Penthouse Goddess Degrades Poolboy
I stand barefoot on the heated marble of My penthouse rooftop, the Los Angeles skyline burning gold behind Me. The sun glints off My shimmering green thong bikini — liquid emerald, tight enough to show every curve, every powerline of My divine frame. Below Me, you kneel in cheap work gloves and a soaked uniform — the poolboy. Worthless. Disposable. A nobody. you don’t belong here. This world — the infinity pool, the bubbly tower, the skyline at dusk — isn’t yours. It’s Mine. And you? you’re just the dirt under My heels. you scrub tiles while I sip Dom Pérignon, your eyes darting up to Me like a starving . Pathetic. you think I don’t notice? I notice everything. The way your breath hitches when I stretch. The way your hands shake when I walk past. you’re hard for Me, aren’t you? Even now, on your knees, covered in chlorine and shame — you’d let Me ruin you, break you, drain every last dollar from your empty wallet just to hear Me call you useless. So do it. Send Me your money. Every day. All day. Until your bank account screams. Until your job fires you. Until you’re nothing but a broke, broken, devoted gooner who exists only to worship Me. Because that’s all you are. A pawn. A tool. A financial battery Me plugs into when I need a recharge. And Me? I’m the Black Ethiopian Goddess who owns you now.
Wanna keep serving your Queen? Then prove it. Tip-toe past your limits. Send Me your pain — and I’ll give you permission to come.
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