification. Heart pounding. Nothing. No reply.

He tried again the next day.

I just wanted to know if you accept Amazon gift cards? I don’t want to leave a paper trail.
I really respect what you do. I’m not like those other guys. I actually care.

Still no answer.

The silence burned more than a slap. He scrolled through her replies and saw tribute screenshots, gushing messages from paypigs with usernames like "ATM4Vyxen" and "DebtBoi69." Some of them were hideous—greasy neckbeards holding up handwritten signs: $500 just to be ignored by my Queen. Thank you, Goddess.

Nico was better than them. Cleaner. Smarter. He could hold a conversation. He wasn’t trying to play with himself in the corner like some pathetic simp. He wanted… well, he didn’t quite know what he wanted. But he needed her to notice him.

So he sent another message.

Look, I’m trying to send a tribute, but I just need to know which method is best for you. It’s not about me. I want to make you happy. Please respond. It’s literally five seconds of your time.

This time, the message stayed unread.

It was war now.

He made a second account. New name, new profile pic, followed her again.

Mistress, I know I’m not worthy, but please just tell me how you prefer to receive tributes. I don’t want to send it wrong and offend you.

Unread.

Three days passed. He paced. He fantasised about messaging her with a screenshot of a $100 card and saying, “See what you missed?” But he didn’t have the card. And he didn’t want to send it. Not yet. Not until she gave him something. A crumb. A second of attention.

He imagined her lounging in bed, sipping coffee while ignoring him. Probably laughing. Maybe reading his messages out loud to a friend. “Here’s another one. This guy wants to ‘talk about sending.’ Isn’t that pathetic?”

He messaged again.

I just think it’s unfair that you say no small talk, but how are we supposed to know what to send unless we talk?

Still unread.

So he tweeted.

@SubZeroKnight: Findommes act like they’re too good to answer basic questions. What happened to class? What happened to relationships?

It got one like—from an account with an anime profile picture and a bio that said “femdom is a lifestyle not a transaction.”

He made another account.

This time, he tried flattery.

You are honestly the most powerful, magnetic woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve been obsessed with you for months. I would crawl over glass just to hear your voice for one second. I want to send, but I just want to do it right.

The message was marked "seen." Then deleted.

Not by her. By him.

He’d stared at the word "seen" for ten minutes before deciding to erase the whole thing. That was her power—making him unravel without even typing a word.

And yet.

And yet.

Okay, so now you’re just ignoring me on purpose. That’s fine. I get it. I guess you only care about guys who send without question. I was literally trying to be thoughtful and respectful. I guess that was a mistake.

It sat there in her DMs, a digital tantrum.

Still unread.

He felt the heat rise in his neck. He wasn’t just hurt—he was offended. He’d spent hours writing those messages. He’d drafted a plan to “prove himself,” complete with tribute tiers and cute nicknames. He’d cared. And now she was treating him like trash?

I was going to send you a $50 Amazon card today. I had it all ready to go. But you know what? That ship has sailed. I don’t beg. I was trying to be a gentleman. I’m not one of these drooling losers who send hundreds just to be spat on. I actually have self-respect.

He almost hit send.

Paused.

Then sent it anyway.

Two hours passed.

Then the dot appeared.

She was typing.

He froze.

Then the message arrived.

This is exactly why you’re ignored. You never intended to tribute—you wanted attention for free. You said you needed to “talk about sending,” but every word out of your mouth screamed desperation, not devotion. This isn’t a customer service hotline. It’s a hierarchy. And you don’t belong at the top. You belong in the silence you earned.

His stomach sank. He stared at the words like they were a punch. Then, seconds later, the screen flickered.

He was blocked.

Every account. Every backup. Gone.

He slammed his laptop shut. “Toxic piece of work,” he muttered, even though he didn’t mean it. Not really. He meant Goddess. He meant please look at me.

But the silence stayed.

And he didn’t have the gift card.

And even if he did, he wouldn’t have sent it.

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