Worthless

[Video call – Saturday, 9:03 PM]

Master Jared’s face fills my screen. He’s in his apartment—I can see the edge of his couch, the dark wall behind him. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and looking at his phone, not at the camera.

Not at me.

I’m on my knees in front of my laptop, shirtless, cock already half-hard, waiting.

He doesn’t acknowledge me for forty-seven seconds.

Then, without looking up from his phone: “How much do you have available tonight?”

“Eight hundred dollars, Master,” I say.

“Eight hundred.” He finally looks at the camera. At me. His expression is—contemptuous. “That’s it? I thought you had a real job.”

“I do, Master. I—”

“Then why the fuck do you only have eight hundred available? What are you spending your money on? Shit you don’t need?”

My cock gets harder. “No, Master. I have bills. Rent. I—”

“I don’t care about your bills.” He cuts me off. “I care about how much you can send me. And eight hundred is pathetic. You’re pathetic.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Say it properly.”

“I’m pathetic, Master.”

“Why are you pathetic?”

I swallow. “Because I only have eight hundred dollars available for you, Master.”

“Exactly. Pathetic.” He looks back at his phone. “Send two hundred. Now. While I’m barely paying attention to you. Because that’s all you’re worth right now—partial attention while you prove you’re not completely useless.”

I don’t hesitate. I open the payment app. Send $200. Screenshot. Send it in chat.

He glances at his phone. “Received.” That’s all. No acknowledgment beyond confirmation.

He goes back to scrolling.

I’m still on my knees, cock hard, waiting.

[9:08 PM]

Master Jared is reading something on his phone. Not talking to me. Not looking at me. Just—using his phone while I kneel here half-naked and wait for instructions.

This is part of it. Being ignored after sending money. Being treated as though the $200 I just sent barely registered as significant enough to earn his full attention.

After three minutes—I’ve been counting—he looks back at the camera.

“You’re still here.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t tell me to leave, Master.”

“Right. You’re waiting for permission. Like a dog.” He smirks. “Are you a dog?”

“I’m your dog, Master.”

“No. Dogs are loyal and useful. You’re just a wallet. A pathetic wallet that only has eight hundred dollars. Sorry—six hundred now.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Touch yourself. Slowly. I want to see how hard you get when I tell you you’re worthless.”

I wrap my hand around my cock. Start stroking slowly.

He watches for maybe ten seconds. Then: “You’re hard already. You like being told you’re worthless, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Say it. Say ‘I like being told I’m worthless.’”

“I like being told I’m worthless, Master.”

“Of course you do. Because it’s true. You are worthless. Your only value is financial, and even that’s barely adequate. Six hundred left? That’s nothing. I spend more than that on a dinner.”

My cock throbs in my hand. I stroke faster without meaning to.

“Did I tell you to speed up?”

“No, Master. Sorry, Master.”

“Slow down. Edge pace. Keep yourself right there while I tell you exactly what you are.”

I slow down. Stroke at the edge—enough to maintain arousal without building to orgasm.

“Good. Now listen. You’re a thirty-two-year-old man with a decent job, probably decent money, probably people who respect you at work. And here you are, on your knees, paying me to tell you you’re worthless. That’s fucking pathetic. You know that, right?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And you’re hard because of it. Because being degraded for sending money makes your pathetic cock hard. Say it.”

“Being degraded for sending money makes my pathetic cock hard, Master.”

“Exactly. Send another hundred. Right now. While you’re stroking. While I’m telling you how worthless you are.”

[9:14 PM – $300 sent total]

I send $100 while still stroking with my other hand. Screenshot. Send.

Master Jared glances at his phone. “Received. That’s three hundred total. You’re down to five hundred. How does it feel, giving me money while I mock you for it?”

“Good, Master. Really good.”

“Good? That’s the best word you have? You just sent me three hundred dollars and I’ve given you nothing but contempt and you say it feels ‘good’?”

“It feels—right, Master. Like this is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

He leans forward slightly. For the first time tonight, he looks genuinely interested rather than contemptuous. “Right. Explain that.”

I keep stroking—slow, edge pace—while I try to find words.

“It feels right because—because you’re taking what you want and mocking me for giving it. You’re not pretending I’m special or that the money is a gift. You’re just—taking it. And telling me I’m pathetic. And that honesty, Master, that’s what feels right.”

He sits back. “Interesting. So you don’t want me to pretend you matter. You want me to treat you like you don’t.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Like you’re nothing but a funding source. A human wallet. Barely worth my time except for what you can send.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then send two hundred more. Prove that’s what you are. Prove you’re nothing but a wallet.”

I send $200. $500 total now.

“Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Five hundred dollars in eleven minutes and your cock is leaking. Stop stroking.”

I stop. Hands at my sides.

“Look at yourself. On your knees. Shirtless. Cock hard. Just sent me five hundred dollars. For what? For me to tell you you’re worthless? That’s what gets you off?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Say the whole thing. ‘I get off on sending Master Jared money while he tells me I’m worthless.’”

“I get off on sending Master Jared money while he tells me I’m worthless, Master.”

“Good. Now send another hundred and tell me why.”

[9:19 PM – $600 sent total]

I send $100. $600 total.

“I’m sending it because you told me to, Master. Because this is what I’m for. Because my money is more useful to you than anything else about me.”

“Finally. Some self-awareness. Your money IS more useful to me than anything else about you. I don’t care about your job, your hobbies, your thoughts, your feelings. I care about your bank account. And your bank account is down to—what? Two hundred?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Two hundred left and you started with eight. You’ve given me seventy-five percent of your available money in less than twenty minutes. For what?”

“For you, Master.”

“Wrong. Try again.”

I think. “For—for the experience of being worthless to you, Master. For being mocked while I give.”

“Better. You’re not giving ‘for me’ like it’s some generous act. You’re giving because you need to feel worthless and the only way to feel truly worthless is to give something valuable while being told it’s not enough. Right?”

“Yes, Master. Exactly that.”

“Good. Stroke again. Edge pace. Let’s see how much more I can take before you’re completely empty.”

[9:24 PM]

I’m stroking again. Edge pace. Maintaining arousal without tipping over.

Master Jared is on his phone again, scrolling, occasionally glancing at the camera to check I’m still following instructions.

After two minutes: “You’re still hard.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Even though I’m barely paying attention to you. Even though you’ve sent me six hundred dollars and I’ve given you nothing but insults. Still hard.”

“Yes, Master.”

“That’s because you’re not here for pleasure, are you? You’re here to be used. To be mocked. To be reminded that your only value is what you can send.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And the harder I am on you, the harder your cock gets. Look at you. Leaking. Desperate. Pathetic.”

My cock is leaking. He’s right. Pre-cum dripping. I’m more aroused than I’ve been in months.

“Send the last two hundred. Empty yourself. Prove you’re nothing but a wallet.”

I send $200. $800 total. Everything I had available.

Screenshot. Send.

“Received. You’re empty. Eight hundred dollars gone. To someone who’s spent the last twenty minutes telling you you’re worthless. How do you feel?”

“Satisfied, Master.”

“Satisfied? You just gave me everything and got nothing but contempt. That satisfies you?”

“Yes, Master. Because the contempt is what I needed. The contempt is—honest. Real. You’re not pretending I matter. You’re just taking what you want and mocking me for giving it.”

He leans back. Studies me. “You’re more self-aware than most subs I work with.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. Self-awareness doesn’t make you less pathetic. It just means you know you’re pathetic and you do it anyway.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Stop stroking. Hands behind your back.”

I put my hands behind my back. My cock is rock hard, leaking, desperate.

“You want to cum, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Why would I let you cum? You just gave me eight hundred dollars. You’re empty. You’re worthless now. You have nothing left I want.”

My stomach drops. But my cock throbs.

“Please, Master. I—”

“You what? You deserve to cum? You think sending me eight hundred dollars means you deserve orgasm?”

“No, Master. I just—I want permission, Master.”

“I know you want permission. But why should I give it? What have you done to earn it?”

“I sent everything I have, Master.”

“Exactly. You sent everything. You’re empty. You’re useless to me now. Why would I care if you cum or not?”

I’m silent. There’s no good answer. He’s right. If my only value is financial and I’ve sent everything, I’m worthless now.

“But,” he continues, “I’m feeling generous. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stroke. Fast. You’re going to cum in the next two minutes. And while you cum, you’re going to say ‘I’m worthless’ over and over. Understand?”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“Start now. Stroke fast. Two minutes. Tell me what you are.”

[9:29 PM]

I stroke fast. My cock is desperate, oversensitive, ready.

“I’m worthless,” I say.

“Louder.”

“I’m worthless. I’m worthless. I’m worthless.”

“Why are you worthless?”

“Because I gave everything and got nothing but contempt. Because my only value is money and I’m empty. Because—fuck, Master, I’m going to cum—because I’m nothing but a wallet.”

“Then cum. Cum while you tell me what you are.”

“I’m worthless, I’m worthless, I’m—”

I cum. Hard. Intense. All over my chest, my stomach. I keep stroking through it. Keep saying it.

“I’m worthless. I’m worthless.”

The orgasm hits in waves. My whole body shakes.

When it finally subsides, I’m gasping, covered in cum, hands still behind my back like he told me.

Master Jared watches me. No expression. Just—observing.

After a long moment: “Clean yourself up. We’re done.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“Don’t thank me. You paid for this. Eight hundred dollars for twenty-six minutes of being told you’re worthless. That’s what you wanted. That’s what you got.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Message me next week if you have more to send. If you don’t, don’t bother me.”

The call ends.

[9:33 PM – After]

I’m sitting on my floor, still covered in cum, staring at my laptop screen where Master Jared’s face was two minutes ago.

$800. In twenty-six minutes. While being called pathetic, worthless, told my only value is financial.

I should feel bad. Regretful. Ashamed in the wrong way.

I don’t.

I feel—satisfied. Complete. Like something that was wound tight inside me has finally loosened.

Because he didn’t pretend. He didn’t say “good boy” or “you’re doing well” or any of the things that would acknowledge me as valuable beyond my wallet.

He just took my money and mocked me for giving it.

And that honesty—that refusal to pretend I’m more than a funding source—is what I needed.

[9:47 PM – Cleaning up]

I’m in the shower, washing the cum off, thinking about what just happened.

The humiliation intensified the financial submission in a way I couldn’t have predicted.

When I send tributes to doms who praise me, acknowledge me, tell me I’m a good boy—that feels good. It feels like service. Like contribution.

But when Master Jared mocks me for sending, tells me I’m worthless, treats the $800 like it’s barely worth his attention—that feels different.

It feels like being seen for exactly what I am in that moment: someone who needs to give and needs to be degraded for giving.

The mockery makes the submission real. Makes it sharp. Makes it impossible to pretend it’s anything other than what it is: me paying someone to treat me as less-than.

And that clarity—that brutal honesty—is what satisfies me in a way praise never quite does.

[10:23 PM – Checking phone]

No message from Master Jared. I didn’t expect one.

The call ended and he moved on. Because I’m empty. I have nothing left to give tonight.

And he was explicit: “If you don’t have more to send, don’t bother me.”

I’m not bothered by that. I’m not hurt by the dismissal.

Because that’s the agreement. I’m useful when I have money to send. When I don’t, I’m irrelevant.

That transactionality—that clarity about exactly what I’m valued for—is strangely comforting.

I know where I stand. I know what I’m worth in this dynamic. I know that next week, when I have money again, I can message him. And he’ll call me pathetic and take what I have and mock me for giving it.

And I’ll be satisfied.

[One week later – Saturday, 8:47 PM]

I have $750 available this week. I message Master Jared.

Master. I have $750 available if you’re free tonight.

His response comes in three minutes.

Seven fifty? That’s barely worth my time. But I’m bored. Video call. 9pm. Be ready to be reminded how worthless you are.

My cock gets hard immediately.

Yes Master. Thank you Master.

Don’t thank me yet. You’re about to give me seven hundred and fifty dollars and get nothing but contempt for it. If that’s what you want, be online at 9.

I check the time. 8:51 PM. Nine minutes.

I strip from the waist up. Kneel in front of my laptop. Wait.

At exactly 9:00 PM, the call comes through.

Master Jared’s face fills the screen. He looks at me. No smile. No greeting.

Just: “How much do you have?”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, Master.”

“Pathetic. Last week you had eight hundred. You’re going backwards. What happened? Spent money on yourself? Selfish.”

“Yes, Master. I’m selfish, Master.”

“Send two hundred. Now. While I tell you why you’re worthless.”

I send $200 while he begins the litany of exactly what I am: worthless, pathetic, nothing but a wallet.

And my cock gets hard.

Because this—this brutal honesty, this refusal to pretend I’m more than a funding source, this mockery that comes with every tribute—this is exactly what I need.

The money isn’t the submission.

The humiliation is the submission.

The money is just what makes the humiliation real.