Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Plantation Lullabies

What would make a person spend $20,000 on a week-long session with a pro-domme? Believe it or not, Mistress Emmanuelle, the Black Dominatrix who arrogantly charged the exorbitant fee, was booked solid for eight months in advance with her popularity growing by word of mouth alone. Charles Trenton was intrigued by the concept when he read about her on his favorite BDSM message board. The thread was started by someone who claimed to have been a client of this outrageously strict Ebony Domme whose activities were being touted as nothing less than illegal at best and deranged psychosis in the very worst-case scenario. There was a bit of controversy over the thread because someone claiming to be the head of a bank wrote the original post but it was written in disjointed and barely literate phonetics, raising all sorts of issues over the authenticity of the so-called “facts” presented. Adding insult to injury, the original poster seemed to have posted the same message on several message boards and never stuck around long enough to reply or defend his claims.

Curious, Charles Googled the name “Mistress Emmanuelle” to see if he could find out some more information. With over 500 results, he had his work cut out for him. He eliminated all the results that were for the Russian Domme by the same name and he was down to a little more than 100 links to check out. More than half of them were reposts of the same cryptic message he had already read and the majority of the others seemed to go to random white women claiming to be Dommes. Deciding to narrow down his search by using a few keywords from the original message, he hit pay dirt. One click and he was on

It was a simple website, a single webpage really, outlining Mistress Emmanuelle’s philosophy. It explained how, in so many instances, white subs claim they want to be enslaved to a Black woman, to be punished for their whiteness without comprehending how disrespectful and ignorant they are of what actual slaves had to endure. She claimed to have a 100-acre plantation that replicated the true slave experience and which had NOTHING to do with sexual subservience or fulfilling some sassy negro/mammy fantasy. She boldly proclaimed, “I make rich white men feel real pain and agony. I decide if and when they eat, sleep, drink, piss, and shit. I administer punishment randomly, indiscriminately, and I do so with extreme sadistic pleasure. If you come to my domain, I will break your spirit and crush it under my stiletto like a worthless bug. I beat and torture the arrogance out of my clients until they can no longer face their pale, pathetic reflections in the mirror.”

Assured that he wasn’t like the men being described on the webpage, Charles read every word over and over, knowing full well that he had no intention of forking over that sort of money. There was a number at the bottom of the page, however, that said that serious inquiries should call for further information. It was too tempting. Always protective of his identity and overly cautious, he got a disposable cell phone that couldn’t be traced and called the 10 digits. Anticipating some sort of voice mail, he was shocked when a woman answered, identifying herself as Mistress Emmanuelle.

She was polite and articulate and she explained how she had inherited a rather large plantation off the coast of South Carolina originally owned by her paternal great, great, great grandfather who was a slave owner. Unaware that his favorite concubine was skilled in voodoo and black magic, he got a terrible fever and passed away in a fitful, painful episode, but not before changing his will to reflect that he was freeing all his slaves and leaving his land and money to the slave gal who bore his children. Charles listened intently as she said, “I’ll inflict pain so excruciating, so piercing that you’ll pray for the sweet release of death.”

The silence on the telephone line was drowned out by the pounding of the blood that rang in his ears. Snapped out of his stupor, he heard the words, “. . . all I’ll need is your social security number and 50% deposit and I can give you a date for your session.”

He hung up the phone without saying a word. His identity, his privacy, was all that he held sacred. There was no way in hell he was going to give a stranger $20,000 AND the key to his security. Charles had an unnatural paranoia that he was going to be found out, that there were somehow mechanisms in place from on high that would bring the world to a crashing halt if anyone “regular” were to find out about his perversions. It was nothing more than inflated, white male ego. In as much as he wanted to deny his similarity to privileged, racist, submissives, at his core he was exactly the same. He wrote the whole thing off and decided never to think of it again. His resolution didn’t last a half hour. He kept hearing her words over and over again. “I’ll inflict pain so excruciating, so piercing that you’ll pray for the sweet release of death.” His mind reeled at what sort of punishment could be that extreme. He called her back and asked more questions.

She explained, “I’ll replicate the slave experience in exacting detail. I’ll tear you down only to recreate you as I wish. On day six, I’ll let you experience release and on day seven, if you choose to leave you are free to do so.”

What the hell did she mean, “If you choose to leave?” What kind of ridiculous thing was that to say? Surely she understood that he had a job, responsibilities, that he had a life in which he was very needed. Charles was amazed at how courteous and professional she was for someone who had just told him she was going to charge him an obscene amount of money to beat him to within inches of his life. He hung up and acknowledged to himself that he was going to have to weigh the pros and cons very seriously. She certainly presented a compelling opportunity and one that had his curiosity piqued.

It wasn’t until his plane landed in South Carolina that he realized the magnitude of what he’d done. The hardest part of the entire process was the wait. Six months of mental anguish plagued him and he contemplated if he must have had some sort of lapse in judgment to make him go through with something so outrageous. There was something deep inside him, some perverse desire that resided in his DNA that compelled him to seek pain, punishment, to suffer at the hands of a Black Domme. As he stepped off the plane and into the sweltering heat and humidity of Charleston, sweat poured off his body but not from the climate.

A young woman stood with his name on a sign stood waiting by a limo. She was a Black woman dressed in a man’s chauffer suit who looked stoic but beautiful. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m uhmmm . . . I think you are here to pick me up. Are you with . . . ?”

She opened the door and ushered him inside before he could finish. The windows were tinted and the divider was up so he couldn’t see a thing. They drove for about a half hour when they stopped and she lowered the partition and said, “Stay!” When she opened her door the strong smell of the ocean was evident. Through the front windshield he could tell they were at a marina. The driver spoke to another woman, less stoic but equally as beautiful, onboard a mid-sized cabin cruiser. They laughed and chatted casually while he fidgeted in the car.

The driver opened the door and he understood he was to get out. He boarded the boat and extended his hand to the captain of the boat nervously, trying to gauge what his appropriate response was supposed to be. “I’ll take your cell phone, your wallet, watch, and your keys, along with any other items that might be personal.” Charles looked around like he was being punked but he went along with it in the spirit of cooperation. The captain opened a door of sorts in the floor and he again understood that he was to climb down the ladder. Just as he made his descent, he felt something crack down on his skull and he crashed to the floor in excruciating pain. The door slammed shut and he was lying on a wooden floor covered in a thick slime with a stench that made him want to vomit. There were no lights, he could barely see five inches in front of his face and the heat was unbearable in the small quarters, as he could feel the purr of the engine running nearby combined with the stifling temperatures.

Immediately, he was filled with rage. This wasn’t what he signed up for. He yelled, “Let me out of here,” but the engine roared and he could tell there were heading out to sea beyond where people could hear his pleas. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the pain in his head throbbed.

Waves lapped at the boat as he regained full consciousness and they were anchored somewhere. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that hole but he was hungry and needed to use the bathroom. He hollered up through the floor. “I know what you’re doing. This is supposed to be like a slave ship. You can’t keep me here against my will. This is kidnapping. Let me out. I’ll sue your ass.” Yelling took entirely too much energy from him and the smell caused him to wretch as he felt himself dry heaving in nausea. He felt his head and he could feel a lump and dried blood. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day or how far they had traveled.

His ignorance of what Africans endured during the Trans-Atlantic slave trade could fill volumes. His plight was minimal compared to those who survived the Long March only to be piled on top of each other, shackled in the hulls of ships for months, unable to move, kidnapped and stolen from their homes and families involuntarily. Charles was there of his own volition. It was his choice, his vacation. Being inflicted with pain was his sick and perverted preference and he was paying the price, sorely.

He was in that hole so long, he was beginning to think that they were going to just leave him there to die and throw him overboard, food for sharks. The door opened and the light from the sun temporarily blinded him. He steadied himself and climbed on deck. He collapsed and tried to fill his lungs with the fresh sea air. A bucket of water was thrown on him and he could smell bleach and maybe some sort of insecticide or maybe a disinfected in it. He’d soiled himself at some point and his skin was started to sting and burn from lying in his own waste for so long. “Where are we? Where’s Mistress Emmanuelle?”


“What? What the hell is that? Bitch, tell me where I am! Take me back to the airport right away.” His normally subservient demeanor in the presence of Black women was thrown overboard as he demanded answers and demanded them immediately.

The captain seemed unfazed by his little tirade and instructed him to take off his dirty clothes and put on what amounted to little more than a rough burlap sack sort of covering and nothing else. She placed a ball gag in his mouth and leg irons on him. The steel cut into his flesh but he was unable to complain because he couldn’t speak. Once on land, he was tethered to a golf cart in which yet another lovely Black woman was responsible for his transport. “Keep up,” was all she said.

The island where they landed was like an oasis in the desert. The land was lush and the beach was pristine. There were no gas-powered vehicles and a huge hotel flanked the shores. It was the Island of Dewees and it was part of the Gullah Sea Islands that existed mostly in a time warp of traditional African culture and antebellum aesthetics. It was like something out of a Margaret Mitchell novel. The Black population of the island spoke fluent Gullah, a Creole language Charles had never even heard of before. They passed by the Black residents who waved at the driver and greeted her like she was a beloved neighbor, ignoring the half naked white man who scrambled behind secured with a rope. The white people they passed turned their heads in disgust and turned up their noses at Charles as if they knew what fate lay before him but they were accessories to his predicament with their disdain. He struggled to keep from being dragged like James Byrd knowing there would be no TV cameras there to report him being lynched to death. His shoes were left somewhere on the boat so he was forced to run bare-footed on the rough terrain. The majority of the journey was on a paved road but the heat from the asphalt made it unbearable.

They pulled onto a dirt road lined with trees that looked hundreds of years old. He could see a big house in the distance and his body ached with exhaustion and relief that his uncomfortable ordeal was over. He was literally dying of thirst and his body was dehydrated. Little did he know that the worst was ahead of him. He was starving and felt as if he would pass out. He passed fields with workers, white men attired in the same sack clothing, who didn’t even look up, they appeared to be drones or robots, lifeless almost, working . . . like slaves.

He was led inside and into the parlor where Mistress Emmanuelle stood to greet him. “Chuck, what a pleasure to meet you, do come in.” She extended her hand pulled out a chair. Charles stood, staring her down.

To say that Emmanuelle was breathtaking was an understatement. She was one of the most gorgeous women he had ever seen in his life. Her severe black suit hugged her curves. She sat behind an enormous, antique oak desk with all the modern technological advances that money could buy and pulled out a file. She quoted every asset he had, the names and addresses of the Board of Directors from his job, and produced a copy of his credit report and slid it towards him. His gaze was fixed and intense and he didn’t make a move. He wanted to end this game and go home. The money he lost would be an expensive lesson learned but he wanted to call it all off. Never again, he swore to himself, would he let his delusions of submission rule his actions. Never again.

“You’ll excuse me won’t you, Chuck?” She leaned into the intercom and said, “Send in Chambers.” The expansive French doors opened and a white man entered, avoiding looking at Charles. He assumed a prone position on the floor and Mistress Emmanuelle stepped out from behind the desk. Lifting her skirt and turning her back to Charles, she obscenely squatted over the man’s face and lowered her bare pussy to his mouth. Charles stared at her full backside, unable to take his eyes from the scene before him as he watched the Black woman unleash a torrent of piss in the man’s mouth. The man swallowed, trying to drink as much of her hot urine as he could. When she finished pissing, she turned to face Charles and maintaining the most intense eye contact, she again lowered herself until she was sitting directly on the man’s face. He lapped at the droplets of piss that lingered on her sumptuous cunt lips and drove his tongue deep inside her. Grabbing a fistful of hair, Emmanuelle held his head between her thighs like a vice, essentially fucking herself on his mouth. She put her asshole directly over his nose and mouth and slowly began to grind her butt ever so detectably. Charles swallowed hard as he could see a crimson color start to cover the sub’s body, evidence that he was indeed being suffocated. His body was beginning to thrash around on the floor but he held steadfast in his coveted position as cushion for the lovely brown bottom that was riding his face.

Charles was frozen to that spot. He wanted to look away but Mistress Emmanuelle held him riveted to the floor with just her eyes. She showed the telltale signs of a Mona Lisa-like smile but her control was evident. When she closed her eyes, she started breathing heavier, bouncing up and down more aggressively. She was going to cum and cum hard. Charles would have loved nothing more than to grab his cock and stroke it but he knew, without being told, that he wasn’t allowed. Still disoriented, his brain was misfiring. His tongue was sticking out, as if he was licking the sweet folds of her wet pussy and tongue fucking her dark, musky asshole. Emmanuelle was moaning, groaning, chanting over and over, “Oh yeah, eat my Black pussy, lick my ass you piece of shit white boy. Show our guest here exactly how much I own you, how I own your soul. You’ll do anything I say, no matter how degrading, how perverse, in front of anyone I tell you with no shame because you belong to me and I control your every desire.”

The man acting as her human toilet seat moaned his affirmation in between the full, round asscheeks of his Mistress as she grabbed a riding crop from the edge of the desk and delivered the swiftest, most extreme blow possible to the worthless sissy’s nuts. His screams were muffled by the fact that Mistress Emmanuelle seemed to be flooding his mouth with her flowing pussy cream.

She stood, lowered her skirt and stood up as Chambers knelt to lick the hardwood floor of any drops of piss that he’d missed. Emmanuelle lifted the hem on the man’s shirt and exposed his naked ass and whacked his balls with the riding crop again. She twisted them cruelly in her hands for good measure and the sub licked and moaned that much harder. With a simple wave of her hand, she dismissed him and he was gone without a word. She moved gracefully to sit behind the desk and addressed Charles like nothing had happened.

“Okay, Chuck, now where were we? Oh, yes, of course. I have some consent forms here for you to sign that release my employees and I from any legal liability in the event that you have second thoughts or regrets. If they would actually hold up in a court of law is really very doubtful but I like to have them on hand just in case. I’ve yet to have anyone contest their treatment but just to be on the safe side . . . If you sign them, you are saying that you are aware that you are going to be subjected to torture and punishment for your pleasure and that we have the right to mark, alter, and essentially punish you in any way and every way we see fit and that you’ve freely consented by paying for our services. We will do everything that white slave owners did to slaves but you’ll be paying for it. Got it?”

Charles thought he was going to faint. He was light-headed from hunger and exhaustion but his cock was rock hard from the little spectacle that had just transpired in front of him. Again, his perverse desires betrayed his resolve; his declaration that he was never again going to let his libido dictate his actions was nothing more than dust in the wind in that moment. “Never don’t last always,” like ole’ folks used to say. He was still wearing the ball gag so all he could do was nod his consent. The ink was barely dry on the forms before he was whisked off to a barn-like building where he was to be “seasoned.”

Seasoning was the process that slaves endured in which they were broken in spirit in order to become good slaves. They were inflicted with extreme psychological and physical torture in order to ensure that they wouldn’t try to run or rebel. A group of women dressed in tight fitting riding pants that hugged their every curve and crisp white cotton shirts with single-tail whips attached to their dark leather belts surrounded him. Their knee-high, black riding boots caressed their strong calves and shined so highly that the sun cast a glare off them. They all spoke in Gullah and Charles felt disoriented by the strange language. They put thick wrist cuffs on his arms and secured him to a hook in the ceiling. He could feel the heat from a fire behind him and he saw them walking towards it with a branding iron. The ball gag muffled his screams and one of the women whispered something in his ear as he felt his flesh being seared with the hot metal. The pain was more intense than anything he’d ever felt and his body contorted and twisted in a natural reflex to escape the scorching hot metal. Tears would have flowed but he was too dehydrated to cry. He felt like an idiot; he had had the opportunity to leave and here he was, being marked like a piece of beef of his own volition.

He awoke, on the floor, and he could barely move his limbs. His ass had been permanently marked and he was sure it was something that indicated that he was the property of the Domina Emmanuelle. One of the women towered over him and kicked him in the side. He thought for a minute she was just abusing him but he soon realized that he was being directed to move. He crawled on his hands and knees to the corner of the room where there were two metal bowls on the floor like dog dishes. The food was covered with flies and the water was brown. He lapped at the water like a dog, dismissing the thoughts of what sort of bacteria and germs flourished in it. The food was rancid and greasy and he could only stomach a few mouthfuls before he started to vomit again.

There were three women in total and while he was still bringing up what little food he had been able to stomach, he felt a leash being applied to his throat and being pulled across the room. There was a pot of water being heated on the fire and full enema equipment prepared. Charles looked around and pleaded with his eyes. Boiling water would kill him, burn his intestines. Tears stained his cheeks but his body was too weak to fight. Someone removed his ball gag but he didn’t have the strength to fight, he simply prepared himself for the pain that was to come.

The water was actually heated to 112 degrees, not hot enough to kill him but more than hot enough to inflict excruciating torture. Fingers probed his asshole without the benefit of lube and he felt the thick end of a medical speculum being inserted. They spread the apparatus so they could insert the nozzle deeply into his colon. He braced himself in defiance, determined not to show signs of weakness but the second the clamp was released and the scalding water flowed into his bowels, he screamed out like a wounded animal. Slapping his face, the women revived him just as he was to be administered a second enema of ice cold water. The second enema was more painful than the first and he soon lost consciousness again.

Restraints were placed on his ankles, wrists, and balls so that if he moved his arms or tried to run it would cause his testicles to be pulled painfully from his body. The women picked him up and placed him in a box smaller than a coffin and shut the lid, leaving him to expel the rest of the contents of his bowel in the tiny prison. He smelled his burnt flesh over the putrid filth that leaked from his anus. He closed his eyes and tried to leave his body, to go someplace where he was normal, where pain didn’t motivate his perverse fantasies.

Someone opened the lid to the box. He braced himself for more torture but he felt the soothing touch of a hand helping him sit up. He tried to adjust his eyes only to see a white man. He had a plate of food and fed Charles with his dirty, bare hands. It was a humiliation the likes of which Charles had never contemplated before, to have be dependent upon the kindness of another man for his very survival. His mind flashed to an image of what Black men might have had to endure but he couldn’t hold the thought too long. He was too exhausted to fathom the concept that his experience was choreographed but actual slaves didn’t have a safe word, there was no reprieve at the end of a week, a month, a day, a decade, or a lifetime. The white man snapped him out of his daydream and said, “Dem 'ooman dun fuh smaa't. De buckruh dey whup baa.” It was almost beyond his comprehension how this white man was speaking that gibberish.

“Speak English, I don’t understand,” Charles pleaded. What the hell was wrong with him? Charles tried to comprehend what could have happened to him in order for him to start communicating in the language of these vicious people. He remembered the cryptic message on the Internet and realized that he had been reading some variation of what these people were speaking. Was this man aiding him one of the men that chose to stay? Why would anyone want to stay in this hell? Questions raced through his mind.

The man pulled a pouch from around his neck and put some soothing salve on Charles’ burns and put a container filled with fresh water in the coffin slamming the lid closed again. Charles licked what rice and turtle meat he could from his lips and tried his best to find some comfortable position in that tight, cramped space.

He was not to get much sleep as the women would take turns abusing him every couple of hours. The days ran together as his abuse rituals seemed to run together. One woman applied an electric cattle prod to his testicles and seemed amused at the sounds he made in response, at watching his body contort and tremble with pain. Another tied him to a tree and covered his body with honey as she let insects sting and bite him and left in him the oppressive sun like an ornament on a lynching Christmas tree. Once he was beaten on the bottoms of his feet until he passed out and they seemed to enjoy using his body as practice for their single tail whips, with which they were quite expert. He would be secured to a large boulder and made to hold his asscheeks apart while they aimed for the bull’s eye. The pain was so intense he knew that losing consciousness was his only chance to survive the sharp, stinging blows.

The women led him to the stables one day and made him lie on a bale of hay. A horse was brought out of the stalls and he thought for sure he was going to have to serve as the receptacle for his sperm in either his mouth or asscunt. Instead they removed the bit from the horse’s mouth and placed it directly into Charles’ mouth and hooked him to a plow. They made him work the fields like an animal, whipping him every time he faltered. The salt from his sweat stung the cuts on his back and the sun burned his pale flesh to a searing, hot red. His body wasn’t strong, he wasn’t muscular and well-built like African men so he fell often, unable to move the earth as he was instructed to do. Every muscle in his body was sore, every organ in his body suffered from the effects of malnourishment and dehydration. His flesh was covered in bruises where he had been beaten, paddled, and whipped. His cock hadn’t been hard in days, since he left the comfort of the big house.

Of course, he was raped every day. It was brutal and vicious and always with objects that could puncture his intestines and end his life, the handle of an axe, an empty bottle of wine, an oversized vegetable from the garden, whatever happened to be handy. He was always left bleeding from his rectum and his cock and balls endured more punishment than he’d thought possible. Metal sounds were shoved in his piss hole and heavy weights applied to his balls. It was as if the women were free to experiment on how much pain could inflict on his genitals short of castration. Many times, the Black bitches held the blade of a knife or a rusty razor to his nuts and threatened to make him a eunuch if he uttered a sound. In the back of his mind, he realized that under other circumstances he would have been getting pleasure from this treatment but at some point, he understood that this experience had nothing to do with sex. This was about the fear and horror of real enslavement. He remained silent, even in the face of his manhood being removed and decided to do whatever he had to do in order to live. That was his only goal-- to live to another day with the hopes that he would be able to go home. Charles had become a real slave.

Sleep was at a premium as he was never allowed to get more than an hour at a time. By the fourth, or fifth day, the women stopped locking him in his coffin and wouldn’t put on his leg and wrist restraints. His friend would come nightly, giving him food and water to keep him alive; never uttering a word in English. Charles came to expect abuse as routine and the pain was transformed into something other than pleasurable, other than ache; he would leave his body in order to escape the sensations and a part of him died inside every day.

On day six, he was awakened with the sun and taken to a pond to bathe. The water was cold but it felt good. He was given lye soap and he washed his hair and body with the harsh smelling bar. It felt good to rid himself of the stink that oozed from his pores. Once finished, he was given a metal cup filled with oil to apply to his body. He did his best to rub it into every inch of his skin because he appreciated the luxury of the feel on his aching body. There was a pile of clothes for him to put on, pants, a shirt, and even shoes. He stood taller in his outfit, feeling superior to the handful of white men who were wearing their burlap frocks. Breakfast was plentiful. Fresh fruit, pancakes with syrup, eggs, bacon, toast, juice and coffee satisfied his appetite. He gorged himself so much he was afraid he would throw it all up.

By mid-morning, he was taken to the big house and led to the master bedroom. It was complete with all the Victorian drama of the period, a four-poster bed, a large fireplace, windows and a balcony that looked out over the property. He felt unworthy to sit on the furniture so he just stood, waiting for what he was sure was going to be an inspection or something by Mistress Emmanuelle.

“Have you enjoyed your stay thus far, Chuck,” she said, breezing into the room with melodramatic flair?

Charles couldn’t answer. He’s hated every second of the experience since he stepped on the boat but he was terrified that if he didn’t answer affirmatively he’d be subjected to harsh punishment more severe than anything he’d endured before. It was also the first time in days he’d heard his native tongue. His brain misfired and shut down. Emmanuelle took it in stride and continued on. “Take off your shirt, let me see your markings.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He unbuttoned his shirt and felt the first signs of arousal that he’d felt since leaving her office the day they were introduced. She circled his body; lightly brushing her fingers across the welts and bruises. Her touch was extremely gentle and Charles was falling victim to her manipulations. The only permanent mark that he’d received was the brand but the most painful torture he’d received was mental.

She unbuttoned his pants and inspected her mark. “Nice, it should heal really well. Remind me to get a picture of it before you leave.” She stroked his cock, producing an erection but Charles was determined to deny her the satisfaction of knowing he was mentally aroused. What she had done to him was in fact criminal and he only hoped to make it one more day so that he could call the police and have her arrested. He wanted his dignity back, his humanity back.

Mistress Emmanuelle started to undress in front of Charles. His jaw dropped as he saw her sexy body revealed and once again he was victim to his weak resolution. She stripped down to a leather corset, black, silk stockings, and patent leather high heels. She bent over to retrieve something and he was graced with a perfect view of her ass this time. Within a second he flashed back to the brazen display of power when she pissed in the mouth of that boy. His true nature of a sub emerged and he longed to place his mouth there and worship her, to taste her musky asshole, smell its rich fragrance, and clean her completely.

She turned to face him and she was wearing a strapon the dimensions of which seemed to compare to the horse. It was pitch black and over a foot in length and it appeared to be as thick as a beer can.

“Suck it.”

Her instructions were clear and concise and he was on his knees worshipping the dark phallus before he could rationalize if it was right or wrong. She pumped his mouth full of the silicone dick and his sluttish nature began to rise. He began trying to get the entire length in his mouth, spit drooled from the corners of his mouth and he was fully erect and throbbing. He hated himself for how quickly he betrayed his principles for his libido. She encouraged his behavior, taunting him, teasing him. “You dirty fucking whore. Look at you. I’ve reduced you to nothing and here you are, sucking this big black dick like a cheap tramp. Now you know why white men are truly inferior. Now you see the evidence. Your gross, pale body is pathetic, your cock is repulsive, you can’t do any work, and you wouldn’t survive a month if you had to be a real slave. And through it all, you’re still here sucking my big, black dick like the little bitch you really are.”

Charles hated that woman more than he hated anyone else in life at that very moment. If she wasn’t so right, if her words weren’t so true, it would have made his slutty actions that much less humiliating. She was right. He knew that if Blacks had enslaved whites, that whites would have never be able to endure the horrors that Blacks had done for centuries. The simple fact that he was still ruled by his sex drive, in the midst of complete psychological annihilation was evidence that he was demented and inferior. His revelations made him suck that much harder. He sucked that dick like he was paying homage to every Black man who had ever been whipped and emasculated, for every Black woman who had ever been raped and degraded. He was sucking that strapon to show his inferiority but not just sexually, he knew in his core that only someone pathetic and subhuman could find reason to be aroused by being degraded.

Before he knew what was happening, he heard himself begging to be used. “Rape me, beat me, use me. Do whatever you want to me. Fuck me please. Make me your bitch. Own me. PLEASE. Own me. Release me from my bondage of pretending to be the great, almighty white man. Torture me. Do anything you want.” His pleas were becoming more urgent, more insistent. “Fuck me like the dirty, filthy, white pig I am. I bow to you; I worship you. I love you.”

He was sobbing like a baby and terrified beyond measure. The room was spinning and he’s freely given up the last bit of self-respect he’d tried to grasp onto. His boypussy was throbbing to be violated and used in ways that made his week-long ordeal seem like playtime in the park.

Mistress Emmanuelle grabbed his throat and began to choke him. He struggled but it was only the remnants of a fight or flight instinct. His mind and soul wanted her to choke him; he wanted her to control his life and his breath. Just as he felt himself passing out, he remembered her words of how she was going to make him pray for the sweet release of death. In that split second, in that epiphanal moment, he gained knowledge and understanding of what it was to be a true slave, not just a sexual submissive.

His unconsciousness, the literal state at least, didn’t last very long. He awoke to find himself secured to the huge four-poster bed with his legs tied so that they were back over his head and his cock was aimed directly at his mouth. Emmanuelle climbed on the bed and straddled his body, giving him a perfect view of her pussy and ass from below. She placed the gigantic head of the strapon on his hole and began pushing it in. Not having a reason to be gentle, she stabbed and pumped the thick phallus deeply, causing the tender ring of muscle that protected his anus to give way to the marauding intruder.

“You fucking white bitch. I own you. I own your ass. I own you so completely I can do anything I want to you and you won’t say a word. That’s power. I’ve taken my true role as your superior. This is the way it’s supposed to have been, with me controlling you. You stupid, worthless, pathetic, disgusting, nasty, insignificant worm. Does that hurt? Does it?”

Charles didn’t have to answer, she knew it hurt him in a way he’d never felt with any pro Domme before. The physical pain was blinding but the psychological pain was debilitating. “Yes Mistress,” was his only response as he felt her plunge deeper and deeper into his guts and pierce his very soul with her cruelty.

He awoke on day seven in a down filled bed and new clothes for him to wear and his personal belongings by the bed. Breakfast was prepared for him and if anyone had taken a snapshot of that scene they would have thought that he had just awoken from a week of rest and relaxation at a spa. Charles knew differently. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to his normal life. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to a society that existed off the fallacy that he was superior. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat there for a second trying to steady himself. Walking to the balcony, he saw an electric golf cart pulling up, dragging a white man behind, screaming and yelling about how he was going to sue anyone who touched him. It was a hard choice for him to pack his bags but he did and he wanted to thank Mistress Emmanuelle for the experience but thanks weren’t appropriate. She’d destroyed his reality and his life would never be the same. He sat at the old-fashioned dressing table and wrote on the parchment stationary, “I will spread the word about the great works that you are doing here. Your humble slave, Charles.”

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

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Thursday, March 20, 2008

I love my pussy

I love my pussy and I refuse to share it with undeserving men who are superficial and shallow and who have no respect for me as a person or an individual. I honor my pussy because I respect is as the most sacred place on earth, it is my temple. I don't shave it, I love it in its natural state. I may trim it every once in a while but I don’t want it to look like a little girl’s, I’m a woman and I like looking like a woman. I don't feel the need to have jewelry pierced into it because a vagina shouldn’t need fashion accessories. I love my pussy and I would never think of using it as a medium of exchange for goods and services. I love the way it tastes, the way it smells, I love the way the lips close neatly. I love the way my juices flow when I’m about to cum and the way my orgasms make it spasm. I cherish my pussy as holy ground and invite only reverent priests to trespass between its hallowed walls. I love my blood that gives life and nourishes. I love my clit and how responsive it is to the most tender touch. I love my pussy and all that it means.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Sex Workers

There’s a school of thought floating around, led mostly by women who sell their bodies, that says that to legalize prostitution is to somehow give “sex workers” some sort of autonomy in the buying and selling of their “goods”. Hey, that sounds like a plan. While we’re at it, let’s legalize slavery too why don’t we? Selling one’s humanity, selling one’s essence, selling one’s body creates an abyss, a karmic, emotional wound so deep it can’t be healed. How can one ever turn back the time to a place BEFORE they gave away their most sacred and intimate gift? How can one ever erase the memory that they were once a hole to be used, a receptacle for someone’s carnal and base desires for $100? The legalization of sex, the commodization of it doesn’t mean we as a people are liberating our views of sexuality. It’s placing a dollar value on one’s personhood. Sex should be about intimacy and communion, not a dollar transaction.

The selling of sex damages the people who are selling their bodies and the people who are buying the sex. To own a human being, to purchase someone’s body, even for a short period of time, to do with it whatever you want because you have paid for it creates a distorted and warped sense of power that perpetuates not only the objectification of (mostly) women but it creates a sense of entitlement in the world as if anyone can be bought and sold for a price. Those individuals with more money can buy more expensive ass. That creates a warped mentality in those who don’t have the same financial means who want to posses as much power as the ones who can buy any piece of ass they want. It perpetuates the fallacy of supremacy, capitalism, and a false sense of power of the individuals who have the money to buy any hooker they want. It creates further objectification of women in that the most expensive hookers have the traits most desired by the men with the most money, i.e. white men. So the blonde haired, big booobed, Barbie Doll continues to reign as most desirable while anyone with traits that don’t fit the ideal has to discount their pussy in order to pay the bills.

To place a dollar value on your sex, to sell it like a ham in the meat department, to give away your autonomy as a human being to pick and choose your partners based on love, compatibility, attraction, and/or lust is to cheapen your entire identity. How does one set the price for their pussy? How does one determine what their soul is worth? Where do you draw the line? You let some total stranger do some foul, gross, disgusting thing to you because they’ve paid your going rate. The same goes for women who have sex with their “special friend” in order to make ends meet, to pay for child care, and to get that designer pair of shoes. Once you have placed a dollar value on your sex, you have cheapened yourself.

I’ve never had sex for money. Not once in my life. Not for a car note, not for my rent, not for a little spending change, not in exchange for anything that had a dollar value. Does that make my pussy more valuable than someone who has? YES, INFINITELY! Does that make me morally superior? No, but it is an indication that I have a more profound sense of self-worth. My body, my sexuality, my love is priceless; there is no amount of money that can purchase me. There is no amount of money in the world that could make me lay with someone for currency. Legalizing prostitution damages me as a woman who refuses to participate in the exchange of goods and services for sex in that it makes men who buy sex think that they can purchase my body and treat me however they want because it allows them to see women as objects and not human beings deserving of love, respect, commitment, and the things necessary to form a healthy, mature, loving relationship.

The women who sell their pussy like it’s no big deal, who rationalize that it’s the oldest profession, that people are going to do it regardless, that there might as well be regulations on it to prevent the spread of disease, etc, are pawns of a patriarchal system of oppression that allow men to dictate the value of what a person’s body is worth. That’s slavery. “Sex workers” are not empowered; they are not taking advantage of the men who would ordinarily take advantage of them. They are sexual chattel in a capitalist scheme of power and domination.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

The Womanist Theory

I’m always amazed at how quickly Black women embrace the term womanist and reject the term feminist. You hear the same argument all the time, “Well, I don’t really hate men so I consider myself a womanist.” Emasculating or hating men has NEVER been the agenda of feminists, that's nothing but bullshit rhetoric from immature and insecure men who want to keep women silenced and maintain their privilege of oppression. Then you hear the argument, “White women have commandeered the feminist movement for their own agenda so I consider myself a womanist because of what Alice Walker wrote about in her book, “In Search of our Mother’s Gardens.” Here’s the news flash. White people commandeer everything to fit their agenda and Alice walker didn’t come up with a womanist theory, she wrote “womanist prose” a term to describe the soulfulness and struggle of Black women. If there was ever an opportunity to help white women understand our plight as Black women, womanist shut the door on that by not allowing them the opportunity to learn and grow from exposure to us. White women are capable of understanding our plight if we explain it to them. Will they take up our banner as diligently? No, nor should they.
Black women are so terrified of being called lesbian and so afraid of offending patriarchal Black men with the term feminist, that they’ve embraced the term womanist and it’s gone unchecked. Ask a Black woman, “What’s the difference between a feminist and a womanist?” “Well, a womanist is more concerned with Black issues.” Does that mean that we need to come up with a different name for Democrat since I’m more concerned with Black issues than white Democrats? “Well, a womanist is more concerned with the family.” Well, white women get married more than Black women so this Black womanist movement isn’t being particularly effective, is it? Entire bodies of study have been created at universities all over the nation in order to appease the insecurities of Black women who are terrified of being called a feminist for fear that someone is going to assume they have hairy legs and wear flannel.

Feminists work to dismantle the social, political, and economic disparity between the genders.

Feminists aren’t lesbians, although they can be, feminists don’t hate men although we certainly have a right to hate their privilege.

Feminists aren’t “against the family,” as so many Black men want to imply.

Feminists simply take a stand against the oppression and tyranny of women under the false assumption of men being somehow inherently superior.

You lessen your position of power if you refuse to face Black men head on with their misogyny and you attempt to side step them by using a more neutral term that they don't object to. just because you want the world to know that you want a man. You can not be a warrior in the struggle if you are starting your crusade from a place of concession. If you refer to yourself as a womanist, you’ve already said to the world, “I don’t want to be equal to men because I don’t want them mad at me for being too radical.” Womanism is not the lite version of feminists, it's not the Black version of feminists, it's the patriarchal conformation to Black men's insecurities.
If there is a platform upon which we can stand and unite, all women, it is the feminist one which states that we will be seen as human beings and not objects, that we serve a greater role in the world than doing housework, being mothers, and being receptacles for sperm to satisfy men’s lust. We are individuals with equal strengths to bring to the table as men. They are not the same strengths, but they are equal nonetheless.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Black Beat

Every August, kinksters from all over the country convene at the annual Black Beat Conference to let off a little steam, party, and revel in some dark debauchery. It’s a common meeting ground for people of color in the BDSM community, and the people who admire them, to explore their fantasies with others. It was also an event perfectly suited for Rick and Tracy, as they were an interracial couple who liked to dabble in the D/s world, and the conference was only a hop, skip, and a jump from their Baltimore digs. They could go, check it out, and if they weren’t particularly feeling the crowd, they could be home in less than a half hour.

It was a gorgeous summer night, electricity was in the air, and the couple was feeling frisky and adventurous. Rick was anxious to attend the event, a little more so than perhaps he wanted to let on, because he was hoping his beautiful Ebony girlfriend of approximately four years would take the opportunity to explore her dominant side with a little greater gusto. He was hoping she would be inspired to be a little more adventurous, a bit more stern, that she would assume her true role as Domme to reduce him to the pain pig/oral slut he longed to be who worshipped at her feet. For Tracy, the weekend was nothing more than a chance to have some fun and release some of the pressure of her job as an attorney, perhaps even get off on a little exhibitionism.

It wasn’t as if the lovely lady was totally unfamiliar with the world of female domination. Elise Sutton, a Dominatrix who specializes in counseling for Doms and subs in loving relationships did a little match making, introduced the pair, and the two hit it off immediately. They were interdependent in the healthiest of ways; they traveled the world together, and just seemed to fit each other like a lock and key. It was their genuine love for one another that cemented their relationship; it was their equal alpha personalities that led them to explore opposite ends of the BDSM spectrum. Rick had always needed Tracy to be a little more sadistic during their play time but it seemed to be a little outside her comfort zone so he didn’t push, he just held out hope that she would one day realize her true power and supremacy as a woman, and more specifically, as a woman of African descent.

The hotel lobby was buzzing with activity. To the casual and oblivious observer, it could have been some sort of work-related conference. Everyone was dressed in their vanilla attire, mixing and mingling, registering, and signing up for presentations. “Honey, why don’t you sign up for this class,” Rick suggested, as he pointed to the sheet titled: Female Domination in Black and White. It wasn’t so much the subject matter that made him push Tracy in that direction but it was the presenter. Mistress Khadijah was a stunningly beautiful Black Femdom who hailed from Tampa and he knew that she was exactly the type of woman who would get his girlfriend’s bisexual juices flowing.

Just one glance at the picture and that was enough for Tracy to say, “Sure, that looks good, I’ll sign us up.”

“Oh, no,” he said, “you go ahead and sign up for that, I’m going to be checking out some of the vendors to see if I can get some things for us to take home with us. Who knows what sorts of things they might have here? I’ll be fine, we’ll catch up with each other later in the room.”

It wasn’t the most well thought out plan, to just leave his girlfriend by herself and hope that she would have a grand epiphany and realize that she really wanted to ride her man’s face to the point of near suffocation. He’d done his research, however, and found out that Mistress Khadijah was the head of a woman’s support group called “Black Women in Kink.” He was sure there were going to be lots of women there who might help her see the female domination light.

He couldn’t have been more accurate if he had planned every detail. Tracy took her place in the front row, mainly to get an up close and personal view of the instructor. She had changed her clothing to something a bit more revealing but nothing like the other ladies who were leather-clad with their tits pushed up and falling out of corsets and bustiers. She glanced around the room and all she saw was women who looked like her. It was an odd sensation, in that she spent most of her time in a white world, the sensation of being among true peers was almost a little too much to digest.

It was the speaker who held her attention the most. Her face, her hair, her body were mesmerizing. The way she moved about the room, the fluidity of her speech, delivered like a true professional, was all very impressive. Tracy had to concentrate to hear the words she spoke and pretend to take notes. Khadijah delivered with a powerful punch too. She asked the class by a show of hands how many owned white subs. With the exception of one woman, everyone raised their hand. She talked openly about how to best harp on racial differences and the necessity of Black women to start owning their true power. In her presentation, Mistress Khadijah extolled the virtues of forced oral. “Normally, eating a black woman’s pussy is an honor and privilege that most subs should not be able to earn unless they are cleaning out the cum of a real man. In rare instances, when a Domme is in need of satisfaction and a real man isn’t available, she can use the services of a sub to pleasure her. It is entirely up to you and at your discretion. It is a good idea to use a tens unit to administer pain to the tiny white cocks of the sub. Don’t be afraid of damaging them. Most of the time, their pricks don’t work anyway, and even when they do, they are too small to please a real woman.”

Tracy squirmed in her seat. What was being said hit a little too close to home. She glanced around nervously at the other women who were whispering to one another and nodding in agreement. She thought for a minute that she might be the only woman in the room who was in a relationship with her “sub.” She never really considered Rick her sub, she considered him her boyfriend who just happened to like a little rough play in the bedroom.

Sensing her discomfort, Mistress Khadijah made eye contact with Tracy and held her gaze captive. It was in that moment, Tracy was able to get lost in the real reason she had signed up to take the class in the first place. Her attraction to Khadijah was intense. Sitting on the table before her, crossing her legs, Tracy was able to see directly up the skirt of the instructor, see her beautiful, shaved pussy just a few feet away. It was all she could do the keep herself from getting out of her seat and spreading those gorgeous brown thighs and burying her face in that soft, sweet, succulent pussy. While not a sub herself, there was no denying that she longed for the taste, scent, and feel of a woman in her life and in her arms. Mistress Khadijah was so confident, so unapologetic in her blackness, it aroused Tracy in a way she’d never experienced before.

She swallowed hard as the Domme continued her lecture. “Choose your instruments of punishment carefully. The cat of nine tails is effective for when they behave badly, disobeying your orders. You can use a riding crop when you want to take out your frustrations from your day on him for no reason. It causes the most damage and will leave him to be unable to sit for days without thinking of your divine countenance. Paddles can be used when training your sub to make them perform tasks they don’t want to do. Make him say, ‘Oh Mistress, please beat my worthless cock and balls and show me what a repugnant, white worm I am, one that’s not fit to eat your divine Black pussy or kiss the bottom of your holy foot.’ Make him beg for more punishment, because most white subs are pain sluts anyway and want nothing more than to experience extreme torture.”

There was a ring of truth to her words but before she could wrap her head around the reality of it, before she could make sense of the feelings that were making her body ache with desire, the lecture was over. “So, what did you think?”

Snapped back to reality, Tracy looked up as Mistress Khadijah towered over her. The other ladies were clearing the room, heading out to other presentations or over to the conference dungeon to put some of the tactics they learned into practice. “It was, uhmmmm . . . Hi, my name is Tracy.” She stood and extended her hand to shake. It was too early to tip her hand that, truth be told, she had never been comfortable in her own skin playing up the racial differences to the degree that Mistress Khadijah seemed to exhibit.

One of the things that makes a woman a good Domme is her ability to sense what isn’t said. Mistress Khadijah said, without even so much as the usual pretense at casual conversation, “Is your sub here, you know, at the conference?” I could always go back with you to your room and give you some private lessons. On me.” She winked.

Things were moving too quickly for Tracy but her competitive nature came out and she accepted the offer. In the elevator, Mistress Khadijah moved closer. Whispering in her ear she said, “I saw you staring at my pussy. Did you like what you saw?”

Without missing a beat, a figurative black beat as it were, Tracy took her hand and ran it down the small of her companion’s back, over her full ass and in between her legs under she very short skirt. She slid her fingers in that hot, wet slit and manipulated the wet folds of flesh. She whispered back,” I can’t wait to stick my tongue in that hot pussy.”

The seal was broken. The two women had made a connection without all the pomp and circumstance of getting to know one another. In some sort of transcendent way, they were the same person. In some sort of other-worldly dimension, they had been meant to meet and connect immediately.

Unaware of the connection that had been made, Rick was waiting anxiously in the room with all of his toys laid about, ready to show his lady. He’d gone all out and purchased metal sounds, needles, a crown of thorns, floggers, whips and a couple of CBT devices he was going to have to read up on the directions when he got home. He was naked and aroused, anxious for Tracy to try out any new techniques she’d learned in her class. When he heard the card in the door, he was excited to see how things had gone. “Honey, wait till you see all the stuff I got, we are going to have a lot of fun trying all this stuff out.”

He turned toward the door and froze momentarily. Instinctually, he covered himself with his hand and then let his hand fall to the side. This was his room, his domain; he saw no need to cover himself in the presence of a stranger. He saw Tracy and Mistress Khadijah, arm in arm, talking like old friends as they strolled in the room. “Honey, I want you to meet . . .”

“Yes, Mistress Khadijah. I’m familiar. Enchante’ mademoiselle. You are even more lovely in person.” She extended her hand as he kissed the back of it softly. His body was alive with excitement. She looked him up and down, noticing what would normally be barely detectable movement in his cock, and smirked. Tracy felt a sense of pride in having Rick on display like that. His body was still in good shape and his nudity in contrast to their fully clothed frames, his pale flesh in contrast to their deeply melanated skin, was erotic.

“What do we have here? I see you’ve been doing a little shopping. Care to try any of these things out?” Mistress Khadijah was circling the bed, examining all the new acquisitions. Tracy was getting more comfortable, taking her dress off and going down to her black garter belt, silk stockings, and bra.
Without even asking Khadijah her preference, she said, “Khadijahi is here isn’t here for you, she’s here for me. You’ll be allowed to pleasure me, but that’s it.”

Rick could sense a newly discovered sense of power in Tracy, a confidence she’d never really displayed before. Mistress Khadijah approached Tracy from behind and cupped her breasts in her hand. She kissed along the back of her neck and her shoulders as Tracy surrendered to the sensation. Tiny moans of pleasure escaped her lips as she felt the soft tongue and lips of her new lover explore her hot spots.

Tracy turned and faced Khadijah. They kissed. For the briefest of moments, Rick felt a pang of jealousy. The kiss was soft, sensual, powerful; the two women were sharing intimacy with their mouths. He cleared his throat, indicating that he wanted to be let in on the play too. That was the wrong thing to do as both women, again without communicating specifically, turned and decided to take out their wrath on him for interrupting their special moment.

Instructed to lie on the bed, Rick’s hands were securely restrained to the nightstands. Both ladies picked up respective instruments of torture and spoke of their plans of attack. Mistress Khadijah held the riding crop, slashing it through the air and sending waves of fear and adrenaline through Rick’s prone body. Not to be outdone, Tracy grabbed a handful of simple clothespins from the collection of toys. She place one on the scrotum of her lover and saw him wince in discomfort. That was nothing compared to the first blow he felt delivered from Mistress Khadijah. He cried out in pain. It was sweet pain, a sensation he’d longed for for a very long time.

“You better make sure he stays silent. How about you sit on his face to muffle any screams.” Tracy felt a chill. The word “screams” seemed so extreme. She looked at Rick and his eyes said all that needed to be said. He wanted this. He craved it. Straddling his face, she lowered her pussy to his mouth as he felt yet another blow from the riding crop delivered to his balls, this one harder than before.

Tracy massaged his lower belly with her soft, sensuous hands as he began to orally service his lover. The tender treatment didn’t last long as another clothespin was applied to the head of his cock. This time, when another blow from the riding crop rained down on Rick, the wet pussy of his girlfriend muffled the evidence of his punishment. The sensations reverberated in Tracy’s pussy and caused her to shudder. “Do it again,” she moaned, as she began to enjoy not only the new sensation of having her pussy stimulated thusly but also the fact that their play was reaching new levels.

“Here, you do it.” Khadijah handed Tracy the riding crop. “Beat that worthless white cock. Go ahead.” Khadijah placed the crop in Tracy’s hand and guided it with her own. He hovered somewhere between consciousness and ecstasy. His senses were deprived and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of wanting to gasp for air along with the intense feelings in his throbbing cock. She had lowered her full weight on him and was making herself comfortable for a long ride. And what a ride it was. Her full ebony ass shielded his vision and her full frame prevented much movement on his part.

The slippery folds of her pussy coated his face with juices as his tongue and jaw ached from trying his best to pleasure his Nubian goddess and give her pleasure. She masturbated herself back and forth at times, rubbing his nose from clit to asshole; the sexy scent of her cunt a stark contrast to the musky aroma of her asshole. He loved it; he loved every second of sweet torture.

THWAP! Tracy felt light headed. It was harder than she had ever hit him before. At the same time, she felt Rick’s tongue go into overdrive in her pussy, working to bring her to the edge of orgasm. She began bouncing up and down on his face, riding him, using his mouth on her pussy and asshole as she pleased. She got encouragement from Khadijah. “That’s it, use him, make him suffer. You own him, you can do anything you want with him. Treat him like a lowly animal.”

Rick’s arms ached as he pulled against the restraints. He didn’t want to get free, he only wanted to pull Tracy’s body closer, to feel his arms around the smooth, soft thighs of the woman who was riding his face to an orgasmic finish line. Blow after blow rained down on him, each time getting harder and harder, each time making Tracy’s pussy gush with more delicious juice. In a zone, she was oblivious to anything other than her own pleasure. Khadijah was encouraging her, whispering in her ear things Rick could only imagine. He couldn’t hear. His entire world was centered on the wet pussy that smothered his face and the steady punishment that was being delivered to his genitals.

Mistress Khadijah caressed Tracy’s body and inspired her to bring it home. An explosive orgasm was close at hand. Tracy bounced harder, driving his tongue in her deeper. She hit him harder, pushing him to satisfy her in ways she’s never thought possible before. Khadijah was kissing her, driving her body and mind into sensory overload. Occasionally, she would raise herself up to give him a brief second of reprieve. For that instant, his eyes would be flooded with light, he would gasp for air like a man drowning and he would feel the cool air revive him. But rather than being the sensation he craved, he longed to feel the warmth and security of the weight of this beautiful Black woman as he teetered near the edge of suffocation and orgasm. She taunted him, teased him, asking him if he could take more. She began bouncing up and down, aroused by the idea of having that much control over another human being. Aroused that she could use his mouth and tongue for her pleasure with no regard for him at all.

His ears were covered by her legs, he could barely hear her moans but he knew that she was about to cum. He sensed the muscles in her legs tighten up and she was more aggressive with her gyrations. He was going to be crushed but he had to make her cum, to feel her juices flow in his mouth. He was a thoroughbred and she was the champion jockey, about to win the sexual Preakness. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming . . . I’m cumming.”

Exhausted, she fell on the bed, drained emotionally and sexually. Mistress Khadijah undid the restraints that held Rick captive and the two cuddled together. She grabbed her purse and was about to make her discrete exit when Tracy called out to her. “Wait, I’m not finished with you yet. Don’t go.”

Smiling, she undressed and crawled in bed next to Tracy. The two would eventually make love in front of Rick while he was forced to watch, they would experiment with all the toys he had purchased and even a few that Mistress Khadijah had in her room before the weekend was over. Black Beat was certainly an enlightening experience for both Tracy and Rick and they headed home with a new sense of self-awareness and more clearly defined roles.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK