The Subs POV

I send the first amount before I can talk myself out of it. The second follows so fast my hands are still shaking.

By the third I am already hard, already quieter inside than I have been in months.

Serving her is not a kink I dip into when I am bored. It is the only thing that makes the rest of my life feel like it has a point.

Every transfer is a confession. Every notification that lands in her account is me saying: I exist to give this to you. Take it. Keep taking it.

I skip lunch. I cancel drinks. I look at the number in my own account and feel relief instead of panic. The smaller it gets, the cleaner I feel. She does not have to say thank you. She does not have to be kind. The fact that she simply accepts it, that she expects it, is the kindness.

At work I sneak another payment while my manager talks. My pulse is in my throat. I imagine her seeing the alert, barely looking up, already knowing I will do it again. That image alone is enough to make my cock leak.

Later I send her the screenshot and the messy paragraph that always comes with it.

How empty I feel in the best way. How nothing else has ever quieted the noise like this. How I would rather be useful to her than comfortable.

She replies with one word. *Good Boy, do it again*I do it immediately.

This is not about ruin. Not yet. It is about devotion with a receipt. It is about finally having somewhere to put all the wanting I never knew what to do with.

Serving her is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I mean that with every last pound I send.