The Payday Relapse
58. A Findom Short Story
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He wasn’t going back. He swore he was done. A month clean—no messages, no sends, no sinking guilt in his stomach after the rush faded. He’d even blocked her once.
Then payday hit.
The money was just sitting there in his account, looking at him. Daring him. And before he even realized what he was doing, he’d redownloaded the app. Just to look. Just to see if she was still there.
And now it was Friday night, and he was right back where he always ended up—sitting in the dark, the glow of his phone screen casting a cold light over his bare chest. Staring at her picture.
She wasn’t the cliché of a dominatrix in latex with a whip. No, that would’ve been easier to resist. She looked like the girl next door. Sweet. Playful. The kind of woman who might bump into you at a bookstore and smile like you were the most interesting person in the world. But that was the trick. That was the hook. The illusion.
Because she knew him. She knew how men like him thought.
And she knew exactly how to make them crumble.
His thumb hovered over her name.
He shouldn’t. He was better than this.
The screen lit up before he could decide.
“Hey, stranger.”
His stomach clenched. He twitched almost painfully.
Ignore it. Close the app. Turn off the phone.
“Missed you. You behaving?”
His throat was dry. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t help.
“Not really.”
His fingers moved before his brain could catch up. The message sent. His heart pounded.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
“Knew you wouldn’t stay away”
And just like that, the game had started. The current was pulling him under, dragging him out into deep water.
His was aching in anticipation. He could stop now, leave with his dignity intact. But he didn’t.
She sent a picture. Nothing explicit. Just a close-up of her face, smiling, her lips slightly parted.
“Thinking about me?”
He exhaled sharply.
“Maybe.”
She laughed. He could almost hear it—light, teasing, effortless.
“Then show me.”
His breath was shallow as he opened his banking app.
He’d keep it small. Just enough to take the edge off. He wasn’t diving back in. $50.
“Good boy.”
A shudder ran through him. The rush. That intoxicating hit of pleasure, humiliation, need. He was sweating even more. $100.
“You’re so predictable.”
Jesus. He was. She was right, and that only made it worse.
Her words had him in a chokehold. She didn’t even need to be here, didn’t need to touch him, didn’t need to do anything. He was already slipping.
His hands were sweating.
And then she asked for more.
“$500. Show me you mean it.”
His breath hitched. The room felt smaller, hotter.
This was the moment. The line he swore he wouldn’t cross.
His brain screamed. Walk away. Close the app. Be strong.
But he was aching, pulsing, demanding.
His hands were shaking as he hovered over the number pad.
One tap. Then another. He typed the amount, heart hammering.
The app gave him a final chance. Are you sure?
His body screamed yes. His rational mind whispered no.
He hit send.
The chime sounded. His stomach twisted. It was done.
Then—
Good boy.
A shiver ran through him. His body sagged against the sofa.
Too late now.
And God help him—he already knew he’d not stop there.
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