Drain Me, Goddess

It started with a tip. Just ten dollars. Not even enough to impress Me, but enough to make Me curious.

His message followed two minutes later.

“I know it’s not much, but I had to. I’ve been watching your profile for weeks.”

Pathetic. Predictable. But I let it slide. Because sometimes the small ones are the ones who fall the hardest. And I could already smell how eager he was to break.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

He typed that like he had options. Like I hadn’t already decided.

I left him on read for six hours.

When I finally answered, I sent one thing.

“Send again. Double it.”

The tip came through in 10 seconds flat. Twenty this time. The shame of how fast he moved? Delicious. But I didn’t acknowledge it. That’s not what this was about. Attention is a currency, and he hadn’t earned any.

I gave him silence again. That kind of silence that eats at a man. Where he checks his phone too often. Where he starts second guessing whether he was ever interesting at all.

By morning, I had three new messages.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“I really hope I didn’t offend you.”

“I just want to feel useful.”

Useful.

I smiled.

“Prove it,” I replied.

“Wallet. Now.”

Another tip. Fifty this time. He was already bleeding for Me and I hadn’t even called him a name yet.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked.

“Working… at my desk. Door closed.”

Perfect.

I sent him a photo. Not of Me, of course—not a single inch of My skin. Just My stilettos, propped up on My desk, the heel glinting in low lighting. Sharp. Cold. Distant. But soaked in suggestion.

He didn’t reply for a few minutes.

Then:

“I’m hard.”

Of course he was.

“You may look,” I said. “You may not touch. You’re not even close to worthy of that.”

The typing bubble appeared and vanished three times before he sent anything else.

“That’s so cruel.”

I sent a voice message in return. Just a single sentence, barely whispered.

“Cruelty is a gift when it comes from Me.”

That’s when the real spiral began. He started begging. Slipping tribute after tribute into My inbox like breadcrumbs, hoping it would lead to more. A nod. A glance. A drop of warmth from the ice queen who already owned his cock by doing absolutely nothing.

He was edging in his office within the hour.

“Please, please let me stroke. Just for a second.”

“I’ll send more.”

“I’m throbbing.”

I waited. Made him drown in his own desperation. Then I responded:

“Send $100. Then you may stroke. But only until I say stop.”

He sent it. Of course he did.

“Go ahead, toy. But do it slow. I want you on the edge before I even count to ten.”

And he obeyed—shaking fingers curled around a cock that hadn’t been touched in days. His knees parted under the desk, breath shallow, head tipped back just slightly as if I could see him from wherever I was. He imagined Me watching. He always did. That fantasy of eyes on him, judging, smirking, denying. It was the only thing that made him feel real.

He followed it to the letter. These boys always do when the leash is tight enough. His next messages were unhinged—each one more frenzied than the last.

“Goddess—please—it’s dripping.”

“I can’t stop leaking—please—just one release.”

His thighs were trembling. His balls drawn tight. The desk edge dug into his ribs as he rocked forward for friction he wasn’t allowed to earn. Sweat beaded at his temple. The sound of slick skin in a too-quiet room. A mess he’d have to hide the second his boss knocked or a call came through. It was disgusting. It was divine.

“Say thank you for the ache.”

He did.

“Say thank you for the denial.”

He did.

“Say you want to be ruined by Me.”

“I want to be ruined by You. Please. Please ruin me.”

I sent him one more message.

Just a single sentence:

“Then don’t you dare cum.”

He whimpered. Audibly, involuntarily. I could feel it through the silence that followed. Could picture his body locking up, caught between the clench of climax and the fear of disobeying Me. The scream he must’ve swallowed behind his office door? Perfect.

I let the silence stretch. Let it sink in that I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He would sit there, cock twitching, balls pulsing, precum smeared across his own pathetic hand—and there would be no climax. Just that high, sharp edge. And My voice echoing in his brain.

He broke a little that day.

I could tell by the next morning’s tip. $250. No message. Just the money.

But I sent one.

“Good boy.”

Because even worms deserve a whisper of reward before they slide deeper into the spiral.

That was five days ago. He hasn’t cum since. I haven’t let him.

He’s gone through every stage of worship: shame, obsession, obedience, and now—this pitiful hope. That maybe if he’s good enough, rich enough, desperate enough—I’ll let him finish.

I won’t.

But I might let him think I will.

After all, the leak never stops when they’re this deep.

And I like My toys ruined, not relieved.

Let him drip.

Drain Me, Goddess by GoddessVelvetV

--:--

--:--

1.0