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Four years of grinding through college—dead-end jobs, instant noodles, and weekends lost to overtime—had finally led to something solid: a graduation fund. Enough for a car. Maybe a used one. A real step forward. It was supposed to be the first real step into adulthood, a symbol of the hard work he'd put in, an achievement that would set the stage for a new chapter.

But that money had been sitting there, untouched, for months. And every night, the same pattern played out—mindless scrolling through Twitter, his thumb moving mechanically, flicking through posts, memes, and people living lives he couldn’t afford. Then, inevitably, he would end up in the same dark corner of the internet.

Findom.

It started like this, a simple click—curiosity pulling him deeper into the world he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t stop watching. It was raw. No filters. No flirting. Just power. Pure and simple. And no one played the game better than Mistress Vyxen. Her feed was a paradox: cold-blooded but captivating, impossible to ignore.

Her pictures were clinical, brutal in their simplicity. Black boots scuffed from walking over someone’s pride. A close-up of her hand gripping stacks of cash, no caption. No thank-yous. Just the demand for more. Always more. She never had to ask. Her presence was enough to make men—like him—fold under the weight of her authority.

The first $20 was a test. He expected nothing in return. Just a fleeting thrill, maybe a rush of excitement from the transaction. She didn’t respond.

$50 earned a heart.

It was enough. That tiny acknowledgment, that single digital gesture of approval, had sent a wave of warmth through him. She didn’t need to say anything. Her silence was enough. It made him feel small. Worthless. But in a way that was liberating. The balance of it, the emptiness he was left with after giving, was like a strange high. It had been the first time he felt truly alive in months.

By graduation week, the fund still sat there. $8,000. Everyone else was planning road trips and job hunts. They were mapping out their futures, all hopeful for what was next. But he sat in his room, the world outside his window moving on, while he waited. Heart racing. Refreshing her feed again and again. Checking her posts like some kind of addict.

She had him hooked.

"One loser will make my day today. Let’s see who’s worthy.”

Her words flashed across the screen. He felt them like a punch to the chest. He knew it was meant to provoke. To challenge. It was exactly what he needed, what he craved. Something to push him over the edge.

The banking app was open before he even realized it. His thumb hovered over the screen, the decision weighing heavy in his mind. Was this it? Was this the moment? Could he really do it? He could feel the heat in his palms, sweat collecting, breath shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He wasn’t just sending money. He was sending a piece of himself. A fragment of his soul, bartered for nothing but the empty satisfaction of her approval.

And then—sent. Every penny.

His phone buzzed once. Twice. No response.

No “good boy.” Nothing.

He sat there, staring at the screen, staring at the message notification bar that remained still. He wanted to scream. Was she ignoring him? Had he gone too far? Did she even notice?

Days passed. And in those days, the spiraling began. Shame and euphoria mixed in a toxic cocktail that clouded his thoughts. He spent the hours between classes, between assignments, refreshing her feed, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment—anything. A flicker of approval. A sign he hadn’t just thrown everything away for nothing.

And then it came.

She posted a picture—her red nails gripping a shiny pair of expensive boots.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He studied the photo, the shine on the leather. She didn’t need to explain. He knew exactly what it meant. The caption was simple, as always.

“Bought this today. Thanks, losers.”

It was like a punch to the gut but at the same time his whole body reacted. The amount she’d posted? It matched perfectly. Every penny. She’d taken it all, and it had been worth it. He’d funded this moment. He had helped her win. She hadn’t just taken his money. She had taken his pride, his dignity—and he had given it to her, gladly.

The rush was undeniable. The weightless feeling of knowing he had been part of something bigger than himself. No car. No apartment. No grand future plans. Just the hollow buzz of knowing that his sacrifice—his complete surrender—had made her smile.

He sat there for hours, staring at the screen, his thoughts swirling. His phone buzzed again. Another post. A close-up shot this time: a perfect shot of her boots, glossy and immaculate. The soles, walking over men like him. She didn’t need to say anything more. She didn’t need to explain.

And somehow, that was enough.

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