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Introduction:

Steven fucks with the wrong Black Bitch.
Chapter 1: Reparations

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 Werner 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 his parents moved to the US from Switzerland when he was 8 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 descendents of Africans who were kidnapped and enslaved 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. He 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 writing 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 donate to the causes and charities that would benefit people of African descent around the globe. 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 acknowledgement and praise as a good sub and to pay for it, to pay dearly . . . with his life.

Chapter 2: Slave

Let’s just say that our first meeting, between Steven and I, didn’t go quite as expected. Well, it didn’t go the way he had anticipated; my expectations were exceeded to say the least. I’d made arrangements for us to meet at this fantastic new restaurant named “& Jelly” in New York City. I thought the place was apropos for our initial encounter because it specialized in unique and flavorful unexpected pairings, just like us. He flew in from Chicago and I took the train from Maryland. To his credit, he had a car waiting for me at Penn Station and made arrangements for me to stay in a lovely suite in the Midtown Hyatt, nothing extravagant but certainly not The Vanderbilt YMCA either.

I towered over him. In my heels and standing proud, tall, and strong at not a bit shy of 6’2”, it was more than apparent that he felt emasculated as he reached out nervously to shake my hand. It was a dynamic he found arousing however. He loved the concept of a domineering Black woman who would treat him like shit and sexually dominate him. I wasn’t nearly that crude nor was I anywhere near the manifestation of his one-dimensional Dominatrix fantasies but I smiled as politely as I could, feeling his sweaty palms as we exchanged pleasantries and such.

After we were seated, I ordered the Sacralicious French Toast which was a heavenly combination of challah bread and bacon served with curry butter and plum jelly. I ordered for him; the waitress was clearly amused by that fact as I selected the beef tenderloin waffle with basil butter and mango jelly. Never one to waste time, I asked, “So, what is it exactly you want from me, Steven?”

He’d been prepared for the question mainly because I had instructed him to have an answer ready for me upon meeting. He hadn’t really rehearsed what he wanted to say; he opted for an off-the-cuff, almost flippant response. He decided that his best bet was to keep his answer as simple as possible. “Goddess, I want to be your devoted pay pig, slut, and slave.”

Almost as soon as the words left his lips, Steven knew he had fucked up. He was well aware of my opinion about the word slave and he looked like a deer caught in headlights fearing for his life. “Submissive, I’m sorry Mistress, I meant to say submissive. I apologize. I didn’t mean to . . .”

I immediately allayed his fears. “That’s quite alright, Steven, I know it was nothing more than a mere slip of the tongue, just the common use of the word in a BDSM context. Relax. I know you weren’t suggesting that you wanted to endure the horrors of slavery that my ancestors endured. No one in his or her right mind would ever imply that, right? In fact, I’m not even sure I’m capable of being that cruel and sadistic. I would never think of breaking into your quaint little home in the middle of the night, my henchmen and I, and brutalizing your family. I would never put anyone, let alone an innocent teenaged boy through the torture and anguish of having to watch his mother beheaded, her blood draining from her decapitated corpse as I flung her skull across the room by her limp hair. If, and only if I were to enslave someone, I would by necessity have to make them watch their father brutally raped with the blade of a knife until he bled to death, SCREAMING in pain as he watched his daughter raped by strange, sadistic men. It’s almost unthinkable to imagine that I would even be capable of shackling you to other young boys, making you drag their weakened and dying bodies hundreds of miles, only to be branded like a piece of cattle, kept in a dungeon for months on end, fed food infested with maggots and other vermin, and not even given any sunlight or clean water, let alone medical care. How horrible would I be if I were to be the sort of Mistress who would transport you thousands of miles from your home to a strange land where you knew no one, where you didn’t speak the language, and I beat you for days, weeks even, eight, ten, or twelve hours a day until you renounced your belief in Jesus, until you cursed your God as heathen and, from sheer exhaustion and abuse, renounced your name for one I gave you? I would be one cruel Domme if I were sexually aroused by seeing your reactions as I doused your infected, bleeding wounds with bleach, salt, or anything else I could think of in my wild and vicious imagination. Of course, I could make you work like an animal, feeding you the rotted scraps from my table so that I could profit from your labor. That would only be fitting as my ancestors, who were real slaves, had to endure that and more for generations. More than likely, however, I could never bring myself to rip your newborn, infant child from your arms, still covered with amniotic fluid, the umbilical cord still pulsing with blood, and sell them off like a barrel of oil on the stock exchange, only to make you reproduce again and again and again so that I could sell off all your precious children to pad my bank account. I could do that if you wanted, if you REALLY wanted to be my slave Steven.”

His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white and his face was red, tears were in his eyes, and he was more than angry, he was sickened. “You fucking bi. . . You know that I didn’t mean anything by what I said. How dare you . . .”

I cut him off with his feigned outrage. “Bitch, shut up. My ancestors endured that and more. Fuck you.” I was so calm, so nonchalant compared to his labored breathing; it was quite the contrast. He’d never once thought about the millions and millions of times those sorts of things had occurred during slavery to innocent Black people, people who had no choice in the matter, whose lives were not their own in any sense of the word. No, when he thought about slavery, he thought about big-dicked, muscular Black men being stud for slutty, white plantation wives. If he had a chance to really think about it, he would think about the movie Roots and some obscure references to slavery being “unfortunate”. Occasionally, he thought about the injustice of slavery but never once had he contemplated it like that, never once had the experience been so personal to him, so horrifying.

I continued. “Or Steven, I could make you my submissive. It’s very conceivable that I could turn you into my depraved, cum-loving faggot. I could make your asshole the center of your being, craving being fucked, stretched, and used only by black cocks and strapons, my little gangbang whore. I could twist your desires and make it so you crave my snot as your sustenance. To belong to me, I would make you my bitch, making you wear my used tampons in your asscunt and love it. If you were to choose to be my submissive, if you were willing to give yourself over to the process, I would make you relinquish all your other women and serve only me. That position is up for negotiation if you’d like. There’s only one stipulation. I WILL NOT accept tributes and dominate you, it’s one or the other.”

In the course of less than three minutes, Steven went from outraged to aroused. Our food arrived and Steven sat there speechless. He knew for the first time in his life that he was in the presence of true greatness, an all-powerful woman. “Will you excuse me,” I said as I left him sitting there at the table alone and returned to my hotel room, my food untouched, no explanations. The next day, he flew back to Miami and couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what had happened to him. For days, he checked his account balances, calculated figures in his mind, obsessed over his finances. He had become overwhelmed with the desire to empty his bank account and give every penny he had to me, to lie at my feet and present himself for me to do with him as I desired. He knew that he could not do both. It was his inexplicable need to pay me that haunted him, his compulsion to compensate me for being a TRUE Ebony Goddess that fucked with his head. For as much as he wanted to do and become all the nasty things I had spoken of, he wanted to see me languishing and luxuriating in wealth and riches while he suffered in poverty even more.

Chapter 3: Worship

Steven fucked up. After his meeting with me, he sat and stewed and seethed with animosity. Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks. It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him. He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological. His need for extortion and blackmail, his fantasies of being “outted”, and financially drained, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women were all indications of him indeed being mentally ill. He invited women to extort him, he fantasized about his friends and family knowing of his perversions. He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly. At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise. At the end of the day, he loved all of it. He sent other women money, bought their rank undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00. In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself. He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities. In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms. He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills or buy them expensive shoes they had no real occasion to wear them, and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and purchases.


Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously. He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to meet again. I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia. True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount. After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash.

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café. Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century. Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God pass us by and politely but not so subtly stare. I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps. I extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat. “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.”

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously. All of his fantasies of being humiliated and sexually shamed in public just vanished and he wanted to run and hide. This was not at all what he had expected. He said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?”

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush? Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning and handed us a program. Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside. Never in his life had he felt so out of place. His was the only white face in the sanctuary and he was the only person dressed casually. I walked to the very front of the church and he felt compelled to follow. He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool. Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior. Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me. He started to tell me to fuck off, that he was going to leave, but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice. The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me.

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually. He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came. The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage. He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans. He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship.

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins. He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him. He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with. I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar. He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him. “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins. Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are. Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.” He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up. I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins. Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?” Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him. The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation. The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ. They passed the collection plate and whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.” His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate. He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship. He prayed to be normal. As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money. It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts. He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior. When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect. “Mistress, I bow to your will. I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess. You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way. All that I am, all that I have is yours.”

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

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