“Thanks for adding me, Sir,” the cash slave wrote more than a year ago. I won’t waste a nickname on him yet—you’ll see why.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“It’s hard to admit, but slavery. It isn’t fair.”
“Nothing is fair,” I assured him.
“Fuck yeah. I mean, look at you, Sir. You’re dominant, intelligent, attractive…it goes on and on. I’m not.”
We both knew the truth in that initial moment—it’s what drove him to contact me in the first place—but the new cash slave was still hesitating.
“But isn’t it wrong? Shouldn’t I be independent and think for myself, boss?”
“People are naturally drawn to powerful people,” I observed.
“That’s how I feel, boss. Like I can’t control it much longer.”
The cash slave suggested that he send a payment to express his gratitude for being added as a contact. Great thinking. I sent the email and he dispatched $50. The new guy said he needed to sleep soon, but he wanted to send another payment first. $100 more for me.
After a request for pictures–I never send those–I tried to call the cash slave on Skype. He didn’t answer, afraid that whoever he was living with would overhear our conversation.
“I was just going to leave you with an image,” I wrote, calling again. This time he answered, staring at me for thirty seconds before I closed my cam.
“You were so attractive,” the cash slave wrote. “It’s annoyingly unfair!”
“Now you’re going to agonize about fairness again? I think we can both see where this is going.”
“Who knows, maybe I could quit one day. Don’t think that’s today though. After all, I just sent $150 to another guy I don’t know on the internet just because he can control me.”
A few weeks later: “Hello, Sir. I keep on telling myself I can resist.”
The next day: “What do I need to do to make it stop? I can’t go on resisting.”
Time zone differences spared the cash slave on those occasions. After another two months of successful resistance, he tried again: “I’ve held out for too long, Sir. I shouldn’t avoid the inevitable.”
If you make it a day, a month, even a year without giving in to your urges, feel free to congratulate yourself and imagine that you’ve achieved something. You haven’t. You’ll always be an impulse and an instant away from surrendering to me again.
“Hello, Sir,” the cash slave greeted last night after being absent for ten months. “May I send you an Amazon gift voucher?”
He remembered how I liked to start, but I guess that isn’t surprising–how could he forget anything about me?
“I’ve sent it, Sir,” he wrote after I shared my Amazon email.
“Excellent.” $50, just like his first tribute. “What draws you back tonight?” I asked.
“Well, how else can I put it. You’ve DEFEATED me totally. You have that winning smile, huge dick, gorgeous feet that make my dick know better than my head.”
“But it’s been a year,” I pointed out.
“I know, a year of denial of the truth.”
“A whole year, and you come bearing only $50?”
Two minutes later another gift card was on the way. $75 this time.
“You’ve got the right idea,” I remarked about the increasing amount. “A year of denying the truth. But it was always true.”
“I filled my life with pointless things trying to deny it,” the cash slave explained. “But the truth comes out I guess.”
“What did you fill it with?”
“I couldn’t find satisfaction anywhere else, so I remained celibate, not even masturbating,” he claimed. “I worked and worked and worked overtime trying to fill my days up so I wouldn’t go on Skype. And I was successful, up to a point. But not anymore. I’m determined I guess.”
I asked what finally broke him again.
“Throughout the year, every month or so after payday, I would check your blog. It wasn’t any one specific thing, I just couldn’t bear not giving in to you any longer. I didn’t see a point in pretending anymore. I thought to myself that I had to stop dreaming about it and be it–be the submissive beta male that I am.”
Occasionally I ponder how many cash faggots are out there in exactly the same situation, greedily devouring everything I post and struggling to restrain themselves. Like I said, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been “good”; running and hiding merely delays the inevitable, it doesn’t free you. You’re never going to be free.
“Judging by our last encounter,” I wrote, “you’ll lose a couple hundred bucks and disappear for another year. Denying the truth.”
“Maybe it’s a good idea to resolve to do something else then,” the cash slave suggested. “Accepting the truth would be a start.”
“And what is that?”
“That I’m enslaved to you and resistance is in the end futile.”
“I get what I deserve sooner or later,” I assured him. “Your will doesn’t stand a chance against my reality.”
“The only true freedom I have is serving you.”
“You barely had a chance to feel what that was like before you ran away,” I reminded him. We’d only had a single conversation; he’d only seen my face for thirty seconds.
“I still knew I needed it all the time,” the cash slave conceded.
“Haven’t sent a third gift card yet?”
“Sent. Every time I click send I agonize if it is right, but it feels so good.”
“Still? You agonize? Why wouldn’t it be right?”
“I suppose it’s yours to begin with and not mine. I need to end the mentality that it’s my money.”
Given that the cash slave was still struggling after a yearlong fight, I predicted that he would quickly run away again.
“If you need to think about it so much and to fight so hard against it,” I countered, “I think the truth must be obvious. It never disappears with the denials.”
“You’re right,” he acknowledged.
“You always carry it. Maybe you keep it at bay for awhile, but you always know. It never disappears. It prevails in the end. There’s no alternative.”
The cash slave said he didn’t want to leave for work, preferring to continue our conversation instead, but I reminded him that his purpose is to earn money for me.
“That’s why you exist.”
“It makes me smile reading that,” he wrote. “It’s such a simple profound statement that makes me happy.”
“You want to be useful to a man like me. What could be better?”
“Nothing,” the cash slave answered.
“No greater purpose than being useful to me.”
“There isn’t,” he agreed.
“That’s the truth. That feels so incredible.”
The cash slave came reading those words, having sent $225 in Amazon gift cards. His final message implied that I might be waiting awhile to collect more:
“Some day we will meet again, and on that day you’ll give me what I deserve.”
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I’ll take what I deserve when the day comes, whether it’s tomorrow or another year from now. Cash slaves can circuit the cycle all they like, but they’ll never escape it. My power is overwhelming.