Working for an advertising agency has its advantages. At the drop of a hat, for barely any reason at all, there’s cause for an after work get together with free-flowing drinks for all. On this particular Friday evening, there was reason for celebration because Michael Shield’s company signed a major client and glasses were being raised all around Schmidt's Bistro. Michael was his usual self, in his element. He was an interesting fellow because while an outsider would think that Michael was a CEO or at least someone of importance, he was merely an accountant, a job considered mundane, boring, and non-integral to the advertising game. He raised his glass and made toasts; he laughed and patted backs like he had written the ad copy himself.
As the night wore on, Michael was becoming increasingly more intoxicated. He began to slur his words and he was insulting to the waitresses for no other reason than he thought he could be. He even slapped one young lady on the ass hard enough for it to be heard from across the room. Michael thought it was part of his charm; his male bravado entitled him to treat anyone he wanted like shit. In a word, he was an asshole. He wasn’t the most obnoxious asshole in the world; he was just a regular ole, intolerable asshole, exacerbated by the alcohol.
Everyone started thinning out, and the place was becoming empty. Michael was still in the mood for festivities and he was one of the last people to leave. He stumbled outside in the cool night air and couldn’t really remember where he had parked his car. The fact that he was totally unable to operate a motor vehicle had no meaning to him because if he got pulled over by the cops, surely they would let him slide. It was his right as a white man; his skin color gave him a get out of jail free card. By the time he found his car, he realized that he didn’t have his keys. Either they had fallen out or someone had been wise enough to take them in deference for the other drivers on the road.
Michael cursed and kicked the tire of his vehicle, hurting his foot in the process. He made plans to go back to the bar and try to find his keys but the call of nature was stronger. He had to piss like a racehorse and piss immediately. Rather than try to find a bathroom, or even a discrete place to urinate, Michael pulled out his stuff right there on the street and started whizzing away, on the front steps of a brownstone row house. As luck would have it, Michael ’s particularly bad luck in this case, the owners of said brownstone were returning from a night out on the town just as he was hosing down their front steps.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Michael turned to see a young man, Black, about his age, of the same size and stature, angered but not irate, scolding him. Unable to control himself or his bladder, Michael continued to piss right on the young man’s shoes as he mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of an apology. The young lady who stood next to him didn’t say much; she seemed to be quite confident that her companion could take care of the situation. Michael noticed that they looked rather different, like they were punk rockers or something. Most Black people in he knew blended in, but the young woman, a pretty brown skinned woman with a bright pink Mohawk and piercings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip, was vastly different. She was dressed in a ripped t-shirt that had strategic safety pins to cover her small, braless breasts under a black, leather motorcycle jacket. Her jeans, equally as ripped, showed her smooth chocolate colored skin off even in the moonlit night. She wore black Doc Martens that had been spray-painted with red, black and green artwork.
There was something sexy and dangerous about this chick that didn’t escape Michael ’s notice and he openly and brazenly started pulling on his still pissing cock, his judgment clouded by the alcohol. The guy, now past his limit for tolerance, went to grab Michael ’s arm and he pulled away and defiantly said, “Fuck you.”
The punch that landed on Michael ’s jaw knocked him out cold, aided by the alcohol, because the next thing he remembered was waking up with his hands handcuffed behind him and he was secured to a chair in a strange room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the couple sitting, casually watching him. His clothes reeked of urine and vomit, the air smelled of cloves and he felt considerably more sober. He began to protest rather loudly, demanding an explanation.
“I see you’re awake,” the young woman said with a clearly British accent. She put a filter-less cigarette to her lips between her thumb and forefinger and inhaled like a rebel with a cause; the light of the burning ash illuminated the contours of her ebony face. “I don’t know what sorta manners you have, and I don’t know what sorta bloke thinks it’s okay to use other people’s homes like a public loo, but you need to be taught a lesson. Don’t you agree Percy?” She turned to her male counterpart and he laughed casually as the young woman circled Michael like a panther.
“Unquestionably, Patra. Me thinks he needs to be taught a serious lesson about respect. G’won, teach him bout respect.” It was only then that Michael noticed that the male half of the couple was dressed in a similar fashion to the female but his accent seemed to be more Jamaican than British. Percy was about 6 feet tall; around 190 pounds if one were to guess, and he appeared to be the Black version of Sid Vicious only with outrageously long dreadlocks piled atop his head. He too wore black Doc Martens with the picture of a lion airbrushed on his left boot and a picture of Haile Selassie airbrushed on the other.
Patra whispered in Michael ’s ear, “You have been a very, very, bad boy and you are going to be punished, ya hear?” She grabbed his face, pushing his cheeks together and blowing smoke in his eyes. Michael tried to turn away but she held his face firmly in her grip.
WHAP! She slapped his face hard and the sting brought Michael to a new level of sobriety. He looked around the sparse room and noticed it was a basement, bathed only by the soft, fluorescent glow from the street lamps streaming in the small, street level windows. Even though he was scared, and rightfully so, there was also something erotic for Michael about being held against his will, punished for his wrongdoings, tormented by this odd, Black couple like a naughty schoolboy.
Percy seemed to enjoy sitting back and watching the show as Patra went about her business. She spit in Michael ’s face, pulled his hair, used his mouth as an ashtray, and for entertainment, burnt the backs of his hands with her cigarettes. Trying to remain defiant and strong, Michael felt his will slowly bending to hers. He became her puppet. She was ruthless, relentless in her punishment. Placing her boot against his crotch, she stomped his nuts without care for his well-being or health. Kicking the chair over, Michael struggled against his restraints. For a brief moment, he was released only to be secured again with his hands behind his back to a metal pole in the center of the room.
Being made to kneel on the cold, cement floor, the ordeal continued for Michael, who felt himself desperate for his release and willing to perform any duty, no matter how degrading, no matter how painful, so that he could please his captors and be let go. Patra placed her boot squarely on Michael ’s mouth and made him lick. The grime and the dirt were foul. He licked the heavily soiled treads while the pair laughed at him. She kicked him in the side of the head so hard he saw stars but he kept on licking. His cock was fully awake and aware of the fact that he was suffering and in pain. His arms were sore and aching, his knees were raw and nearly bloody as the night turned to day yet he was turned on by the humiliation, aroused by the pain. The couple didn’t seem to care that the hours passed. With each new hour they dreamt of a new torture that pushed Michael ’s body to new limits. Painful enemas, burning hot candle wax, dangerous breath play, and extreme cock and ball torture seemed to go on in an endless cycle. At one point, improvising with what was laying around, Patra found an extension cord and used it to beat Michael ’s face, chest, and body in a cruel show of pure sadism.
Percy couldn’t sit idly by and watch, he joined in the fun as Patra directed. Her arms were tired from beating him without mercy so she called on her lover to take over. What Michael thought was excruciating pain before was magnified 10 times when Percy began his lessons in respect. “You treat my home like a toilet, I’ll show you what a fucking toilet is . . . “ and he unzipped his jeans and pulled out a hefty cock, blacker than midnight and as thick as a beer can, and hosed Michael down. The piss was strong and forceful and Michael tried to turn his head but he was slapped and his head held in place, forced to drink the urine. The salt in the pee stung as it seeped into the open sores on the backs of his hands and in his eyes.
“Enough of this playing around,” Patra said, “make him your bitch, baby, show him who the real man is.” The pair seemed to silently acknowledge that the entire night’s antics, and the better part of the morning’s, were all leading to the grand finale when Michael would be forced to endure the ultimate humiliation.
Percy grabbed Michael ’s head and forced his semi-erect penis into his mouth. He tried to turn his head, he contemplated biting it but he was far too scared. There was no way he could fight, his arms were still tightly handcuffed behind him, and he was weak from exhaustion. He could hear Patra’s cruel laughter in the room, around him, unaware of exactly where she was. As Percy fucked his mouth, choking him, making him gag, forcing that black cock deep in his esophagus, Michael felt the rumblings of what was surely stale ale coming back up. He tried to hold it back but Percy showed no mercy and kept pounding away, using his mouth like a pussy. Vile smelling chunks of puke came up and big black cock forced it back down. Michael was trying to gasp for air but his airways were blocked with dick and vomit and cum.
“You fucking son of a bitch, look what you did!” Patra kicked him in the side and made him cry out. Quickly, she undid the restraints and repositioned him on his hands and knees. She took the belt from his khakis and pulled it free. She lowered his pants and bared his naked ass for her punishment.
Blow after painful blow reigned down on Michael ’s pale, flabby, white ass. He began sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again. Each time the leather made contact with his skin, the pain reverberated up his spine. Welts formed, blood dripped. Just when he thought he could take no more, he heard Patra say, “Spit on it to get it wet first or else you won’t be able to get it in on the first thrust.”
Michael ’s heart dropped. He was completely virgin and terrified of what he knew was coming. He cried, begged, and pleaded. He tried to bargain and negotiate. He sobbed uncontrollably like a little bitch. “Please, please don’t do this. I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”
Patra and Percy would have no such talk. “Now look who’s the big man now. What happened to all that arrogance? You’re not so full of yourself now, are you? Well, you are going to get fucked and you are going to beg for it. In fact, you are going to plead to get fucked like the sissy faggot you are, do you hear me?”
Michael was broken. He didn’t even feel like a man anymore. He was a bad, bad boy who was suffering the ultimate abuse. There was something in him, something dark and perverted that wanted, no craved being taught this lesson. His manhood had been taken, his dignity and self-respect destroyed, and he was a mere shell of a man. With his eyes on the ground, he whispered a demure, “Please.”
“That’s not good enough,” she yelled, “beg for it like you need it. Prove that you want it.”
His arrogant taunt of “Fuck you,” that caused him to end up in this predicament turned into a chant of “Fuck me.” “Fuck me,” he cried out as he felt the enormous head of Percy’s cock against his asshole. “Fuck me,” he yelled as he felt the pain of his sphincter being ripped and inch after inch of black meat invading his anus. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he begged over and over again as he was pounded and used like a little rag doll. “Fuck me like I’m a dirty whore. Fuck me like I’m a little bitch. Fuck me harder. FUCK ME DAMN YOU! FUUUUCKK MEEEEE!”
Sometime that afternoon, hungry, thirsty, and smelling like the men’s room at a bus station, Michael stumbled out onto the street. His car had been ticketed and he still had no idea where his keys were. He was ashamed to call his wife and explain where he’d been all night but he knew she would be worried to death. He didn’t emerge a new man; he wasn’t somehow magically cured of being an asshole. He was, however, sore and tired, his nuts ached for relief, and he had been relieved of some of his white guilt that had brought about immense sexual satisfaction.
Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved
