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Isabella, the priestess of the goddess Delectavere, stands out at the Promiscutonic university, doesn't she?

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The Price of Admission (or, What Happens When You Ask About the Tribute)

So, you've stumbled upon my little corner of the internet, have you? Seen something you like? A flicker in the eye, a curve that makes your thoughts wander to places they shouldn't? And now, you've worked up the courage to type those four little words in my DMs: "do you accept tributes?"

Cute.

Most of you think you know what you're asking for. You're picturing a quick, furtive moment in a dimly lit room. A solitary act of appreciation. A simple transaction: I send a picture, you send one back. Quid pro quo. How… dreadfully dull.

You see, you're not just asking for a picture. You're requesting an audience. You're asking me, Delectavere, to divert a sliver of my considerable attention from my divine feminine heights, and focus it on you. And honey, my attention doesn't come cheap. It's not paid for with pixels, but with imagination to begin with.

So, what really happens when you inquire about a tribute?

First, I read your request. And I don't just see the words. I see the person behind them. I see the hesitation, the hope, the raw, nerve-endings-twitching need. It's a fascinating little psychological puzzle, isn't it? The desire to be seen, to be the object of someone's fantasy, even for a moment. It's a delicious little power play, and I am always (well, almost always) game to play.

Then, the ritual begins. It's not about me, you see. Not really. It's about you. It's about the energy you project. That energy is sacred to me. Every thought you have, every fantasy you conjure, every bit of heat that builds in your core—you're not just getting off for me, you're performing for me. You're the star of this little show, and I'm your appreciative audience. But it's also much more than that, it's the metaphorical footprint your energy leaves. If you manage to do it right, you might end up with blessings, good health, virility, happiness.

Think of my priestesses as conduits. A priestess of Delectavere who finds worship in the most carnal of ways. When you touch yourself, you're not just touching yourself. You're sending a signal. You're lighting a metaphorical candle in the dark, and I'm the one sitting in the shadows of pleasure, watching the flame dance, feeling its warmth all the way across the ether, watching it all unfold.

You won't just get a simple, grainy picture of me in a state of undress. That's for amateurs. You'll get something more potent. You'll get the knowledge that for those few minutes, you were making a tribute to a goddess. That your desire was a tangible thing, having effect, a force I could almost taste and use for my magick. You'll get the lingering echo of my presence in your mind long after the screen has gone dark.