The bar was a smoky little den of vice tucked into the cobblestone heart of our sleepy Italian town, its amber lights casting long shadows over chipped tables and sticky floors. Laughter and the clink of glasses wove through the air, a symphony of debauchery that I, Federica, had long made my kingdom. At thirty-eight, I was the undisputed queen of this dive, my crimson lipstick a war flag, my sharp tongue a blade that cut through the egos of men foolish enough to cross me. Tonight, as always, I sat perched on a barstool, my black leather skirt riding just high enough to command attention, a glass of Chianti in hand.
Beside me, Elena—my partner in crime and fellow predator—leaned in, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. Her voice, husky from years of cigarettes and late-night schemes, purred over the din. “Federica, darling, have you heard of this ridiculous new trend? Paypigs. Men who get their pathetic little kicks from handing over their money to women like us. They call it ‘financial domination.’ Can you imagine?”
I arched a brow, swirling the wine in my glass, the deep red catching the light like blood. “Paypigs, you say? What kind of sniveling creature gets off on being a human wallet?” My lips curled into a smirk. “Sounds like a dream come true for a woman with expensive tastes and dwindling funds.”
Elena cackled, tossing her raven hair over one shoulder. “Oh, it’s better than a dream, cara mia. These men beg to be drained. They’ll buy you designer bags, pay your bills, even tip you just for the privilege of being insulted. It’s like taking candy from a baby—if the baby had a credit card and a hard-on for humiliation.”
I leaned back, crossing my legs with deliberate slowness, the motion drawing eyes from every corner of the bar. “Well, well. My taste for luxury has been rather... underfed lately. Perhaps it’s time I find myself a little piggy to slaughter.” My voice dripped with venomous amusement, and I scanned the room, a lioness surveying her prey.
That’s when I noticed him. Tom, the mousy little regular who always sat in the corner nursing a cheap beer, his shoulders hunched like he was apologizing for existing. He was fidgeting now, his watery eyes darting toward us, clearly having overheard every word. Pathetic. Perfect.
I tilted my head, letting my gaze lock onto his like a missile. “Oh, Tom,” I called out, my voice a silken whip, loud enough to turn heads. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind. Care to share with the class? Or are you just enjoying the view?”
His face turned a delightful shade of crimson, his hands fumbling with his beer bottle. “I-I wasn’t... I mean, I didn’t mean to listen, Federica. I just... uh...”
Elena snorted, sipping her drink. “Oh, look at him squirm. What’s the matter, Tommy? Got a secret you’re dying to spill?”
I leaned forward, my smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Come now, don’t be shy. I’ve been eyeing this gorgeous Prada bag online—five thousand euros, a real steal for a woman of my caliber. But alas, a lady must prioritize. Unless, of course, someone felt... compelled to help.” I let the words hang in the air, heavy with implication, my eyes never leaving his.
Tom swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in a storm. “I... I could... maybe I could help with that. If you’d like. I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Elena nearly choked on her drink, her laughter ringing out like a bell. “Oh, Federica, you’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. Look at the poor bastard, practically drooling to please you.”
I didn’t break eye contact, my smile widening. “Is that so, Tom? How very... generous of you. I do like a man who knows his place.” I purred the last words, watching him squirm under the weight of my attention.
It didn’t take long. By the end of the night, Tom had scurried off like a whipped dog, only to return the next evening with the Prada bag in hand, wrapped in tissue paper and trembling fingers. He presented it to me at the bar, his eyes downcast, his voice barely a whisper. “I... I got it for you, Federica. I hope it’s okay.”
I took the bag, unwrapping it with the languid grace of a queen receiving tribute, my nails clicking against the leather. “Well, well. Look at this. You’ve done well, little man.” I leaned in close, my breath hot against his ear as I whispered, “Good boy.”
He nearly dropped to the floor right then and there, his breath hitching, his hands shaking. I pulled back, laughing—a low, throaty sound that made the room go quiet. “Oh, you’re too easy, Tom. Let’s take this somewhere more... private, shall we? I’d hate for the whole bar to see just how pitiful you are.”
I led him to a shadowed corner, away from prying eyes, and sat down, crossing my legs with a deliberate scrape of leather. “So,” I began, my voice cold and cutting, “you’ve done this before, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me. I can smell the desperation on you like cheap cologne.”
He fidgeted, his hands twisting in his lap. “I... yeah. Online. A few times. I... I liked it. Being told what to do. Giving. It’s... it’s kind of a rush.”
I threw my head back and laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. “A rush? Oh, you sad little creature. You get off on being a walking ATM, don’t you? Pathetic. But lucky for you, I’m in the market for a new toy. And you, Tom, are going to be my personal piggy bank.”
His eyes widened, a mix of fear and sick excitement flickering across his face. “I... I’d like that. I mean, I’d be honored. If you’d have me.”
“Honored?” I sneered, leaning in until our faces were inches apart. “Let’s get one thing straight, pig. I’m not some simpering girl you can ‘honor.’ I’m your Goddess, and you’ll worship me with every euro in your sorry little account. You’ll buy me what I want, when I want it, and you’ll thank me for the privilege of being bled dry. Understood?”
He nodded frantically, his voice a whimper. “Yes. Yes, Federica. I understand. Thank you.”
I smirked, standing up and towering over him. “Good. And one more thing—don’t you dare sully my bar with your filthy pigginess in public again. This is my domain, and you’ll grovel in private, where no one has to witness your disgrace. Now, get on your knees and thank me properly.”
To my delight, he dropped to the floor without hesitation, muttering shaky words of gratitude as I looked down at him, my expression one of pure disdain. “That’s better,” I said, flicking my wrist dismissively. “Now get out of my sight. I’ll call when I need more. And trust me, I will.”
He scrambled to his feet and scurried off, leaving me alone in the corner with my new Prada bag and a wicked grin. I pulled out my journal from my purse, the leather-bound book where I chronicled my conquests, and began to write, my pen scratching across the page with vicious glee.
*Journal Entry, September 14th:
Well, diary, it seems I’ve stumbled upon a goldmine—or rather, a pigsty. Little Tom, the bar’s resident wallflower, has revealed himself to be a sniveling paypig, eager to empty his pockets at my command. Tonight, he gifted me a Prada bag worth more than his dignity, and I’ve only just begun to squeeze. The way he trembles under my gaze, the way he practically begs to be humiliated—it’s almost too easy. But oh, how I’ll enjoy draining him dry. I’ve declared myself his Goddess, and he’s already on his knees, metaphorically and literally. This is a game I intend to win, one designer handbag at a time. Let the fleecing begin.*
I closed the journal with a snap, my smirk widening as I sipped my wine. The night was young, and so was my reign over this pathetic little piggy. Tomorrow, I’d think of something even more extravagant to demand. For now, I savored the thrill of the hunt—and the promise of the riches to come.
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