“Hot to see you fucking over faggots again, Sir,” Trust Fund commented last night.
“Yeah, some bait for the others.”
“Hehe. Looks like it’s working.”
“Going to work on you?” I challenged.
“Thinking about it, Sir…I’ve been trying not to do this anymore but imagining your thick straight cock and handsome face…all the cash you’ve taken from me.”
I’ve drained thousands from Trust Fund in the time we’ve known each other. He’s one of those fags who’s perpetually “quitting,” constantly imagining that he’ll suddenly be able to seize control of his desires and edit his immutable nature. That ridiculous fantasy always crumbles when it’s matched against my will.
“‘I’ve been trying not to this anymore!’” I taunted. “You’re so fucking pathetic. You’re never going to stop, faggot.”
“Ugh I’m afraid you’re right, Sir,” Trust Fund confessed. “Just an addicted hopeless faggot. I’ll probably never be normal.”
Having known hundreds of cash slaves, some for five and even ten years, I’m certainly right. Even if they distance themselves from me because I’m too expensive or too effective that need for an alpha never abates–they never really disappear.
“You are hopeless,” I confirmed. “Always going to be addicted. As normal as a fag can ever be.”
“Like have a boyfriend and normal relationships,” he tried to clarify.
“You don’t want that. You just want to worship straight dick.”
“Fuck. I do, Sir.”
With that Trust Fund was on his way to my payment form, sending an initial $50. He pasted one of my pics into the window:
“This pic makes me so horny,” he explained.
“What do you like about it? My dick?”
“Mmm, yessir. Love seeing straight dick outlined in shorts like that, and your thick arms crossed like that. And your hairy legs. Just so hot.”
“Did I ever post that comment from the eclipse?” I asked.
I don’t think I did. I went to the planetarium with a few friends, one of them pointing out that my dick was visible through my shorts. “Yeah, you can pretty much always see it,” I admitted. Alpha problems.
Trust Fund found that story obnoxiously hot. Pressing him for more cash, I cautioned him against cumming too early: “I know you, Trust Fund. The three minute wonder all too often.” Frequently without even seeing me, just at the mere thought of my image.
When the faggot complied, I had him list all the things he likes about my dick: “The girth, Sir. And shape. It’s so fat. And you have big balls too. Fuck. I wish I could kiss them.”
There’s a pipe dream. I joked that the cash fag would have to sign a deed over.
“I’m not that far gone yet,” he claimed.
Yet…haha. “You’ve never met me,” I pointed out. “Something tells me it’s all even more intoxicating in person.”
“That’s true, Sir. I can’t imagine in person. I can imagine you devastating my accounts. Hitting up ATMs, going shopping, logging into my accounts.”
“Complete faggot destruction.”
“Would you enjoy that, Sir?” the cash fag asked.
“Oh yeah. Ruining you to line my pockets and buy whatever I want. You’re just a faggot for real men to use.”
“Apparently my purpose in life, Sir,” Trust Fund agreed.
I had the faggot send $50 more, hinting that he’d get to see me after reaching $150 for the night. It took him less than a minute to drop the cash.
“Yeah, you fucking want it,” I typed with a grin on my face.
I called Trust Fund on Skype, my appearance easily inspiring him to lose another $50 and then $75. After just a few minutes I heard him groaning, cum obviously spraying out of his dick.
One more decent drain last night and I would have hit $1,000 for the day. Oh well, close enough. With so many other weak cash fags out there, it’s just a matter of time until I’m rolling past the mileposts.