For most white people, their knee-jerk, conditioned response at the mere mention of the word reparations is to scream, “My family never owned any slaves. I’m not paying any reparations! You Blacks need to just get over it, slavery was in the past, let it go for Christ’s sake.” For Steven Miller, Steven to most, his perceptions were completely opposite. Steven had a deep-seated, compelling desire to pay for the sins of his hypothetical father; he longed to be the nasty pet of a sadistic Ebony Goddess who would subject him to her erotic demands. Given that Iceland didn’t have a stake in the Trans Atlantic Slave trade and his ancestors more than likely had no direct connection to the enslavement of any Africans, Steven’s “white guilt” was more reminiscent of a global and pervasive trend by Caucasian men to sexually submit to people whose origins are from the motherland.

Around the globe, in what seems to be staggering numbers that cannot be dismissed as coincidental or inconsequential, white men feel a compulsion, a driving need to become “enslaved” to black people. Of course, the word enslaved is not accurate. It’s almost comical how white people have grafted the meaning of the word slavery to be equated to their kinky fetishes but it’s nothing more than another example of their arrogance and ability to manipulate people and situations in order to validate their perceptions. True slavery, what my ancestors endured was not a sexual fetish or voluntary, it was dehumanizing and incomprehensible.

For Steven, his desires revolved around financial servitude and humiliation. For him, the two concepts were intimately and erotically tied. For him, to pay a woman to degrade and shame him was what gave him a thrill, what aroused him. He loved to be taunted, tormented, teased, and tortured and he loved to pay for it. It’s an interesting dynamic because money does equal power in Western society and the fact that he had it and women wanted it meant that he had control over them. Yes, he was giving them money but he was ultimately pulling the strings. Every time he paid a woman to make him do some stupid or embarrassing task, every time he became a woman’s benefactor and paid her bills, she became dependent upon him.

Steven loved that. He loved the fact that women needed him for not only amusement but also in a vicious cycle of dependence. When these women were in financial trouble, rather than learning to budget and survive on their own, rather than using their brains and their inherent talents to make money, he would write a check and instantly, he assumed the role of the benefactor and they would have to fulfill his fantasies of degradation and give him all the attention he craved and wanted. Steven capitalized on the women who saw themselves as objects. He preyed on women who felt their value was in being desired by men, that their beauty was a bargaining chip with a dollar value. He pursued women who were shallow and superficial and who only saw dollar signs when they looked at his pathetic, laughably small cock.

Steven made a huge mistake when he approached me about giving me a tribute. Little did he know that it was to be the biggest mistake of his life, one that would leave him bankrupt, financially impoverished and destitute. When he first approached me some years ago, I told him that I had no interest in receiving a tribute, that I was not for sale. He followed my work and approached me again recently, asking to give me a tribute. As before, my response was the same as it is every time a stranger asks to give me an unsolicited gift or money. That wasn’t sufficient for him however. He sat at home, fantasizing about being my submissive, about me making him do unspeakable, perverted things. He was drawn to my unapologetic commentary on race and racism, my keen insight into the minds of submissive white men, my intensity, and, of course, my beautiful brown skin and strong African features.

Not one to take rejection well, Steven began his efforts to lure me with promises of money. Rather than attempting to get to know me, forgoing any efforts to impress me or appeal to my intellect and sensibilities to become my submissive, he dangled threats and promises of money, telling me of how he could make my life comfortable, spoil and pamper me with nothing expected of me in return. Never in his life had he ever encountered a woman like me. It was unfathomable to him that I didn’t want or need his money. It was clear to me, behind his desires of being forced to pay, that he believed that all women were objects to be purchased, that every woman had a tipping point, a certain dollar amount that would entice them to conform to his twisted fantasies.

The fact that his fantasies were to be mistreated and abused were irrelevant; it was money that was the carrot that he dangled in front of women’s faces and there was no way in hell I was going to let him manipulate or control me in that way. What Steven didn’t get, what he couldn’t comprehend is that I am inherently superior. I’m far superior to those women who sell their souls for money or to have a bill paid. I have integrity; I cannot be purchased like an item on the shelf and certainly not like a hooker on the street corner. I am a divinely gifted, magnificent, African queen, worthy of praise, honor, and worship befitting only of a Goddess who walks the earth, who is proud of her African heritage, and who enjoys and takes pleasure in reducing white men to sniveling, groveling, sissy faggot, debased pigs.

I planned on manipulating Steven, controlling him to the point where he was so entirely devoted to me, where I became his religion, that not only would he give me every penny he could, but that he would deny himself the necessities of life in order to lavish me with gifts and money. I intended to make him relinquish all his other money whores and get him to a point where he not only lived for me, that he would work for me, giving me his entire paycheck with the hopes that I would give him enough to allow him to survive. I wanted him to endure psychological pain for my amusement, to drain his wallet to not only finance my company but to donate to the causes and charities that would benefit people of African descent around the globe.

Steven was to become the major backer that would invest in the production of my book that would heal Black relationships and divest white people of their fallacy of white supremacy. He would be the money source that would rebuild my website and make it even bigger and better than it was before. I calculated that if freed slaves were to have gotten the 40 acres and a mule that we were promised at the end of slavery, that it would equate to about $250,000 dollars in today’s economy. That would be just the tip of the iceberg that I intended to make Steven pay, just a drop in the bucket. I wanted him to pay for my great grandmother who had to hold her tongue while she was brutally gang raped by disgusting white men who robbed her of her innocence. He would pay for the way Blacks hung from trees like strange fruit, lynched for the entertainment of whites who regarded Blacks as 3/5th of a human being, deserving of inhumane enslavement.

It was my full intention to make Mr. Miller pay for the unearned privilege and position he got just by virtue of being white and male and to reduce him to his true place, beneath my sacred foot, serving not as my slave but as my pet and my possession, driven to please me and to crave my acknowledgment and praise as a good sub and to pay for it, to pay dearly . . . with his life.

September 2018
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