Comment Section Collapse AKA How He Turned Into a Finsub
70. A Findom Short Story
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Marc started reading her blog as a joke.
It was late, he was bored, and the title caught his eye:
“Obedience Is Luxury: The Diary of a Digital Goddess.”
The woman behind it called herself Lady Cyanide—which already told him everything he needed to know. Probably some 28-year-old chick with Wi-Fi and entitlement issues. Every post was the same: her in silk robes or heels, captioned with venom.
“My cash pig sent £500 just for the privilege of silence. He begged to be ignored.”
“New loser applied to serve. Rejected. But I kept the $300 ‘application fee.’ Naturally.”
The comments were a snake pit of groveling.
“Goddess, I live for your cruelty.”
“Please ruin me next, my Queen.”
“Every word makes me ache.”
It was pathetic.
Marc made an account just so he could write:
“You all need therapy. Imagine throwing your money at some camscam cosplaying as a cult leader.”
And, just beneath it:
“Lady Cyanide? More like Lady Parasite.”
He hit post, satisfied. Logged off. Slept well.
But he checked the next day. Then the day after.
No reply. Not even a delete.
She just kept posting. Kept being there. Unbothered. Magnificent.
It wasn’t attraction. Not at first. It was the fact that she didn’t take the bait. That no matter what he wrote—how sharp, how sarcastic—she didn’t acknowledge him.
Everyone else bowed. He spat.
She ignored both.
That imbalance ate at him.
By week two, he was reading her entries like they were gospel. Not because he believed any of it—but because it was a game. He’d read, react, comment something acidic, then wait for her silence like a dog watching a locked door.
“Still no reply? You must be scared of actual intelligence.”
“Goddess of what, exactly? Unemployment?”
“Let’s not pretend this isn’t just digital panhandling with lipstick.”
Still nothing. And somehow that was worse than a fight.
He even created a second account just to test if she was blocking him. Posted “Goddess, your feet cured my depression.”
That got a like.
That’s when he cracked.
Not because he wanted to. Just to see what would happen.
He sent her £5 with the message:
“Here. For your emotional labour, reading my horrible comments.”
She posted about it the next day. Not by name—just a single line in her blog:
“One of the loudest mouths just sent me a tribute. £5. How cute.”
“You’ll pay more now. Because you disrespected me first. Debt, like desire, accrues interest.”
He laughed when he read it.
Then opened the app and sent £20.
He told himself it was a performance art thing. A long bit. A digital character study. Satirical immersion.
But then she replied directly. First time ever.
“You’ll send £50 by midnight. Not because I need it. Because you do.”
He didn’t. Not right away.
But by 11:56, his hands were shaking.
He paid.
The next post read:
“A dog always returns to the hand that doesn’t pet him.”
After that, it was over.
No more jokes. No more comments. He stopped pretending it was a game.
Every day, she posted:
Photos of her coffee paid for by “someone who knows his place.”
Screenshots of tributes. Names redacted. Amounts not.
She never said “thank you.”
And Marc started needing that lack of gratitude. It confirmed something he didn’t have language for yet.
She gave him a number:
“You are #56.”
She told him he was allowed one message a week. Any more, £100 fine.
She never replied to the messages.
But she read them. Because she quoted them.
“#56 says he feels calmer now that he’s poor. Funny how loss can feel like clarity.”
He sent another £200 that night.
It bled into everything.
He stopped ordering takeout. Canceled Netflix. Wore socks with holes. Set up direct deposit: 20% of each paycheck, wired straight to her.
She didn’t ask for that.
She didn’t need to.
When his internet went out for a full day, he nearly lost his mind.
Not because he missed his social media or email.
Because he couldn’t see her.
Couldn’t read her updates. Couldn’t send her more. Couldn’t beg in silence.
He realized then that he didn’t just serve her.
He belonged to her.
And that felt... peaceful.
Three months in, she finally messaged him directly.
Just one line:
“Why did it take you so long to realize what you are?”
He typed five replies. Deleted them all. Settled on:
“Because no one ever demanded anything real from me before.”
She didn’t answer. Just posted a photo of a bottle of champagne.
“Bought by #56. Clarity is expensive. But worth every penny.”
The man who once mocked her now refreshed her page like scripture.
The skeptic became the sermon.
He found himself writing poems in her honor. Not because she wanted them. But because he needed to express what his PayPal account couldn’t.
She never responded.
And he never stopped.
People always say it’s about control. That findom is abuse dressed up in stilettos.
But that’s not what Marc felt.
He felt structure.
He felt seen.
Every pound he sent wasn’t submission.
It was self-definition.
He wasn’t lost anymore.
He was #56.
And that number was more honest than any name he'd ever used.
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