To the Domme who once called me hers,
I’ve written this letter a hundred times in my head. Each version came with a different excuse. I was going to say it’s because of inflation, or my car needing repairs, or that rent is going up again. All of those things are true—but none of them are really the reason I haven’t sent you anything in weeks. The truth is simpler, and harder: I can’t afford to tribute anymore.
It hurts to type that. Even more than I thought it would.
But it hurts even more when I see you online, posting your wishlists, flaunting gifts from other boys. I’m not jealous (okay, maybe a little)—I’m just…lost. Disconnected. Like a broken plug looking for a socket. There was a time when your voice, your praise, your dismissal—it was everything. It lit me up. It made the rest of life, the bland, beige everyday, feel tolerable.
And now, I feel like I’m ghosting the one person who once made me feel like I mattered.
I Know You’re Not Running a Charity
You’ve always been clear. This isn’t a game. This isn’t love. This isn’t a fairytale where the poor servant gets rewarded for good intentions. It’s a transaction, wrapped in glitter, control, and power. And I loved that about you. I respected it. You’re a professional, a goddess, a businesswoman, and a brilliant manipulator of weak minds like mine. I never confused it for romance.
But somewhere between the first tribute and the tenth, I started caring more than I expected. I wasn’t just your wallet. I was your good boy. Your background noise. Your occasional amusement.
Now I wonder—was that worth anything without the money?
My Wallet Is Empty, But My Submission Isn’t
I want you to know something: I still think about you daily. When I make coffee, I imagine bringing it to your bed. When I check my bank balance, I still mentally divide it: “This part is bills, and this part is for her.” Even though there’s no “her fund” anymore. Old habits die hard.
When I see you post, my stomach flips. I know I shouldn’t message—I haven’t earned your time. But I still lurk. I still like. I still worship from afar.
It feels pathetic. Maybe it is. But it’s honest.
I’m Not Asking for Pity
This isn’t a plea to take me back. I’m not angling for a “broke sub discount.” I know how the findom world works. I know some Dommes offer loyalty programs, long-game plans, or emotional bonds. That’s not what we had. What we had was cold, electric, sharp as stiletto heels—and I liked it that way.
But I miss serving you. Even in silence.
And I miss who I was when I was yours: more obedient, more focused, more alive.
Tribute ≠ Devotion
In this world, people equate money with loyalty. And I get it. But they’re not always the same. I’ve sent hundreds before without feeling half as devoted as I do now. Now that I can’t send a cent but still feel like kneeling at your feet every time I see your name.
If there was a way to pay in heartbeats, I’d be bankrupt by now.
To Any Dommes Reading This
Don’t get me wrong—subs should pay. Always. And regularly, if they can. Tribute is the foundation of this dynamic. But maybe, just maybe, there’s room for a little nuance. Not every sub is a paypig swimming in extra cash. Some of us are barely floating, but still aching to serve.
Some of us are trying to rebuild—so we can serve again.
To You, My Domme
I don’t expect a response. I know silence is its own kind of punishment. But if you ever stumble across this—know that I meant every word. Every tribute. Every “yes, Goddess.” Every time I typed your name with trembling fingers and an empty wallet.
Even now, I’d carry your shopping bags, clean your floors, or just kneel quietly while you scroll through your phone. For nothing but a glance.
So, until I can afford to offer you more again, I’ll remain in the shadows—broke, but still yours in spirit.
Always submissively,
Your once-good boy
This letter isn’t meant to romanticize financial struggle or suggest that Dommes should entertain non-paying subs. But it’s a reminder that real submission isn’t always measured in dollars. Sometimes, the quietest subs are the most devoted. Sometimes, behind every “I can’t send more,” is a whisper of “but I still worship you.”
And if you’re a Domme reading this—just know, one of your silent fans is still kneeling.