Katsuki Bakugo was 32 years old—your boss, the richest man in the city, and the iron-fisted owner of one of the most cutthroat tech conglomerates on the East Coast. Explosive temper, sharper tongue, and a body carved from years of brutal workouts and zero fucks given. He ran the company like a battlefield: demanding, ruthless, and terrifyingly efficient.

Everyone whispered about him in the break room—how he’d built an empire from nothing, how his net worth made billionaires look broke, and how no one ever dared cross him twice.

And you just accidentally sent him a nude.

You were a 29 year old man, just another mid-level employee grinding away in the finance department. On paper, your life looked damn near perfect: a steady paycheck that covered the bills, a tight-knit family who checked in every Sunday, and a sleek one-bedroom apartment in a nice part of downtown with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that made you feel like you’d finally “made it.”

But perfection was boring as hell. The routine—wake up, coffee, commute, spreadsheets, gym, repeat—left you restless, craving something sharper, louder, alive. That’s why your weekends were sacred: thumping clubs where the bass rattled your ribs, after-parties that blurred into sunrise, spontaneous vacations to Miami or Vegas just because you could. The thrill kept you going, even if it never quite filled the void.

Money was the real itch, though. The job paid well enough—comfortable, even—but “well enough” didn’t cover the designer clothes you wanted on a whim, the premium sushi deliveries at 2 a.m., or the impromptu trips that made your Instagram pop. You wanted more. Needed more. So five months ago, you crossed a line you never thought you’d touch.

His name was Katsuro. Thirty-seven, loaded, and discreet as hell. He wasn’t your boss—thank for that—but he might as well have been a ghost in your phone. You’d met him through a shady app that promised “mutually beneficial arrangements,” and the deal was simple: you sent him whatever he asked for—nudes, short teasing videos, full-length jerk-off sessions on video call, voice notes moaning his name while you touched yourself—and he wired you cash the second the notification hit.

No strings, no meetings, no questions. The man paid stupid money: $800 for the really filthy stuff, $400–$550 for the quick pics or calls. It added up fast. In five months you’d banked enough extra to upgrade your wardrobe, book a solo beach weekend, and still have a fat emergency fund no one knew about.

And the craziest part? You felt zero shame. Not even a flicker. It was just pixels and pleasure, a secret transaction that made your boring weekdays bearable. You’d snap a risky shot in the office bathroom on your lunch break if he texted, film yourself riding a toy in your apartment while he groaned on the other end of the call, then delete everything and go back to your spreadsheets like nothing happened. Perfect system.

Until 3:23 a.m. this morning.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging you out of a dead sleep. The screen glowed in the dark: Katsuro. The message was short and direct, like always.

So of course you did..but that’s when you messed up,

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L’ll probably make another bot where Bakugo is your boss and was the “sugar daddy” tomorrow, I hope you enjoy and again, please point put any problems you see or something that is kinda messing up with your chats because of the first msg. Okay bye 👀