The bar, *La Cantina Rossa*, was a grimy little hole-in-the-wall tucked into the cobblestone heart of a sleepy Italian town. Dim lanterns cast flickering shadows over sticky tables, and the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and cheap cologne. Glasses clinked in a lazy rhythm, while an ancient jukebox crooned a scratchy rendition of some forgotten love ballad. Federica perched on a barstool, her long legs crossed with deliberate elegance, a glass of house red dangling between her manicured fingers. Her dark eyes, sharp as a switchblade, scanned the room with a predator’s patience. At thirty-eight, she was a woman who knew her power—her crimson lips curled into a smirk that could cut glass, and her presence commanded the space without effort.
Beside her, Elena—her best friend and partner-in-crime—leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial hiss over the din of the bar. “You won’t believe the latest nonsense I’ve stumbled across online, Fede. It’s called ‘paypigs.’ Men—pathetic little creatures—who get their rocks off by throwing money at women like us. Can you imagine? They *beg* to be financially drained. It’s like foreplay for their sad little wallets.”
Federica arched a brow, her smirk deepening as she swirled her wine. “Paypigs, huh? Sounds like a scam I should’ve invented years ago. What kind of idiot gets off on being bled dry?”
Elena cackled, tossing her raven hair over her shoulder. “The kind with no spine and too much disposable income. They grovel for approval, call you ‘Goddess,’ ‘Mistress,’ whatever gets them going. I saw this one guy online sending a woman five hundred euros just to be told he’s worthless. Five hundred! I could’ve bought those Louboutins I’ve been eyeing with that.”
Federica let out a low, throaty laugh, her gaze drifting lazily around the bar. “Darling, if I’d known men were this desperate, I’d have quit my day job ages ago. Imagine the wardrobe I could build off their misery.” Her voice dripped with mock pity, but her eyes gleamed with something dangerous—curiosity.
At a nearby table, Tom—a mousy, hunched figure in a faded polo shirt—sat nursing a pint. He was a regular at *La Cantina*, always lingering in the corners, his slouched frame practically begging to be ignored. His sweaty palms gripped the glass as if it were a lifeline, and his nervous eyes darted toward Federica and Elena every few seconds. Their words had slithered into his ears, each syllable tightening the knot in his chest. Paypigs. He knew the term all too well. He’d dabbled online, sent anonymous payments to faceless women who’d mocked him through pixelated screens. But hearing it discussed so openly, so brazenly, by *her*—Federica, with her piercing gaze and venomous tongue—made his heart pound so hard he thought it might crack a rib.
Federica caught his fidgeting from the corner of her eye. His trembling hands, the way his gaze kept skittering away like a scolded dog—it was pathetic. And oh, how she loved pathetic. She tilted her head, her lips curling into a wicked smile as she turned her attention back to Elena, raising her voice just enough to ensure it carried. “You know, cara, I’ve had my eye on this gorgeous designer bag. Soft leather, gold hardware, the kind of thing that screams ‘I’m better than you.’ But it’s a little out of my budget. Such a shame, isn’t it? A woman like me deserves to be spoiled.”
Elena snorted, catching on immediately. “Oh, absolutely. You shouldn’t have to lift a finger for something so trivial. Surely there’s someone around here who’d be *dying* to help a queen like you out.” Her eyes flicked toward Tom, a knowing glint in them.
Tom’s face turned a violent shade of red. His pint glass nearly slipped from his grip as Federica’s gaze finally landed on him, pinning him to his seat like a butterfly on a collector’s board. She didn’t say anything at first—just stared, her eyes boring into him with an intensity that made his stomach lurch. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, her voice a sultry purr. “What about you, little mouse? You’ve been eavesdropping, haven’t you? I can see it in those twitchy little eyes. Care to play the hero and buy me that bag?”
His mouth opened, then closed, words choking in his throat. The bar seemed to shrink around him, the jukebox fading into a dull hum. “I—I, uh, I mean, I could… if you want… I could get it for you,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and Federica’s smile widened into something feral.
“Oh, could you now?” she drawled, leaning back on her stool, crossing her arms to emphasize the curve of her chest. “How very generous. And here I thought you were just another wallflower, wilting in the corner. Tell me, what’s your name, generous boy?”
“Tom,” he mumbled, staring at the floor as if it might swallow him whole.
“Tom,” she repeated, rolling the name on her tongue like it was a cheap wine she was deciding whether to spit out. “Well, Tom, let’s see if you’re as good as your word. I’ll expect that bag by next week. Don’t disappoint me. I hate being disappointed.”
Elena stifled a laugh behind her hand, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Oh, Fede, you’re wicked. Look at him—he’s practically melting into a puddle.”
Federica didn’t break eye contact with Tom, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. “Good. I like my men liquid. Easier to pour into whatever shape I want.”
A week later, Tom returned to *La Cantina Rossa*, clutching a sleek, embossed shopping bag as if it were a holy relic. His hands shook as he approached Federica, who was lounging at the bar in a black silk blouse that clung to her like a second skin. She didn’t even look up from her wine at first, letting him stand there, quivering, until she finally deigned to acknowledge him with a slow, deliberate glance.
“Well, well,” she purred, setting her glass down with a delicate clink. “Look who’s come crawling back. Is that for me, little mouse?”
Tom nodded mutely, thrusting the bag toward her like a child offering a drawing to a teacher. Federica took it with a languid grace, peeling back the tissue paper to reveal the designer handbag she’d mentioned—a buttery leather masterpiece that gleamed under the bar lights. Her lips parted in a slow, predatory smile as she ran her fingers over it.
“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice low and dripping with honeyed menace. The words hit Tom like a physical blow; his knees buckled slightly, his face flushing a deep, mortified crimson. Federica noticed, of course—she noticed everything—and her laughter was a sharp, cutting thing that echoed through the bar. “Oh, look at you. You’re practically drooling. What is it, Tom? Does being useful get you all hot and bothered?”
“I—I’ve done this before,” he blurted out, his voice cracking. “Online. Paying women. I… I like it. Being told what to do. Being… used.”
Federica’s eyes lit up with dark delight. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Is that so, you pathetic little swine? You get off on being a human wallet, don’t you? A sniveling, useless pig who exists only to fund my whims.” She pulled back, her gaze raking over him with undisguised contempt. “Well, if you’re going to be my piggy, you’ll follow my rules. First, you keep my bar spotless of your filthy vibes—don’t even think about sulking near me without permission. Second, those measly earnings of yours? They’re mine now. Every cent goes to my luxuries. Understood?”
Tom nodded frantically, his eyes wide and glassy with a mix of shame and exhilaration. In a secluded corner of the bar, away from prying eyes, he sank to his knees, mumbling a garbled, “Thank you, Goddess,” under his breath. Federica towered over him, her expression a mix of amusement and disdain, before flicking her wrist in a dismissive wave. “Go on, scurry home, little pig. I’ve had enough of your sniveling for one night.”
He obeyed instantly, stumbling out of the bar with his head bowed, the weight of her words burning into him. At home, he locked himself in the bathroom, his breath ragged as he leaned against the sink, overwhelmed by a storm of lust and humiliation. In the mirror, he saw a man undone—Federica’s voice echoed in his mind, her cruel laughter curling around his thoughts as he surrendered to the fantasy of being nothing more than her plaything, her wallet, her pet.
Back at *La Cantina*, Federica sat alone at the bar, a fresh glass of cheap red in her hand. She pulled a small leather journal from her purse and began to scribble, her handwriting sharp and precise. *What a night. Hooked a sniveling idiot with a single glance. Paypigs—honestly, who knew men could be this easy to break? A bag today, a car tomorrow. Let’s see how far I can push this little swine before he squeals.* She chuckled to herself, the sound low and wicked, before taking a slow sip of her wine. The game, she decided, had only just begun.
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