You know what I always say, darling? Love what you do, or rot in irrelevance.
If you’re in this game just to make a quick coin, you’re not a domme. You’re a desperate little detour on someone else’s pathetic journey. And it shows. Loudly. Tragically.

Just look at the mess that dares call itself the findom scene.
A circus of budget goblins, filter-abusing blobs, and “gender-free” gargoyles who throw around the word goddess like it’s a participation trophy.
Calling yourself divine won’t erase the stench of desperation and bargain-bin lingerie.

“You can’t fake power. You either radiate it, or you cosplay it.”

They flood timelines with feet like raw pizza dough and selfies that look like a public health warning. They aren’t dominating. They’re polluting.
And the worst part? Some worm out there is actually paying for it.
Sweetheart, I’d have to be bribed to even glance at that biological disappointment.

These talentless clones copy whatever trend they see, slap some broken emoji on it, and pray it works. It never does.
Of course it doesn’t. You can’t market trash as luxury just because you spelled it in all caps.

Of course it doesn’t. You can’t market trash as luxury just because you spelled it in all caps.

Honestly, they’d be better off in a polyester uniform asking, “Do you want fries with that?”
Not that they’d manage that either. Even ketchup packets have more structure.

Let’s set this straight right now.
Don’t you ever, and I mean ever, compare me to those off-brand disasters.

“I’m not in their league. I’m not even in their reality.”

I do this because I love it. Because I was made for it. Because I get off on draining spineless worms like you dry.

Your fear? Mine.
Your wallet? Mine.
Your mind? Already unraveling.

And when I say digital domination, I mean domination.
I’ll turn your phone into a shrine to my power.
Your computer? Locked tighter than your chastity cage.

Your privacy? Gone. Replaced with my voice echoing through every notification and every humiliating little beep.