I noticed last week that the Ray-Ban sunglasses on my Amazon wish list had disappeared. Some buyers immediately take credit for a purchase; others only reveal themselves later, if they ever do. I spent a few days wondering who the mystery buyer was, finally finding one of those peach-colored “Sorry we missed you!” cards in my mailbox. Since no one had signed for the box in the lobby, I assumed I’d have to produce an ID to collect the gift, a problem since the names wouldn’t match. Rather than risk being denied the package, I decided to let the post office return it. That’s when I asked the buyer to come forward, hoping that I could collect an Amazon gift card or the cash necessary to go buy the sunglasses myself.
“It was me who sent the tribute, Sir,” the buyer soon volunteered on Tumblr.
I explained the situation. Signatures and IDs are usually only required for relatively valuable items (I’ve only had to do it for things worth $500+), but the seller had chosen to demand it in this case for whatever reason.
“Oh, sorry, Sir. Such a shame because your Tumblr turned me on so much. I was even thinking about getting a PC laptop to do the black screen thing–I’m a Mac person.”
When I came back to my laptop, a new Skype add request had appeared that was obviously from the same guy. I suggested that the buyer send an Amazon gift card, and immediately after I wrote the words he revealed that he’d already sent one for a smaller amount.
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Then the new faggot mentioned trying to send me cash. I gave him the address and he sent a “test payment” of $50, significantly more than the typical cash slave sends as a “test.” I had an inkling then that this might turn into an awesome night.
“I’ve been reading your blog tonight,” Cashcunt went on. “Great work.”
“You mean some of the past posts?”
“Yes,” the faggot answered. “I keep rolling further and further back. And sniffing my poppers.”
“There’s quite a bit of material. Haha. Is that when you bought the Ray-Bans? After a big sniff?”
“I know. All of it erection inducing. Yep!”
“Have you been a cash faggot before?” I asked.
He had. “But never to a god like you.”
As we chatted, the $180 I needed to buy the Ray-Bans appeared in my account. I said they were going to look great on me.
“I’ve seen so little, but I don’t doubt it,” Cashcunt agreed.
“I’m sure you want to see more.”
“When I earn the chance.”
That’s the right attitude to have. I enjoy showing off, obviously, but cash fags shouldn’t feel entitled to that.
“Good work so far,” I complimented.
“Thank you. I know I have proven nothing. That takes time.”
Had this faggot really just started serving men? It was hard to believe given the way he talked; he seemed to have a perfect understanding of his place beneath me, unlike the legions of curious and wannabes who waste my time or have absolutely no idea what they want.
“Reading your blog made me a bit desperate,” Cashcunt continued. “I was so turned on. So hot and bothered. I had to pay tribute.”
He mentioned his interest in Teamviewer’s black screen again, describing it as “a true cash rape” that a faggot is forced to accept.
I’ve had many cash slaves express that they were totally captivated by my black screen posts even though they were unwilling to submit to the treatment themselves. I understand the hesitation: most of the men calling themselves masters shouldn’t be invested with that kind of trust. They’ll abuse it. You’ll never hear anyone talking about how I wronged them because it never happens. You don’t need to be afraid of me.
Anyway, Cashcunt doesn’t have a PC, so the black screen discussion is purely about the future. In the present…
“May I take a hit of poppers and make a tribute?” the cash slave asked.
“Yeah, do it, faggot,” I ordered.
“What amount and where? My anticipation rises.”
Not sure what Cashcunt’s limits were, I instructed him to take a big hit and to send $100.
“Yes, Sir,” he acknowledged. “Poppers done.”
“Now show me what a good faggot you’re going to be.”
“Sent.”
“Fuck yeah!”
“Thank you, Sir. I can now be counted as a fag you made demands of.”
What an honor after he’d hit that brown bottle and tugged his dick to so many of my posts. Instead of just reading the story, now he was going to be a part of it.
“How does that make you feel?” I asked.
“Excited for the possibilities.”
His place? Serving and pleasing me.
“You, you, you,” Cashcunt agreed.
“I’m more important than anything else. Right, faggot?”
“Of course. I am a faggot button pusher who punches in numbers and hits send while sniffing poppers.”
Hard to believe this cash fag doesn’t have much experience, right? He sounds like he’s spent ten years fulfilling his purpose; he knows exactly what he is.
“Another faggot ATM dispensing cash to me on demand,” I summarized. “Take another good hit of those poppers and go punch in some more numbers for me. Another $100.”
The numbers were going to climb much higher, but I still wanted to be cautious while I was uncertain about the faggot’s limits. That restraint wouldn’t last much longer; the next question I asked was how much the cash slave had lost to another master.
“A couple thousand for one guy,” Cashcunt revealed.
“Over time or in a night?” I asked, assuming he meant the former.
“One night. Two hours, really.”
Fuck yeah! New to the scene and already losing thousands in two hour spans! Now I knew I could fuck this guy hard.
I asked a few more questions about the faggot’s history. I like to understand what people want and where they’ve been, but the new cash slave–surely taking more hits as we chatted–was growing impatient with that approach.
“Use me, Sir,” Cashcunt begged, craving to drain more.
“More cash, faggot. Popper up and blow $150.”
“Boom. You ask, you receive. DONE!”
As the amounts climb, clicking the button feels better and better. A cash slave, fully accepting and embracing his purpose, knows no greater than thrill than accommodating my demands, the intensity peaking and his dick stiffening every time I command him to send more. Cash slaves have no will in that moment; they’ve completely surrendered themselves to mine. In that vivid daze they exist solely for my pleasure, all other concerns slipping away.
With a little more than $600 drained, I told the faggot that September was on track to be my best month of the year. He delighted in that.
“Test me, Sir,” Cashcunt requested, wanting a bigger challenge.
We started talking about my previous record months and about my greatest single sessions, a few nicknames coming up in the discussion.
“A loyal faggot who knows exactly what he wants is always preferable to a flake who disappears for six months at a time.”
“It’s disgusting,” the faggot commented.
“Most of them are terrified to admit how much they need and want it.”
“Test me, Sir,” Cashcunt repeated. “Please.”
“$200 this time,” I ordered.
“Boom. Done”
So fucking easy. What’s better than when I demand and a faggot immediately obeys? Nothing. For the inexperienced and the curious, take note: that’s how it should always be. You exist to serve, not to waffle, not to flake, not to waste my precious time.
With cash flowing easily, the amounts I ordered continued to steadily increase. This time I told the faggot to send $250.
“Boom. Done,” Cashcunt wrote again.
Having crossed $1,000 for the day, I said what I’ve already repeated several times in this post: “You’re just a beginner? I can hardly tell. Act like a seasoned cash fag.”
Most of the seasoned cash fags I know wish they had the balls and the bank balance to lose $1,000 or more in a session. Some of you can certainly afford it–stop depriving yourselves.
Cashcunt was fully indulging and ecstatic about it. As the conversation continued, I demanded $300 more.
“Done,” the faggot responded almost instantly.
“Already more than $1,000 drained,” I reported, knowing that the poppered up cash fag was probably having a difficult time keeping track.
Of course the number got him hot. “It’s a 1k day!” he wrote.
“Might be a 2k day by the time I’m finished with you,” I predicted. “Given the rate you’re gushing.”
“Maybe.”
Haha, maybe. Yeah, maybe.
“Now I’m getting harder,” Cashcunt typed.
“What’s your purpose, faggot?” I asked.
“To serve you. To make you happy. To praise you. To exist for you.”
“Fuck yeah. You exist for me. You’re another ATM in my collection. Dispensing cash on my command. You’re going to be another great example for all the other aspiring cash fags too.”
“They can see how it’s done.”
“They’ll read about you just like you read about them. Getting turned on and desperate.”
How many cash fags out there, virgin or experienced, whether we spoke two months ago or two years ago, are stroking their rock hard dicks imagining pleasing me in the same way this new cash fag did? You can. You should. Don’t blow your load to this post. It doesn’t feel the same, does it? You know what you need, and sooner or later you’re going to get it. Don’t fight it. Embrace it like Cashcunt. Fulfill your purpose. Serve me.
“Let’s do $350 now,” I commanded, escalating the amount again.
“Now?” the cash fag pretended to question. “Just kidding. Done!”
“Fuck! I’m definitely pleased right now. Been way too long since I had a really big cash rape. Most faggots are pussies. They can’t handle it. You obviously thrive on it. You know there’s nothing better.”
I suggested that Cashcunt definitely buy a PC. Can you imagine what I would do to him with Teamviewer’s black screen activated? He’d sit there sniffing, embracing without any questions my full control, while I decimated his freshly deposited paycheck.
“$400,” I ordered.
Of course the faggot sent it. Cashcunt was incapable of saying no to me, and with that payment we crossed $2,000 for the day.
“If I take cash at this rate for the rest of the month I’ll make more than $15,000,” I noted.
“YES!” the faggot wrote, his dick likely getting stiffer as he contemplated that amount.
I asked about when he would get paid again. Next Friday. We’ll see if the faggot reports for more draining or runs away, but I have a good feeling about that.
For now, with more than $2,000 taken, I suspected that we were quickly exhausting the present paycheck. Indeed, Cashcunt presented his first request of the night: “May I cum at midnight?”
It was four minutes away, meaning I had to work fast to cross $3,000.
“450,” I typed.
“Boom.”
“Fuck, faggot. This is probably the best first time I’ve sever seen. Something to be proud of.”
“I am,” Cashcunt wrote. “But my pride is nothing next to your pleasure.”
“You have no idea how I feel right now. On top of the world. Sitting here typing while you dump thousands into my account.”
Yeah, if you hadn’t already noticed, all of the cash was drained without the faggot seeing or hearing me. To some of you that is completely inexplicable; to this faggot it was simple: he hadn’t earned that kind of privilege. Cashcunt exists to serve, not to be rewarded at every step.
“Have we hit 2k?” the faggot asked.
Haha. Counting the initial Amazon gift card, we were closer to $3,000!
“Quick, $500” I instructed, just one minute away from midnight. “Now, faggot! Hurry!”
Cashcunt sent the money, bringing the cash total to $3,030, plus $50 on Amazon. At midnight, the faggot shot a massive load.
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“Oh god,” he wrote. That was huge. Thank you, Sir.“
"How do you feel after cumming?” I asked.
“Fantastic. Exhausted.”
“That’s going to make an amazing post. A perfect example for every other faggot to follow. Even more cash flooding my way.”
Cashcunt said he needed to sleep (and dream). I dismissed him.
“Can’t wait to use you again,” I concluded, already thinking about his next check.
With more than $3,000 taken, I posted the screen shot of the payments and reported that I had just witnessed the best first impression ever. With that great inspiration in mind, close to $1,000 poured into my accounts during the following hours. That will be coming up next.
Can I take another $1,000 tonight? I’ve already collected $600. Let’s make it happen, cash fags!