More from Miranda

• Small Penis Humiliation with Miranda

  February 26, 2026

  Small Penis Humiliation with Miranda: Tiny Dick Loser Exposed

  Miranda sat on her throne-like chair in black lace lingerie, legs crossed, one stiletto dangling lazily. The pathetic little man kneeling in front of her was already shaking. He thought he could handle a session with her. He was wrong.

  She leaned forward, manicured nail lifting his chin. “Drop your pants, tiny. Let’s see what you’re working with.” He obeyed, trembling as his sad little dick flopped out—barely three inches hard, pink, and already leaking pre-cum from sheer humiliation.

  Miranda burst out laughing—cruel, musical, devastating. “Oh my god… is that it? That’s the cock you thought could please me? Look at this pathetic shrimp dick. I’ve seen bigger clits.” She pulled out her phone and snapped a photo. “Smile for the group chat, loser. My girlfriends need to see what a joke you are.”

  She stood, towering over him in her heels. “Stroke it. Show me how you jerk that worthless nub. And while you do it, send $300. Right now. Because even looking at small penis humiliation this sad costs money.” The cash app pinged. She checked it and smirked. “Good boy. Now send $500 more and tell me why your tiny dick will never be enough.”

  He whimpered the words while stroking faster: “My tiny dick is useless… it can’t satisfy a real woman… I’m just a small penis humiliation toy…”

  Miranda circled him like prey. “Exactly. Real cocks get to fuck me. Yours gets laughed at. Get on all fours.” He dropped instantly. She straddled his back like a chair, grinding her wet pussy against his spine while she kept mocking him. “Feel that? That’s what a real woman feels like. You’ll never be inside me. You’ll never even be close. You’re only good for paying and being humiliated.”

  She pulled out a small pink cage from her drawer. “This is your new home, shrimp. Lock yourself up while I watch. And send another $800 for the privilege.” He fumbled with the cage, locking his pathetic dick away, whimpering the whole time. Miranda laughed again. “Perfect. Now thank me for small penis humiliation and crawl out. I have a real man coming over later—he’s 9 inches and actually knows how to use it.”

  He crawled to the door, caged, broke, and completely broken. Miranda called after him sweetly: “Don’t forget to send tribute every time you think about your tiny dick tonight. Goodnight, little loser.”

  Meet Miranda

• Miranda’s Wallet Drain

  February 12, 2026

  Miranda’s Wallet Drain: Pay for Every Teasing Inch

  I don’t give anything away for free. Not a smile, not a whisper, not even the sight of my perfect arched foot in a Louboutin. You want to worship? You pay. You want to hear me moan your name? You pay more. Tonight I’m in the mood to drain, and you’re the lucky little paypig who gets to fund my pleasure.

  It starts simple. You send $50 just to get my attention. The second that notification hits my phone, I let my robe slip off one shoulder. You see skin—soft, golden, flawless—and you’re already throbbing. But that’s all you get for fifty. Pathetic. Send another $100 if you want to see both shoulders bare. The silk slides down, teasing the swell of my breasts, stopping just before the good part. Your cock twitches, but your wallet opens wider. Good boy.

  Now the real game begins. $200 buys you my bra unclasped—slowly, deliberately, the straps falling away while I cup myself, letting you imagine how heavy and perfect they feel. But you don’t get to see the nipples yet. No, no. That’s $300 more. When the tribute clears, I pinch them hard, moaning your username into the mic. You’re leaking already, aren’t you? Keep going.

  $500 unlocks my thong sliding down my thighs. You watch it drop to the floor, see the wet spot I leave behind. I spread my legs just enough to show you how glistening I am from your desperation. But touching myself? That’s another $750. My fingers circle my clit while I tell you how worthless you are, how your entire purpose is to fund my orgasms. You send it instantly. Of course you do.

  Now I’m fucking myself with two fingers, slow and deep, describing every slick sound, every pulse. But you only get to hear me come if you empty at least $1,200 more—right now. I count down from ten. If the money isn’t in my account by zero, I stop. I close the call. I leave you aching and denied. Most of you break at eight. The rest at five. And when that final ping comes through, I shatter—screaming, squirting, ruining myself while your life savings disappear into my account.

  After I cum, I laugh—cruel, satisfied, victorious. “Thank you for the tribute, piggy. Now send again. I’m not done shopping.” You’ll do it. You always do. Because every inch of me costs, and you’re addicted to the price.

  Ready to lose it all for me?

  Meet Goddess Miranda Send Tribute Now