More from Miranda

• Miranda’s Pink Purse Diaries

  January 24, 2026

  Miranda’s Pink Purse Diaries

  Filthy demands from a bitch Goddess who drains wallets and denies cocks

  Pathetic little paypig—let’s call him Loser Larry—crawled into my DMs last night, wallet open, cock locked, begging for my attention. “Goddess Miranda,” he whimpered, “please take my money. I’ll do anything.” As if I give a fuck about his “anything.” I only care about the tributes hitting my account.

  I made him start small—$50 just to reply. He sent it instantly, his tiny dick probably twitching in its cage. “Good piggy,” I texted back. “Now tell me why you’re such a worthless beta.” He spilled it all: 35, single, jerking off to findom porn instead of fucking real women. Pathetic. I laughed and demanded $100 for the privilege of confessing. Click—sent. His bank account lighter, my pussy wetter from the power.

  Time to humiliate. “Edge for me, pig. No cumming. Send proof.” He obeyed like the trained oinker he is—video of his sad, leaking cock, hand pumping slow, balls blue and aching. “Please, Goddess, let me cum,” he begged. As if. “No, loser. Send $200 instead.” He whined but paid up. I could hear the desperation in his voice notes—panting, pleading, wallet draining while his orgasm stayed locked away.

  I upped the ante. “Buy me lingerie, bitch. $300 on my wishlist.” He did, then begged for a pic of me wearing it. “Dream on, pig. That’s another $150 just to imagine it.” Money poured in—$500 for a custom humiliation audio where I called him a cum-denied cash cow, a human ATM with a useless clit-dick. He edged through the whole thing, tears streaming, but no release. “Thank you, Goddess,” he typed, fingers shaking. “More?”

  By midnight, I’d drained $1,500 from his sorry ass. He was broke, broken, balls throbbing. “One last tribute, piggy—$100 to say goodbye.” Sent. I blocked him mid-beg, leaving him edged, denied, and destitute. That’s what happens when you approach a real bitch like me. I take everything—your money, your dignity, your cum—and give nothing back but crumbs of cruelty.

  Think you can handle it, loser? Crawl to me with your wallet out. But remember: I decide if you cum. (Spoiler: You won’t.)

  Tribute to Goddess Miranda Now →

• Miranda Makes You Beg

  January 11, 2026

  Miranda doesn’t give anything without a price. She doesn’t hand over attention like it’s yours by default. She makes you prove you deserve it.

  He stood there, breath catching every time she glanced his way — not because she smiled, but because she didn’t. That small lack of warmth was enough to make him lean in, eager, desperate in his own mind for any sign of approval.

  Miranda watched him like someone observing a cracked mirror — interested in the reflection, amused by the cracks. His eagerness became pathetic in its urgency. He stumbled over his own words, offering compliments that sounded hollow against her cool stare.

  “Beg,” she said — simple, clipped, like a sentence in a book rather than a request. And he did. Not elegantly. Not with grace. With breathy, helpless devotion that fell at her feet like spilled perfume.

  Miranda didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften. She reveled in being the one who dictated the pace, the one who held the attention like a prize she might hand over… eventually. Every second he waited — every moment he hoped — fed her amusement.

  She wasn’t cruel. She was exacting. Selective. Each word she allowed him to earn felt like a small victory — not for him, but for *her* mastery of the moment. She wasn’t playing games. She was setting the rules.

  And when she finally granted the smallest tilt of her head, the faintest hint of approval at the corner of her mouth… it felt like a prize because she made him *want* it, *work* for it, *beg* for it.

  That’s Miranda’s power — not in what she gives, but in the way she draws you in just long enough to make you realize what you’re truly craving isn’t the touch… it’s the chase.

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  Enter Miranda’s Domain 🥀