body {
background-color: #2a0033; /* Deep plum for bitchy vibe */
color: #ffd1dc !important; /* Force pinkish text color */
font-family: ‘Georgia’, serif;
line-height: 1.8;
margin: 0;
padding: 0;
}
.container {
max-width: 860px;
margin: 50px auto;
padding: 40px;
background: #4a004d; /* Darker pink-purple */
border: 1px solid #c0c0c0; /* Silver border */
border-radius: 10px;
box-shadow: 0 0 50px rgba(192,192,192,0.15); /* Silver glow */
}
h1, h2 {
color: #ff69b4 !important; /* Hot pink */
text-align: center;
text-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255,105,180,0.5);
}
h1 {
font-size: 3.4rem;
margin-bottom: 15px;
letter-spacing: 3px;
}
.byline {
text-align: center;
font-style: italic;
color: #ffb6c1 !important; /* Light pink */
margin-bottom: 50px;
font-size: 1.2rem;
}
p {
margin: 1.6em 0;
font-size: 1.18rem;
color: #ffd1dc !important; /* Reinforce text color */
}
.highlight {
color: #ffff00; /* Yellow for punch */
font-weight: bold;
}
.emphasis {
color: #c0c0c0 !important; /* Silver emphasis */
font-style: italic;
}
.divider {
border-top: 1px solid #c0c0c0; /* Silver divider */
margin: 45px 0;
opacity: 0.4;
}
.bitch {
color: #ff1493; /* Deep pink for bitchy commands */
font-weight: bold;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.button-container {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 60px;
}
.visit-button {
display: inline-block;
padding: 18px 45px;
background: linear-gradient(135deg, #ff69b4, #c0c0c0); /* Pink to silver */
color: #2a0033 !important; /* Dark text for contrast */
font-size: 1.4rem;
font-weight: bold;
text-decoration: none;
border-radius: 50px;
box-shadow: 0 10px 30px rgba(255,105,180,0.4);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.visit-button:hover {
transform: translateY(-5px);
box-shadow: 0 20px 40px rgba(255,105,180,0.6);
background: linear-gradient(135deg, #c0c0c0, #ff69b4); /* Silver to pink */
}
Miranda’s Pink Purse Diaries
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.)
