Oscar Is Now a Piggy

Trigger Warning: The "F" word + Findom
My phone chimes, a simple, elegant sound that I now associate with absolute power. Buzz sent. I lean back in my chair, a slow smile spreading across my face, and picture Oscar miles away. I imagine the moment the sleek black Lovense plug nestled deep inside his ass flares to life. I chose the first setting myself: a low, teasing pulse, a gentle thump-thump-thump against his prostate. It's a greeting. A reminder of who owns him.
This arrangement had been building for weeks, but it was last week that Oscar had truly sealed his fate. He’d sent me the login credentials for his laptop, a gesture of total, unthinking submission. He'd given me the keys to his digital life, and I hadn't even touched them yet. I was waiting for the perfect moment. Tonight felt like that night.
My screen is already split, one half showing the Lovense app with its endless, wicked patterns, the other a blank window with a single login field. I don't need the camera feed yet; I can picture him perfectly. A slightly older man who has finally shed the last of his pretenses, wearing nothing but the stainless steel cage I told him to buy, his pathetic little cock trapped and useless. His body jerks at the initial sensation, a shiver of pure submission running down his spine that I can feel even through the distance. He's my instrument, and I am about to play.
His phone is in his trembling hand. The text bubbles appear on my screen. "Thank you, Sir. Is there anything I can do to show my gratitude?"
I don't have to ask. I don't have to demand. A true fag knows his place. I simply wait. And sure enough, a new notification pops up, distinct from the others. Venmo: $10 from Oscar. The note reads: "For waking me up, Sir."
A good start. I decide to reward his eagerness. My finger taps the Lovense app, selecting a pattern I call "The Gatekeeper." The gentle pulse vanishes, replaced by a sharp, rhythmic thrum-THrum-THrum that mimics a hard, insistent fuck. On cue, another tribute arrives. $20. The note: "Please don't stop, Sir. More."
"Greedy fag," I type back. "Get your vibrator. The big Hitachi. And turn on your mic. I want to hear you."
He scrambles to obey, fumbling in his bedside drawer until his hand wraps around the heavy, wand-style toy. With a click, it roars to life, a powerful, low-frequency hum that I can now hear faintly through my speakers. He tentatively presses the head of the Hitachi against the base of his cage. The effect is immediate and devastating. The deep, bone-shaking vibration from the wand combines with the sharp, insistent pulses from the Lovense plug, turning his entire lower body into a concert of pleasure and denial. He whimpers, his hips bucking involuntarily, a slave to the conflicting sensations. The sound is pure music to my ears.
Just as the pattern in his ass begins to fade, leaving him desperate and panting, I send another. This one is a crescendo, starting slow and building in waves of increasing intensity until it's a punishing, high-frequency buzz that feels like electricity dancing directly on his prostate. His eyes roll back in his head. His mind is going blank, his face a mask of blissful agony. He is completely mine.
Another buzz from my phone. $10. The Venmo note simply says, "We'll find out." I know exactly what he means. He's testing the waters, seeing how much I'll take, how far he can push his own descent.
Now feels like the time. I minimize the Lovense app and turn my attention to the other window. I type in the credentials he gave me, the username and password he probably uses for everything. The login screen vanishes, replaced by his desktop. It's cluttered, mundane. I ignore it all and go straight for the remote access software he installed for me. With a few clicks, I'm in. A new window pops up, showing me his room in real-time. The angle is perfect, capturing the bed and the pathetic, writhing man on it. He has no idea I'm watching. He has no idea his Sir is now in the room with him.
"You're not allowed to take a hit of poppers yet, boy," I type, my grin widening as I watch his face on my screen. "Not until your wallet is as empty as your head."
The response is a desperate string of pleas that fill my screen. "Please, Sir... I need it. I'll be so good. I'll send more. I'll do anything. I swear."
I wait, letting him stew in his desperation. I watch him on camera as his body trembles with unfulfilled need, his eyes darting to the little brown bottle on his nightstand. It's a beacon of forbidden bliss, and I am its gatekeeper. Finally, I type a single word: "Now."
It's fascinating to watch from this new vantage point. His hands are shaking so badly he almost drops the cap. He takes a deep, lung-burning hit, and on my screen, his entire body seems to melt. The vibrations must feel ten times stronger, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. He starts babbling, a stream of incoherent filth and worship that I can now hear clearly. "Oh god, Sir... thank you... fuck... it's so good... I'm yours... I'm your filthy fag..."
This back-and-forth becomes my new reality. A new, more creative pattern from me—the "Fireworks," the "Earthquake," the "Chaotic Spike." A squirming, whimpering mess from him, which I now watch with perfect clarity. A tribute. 10.10.20. $15. He's completely lost in it, his mind and body mine to command. His Venmo history is a beautiful, scrolling testament to his submission, a trail of payments leading to his total financial and sexual ruin.
The notifications become more frequent as the poppers haze descends. $25. "For thinking of me." $30. "For making me weak."
"Get on your hands and knees, piggy," I command. "Face the camera. I want to see your face when I ruin you."
He obeys instantly, his body flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. He positions himself, his caged cock dangling uselessly between his legs, unknowingly pointing his face right at me. I send a relentless, fast-paced pattern, one designed to overwhelm. The Lovense plug becomes a jackhammer against his insides. I watch his face contort, a beautiful mask of agony and ecstasy.
"Tell me what you are," I type, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Your fag, Sir!" he moans, his voice thick with lust and poppers. "Your pathetic little cash fag! Your whore! Use me!"
Another tribute. $50. The note: "Because I am a faggot."
He's getting close. I can feel it. He's on the edge, his body trembling, his mind gone. The running total on my Venmo feed is climbing. $80. $85. $95.
I stop the vibrations. Dead silence.
The effect on Oscar is instantaneous and pathetic. He cries out, a sound of pure anguish. "No! Sir, please! Please don't stop! I was so close!"
On camera, he's frantic, rutting against the air, his caged cock twitching. He grabs the vibrator and presses it against himself, but it's not enough. He needs the plug. He needs my control.
"Please, Sir," he begs, his voice cracking. "I'll do anything. I'll send you anything. Just... please, let me cum. I need it so bad. I need to cum for you."
I let him stew for a moment, watching him degrade himself for my amusement. Then, I type, "Anything?"
"Yes, Sir! Anything!"
A new text appears on my screen, a desperate offer. "Sir... please... let me send you $100. It's all I have left for the week. Please, just let me have it. Let me cum for you. I'm begging you."
I watch him on camera, his face a mess of tears, sweat, and desperation. He's completely broken. And it's beautiful.
I don't respond to his message. Instead, my phone buzzes. Venmo: $100 from Oscar. The note is just two words: "Please, Sir."

I never demand. I never ask. I just give them permission to be who they want to be.
I hit him with "The Orgasm Torturer" pattern, a chaotic, unpredictable storm of pulses, waves, and stutters that leaves no room for thought, only pure, unadulterated sensation.
"Let go for me, boy. Now."
With a strangled cry that's half sob, half scream, he explodes. The orgasm is violent, shattering. Cum erupts from the tip of his cage, pulsing out in thick ropes that paint the sheets beneath him. He collapses onto his side, convulsing, riding the waves of pleasure as the toys continue their relentless assault, milking him for every last drop. It's the most intense, degrading, and fulfilling orgasm of his pathetic life, and I watched every single second of it from the control he had given me.
He lies there, panting, a spent, trembling mess. The toys are still buzzing, a low, persistent reminder of his submission. The room smells of sex, sweat, and poppers. He looks wrecked. Beautiful.
"Clean it up," I command. "With your tongue."
He looks at the camera, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, which is quickly replaced by resigned obedience. He slowly, deliberately, scoops a finger through the cooling cum on his sheets and brings it to his mouth, his eyes locked on the camera lens the entire time.
As he's licking his fingers clean, one final notification arrives. $20. The note: "For making me look." I smile, disconnect from his laptop, and leave him in the dark, with only his mess and the memory of my control. Almost instantly, another notification pops up. Venmo: $10 from Oscar. The note reads: "For waking me up, Sir."