Some people just cannot be helped.
There is something profoundly dispiriting about watching finsubs read every warning, recognise themselves in every line, perhaps even agree that findom is hollow and destructive, and then walk straight back into it.
You can write about the wasted money, the manufactured intimacy, the post-nut disgust, the shame, the compulsive repetition. You can strip away the glamour until nothing remains but the transaction. And still, somewhere, someone is opening his banking app and preparing another tribute to a stranger who will have forgotten him by tomorrow.
Eventually, you realise that words cannot rescue someone determined to romanticise his own self-destruction. The cage can be described perfectly. The door can be left wide open. Some will still crawl back inside and call the bars beautiful.