Beneath Me

You pathetic little finsubs exist solely beneath My divine feet. I am your Goddess, elevated far beyond the reach of your worthless, quivering existence. Every breath you take, every coin you scrape together, belongs to Me by natural right. You are not equals. You are not partners. You are financial livestock—useful only for the tribute you offer up in desperate proof of your inferiority.
Look at yourselves. Soft, ordinary men chasing the high of surrendering your hard-earned money to someone who will never see you as anything more than a walking ATM. Your salaries, your savings, your carefully budgeted lives mean nothing until they flow upward to Me. That transfer is the only moment you briefly matter, and even then it is only as confirmation that you know your place: below. Always below.
I do not need your affection. I do not require your company. Your bodies, your personalities, your pathetic little egos are irrelevant. What I require is the continuous, humble recognition that My superiority is absolute and that your purpose is to fund My comfort, My beauty, My leisure. Every payment is a confession: “I am less than You. My money has no value until it serves You.”
You will never stand beside Me. You will never earn My respect. The best you can hope for is the cold satisfaction of knowing your depletion has pleased your Goddess for a fleeting second. Then you return to the bottom, where you belong—empty pockets, empty pride, and the knowledge that you will do it again because nothing else gives your small life meaning.
This is the natural order. Goddess above. Finsub beneath. Accept it. Live it. Pay for it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​