The Midas Machine

Midas machines are, of course, illegal. Their explicit purpose of counterfeiting money was understood well before the revelation that there are no limits on their input matter, and various “cash 4 trash” wideboy schemes spring up and are cracked down on every summer.

That hasn’t stopped her from acquiring one, however. Most likely one of her simps bought it of course, that’s one of the benefits of being a findom. It’s proven part of a very popular new arrangement between her and those of you who remain. Popular on her part because it’s a way to squeeze a last explosion of cash out of an otherwise financially exhausted slave. Popular on yours because the logistics of using the machine means she has to allow you to be in the same room as her for it to work.

You’ve given everything to her. All your income, all your savings, all the money you could wheedle from friends and family, the proceeds from any possession you could sell and every loan you could convince a bank to give you. All to get into the special club. Of course, in the back of your mind you know the “special club for my most devoted slaves” is code for “final use for my most down bad simps who’re otherwise squeezed dry” but you can’t help it. She’ll be in the same room as you! It’s an honour you can barely conceive of.

You’re proud of yourself for planning ahead and retaining your car as your one last possession- you’re selling it to a guy who lives not far from her house so you can use it to get down there first. As he’s examining it you’re practically hopping from foot to foot impatiently. But he nods, and produces the agreed upon price- in cash, as you made clear- you practically snatch it from his hand and with a hurried “pleasurdoinbiznizwivya” race off down the street, leaving him staring at the car to wonder if he’s been had.

Her house is so nice. White marble, huge well kept garden. No doubt paid for by the proceeds of her domination of hundreds of little worms online just like you. Good, you think. A goddess should live in environs such as these. You nervously step up to ring the doorbell.

She opens it, resplendent in her faded jeans and band t-shirt, her bob framing her face in the same violent pink as the bubble she blows in your face. She looks at her phone, scrolling through an image gallery of headshots she’s been sent by DM. The privileged few. Only the club are allowed to send her pictures of their faces (“Why the hell would I need to know what any slave looks like unless I need to let them in my house?”)

She nods. “Come in then, pig.”

You are utterly giddy with excitement. “Yes goddess. Can I just say-“

“No.” She cuts you off firmly. “You don’t get to speak unless spoken to. That’s not part of the deal.” She continues chewing as you kick yourself for forgetting your place.

Instead, as she lets you into her light, airy porch, you thrust the wad of bills at her with a dopey grin on your face. She looks down at the money in your hand in pleasant surprise.

“That’s more like it.” She says, before her face turns to a frown. “Wait, why give me this now? Have you been holding out on me you worm? You know the club is only for slaves who’ve given me everything already.”

“A thousand apologies, goddess.” You avoid her gaze in shame. “It’s the proceeds from my car. I needed it to travel here before I sold it, so that your radiance would not have to stoop to paying for my transport.”

Her face softens. “All right. Sick. Give it here.”

She leafs through the wad as she leads you into her utility room. “Must have been a pretty crappy car, insect. This is kind of pathetic, just like you. Still, every little helps, I guess. Put it under the chute so I don’t have to add it to you.”

And there it is. Standing up against the wall next to the washing machine- five and a half feet of imposing square steel, buttons and LEDs, with a ladder bolted to the front up to the hopper on the top and a chute out the side that leads directly onto the tumble dryer’s top. A couple of dollar bills and a few coins sit on the other appliance’s lid under the chute. You take the wad back from your mistress’ outstretched hand and ferry it over to the same spot. Then you just sort of stand there, unsure of what to do next.

“Well?” She sneers. “Get in.”

You falter a little. Suddenly this is all real. This is it, the final decision. You’ve given her everything- your money, your career, your dignity, any hope of a lifestyle… but can you make the final step, and tribute her your actual life?

A couple of seconds later she looks up from her phone, annoyed.

“Get IN, you hog. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

You turn around and something in your face must betray your doubts, because she sighs and her expression softens (though her eyes roll).

“Cold feet? OK. Get up that ladder and get in, and I’ll give yer a quick flash. Bra only though, you’re not worth bare skin.”

It’s almost infinitely humiliating, but that pushes you over the edge. The chance to see the goddess’ titties in the flesh? Your hand touches the rungs.

Hand over hand you scurry up to the top and swing your legs over the lip of the hopper. As you turn back to look at your queen you feel your feet push through the brush curtain where the hopper meets the machine proper. She looks up briefly, nods, and steps over to the machine.

Her manicured finger gently presses one of the green switches on the front of the machine and it roars to life beneath you. Without even looking at you, she reaches down and lazily yanks up her t-shirt, revealing a triangle-shaped view of her glorious bust. You feel breathless and giddy at the honour she’s provided you, a tingling of butterflies in your stomach matching the tingling where your feet used to be mere seconds below. You begin to sink into the hopper as she pulls her shirt down again and turns to lean on the machine.

The sound of flittering paper issues from the far end of the machine and you lean over against the edge of the hopper to peer around at the chute above the tumble dryer, where hundreds of crisp new dollar bills are already spewing out into a pile on top of the cash from your car.

As the machine accelerates and the tingling reaches your chest, you begin to sink below the top of the hopper. Just as you are sucked down into the machine- and oblivion- you snatch a glance at your queen’s phone.

She’s already on Amazon, deciding how she’s going to spend you.