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.

Showing posts with label Black Domme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Black Domme. Show all posts

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Phone Sex Like You've Never Experienced Before

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Many of you have read my interracial domination stories and you’re curious about me but are you intimidated by me? Are you afraid of what you may become if I dominate you? You should be; and for good reason. I’m more psychologically sadistic, more inherently superior to you than you can wrap your mind around. I am sexually aroused by breaking men of your arrogance, your ignorance, your smug, fucking condescension. It turns me on to see men groveling and crying and transformed into a thing of my creation. I’m superior to you, in every conceivable way. I’ve said it before, I will say it again. I am not a believer in or supporter of theories of Black or female supremacy even though I am Black, female, and infinitely and inherently superior. If I were to dominate you, I would recreate you in the way that I see fit and you really have no say over it. I’d respect your limits but I doubt you have many. I’m a Black Domme, a quite remarkable one at that. The vast and overwhelming majority of you reading this are not worthy to be my sub.
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I'm taking calls now. The first three minutes are free for new members. Now is your chance to talk to me.

DO NOT expect sexual/fantasy roleplay when you call me. I will not pretend to be aroused nor will I pretend to masturbate to feed your ego. Assisting your need to habitually pull your pathetic dick is of no interest to me whatsoever. If you are expecting me to provide you with typical and mundane phone sex, don't waste your time or mine and call someone else who is decidely more average. What I will do is engage you in explicit, hardcore conversation about your fantasies and fetishes, we can discuss sex and sexuality in all its facets; I will gladly share my insights into race and display my ability to psychologically manipulate you. You can ask me personal questions and I will answer them honestly unless I decide they are offensive or invasive questions. I will ask you very personal and intimate questions in an effort to get to know you and to humiliate and degrade you. I know way more about you and your nature than you know about yourself. I know things you've never told another human being. If I decide to end the conversation abruptly and tell you not to call me back it's because I find you boring and predictable. Antagonistic and obnoxious assholes will be blocked. If you are intelligent, articulate, sufficiently respectful of my superiority, willing to divest yourself of your inherent biases and racism, decidely and unapologetically perverted and depraved, and we establish a rapport and chemistry through in-depth and honest conversation, it's entirely possible that you will stir my juices and arouse me. The incredibly lucky son of a bitch who can accomplish that very well may get my sincere and authentic masturbation, not faked, not for your benefit but entirely for my pleasure. It will be a privilege afforded to a very select few exceptional callers. Most of you will not be allowed that honor but you can certainly dream. I ONLY dominate white men. Men of color, any color are invited to call but understand that I will not inflict the brutal, cruel type of punishment I love to administer to white submissives.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Queening for a Day

There are some individuals who believe that coincidence can be explained away by logical explanations.  There is a certain comfort in life when one supposes that everything can be calculated and replicated.  Bret Matthews lived his life that way; he was methodical and premeditated with everything he did, with how he interpreted every experience in his world.  It wasn’t until he found himself being challenged and pushed to beyond his limits, in a situation where he had no power over his lusts and no will of his own to assert, that he learned what it meant to be truly free in the confines of mental enslavement.  

Spring is meant to be experienced outside, enjoying the flowers and the sunshine and all the things that contribute to nature’s ability to elevate hormones and arouse lust.  There was something amiss, some sort of itch, a longing perhaps that was gnawing at Bret’s psyche, tugging at his spirit.  Feeling all the effects of the change in season, he decided that he would forego his usual lunches in the food court with co-workers and dine alfresco in solitude.  He felt a need to be alone, to observe his surroundings, to meditate on life and its meaning while absorbing a little Vitamin D and fantasizing about his perversions.  

Lincoln Park provided the perfect backdrop for his midday musings.  He could sit and eat his brown bag lunch and watch all the people go by.  Technically, it wasn’t really a brown bag, it was a white bag filled with amazing food from a little gourmet shop that made the best sandwiches and salads in town.  Moreover, he wasn’t really concerned with watching all the people go by, just the ones with breasts and brown skin.  If warm weather had him feeling naturally horny, it was exacerbated by the fact that the change in climate made Black women come out of hibernation and start wearing more form-fitting clothing and open-toed shoes.  Bret had a fascination if you will for the exquisitely manicured tootsies of Black women but that was not his primary fetish.  Bret had a love for the shapely butts of women blessed with only what could be termed, Afrocentric behinds.  He loved everything about them: the way they moved and jiggled when they walked, the way they filled out a particularly tight pair of jeans or swayed beneath a skirt, he loved big, round, sexy black asses.  Discretely, he would watch as they walked by, imagining what those fabulous brown asses looked like with no clothes on, what they smelled like, and of course, what they tasted like.  There was nothing not to love about his midday excursions because he could get out, sit in the sun, and get more than enough fodder for his fantasies.  It was a helluva lot better than sitting around talking about boring work stuff with his colleagues.  

Being a creature of habit, Bret pretty much sat on the same bench every day.  One day, feeling like he needed to stretch his legs a bit and explore other sights, he ventured out to explore more of the park.  That day, he felt compelled to change his vantage point to see what else the world had to offer.  As luck would have it, he stumbled upon a pavilion with chess tables set up and people standing around watching the games.  As is usual for most public parks, there were homeless Black men stationed at each table, schooling white boys who were looking for diversions from their mundane lives on their lunch breaks as well.  It seems like in every corner of the country, in every park, Black men who look like they haven’t bathed in months play skilled and strategic chess games.  This park was no exception save one small exemption.  

Seated at the end table was a young, Black woman with a petite frame and short, curly Afro.  She didn’t look like she was homeless; in fact, she looked like she could have been a college student.  As she stood up to stretch a bit, Bret could tell that she couldn’t have been more than 5’3” and if she weighed 125 pounds, 10 pounds of that has to be distributed evenly between her tits and her ass.  She was wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt with a drawing of the Statue of Liberty depicted as a Black woman with a raised fist that said, “Statue of Liberation” in bold, graphic printing.  Her 32D’s filled out that shirt perfectly.  Her complexion was smooth, like melted chocolate and her little round button nose fit her angelic face perfectly.  She had sexy, full lips that were highlighted with shiny, clear lip gloss and as she spoke, her tongue touched the bottom of her front teeth like she had a slight lisp.  

Bret wasn’t close enough to hear exactly what she was saying but he was close enough to watch her play her game.  She played like a master.  Bret was undone.  He needed to get back to work but he was transfixed to that spot, unable to move.  He was studying her every move, both her chess moves and her chest moves.  He made his way closer to her table but he didn’t dare approach her or talk to her.  It was clear she was the center of attention because women hardly ever played chess in open-air forums like this one and everyone took notice not only because of her striking beauty but also because she seemed unbeatable.  Chess was a man’s game and there were very few women whom Bret knew who were patient enough to learn the intricacies of the strategy or bother to play the game at all.  When he did meet women who were skilled players, he could beat them easily but he always dragged the game out and allowed them to win so as not to look like too much of an asshole and defer to his hidden desire to practice female superiority.  She looked up briefly and made eye contact with Bret and said, “Whose got next,” like she was a basketball player on the court taunting and teasing her opponents to an intellectual azz whuppin.  

Bret politely mouthed the words, “No thanks,” and made his way back to his office.  He was fine the rest of the afternoon, distracted with projects, details, and minutia.  It wasn’t until he was stuck in traffic on the way home that his mind started to race.  What normally should have been a 30 minute ride was taking forever and a day which led Bret to some dark and deviant ruminations.  He began to fantasize about the strange woman in the park, about her peeling off her incredibly tight jeans and revealing a pair of red satin panties.  Standing before him in nothing but those sexy panties and red, high-heeled shoes, Bret imagined that she bent over in front of him and lowered her undergarments down over the full, round asscheeks barely contained within.  She wiggled and flaunted that ass in his face, teasing Bret with it.  Pulling her cheeks apart, Bret dreamt that he could smell the heady aroma of her ass wafting from between those perfect, brown globes.  In his fantasy, he gently placed his nose near her sacred butthole and smelled her natural scents.  He was aroused and his cock was hard; he rubbed it through his pants to relieve the pressure and to add just the right amount of pleasure.  Just as he was about to place his tongue to her hole in his mind, traffic started moving and he was snapped back into reality.  

The next day at work it was all he could do to wait for his lunch hour.  He was preoccupied with thoughts of her and could barely concentrate on anything but visions of her ass.  Finally, around 11 a.m., he could take no more and he made excuses about somewhere he had to go, something he had to do, and stole away to head to the park.  Because it was earlier than the usual lunch hour, there were very few people in the park except some tourists, some preschool children’s groups, and some other people who were like him and escaping work and having an early, extended lunch.  The chess tables were all occupied but not with the lady with whom he’d taken an interest.  Today, rather than it being the homeless versus the white boys, it was simply Black man versus Black man, their residence, or lack thereof, not playing any role in their game.  Never before had he taken the opportunity to watch their moves so intently, to study their game and he wondered as to how someone who could master the analytical skills of chess could end up being destitute and anti-social.  He wondered how a woman who looked so out of place among those men could be comfortable around them, around their smells and clearly brash and rebellious demeanors.  

“Are you going to play today?”  Bret froze momentarily as he felt the presence of someone next to him, dangerously close, invading his space, practically touching his arm.  Without looking, he knew it was her.  Her voice was soft and melodic yet raspy and erudite at the same time.  

“No,” he mumbled, “I have to get back to work,” and he hurriedly left the park and spent the rest of the afternoon kicking himself for not taking her up on her offer.  In any other circumstance, Bret was confident, secure, he was never one to waffle or crumble under pressure.   He’d wanted to meet her, to talk to her but he choked under pressure.  

The next day, Bret kept his anxiousness in check and waited until noon to blend in with the rest of the crowd.  He didn’t go close this time, he watched from a distance.  She was there again and he could tell she was undefeated at her tenure at her table.  A few Black men, business men and workers from the neighboring office buildings, approached, played, and slinked away.  She wasn’t arrogant in her play but she didn’t seem to use much effort either.  White men seemed hesitant to approach her, like there was some invisible line that they knew not to cross, or dared not cross lest people see their hidden thoughts, their secret desires, their blatant yearning for her.  Bret was to be counted among that population.  He was content to watch from afar and observe.  Every day, his thoughts of her consumed more and more time.  His daily commute to and from work, his time at work and school were compromised by his fantasies.  At home alone, he masturbated to thoughts of her and when he was with his girlfriend Amanda, he was thinking of the mysterious woman as well.  

For five days straight, it seemed that Bret was in a constant state of arousal from someone to whom he’d never even spoken.  Everyone in the office was getting a little nosey, asking where he was rushing off to for lunch every day, implying that he had a secret life, that he was having an affair, just being generally obnoxious.  He was afraid someone might follow him so he had taken to using different routes to the park and stopping off at different locations first.  His paranoia was unjustified but he was so used to his life being compartmentalized, so fragmented that he compensated by being slightly neurotic.  If anyone ever found out that he was aroused by a woman’s butts, by fantasies of being smothered by them, he would die a thousand deaths.  In his heart, he just knew that he was the only one among his peers who had dark thoughts and fantasies like that.  

At lunch, he made his way to the park but he chickened out at the last minute, opting just to watch her play.  She saw him watching her and she stared back, letting him know that she was aware of his attraction to her.  He went back to the office feeling like a fool and later told everyone that had to leave about an hour early.  He made his way back to the park, practically running, hoping against hope that she would still be there.  As luck would have it, she was, casually talking and laughing with her homeless crew, talking like they were her peers.  Gathering his nerve, he made his way to her table and sat down.  “Finally,” she said, “what took you so long?”  

Uncomfortable with small talk, Bret gave her a half-hearted smile and ignored her comment.  “Black or white,” he mumbled. 

Laughing, she said, “Honey, I’m always Black.”  

Their game lasted almost an hour but he’d seen her win in four moves with other novice players.  It was a good thing that the game wasn’t timed because Bret had met his match and he was making him nervous, he made a few careless mistakes out of sheer anxiety.  Eventually, she was victorious again; remaining undefeated in all the games he had witnessed her play.  He felt drained yet satisfied in a way he’d never felt before.  Here was this petite woman, clearly more than just his equal, it was more than evident she was his superior.  His intellectual libido was stimulated beyond belief.  Throughout the game she didn’t say a word, she concentrated.  She watched him, studied his moves.  Bret was off his normal game but he knew that even at his best she still had the skills to beat him.  Of course it didn’t help that he was intellectually stimulated which made him partially erect.  

Pushing his chair back from the table, Bret extended his hand and said, “Great game, thanks so much.”  He’d wanted her to win but he never imagined that she could do it without him throwing the game.  Her skill set exceeded his which said a lot.  Her victory was real and he felt defeated but wildly alive for the first time in a long time as strange as that may sound.  

She reached out and shook his hand and replied, “Come on, let’s go.”

She grabbed her backpack and tossed it to him.  He clutched it close as he followed her, running to catch up when he realized exactly what her invitation was; watching her butt with every step that she took, hypnotized by her unspoken power over him.  They walked to a bus stop and Bret intervened, “I have a car,” but she ignored him.  They sat down and she turned to him and formally introduced herself.  

“I’m Shauntay, I was wondering when you were going to get up the nerve to come talk to me.  You really played a great game.  You had me in check that one time and I was thinking that you might end my reign as Queen of the park.  What’s your name?”

In a million years, Bret never would have imagined a woman named Shauntay would be able to beat him at chess.  To him, Shauntay was a ghetto name and people from the ghetto . . . well, it didn’t even have to be said.  There was nothing ghetto about this woman and as he repeated her name over and over in his head, it began to sound lyrical, beautiful, not at all ghetto.  Realizing he hadn’t answered her question, he blurted out, “I’m Ted,” always thinking of protecting his identity, never wanting anyone to get to know the real him.  Thinking it over, realizing that he might just be in the presence of the woman who could take him places he’d never been, he said, “I’m sorry, I lied.  My name is Bret.”  Still not quite sure he was up to the witty repartee stage of conversation just yet; he remained silent, waiting for her reprimand.  None came but the bus did and they got on.  He didn’t know where they were going, what they were doing; he just knew that he would do just about anything she asked of him.  She was brazen, well, not so much brazen as she was bold.  Shauntay caressed his body, felt for muscles, caressed his leg and openly stared at the erection she was causing him.  The blood boiled in his veins as other passengers watched this open display of groping and Bret was helpless to do anything about it.  He loved it and secretly wished she would go even further.  

Shauntay kept asking more and more questions, eventually bringing Bret out of his shell as they rode.  Every once in a while, she would lean close and whisper sweetly in his ear and send chills up and down Bret’s spine.  She was equally as forthcoming, sharing details about her life.  It turned out that she was 33, which he would have never guessed because she looked almost a decade younger than that.  She was getting her Ph.D in Physics which intrigued Bret that much more.    

As the got off the bus, Bret was in another world.  This was out of his comfort zone; this couldn’t be explained by any reasonable construct.  He was following a total stranger to God only knows where to do God only knows what.  No one knew where he was, he hadn’t explained his absence to anyone.  His heart was pounding.  Bret was terrified that she was going to do something crazy or unhinged but he clearly outweighed her and towered over her.  He kept wondering why she wasn’t afraid that he was a psycho killer, why she wasn’t paranoid that he was going to do something unstable or psychotic to her.  She didn’t even have a cautious look in her eye.  In fact, she seemed to be the one that was comforting Bret.  

They reached her apartment, and still carrying her backpack, Bret blindly followed her up the stairs of a two story walk-up to her apartment.  She intentionally stopped short and Bret ended up face first in the seat of her pants.  He froze there, inhaling her scent openly, hoping to detect the stench of her asshole.  Shauntay wiggled her ass in his face, giggled, and opened the door to her home and invited him in.  

It was exactly as Bret had envisioned in his mind, it matched who he thought she was.  It was small, so tidy it would make any obsessive-compulsive jealous, and obviously occupied by an academic and an intellectual.  Shauntay excused herself and left Bret alone as he scoped the scene.  There was no TV in the living room and the bookshelves were lined with books about Black History, chemistry, art, travel, alternative medicine, and of course, physics.  Her music collection didn’t have any artists Bret recognized and the d├ęcor was simple and contemporary but accented with pieces that looked like they might have been inherited from an older family member.  “What are you writing your dissertation on, uhmmm, if you don’t mind me asking,” he yelled in the direction of the bedroom as he tried to gain further insight into her without getting caught while she changed her clothes.  

“The Instantaneous Quantum Teleportation of Information Across the Time and Space Continuum as it Relates to Members of the African Diaspora.”  She waited for the pause of dumbfounded silence that followed every time she told someone her topic, and sure enough, like clockwork, 8 . . . 9 . . . 10, he responded, “How did you master the art of playing chess?  And those guys . . . you seem . . . so . . . you know . . . comfortable with them . . . how . . .”  She didn’t answer.  

It all seemed too coincidental.  She was like a dream come true for him.  Most of what he knew of her concretely was learned in the last 45 minutes.  For a week, he’d fantasized about her, speculated, surmised but she was turning out to be more than he’d even allowed himself to contemplate.  Beauty, brains, the ability to control him with subtlety, and an ass that made his mouth water.  His mind couldn’t even makes sense of the fact that he was in this strange apartment, waiting rather impatiently for a women he didn’t know, for exactly what, he wasn’t sure.  

Emerging from her bedroom dressed in tight, leather, black pants, a corset that looked like she might have had two or three people in her bedroom helping her tie it so tightly, high-heeled, black patent leather boots that came up past her knees,  and a look on her face that inspired sheer terror in Bret.  Shauntay was carrying a riding crop in one hand and stood perfectly still so Bret could take in her image.  His jaw dropped.  She looked like a rare Ebony centerfold straight out of Obeah magazine (without the staples).  He jumped up and reacted almost violently.  “Hey, look, I don’t know who you think I am . . . or what you think I’m into, but you don’t know me.  I’m not . . . I don’t want . . . Don’t you dare presume that I’m . . . that this is something . . . that you can . . . you have assumed too damn much.”  He was flustered because he was undone by her complete ability to read him.  He felt trapped and angry but he wasn’t exactly sure why.  All he knew was that his chest felt tight, his knees felt weak, his mouth was dry, he’d lost the ability form complete sentences and he was wildly aroused, more than he’d ever been in his life.  He was out of his element and in a strange environment.  Taking a deep breath, he said, “Look, I appreciate your hospitality and thanks for the great match but I think I better be going.”  


She didn’t say another word, she didn’t make a move.  She motioned her eyes toward the front door and remained stoic.  Bret looked like a deer caught in headlights.  He didn’t want to go; in fact, he wanted desperately to stay, throw himself at her feet, beg for her forgiveness, and be subjected to her cruel punishments.  He wanted her to give him an ultimatum, to say something that would give him the chance to stay.  She walked to the door, opened it, and stood aside.  

“I . . . uhmmm,” he mumbled as he walked past her, too prideful to ask to say, feeling like an idiot for totally fucking up, “Great match.  Thanks.”  

He hailed a cab to take him back to his car and relived every second of the past week in his mind over and over again on his way home.  All weekend, he was withdrawn and quiet.  He made excuses to his friends why he couldn’t hang out and sex with Amanda was nothing more than perfunctory.  Every time he closed his eyes, however, he would see Shauntay.  He couldn’t sleep at night and Monday morning couldn’t come soon enough.  He watched the clock all morning long and made a beeline for the park.  Of course, she wasn’t there, and subconsciously, he knew she wouldn’t be.  He asked one of the homeless men if he’d seen her and waited around for almost two hours before going back to work.  All week long he went to the park; all week long, she wasn’t there.  He was beginning to get depressed, angry at himself for not throwing caution to the wind and taking a chance.  She intimidated him and that wasn’t a sensation he had ever truly experienced before.  

Bret began to fill his time at the park by playing the men there, talking to them, befriending them, observing their chess skills and speculating how they seemed to possess such amazing analytical skills but couldn’t get a job.  He saw the casual glances from white passersby who belied their true feelings of disgust when he would share his food with them.  Over the course of several weeks, he tried to convince himself that he was no longer going there to look for Shauntay but to engage in great chess with worthy competitors.  The truth was, he couldn’t imagine the day that he would stop looking for her, she’d made a huge impact on him and he was convinced he wasn’t going to be the same ever again.  

Deeply engrossed in a great game, he felt the breath of her words as she whispered in his ear, “Have you missed me?’  

Bret’s heart skipped a beat; the palms of his hands broke out in an immediate sweat.  It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to fall to his knees and show his devotion to her.   He wanted to forfeit the game but it wasn’t in his nature, and somehow, he knew that Shauntay would be displeased.   He continued playing, glancing around, looking for her but she had faded into the masses.  He knew she was there, watching him, he could feel her intense presence.  Just as with his first game with her, he was nervous, making stupid mistakes.  He lost.  He lost fair and square.  He scanned the crowd and saw her sitting on a bench about 50 yards away.  He approached cautiously and sat down, waiting for her to say something.   She didn’t utter a sound.

“You were right.  About . . . you know . . . you were right.  How did you know,” he queried, “about . . . me, about . . . you know.  How did you know that I would like that sort of thing?”

She moved closer, pressing her leg against his.  “I read you.”  The puzzled look on his face indicated that he needed a more in-depth explanation.  “Your game, the reverence you have for your queen, the way you protect her, it speaks volumes about you.  I can tell all sorts of things from the way you play.  You want people to see you as extraordinarily intelligent, but deep inside, you not only feel average, but there’s a part of you that feels unworthy, contemptible even. You are inherently submissive and you are drawn to that part of me that is inherently dominant.”

“There’s no way you can tell all that about me from watching me play chess,” he said indignantly. 
“Oh, really?  Am I wrong?”

It was Bret’s time to remain silent now.  He sat staring at the ground.  Every time he would look up, she would be staring at him.  There was communication in the silence.  So many things were unsaid, unarticulated.  None of that seemed to matter.  Finally, he said, “So, what now?” 

“Well, that would depend on what you want.”  Shauntay was a bit more aloof than Bret would have liked.  He wanted her to show interest in him, he wanted her to see him as different, to WANT to dominate him.  She stood up, dropped her backpack in his lap, and leaned in close, her lips close to his, like she was about to kiss him.  “I’ll see you later.” With that, she walked away, Bret’s eyes transfixed to her ass as she disappeared into the sunshine, gripping her bag like it sustained his life. 
That day after work, Bret took out his phone, called Amanda saying that he had to go out of town for the weekend for work, which was not at all unusual for him, and he drove to Shauntay’s apartment, backpack in hand.  He stood outside her building, terrified to go up but driven to cross the threshold into a new adventure.  He knocked, nervous and afraid.

“One moment, please.”  He heard her movements behind the closed door.

Bret waited what seemed like an eternity.  Finally she opened the door completely and stood before him and he literally gasped for air.  Shauntay was dressed, or barely dressed rather, in a bright turquoise lace bra that was doing a lousy job of containing her overflowing breast flesh.  Her matching garter belt sat atop her hips and the colorful straps went down her slender ebony legs and held her black, silk, lace-topped stockings in place.  Her small feet were encased in high-heeled black, patent leather pumps, tasteful and sexy.  The most striking feature of her outfit was the chocolate brown strapon protruding from her body.  At first glance, it appeared to be about 8 inches long and at least as wide as his wrist.  She stood there calmly, stroking it, taunting Bret.  He glanced nervously up and down the hallway, terrified that someone would see her, terrified that someone would see him standing there, practically salivating.  

“Welcome,” she said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Bret wanted to say something to let her know that she wasn’t the one pulling the strings, that he was still in control of his actions, that he understood the dynamics of what was happening, no words would come out.  Her comfort level with being so open, standing where anyone who opened their door or came up the steps could see them, threw off his equilibrium.  He wasn’t in control; she was controlling the game.  He was a pawn and she a dynamic Black Queen Bitch.  He wanted to appear aloof but if she had commanded that he drop to his knees right there in the hallway and suck that dick, he would have done it without hesitation.  
“Come in.”
Bret stepped forward but she didn’t move to the side.  He had to squeeze past her; his body brushing up against hers, the strapon wedged tightly between their bodies as he made his way inside.  The room was lit with candles around the perimeter and the furniture had been moved out of the center, creating a void, a playroom essentially.  
“Undress!”  Her command was so simple and to the point it needed no further instruction.  
Bret removed his shoes and socks, placed them neatly under a chair in the corner.  He removed his shirt and then t-shirt, and took his took belt off completely, stalling.  He took off his watch and placed it in his shoes and hesitated for a second before he unzipped his pants.  She was staring at him, inspecting, him, objectifying him like a piece of meat, inspecting him like a slave on the auction block.  He lowered his pants and folded them neatly, maintaining the creases.  He slid his hand in his underwear and squeezed his cock before he slid them down his legs and stepped out of them and placed them neatly on the pile of clothing.  
Shauntay ran her soft hands over his body, caressing him, twisting his nipples causing him to stifle a small moan, rolling his balls between her fingers.  She stroked his cock, making him leak precum and turned him around and ran her fingertips gently over his butt.  She spread his asscheeks and softly rubbed the tight rosebud of his asshole.  This time, Bret couldn’t stifle his moans and bent over to give her more access, to show off his slutty nature.  He wanted her finger; he wanted to be penetrated.  That was not to be her next move.  
She grabbed his cock roughly and pulled him to the center of the living room.  She made him stand there as she circled him, stroking his cock to full erection and then rubbing her strapon against it.  “You like that big, black, dick, don’t you?”  Bret nodded.  “Answer me; let me hear you say it.” Bret mumbled in the affirmative but that was the best he could do.  He felt like he was high.  Shauntay pulled her breasts from the top of her bra, exposing her erect, dark, chocolate nipples.  She rubbed them on his torso and he knew better than to reach out and touch them, to drop to his knees and suck them like he longed to do.  She rubbed them sensually and then wet her finger and traced her areola.  She cupped his balls and squeezed them hard, making Bret cry out in pain and his knees buckle.  “I told you to ANSWER ME!”
Bret’s breathing was erratic.  She placed her hand on his shoulder and pressed gently, signaling that he was to kneel.  He was eye level with her fake dick and she rubbed it over his lips.  “Mmmmm, yes, I like that black cock.”  
“Now, Bret, is that any way to show your appreciation?  Now, tell me how much you love that dick, tell me how much you crave it.”  
Inspired to impress, Bret turned up the intensity.  “I love that big, black cock.  I want to suck you off, I want you to ram it in my throat, make me gag on it.  Make me worship it, make me worship you.” He began blowing that strapon like a cheap whore.  He made love to it with his mouth, licking, sucking, and swallowing it.  There was no denying he was enjoying himself as he moaned and drooled all over it.  He threw himself into his act, gagging and stroking it.  He reached around and placed his hands on her ass, filling his hands with her soft flesh.  That propelled him deeper into true sub space and he went even wilder on her strapon.  “Yeah, I’m a cock-sucking slut.  Give me that hard Black meat.  Fuck my face.  Mmmmm, yeah, I love your cock.”  All of his inhibitions were gone.  Bret was behaving like he’d always wanted; he was free, free from restrictions, free from societal constraints.  
“Bret?  Sweetie?  Did I tell you that you could suck my dick?”  She pushed him to the floor harshly but it wasn’t a deterrent to Bret, it was inspiration.
Making himself prone at her feet, Bret begged for her forgiveness.  He placed his lips on her stilettos and kissed them.  He ran his tongue over the smooth patent leather and pleaded.  “Please, forgive me.  I’m so sorry.  I was so overwhelmed with your beauty, your brilliance, your sheer power.”  Shauntay removed her shoe, kicking it to the side of the room, and waved her foot in Bret’s face.  She placed it gently on his lips and he inhaled deeply the aroma, the slightly musky, familiar scent of a sweaty foot that had been encased in leather.  It was more intoxicating than poppers for him and infinitely more arousing.  He wanted nothing more than to run his tongue over that foot.  Her toenails were painted a brilliant turquoise to match her lingerie but remained clearly visible through the reinforced toe of her silk stockings.  He licked her sole and then placed her entire foot in his mouth, as much as he could swallow.  He worshipped her foot, praising it, praying to it.
She kicked him hard in the side, sending him to the floor, curled in the fetal position.  Removing her other shoe, she circled him like a lioness circling her prey, the queen of the jungle stalking, surveying, ready to psychologically devour her helpless victim.  Bret’s heart was racing and his breathing was labored.  She rubbed her stockinged foot over his cock and balls.  The threat hung heavy in the air but remained unspoken that at any moment she could kick him in the nuts and make him scream out in agony.  Bret waited for what he was sure to come.  
To her credit, Shauntay prepared him for the evening of erotic torture.  “I own you now, you understand that, don’t you, Bret? You are mine to play with, tease and torture, to destroy in any way I see fit.  Your screams will be my music; your pleas for my benevolence will amuse and entertain me.  I will use your body for anything I see fit and you’ll beg for more.  I’ll allow you to be the filthy, disgusting, lower-than-human scum that you long to be, that you’ve been craving, needing to release inside you.  The need grows stronger each and every year, to be more perverse, to submit to a mistress so cruel, so diabolical that your mind reels with the creativity with which she degrades you.  I’m that mistress, Bret.  I’m the woman who will turn you into a pain pig, who will make you crave dicks, real dicks; big, hard, black dicks shoved in your tight, white pussy.”  
Bret rolled his eyes in arrogant disbelief.  “Oh, you don’t believe me, Bret?  You don’t think I can control your will, your desires?”  Her voice was soft, not annoyed or irritated and it was hypnotic, soothing, arousing.  “Well, I’ll let you have that today.  We are new, you and I; we haven’t worked out the dynamics of our relationship yet.  You don’t know me nearly as well as I know you.  When you get to know me, when you understand how mentally sadistic I can really be, you won’t disrespect me by rolling your eyes at me.  She continued, calmly this time, with her riding crop firmly in her hand.   Shauntay gently tapped the tip of it against Bret’s throbbing, leaking erection.  
“Turn over, on your knees.”  Bret complied swiftly.  Head down against the cool plastic, he stuck his ass in the air, proud to show off his slutty nature.  Shauntay rubbed the crop against his nut sack, up the crack of his ass.  “Bret, would you be shocked if I told you that I am going to shove ice cubes in your ass and watch you writhe in pain while you’re bent over like this?”  She spread the cheeks of his ass and rubbed her finger gently over his exposed asshole.  Bret wasn’t moved.  He wasn’t truly a masochist so the thought of pain didn’t really scare him.  “Well,” she persisted, “a little cold should be countered with a little heat.  You see, I have this chili paste that I’m going to apply to your cock and balls while those ice cubes are melting in your ass and you feel the burning, searing heat up and down the shaft of your cock.”  
Bret squirmed more.  He was intrigued by the sheer novel ingenuity of this powerful woman.  He wanted to belong to her; he wanted to be inflicted to her cruel punishments.  He was leaking precum as she continued to circle him, to tease him with her feet, rubbing them on his face, across his chest, jerking him off with her feet.  She caressed his body with her riding crop, her preferred instrument of punishment for the evening.  “Imagine that Bret.  Ice cubes shoved in your asscunt, excruciating heat spreading over your cock and balls.  I’m going to fuck you senseless, like the little bitch you are.  You understand?  Is that what you want Bret?  Is that the sort of torture you want to endure for me?  Your pathetic cock virtually ablaze, your intestines cramping in pain, and getting fucked with my beautiful strapon?”  
Bret was moaning uncontrollably now.  He was thrusting his ass in the air, desperate to be invaded by more than her fingers, silently shedding tears in fear of what he was becoming, what he was allowing happen to him.  “Oh, God, yessssss, I want that.  I want you to fuck me, use me, and punish me any way you see fit.”  
THWAPPP! The first blow of her riding crop came down on his balls without mercy and he cried out, scrambling away from the blinding pain.  
“Come back here bitch; get your ass up here.”  Bret assumed the position again.  This time, he felt the slippery head of her lubricated strapon rubbing sensually up and down his ass crack.  Bret forgot all about the pain in his testicles and he started humping back against that strapon, trying to get the head of it positioned so that she could take him; so she could enter him, make him her ass slut.  The head of that black dick felt amazing on his hole, in his soul.  Bret’s mind spun with new sensations.  He wanted to get fucked, to become an animal.  Shauntay gripped his hips and pushed.  The head of the strapon pierced his tight anal ring and Bret moaned out in pleasure and in pain.  Her ownership of him was complete.  There was no way he was going to let her out of his life.  In that moment, he knew he would suck any dick, swallow as many loads of cum as she demanded.  He heard himself chanting, “Fuck me, fuck me, ram that black fucker deep in me, make me your bitch, make me your white sissy faggot. FUCK ME.  USE ME!  OWN ME!  Please, I beg of you.  I’m begging you Mistress.”  He was crying uncontrollably, openly now.  She was gently fucking his ass, sending outrageously pleasurable sensations throughout his pussy, and savagely fucking his mind, torturing him mentally; the pleasure and the pain melding into one.
The transformation was complete.  Shauntay knew it.  Hence forth and forever more, Bret would crave her.  She was the one who knew his desires and would risk his relationships, his job; he would offer his life to be the object of her sadistic ministrations.  “On your knees, bitch.  NOW!”  
Bret scrambled to a kneeling position, his eyes diverted to the floor.  Shauntay turned around and put her ass inches from his face.  Startled, he looked up, enchanted by the magnificent brown globes of flesh before him.  Reaching back, she spread her asscheeks and made her asshole wink at him.  He swallowed hard and grabbed his dick and stroked it as he put his nose closer.  Without warning, she farted directly in his face, the noxious, rank fumes overwhelming him as he moaned out and stroked his cock that much harder.  He inhaled deeply, the gas ambrosia to his senses.  
“Lie down on the floor.”  She pointed and he followed her command.  She slid the strapon down her legs and knelt over his face.  She rubbed her pussy lips, spreading them, showing Bret her inner, pink flesh.  His mouth watered.  He wanted to taste her wet cunt, to feel her cum all over him, flooding his mouth with her thick juices.  Her pussy was just inches from his face and it took every ounce of strength not to grab her hips and pull her body to his mouth.  Shauntay grabbed his cock and gently stroked it as she taunted him.  He was out of his mind.  Her soft hands felt incredible sliding up and down his hard shaft, eliciting moans of pleasure from deep within his core.  She lowered her pussy to his mouth and he tasted her sweetness for the first time.  
It was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, better than any pussy he’d ever eaten before.  Her juices were slippery and sweet, her lips were thick, and her clit was hard and felt like a small cock in his mouth.  She rode his face and rode him hard.  She took no consideration for his comfort or his safety; making herself cum and reveling in the fact that his life was in her hands.  Putting her entire body weight on him, controlling his light and his air, forcing him to use his tongue to lick anywhere and everywhere she wanted.  Shauntay used her big, round ass as a weapon.  
She sat back and gave him access to her entire lower region.  The smell of pussy and ass together was overwhelming.  Bret drove his tongue deep inside her, trying to fuck her asshole better than any cock could.  She sat squarely on his face as she stroked his cock.  Shauntay was a true Ebony Queen, sitting on her throne, and Bret was thrashing around, gasping for air and ready to cum at any second.   She held still and Bret could feel the heat rising up his body; the lack of oxygen to his lungs triggering his fight or flight response.  Just as she felt his body go limp, she lifted her ass off his face, flooding his with light and air, Bret gasping and coughing but begging for more.  He wanted the warmth and the sensation of her full weight on his face again, he craved it.  

Shauntay began bouncing up and down, one the verge of orgasm.  She began to slap and twist Bret’s balls cruelly, pulling them to administer pain, or was it pleasure?  Determined, he refused to stop until he could taste Shauntay’s cum pouring down his throat.  Her legs covered his ears, 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, bouncing up and down harder.  For a moment, he thought he was going to be crushed.  The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that she was stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, masturbating him cruelly.  He couldn’t breathe; he was feeling faint.  The pleasure was indescribable and she was riding him hard, cumming even harder.  He could feel her nails digging into his flesh and she exploded in his mouth, causing Bret’s body to explode in orgasm like he’d never known before.  
He woke up the next morning, in her bed, spooning Shauntay’s beautiful body.  “Good morning sleepy head.”  She kissed his forehead as he struggled to put the pieces together after his last memory of near suffocation.  He jumped up in bed and slid out of the sheets to the floor.  He didn’t deserve to be so close to her, he didn’t deserve to be treated like a man.  Shauntay held out her hand and, without words, invited him back to her bed.  Sensing his fears, reading his mind, she said, “Antoine de Saint- Exupery said, ‘You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.’  I would say that I’ve tamed you so . . .”  
“But,” Bret interrupted, “I uhmmm, I don’t want to be, you know, like this, I want it to be like last night.  I want to be that thing I was last night.”  
“Relax, sweetie,” Shauntay comforted him.  “I am your owner; I will control, use, abuse, and discard you at my whim.”  The word discard rang in Bret’s ears more than any other.  He didn’t want to be thrown away like a piece of trash; he wanted to sacrifice for her, to give her the ultimate sacrifice.  He wanted to surrender all that he was, all that he could ever be to her.  Tears filled his eyes as his mind raced.  Shauntay pushed his head between her legs.  “Bret, you have work to do.  Now get down there and eat my pussy.”  Bret threw the covers back and dove between her legs, seeing her gorgeous cunt in the light of day took his breath away again.  He hoped, no, he prayed, that this would be the beginning of a life of servitude and extremes beyond anything he’d ever allowed himself to contemplate, beyond any reasonable, logical explanation for how he was willing to redefine his entire existence as something inanimate and perverse. 

Copyright 2011 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, August 09, 2016

Broken John

The feel of the cool cement floor against his face allowed John Anderson to be revived momentarily.  Drool pooled beneath his cheek, seeping uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth.  A single, uncovered red light bulb hung precariously from an extension cord that had been duct-taped to the ceiling in the middle of the basement, providing the only source of illumination in the make-shift dungeon that had been his coven for the past three days.  He was still disoriented from the pain, pain that permeated every cell, muscle, and sinew in his body.  With his arms still securely tied behind his back, it was actually the pain of hunger that roused him from his unconscious state. 

Tempted to call out, to ask for help, to request nourishment, John knew better than to do anything that might stir the wrath of his Mistress.  His throat was sore, his voice weak from having his mouth savagely fucked by both dildos and cocks, all relentless in their efforts to leave his throat and jaw aching.  Load after load of hot cum had been deposited inside him from both ends.  Salvation came in the form of the click of his Mistress’ heels against the exposed floor.  John was too weak to lift his head to greet her properly.  He was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained from his experience.  Oddly enough, even after days of humiliation, perversion, and inexorable punishment masterminded by this brutal woman, he felt satisfied.  He was content, blissful in fact that he had finally found the mentally sadistic Black bitch of his dreams, the one individual who divested him of his arrogance, his false sense of superiority, of his white male attitude. 

A mere 72 hours previously, he could have said no such thing.  Three days earlier, John was clueless as to the potential his long weekend would hold.  He’d flown into New York City for business actually but he’d arranged to arrive a few days early for some hardcore playtime as well.  He’d been corresponding with a certain Dominatrix who called herself Mother Africa.  Everyone lies on the Internet and everyone exaggerates so he assumed her claims of psychological domination expertise and race play were blown out of proportion.  He’d been sufficiently aroused by their initial interaction so he thought it would be interesting to say the least to see where it could lead. 

Mother Africa was a soft-spoken, pleasant woman.  They’d communicated on the phone several times as well as chatted online.  Not once did she come off as irrational or overly demanding.  In fact, her demeanor could have been described as sweet.  She said she dabbled in BDSM when the notion hit her and she was extremely selective of the subs with whom she chose to play.  She never brought up the subject of money and she wasn’t even particularly interested in cam shows or making John perform tasks to show his sincerity or submissiveness.  She did ask a lot of questions: blunt, straightforward, embarrassing questions.  “Do you have a small cock?  Have you ever eaten shit?  How many times have you been fucked in the ass? Do you get off on being dressed like a sissy?”  All those questions and more rolled off her tongue as easily as if she was casually asking about the weather.  To make matters worse, she didn’t allow any stalling or beating around the bush when it came to answering the questions.  She demanded direct, explicit answers with exacting details and made it clear that her time was precious and she had no tolerance for coy or elusive answers.  John was outrageously aroused by her demeanor, by the fact that she could be so open and unambiguous about what she wanted.  It was that aloof sense of superiority that cemented the deal, that set the stage for their meeting.  Thinking he was paying her a compliment, he mistakenly said, “Of all the profiles of Black Dommes I’ve read online, yours is the most amazing I’ve ever come across.  You’re different.  Your analysis of race is humbling to say the least and you are obviously very intelligent.  I can’t believe you understand the mind of submissive white men so well.” 

She replied by saying, “Are you suggesting that most Black Dommes are stupid and that white men are so incredibly complex so as to render them indecipherable?” 

John backtracked, apologizing and trying to clarify.  “Ohhhh, noooo.  I was just saying that it’s clear that you are very well educated. I was . . . I was paying you a compliment, believe me.  It’s rare to come across someone as articulate as you are.” 

“Well, let me see if I understand,” she said.  “Based on what you’ve repeatedly told me, you believe that women are superior to men.  Additionally, you’ve said numerous times that you find Black women specifically to be the ultimate archetype, that we are, in fact, Goddesses, ‘supreme beings’ to you-- your words not mine.  Yet it seems like you’re saying that you’re shocked that I’m not some illiterate welfare queen who can barely form a coherent sentence, that you can’t believe that I’m as intelligent as say . . . a white person.  To my untrained ear, it sounds as if you’re saying that understanding the mind of a submissive white man requires super human/magical powers because a normal Black woman simply isn’t capable of understanding your uncomplicated albeit warped desires.  Does that about summarize what you’re trying to say?  Because what I hear you saying is that you’re practically dumbfounded that you found a Black Domme who is as intelligent as . . . you are.  I can assure you that I am outrageously offended by the notion that you would even consider yourself qualified to judge my intellect, let alone compliment me for it.  Moreover, white men are transparent and simple in their desires and it hardly takes a superior intellect to dissect your rather uncomplicated motives.  Additionally, the fact that you seem to espouse such love for Black women and then make underhanded, disparaging comments about us is quite troublesome.  It leads me to believe that you don’t actually think we’re truly superior but nothing more than sexual fetishes for your depraved fantasies.”

He couldn’t even form words.  He was speechless.  His cock was rock hard and dripping precum and his mind was reeling from arousal.  He mumbled another insufficient apology.  “I’m so sorry Mother Africa.  That’s not at all what I meant.  I’m just a stupid white boi.  Please forgive me.  Is there something I can do to make it up to you?”  He almost couldn’t hear her response he was jerking off so frantically just from her verbal reprimand.  John loved being put in his place.  He loved being knocked down from his self-defined pedestal of superiority.  The sensation of being told off, of being made to feel stupid was almost like having electricity sent from his nipples, to his cock, all the way to his asshole. 

They made arrangements to meet in October and his assignment over the course of the preceding month, his prerequisite for play as it were, was to read Nile Valley Contributions to Civilization by Anthony Browder and The Black Holocaust for Beginners by S.E. Anderson and write a literature review for each of them.  Never in his life had John even heard of someone requiring homework for a domination session so he didn’t take his task too seriously.  He googled the books and found them on Amazon and printed out their reviews.  They seemed like interesting reading from what he gathered but he didn’t even bother to buy the books. 

Twenty minutes late, he rushed into the lobby of the Hyatt authentically upset for being tardy; slipping the bellboy $50 to take the rest of his luggage to his room.  He’d wanted to be there early to make a good first impression but midtown traffic wasn’t so kind.  As arrogant as he tended to be, he did understand the rules of D/s play and was fully aware that leaving a Domme waiting was a big no-no.  She was already there, seated at the table of the restaurant, looking just as one would think a woman who called herself Mother Africa would look.  She wore her hair in a big Afro like a character from a 70s Blaxplotation flick.  Without any makeup at all, her brown complexion was glowing and radiant.  She wore a t-shirt with some sort of graphic design of an African mask on it that accentuated her rather large breasts and a long denim skirt that reached the floor.  Her Timberland boots were so small they looked like a child’s size.  She wore an arm-full of wooden bracelets on her right arm and an arm-full of copper bangles on her left arm that made noise every time she punctuated her sentences with arm movements.  One thing for sure, she was far more attractive in person than she was in her photos and she didn’t seem at all like John expected.  She looked like she could have been a graduate student waiting to have lunch with her professor rather than a Dominatrix ready to use and abuse a white boi. 

Mother Africa stood to greet him and turned her face to indicate that he should kiss her cheek as a sign of respect.  She graciously accepted his apology for being late, seemingly very understanding of the unavoidable traffic from JFK.  They sat and ordered lunch and had a very pleasant chat, not at all strained or awkward, without even the slightest hint of strain.  Erotic tension was in the air.  She teased and tormented him effortlessly and with skill and everything was going great, up until the moment she asked to see the summaries of the books he was assigned to read. 

John got away with anything and everything in life with his good looks, money, and arrogance.  In that moment, as he fumbled in his carry-on bag for the wrinkled papers, he felt ashamed he hadn’t even attempted the assignment he’d been given.  This was a real woman, a real-life flesh and blood woman whose dominance and superiority were evident in her very aura, not some picture on the Internet, and he was about to let her down.  He realized he’d fucked up by not following her orders.  He wasn’t about to let it show on his face however, and he handed the papers over and began what he thought was a fairly decent but superficial discussion of what he’d read from the printouts. 

“What is this?”  Mother Africa didn’t even bother to pick up the papers; she had a look of disgust on her face. 

“It’s the reviews you asked for,” John said, trying to appear confident. 

Crossing her arms in front of her, she didn’t say a word, her face not showing any signs of emotion. 

John’s heart was pounding.  This was the stuff of submissive dreams.  He could either choose to be defiant and willful, arousing her ire and wrath and eliciting what would surely be a severe session in discipline or he could choose to be apologetic and remorseful, showing the respect that every true sub longs to display in the presence of one to whom he truly feels inferior.  It wasn’t a decision he had to contemplate for too long as his cell phone rang and he held his finger up to excuse himself and answered the call.  For a good three minutes, he talked business, never taking his eyes off the lovely woman who sat inches from him, hoping the length of the phone call would distract her from his blunder. 

Leaning in, Mother Africa whispered to him, “I see you are here to waste my fucking time.”  With that, she took his cell phone from him, summarily closed it, and dropped it in his water glass. 

John stood up, knocking over his chair, causing quite a scene.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?  Are you crazy? First of all, that was an important call.  Second, that phone was expensive. Every contact I have is in that phone.  WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with you?” 

Mother Africa stood and walked away, leaving John there trying to dry his cell phone with his linen napkin, looking like an idiot screaming and cursing in front of the other lunch patrons.  John knew in that moment that he’d pushed too far.  He didn’t want her to leave.  He didn’t want things to end before they had even started and he ran after her.  “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing her arm before she entered the revolving doors of the hotel. 

She turned, looking at his white hand on the brown flesh of her arm and then looking directly in his eyes.  Her eyes burned a hole in his soul.  If looks could kill, John knew that he would die a slow, painful death.  She didn’t say a word.  She communicated everything she wanted to say with her eyes.  She didn’t even have to move them; it was if she was telepathically giving him commands.  There in the middle of the very public lobby of the Hyatt Regency in New York City, John Anderson, knelt on one knee and kissed the hand of Mother Africa and said, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”  To the average person, it might have looked like he was popping the big question.  He looked up for approval and it was apparent his actions weren’t enough.  His face was burning from embarrassment and he heart felt as if it might actually explode.  His cock was straining against his pants and he felt like he might faint.  Looking around quickly, he knew that if he were to truly seek the forgiveness of this divine woman, he would have to assume a truly inferior position.  The shame of it all was intoxicating and she still hadn’t said a word.  On his hands and knees, he lowered his head to her foot and placed his lips on her boot and kissed it.  “Please, forgive me Mistress.  I beg you for the opportunity to make it up to you,” he said, loud enough for anyone nosey enough to want to hear. 

“Follow me,” she commanded as she walked outside into the beautiful Fall afternoon.  John panicked.  He stood up and looked around at all the people who were trying to be discrete but staring at his blatant display of submissiveness.  He ran back to the table, threw some money on the table for the food that they hadn’t even eaten, grabbed his bag, and ran after her, praying that she would still be outside. 

She wasn’t. 

The bell captain called out to him.  “Sir . . . the young lady . . . the one who . . . well sir, she told me to put you in a cab and have it take you to an address but I’m not supposed to tell you where.”  John looked around again, sure that everyone in the world could read his every deviant desire.  He was humiliated but more aroused than he’d ever been.  Slipping the bell captain a hundred dollar bill, he got in the cab and it set out for an unknown destination.  What was less than a half hour ride seemed like it took an eternity.  As the taxi weaved its way in and out of traffic to a quiet, tree-lined street in Queens, John was tempted to whip out his cock and masturbate right then and there. 

They arrived at an unassuming looking house and he paid the cabbie, tipping him well also, and clutched his bag so hard his knuckles were white.  He made his way to the front door and knocked, terrified that he was being set up but never more determined to experience additional discipline from this amazing woman. 

Mother Africa opened the door.  “Go around to the back,” and she shut the door in his face.

Making his way to the backyard, John knocked again.  This time, a Black man answered the door.  Wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots, he clearly resembled Mother Africa in his attire but John had no idea what to say to him.  He didn’t have to say anything as the man said, “Get downstairs, boy,” and moved aside.  John’s feet were frozen in place.  He didn’t even have a cell phone to call for a cab or call 911 if he wanted.  Every bit of common sense told him to run and not look back.  His knees shook as he descended the stairs to the basement that had clearly been altered to accommodate some serious kinky play.  The walls were padded and there was a drainage hole in the middle of the floor.  Restraints and BDSM equipment were everywhere.  While John was trying to get his bearings, trying to figure out exactly what he’d gotten himself into, Mother Africa came downstairs wearing the same t-shirt but tight, black leather pants that hugged her every curve and black high heeled leather boots. 

“Undress.” Her command was simple and to the point.  John wanted more.  He wanted an explanation of what was going to happen.  He wanted a detailed discussion of rules and limits and more head games.  He was too terrified to ask any questions.  Somehow, instinctively, he knew that he didn’t have a choice that he was supposed to go along for the ride or forever regret this once in a lifetime opportunity to experience something he’d only ever dreamed of. 

John slowly unbuttoned his shirt as the Black couple looked on, talking with each other in hushed tones he couldn’t understand.  The man sat casually in a chair, with one leg over the arm of it and his hand squeezing an impressive length of dick that snaked down the leg of his jeans.  If he wasn’t aroused by the white boi taking off his clothes in front of him he was certainly aroused by the sexy dance that Mother Africa was doing for him.  John tried to concentrate on his surroundings should he decide to make a run for it but the scene of these two people in such an intimate display proved to be too distracting.  They were kissing and caressing each other as they watched and laughed at John standing before them naked, his cock hard and completely out of his element, unsure of what to do next. 

“Oh, where are my manners?  I forgot to introduce the two of you.  Worm, this is my lover, Eric.  He’s my partner in crime shall we say,” she laughed as she applied nipple clamps to John and made him wince with pain.  “For the weekend, you will call him Daddy, got it?  And you’ll call me Mommy, understand?” 

John nodded, whispering, “Yes, Mommy,” in accordance with her desires, tingling with the sound of the word coming from his lips. 

Without warning, she slapped him hard in the face.  John was stunned but the hurt registered as pleasure.  She ran her hands over his body, gently caressing his chest, down his abdomen over his hard cock to his balls.  Without even a second’s hesitation, she squeezed his nuts so hard John fell to the floor, blinded by the pain, crying out.  Curled in the fetal position, he tried to pull himself together, to get back in the game.  His competitive nature wouldn’t allow him to lie there like a little wounded animal; he had to prove that he was in it to win it. 

The point of her black leather boot making full contact with his side divested him of any notion of competition and he lay on the floor, the wind knocked out of him.  

“I gave you one small assignment and you didn’t even have the common fucking courtesy to pretend to do it.  You think you’re so smart,” she kicked him again, “I’ll have to show you who’s the boss around here.”  She spat directly in his face, her saliva dripping down his cheek.  She put the sole of her boot over his mouth and commanded that he lick it, all the while, taunting him.  “Look you little asswipe, I’m in charge here and what I say goes.  For the next three days, you belong to me.  You are my property.  You are my possession, my plaything.  I can do anything and everything I want to you and you won’t have a say.  I don’t care if you enjoy it or hate it.  It doesn’t matter to me what you experience.  I intend to use you for my entertainment and my pleasure any fucking way I see fit.” 

As if perfectly timed, the doorbell rang and Eric got up to answer the door.  “We have company.  I’ve invited a few friends over and I expect you to do whatever they want.  Understand?” 

John managed to get to his knees and remain upright as the first guest came downstairs.  The guy looked almost as nervous as he was.  “Are you guys sure about this?  I can do whatever I want to him, no questions asked?  This isn’t a joke is it?  I mean, I’m not going to pull out my dick and the cops are gonna jump out and arrest me or anything, right?”  After he was reasonably assured that it wasn’t a set up, he pulled out his dick and rubbed it on John’s face.  The smooth skin felt erotic and sensuous, the raunchy stench of man smell aroused him: the sweat, the piss, and the stink of an unwashed, uncut black cock was driving him mad. 

John’s mouth watered; he opened his lips, desperate to be fed some real stiff meat.  He didn’t have to wait long.  There was no need for prolonged foreplay or anything of the sort; the guy was there to get his dick sucked by a white guy.  All the initial trepidation gone, John sucked.  He got his face fucked and fucked well.  He tried to look over to see if his Mistress was pleased but couldn’t see.  His nose was deeply embedded in the wiry pubic hairs of the man who was using his mouth like a pussy.  The stranger grabbed his ears and started pounding, causing John to gag and almost puke.  That didn’t stop either of them.  John kept sucking that gorgeous black cock and the guy kept fucking his throat.  Tears formed in his eyes and he gasped for air.  Spit ran from the corners of his mouth and he sucked that cock like a porn star.  Like a true slut, he licked the smelly balls of the guy he was sucking and tried to work his tongue lower.  The guy caught on quickly and turned around and bent over, grabbing the back of John’s head and shoving it between his magnificent ass cheeks.  “Yeah, bitch, lick my dirty asshole.  I kept it dirty just for you, just in case you wanted to taste a Black man’s raunchy turds. Suck that dried shit out of my ass.”  He farted a rancid, wet, fart right in John’s mouth, which only made him ravenous for more.  

Without any more inhibitions, the guy turned around and shoved his dick in John’s mouth again, this time with every indication that he was going to shoot his load.  The dick swelled to mammoth proportions, he could feel the veins engorged with his tongue.  The man was grunting like an animal and thrusting the head of his dick deep in his throat.  “Come on white boy, eat my fucking black dick.  Oh shit, take this nut.  I’m going to give you a pint of my ball juice.  Swallow it.  Suck that thick scum right down your sissy throat.  Dumb white cunt.”  Just as John felt the first spurt of hot cum in his mouth, he felt the mind-numbing sting of a whip against the flesh of his ass.  He tried to scream out but he couldn’t.  He thought he was going to choke, to suffocate.  The persistent pounding in this mouth was accented by the rhythm of being whipped.  His brain misfired.  He loved the feeling of being a cum dump, nothing more than a receptacle for sperm for a Black man, he loved having that hard, black cock being shoved in his oral cavity, but he hated the pain being delivered by Mother Africa as she beat his ass like he was a renegade outlaw. 

John fell to the floor, drained and broken.  He had little reprieve as the doorbell rang again.  Before the first guy was even dressed, a second Black man was being escorted down the stairs.  A wave of shame coursed through his body as he realized that these weren’t actually friends as he had first thought but total strangers that Mother Africa had found on the Internet and who had been invited over to abuse a random white guy.  Eric insisted that the first man stay and use him some more, to enjoy the show, and to think of other ways he could be used. 

For the next few hours, as more and more strangers were invited to join the party, John was used over and over again, each time more brutally and savagely than before.  Just when he thought his face couldn’t get fucked any harder, he was forced to suck two dicks.  Each asshole was dirtier than the previous one, making him crave more filth.  Mother Africa taunted him.  “Work your nasty tongue up in that black asshole.  Get in there deep.  You feel it don’t you?  You taste that hot, nasty chocolate in there?  You want to eat it, don’t you?  You want to be fed like a shit-eating whore, don’t you?  You want to suck that log like it’s a shit cock, lick all that slimy ass juice out of the crevices.   I know you do.  You’re nothing but a filthy pig that craves being used.  You live to worship Black men, to prove to them how nasty you are. Worship him.  Worship his nasty shit as your holy sacrament.  Show him how much of a filthy white worm you are.  Tell him.  Tell him he’s your God.  Tell him that you dedicate your life to serving him.” 

John was high with lust.  “Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted.  “Give me everything.  Give me your shit, your piss, your cum, your snot, and your puke.  I’ll eat it all and beg for more.  I’m nothing.  I’m a filthy, white bitch that needs to be used by Black men.  Fuck my hole raw.  Make me your bitch, sir.  I love black cock.  I’m nothing but a faggot slut for Black dicks fucking me any way they want.”    John was breathless and in heaven.  It was as if he was revealing his true nature to everyone and proud of it.  He was telling them the things he’d felt and dreamt and believed and voicing the truth for the very first time in his life.  He was liberated and free.  The abuse continued for hours.  Every time one of the men would cum in his mouth, he would be beaten.  He began to crave the sensation of the whip as much as he craved the taste of their creamy, thick, hot jizz. 

Mother Africa whispered in his ear, “You ready to get fucked, boy?  Are you ready to have that pussy of yours used like a cheap tramp?  Do you want that cum in you?  How about a filthy, hot piss enema?  All these guys could probably pump a couple of gallons of urine in your colon.  This is going to be fun.  Watching you get turned out.  Making you the slut for black cock that you have longed to be.”  In all the hours of being used, he’d yet to be fucked.  That was what he wanted more than anything, to be fucked and used like a dirty slut; he needed to be a white gangbang whore with an insatiable asscunt.  “Well, I have a little surprise.   We’ve got one more special guest for you.”

John’s mind reeled.  He had visions of a savage Mandingo warrior with a gigantic dick fucking his asshole, making it his own.  His own cock surged in anticipation.  His asshole throbbed as he looked around the room, all the Black men he’d sucked off were idly stroking their hard dicks waiting for the final act of the show.  Eric ushered the last person down the stairs but John’s eyes were filled with terror.  It was a fat, sloppy, dim-witted white guy. 

“Please, no, please, Mommy?  Daddy!  Nooo, I’ll be a good boi.  Anything but that.  Don’t make me do that.  I can’t.  It’s disgusting.”  Tears flowed down his cheeks as the white guy pulled down his khakis and dingy yellowed underwear to his ankles and waddled around the room giving high fives to everyone, totally oblivious to the fact that they were all laughing at him.  It was the ultimate humiliation for John.  Sucking black dick was an honor and a privilege.  To be forced to suck a white cock was unthinkable; it was nasty and horrible and seemed an unfair punishment.  He crawled on his hands and knees, pleading one more time for reprieve.  “Mommy, please, let me show you what a good boi I can be.  Anything, ANYTHING you can think of, I’ll do.  Just, please, don’t make me do that.  I’ll be a bitch for your dog; he can knot with me.  I’ll be your toilet, you can piss and shit in my mouth and I’ll eat it down and beg for more.  Daddy, you can be the first to fuck me, rip my ass open, make it hurt, use me anyway you want.  Fist fuck me.  I’m begging you, please don’t make me do this.”  John was pleading for his life.

It was then that Mother Africa worked her magic.  She leaned in close to his ear and he could feel her hot breath on his neck.  “You little fucking bitch,” she whispered.  “Don’t you get it?  You are the same as Tony here.  You are equally as repulsive, equally as nasty, you are white, JUST LIKE HIM.  You are going to suck him off alright and you better make him cum with your cocksucking mouth like you did all our other guests, ya’ hear me?  Eric’s going to fuck you in your whore asscunt while you suck his pathetic cock.”

Time stood still for John.  Tony’s cock was little more than folds of pink foreskin over a two-inch nub.  His stomach lurched at the thought of putting that thing in his mouth.  He looked around the room at all the beautiful black men of all shapes, sizes, and shades with their dicks hard and waiting to fuck him and then he looked down at his own cock.  He looked up at the white guy and then to Mother Africa.  This time, he used his eyes to communicate with her.  He pleaded and begged for her to not make him do this.  She slapped him again and forced his mouth open and forced it onto Tony’s flaccid penis. 

The feeling of that thing in his mouth made him want to puke.  It wouldn’t get hard and it felt soft and mushy.  The room filled with laughter as everyone found the sight amusing.  He tried his best to suck hard to get this unbearable task over and done with.  Tony pumped but his fat stomach kept getting in the way.  The smell of his sweat wasn’t arousing to John; it was sickening.  As hard as it could get, there was no way it could fuck his throat, it was like sucking a little, deformed finger.  This was humiliation beyond his wildest imagination.  And again, just when he thought he was at his limit, just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore, he felt the head of Eric’s dick at his ass. 

John got on his hands and knees and spread his ass waiting to get fucked.  He forgot all about the white cock he was supposed to be sucking.  The sting of the whip on his back reminded him of his task.  “Come on bitch, suck that white cock while you get fucked by a real man,” someone in the room yelled.  “Take that dick up your faggot asshole,” they chanted.  Tony had to get on his knees to work his prick back in John’s mouth but he didn’t seem to mind.  It was probably the only time he’d ever had anyone suck his cock and he didn’t have to pay for it.  He was enjoying the attention; he didn’t care that it was negative.

John could see his Divine Mistress Africa stalking him, walking around him, surveying her prize.  She’d masterminded the entire thing.  She kissed her partner and ran her hands over his naked chest, saying, “Baby, I want you to fuck him HARD, make him scream.  Do it for me, baby. Use him.  Ram every inch of your beautiful dick in his rectum and make him pay for being an insolent, disrespectful little bitch.” 

Feeling the head of that enormous cock rubbing on his asshole felt amazing.  It was the searing hot pain that blinded him as it pushed in his anus and made it’s way deep in his bowels that almost made him pass out from pain.  He knew not to say stop and the riding crop across his back reminded him of the other part of his assignment.  He put his mouth on the cock in front of his face and started sucking.  His mind was playing tricks on him.  He loved the feeling of pain in his ass, he loved the sensation of being fucked like a rag doll, he hated the feeling of being forced to fellate the man that reminded him of his inherent inferiority. 

“FUCK HIM! FUCK HIM!”  Everyone in the room was cheering and applauding.  John grabbed his own cock and started stroking it frantically.  Mother Africa kicked him soundly in the side, reminding him that this was not about his pleasure but about hers. 

The room smelled of sex.  Pheromones and sweat and lust and pure man-fucking overwhelmed his senses.  A half a dozen Black men were lined up, waiting for their turns to get a piece of white tail; all he had to do was make the two men fucking him cum.  Degraded and dejected, John worked his finger up Tony’s flat, flabby ass and wiggled it around, coaxing him to cum.  It worked and Tony fell, collapsed on the floor, his little cock jerking and leaking what little cum his inferior testicles could produce. 

John had accomplished the first part of his mission and it was on to the best part.  “Oh God.  Daddy. PLEEEASE fuck me harder.  Ram your cock in me.  Make me your bitch.  Use my fuckhole, Daddy.  Fuck the shit out of me.  More, I want more black cock.  I’m a slut for black cock.  Give it to me.  POUND ME.  MORE.  I need a cock in my mouth.  Feed me more superior black cum.  Give me everything.”

It was the lone female in the room that would fulfill his desires.  The only one who hadn’t gotten any satisfaction thus far, she stepped up with a very formidable ebony strapon attached to her hips.  It was longer, harder, and thicker than all the other cocks he had sucked that day but he was in the zone.  He was in that sub space where everything was arousing; nothing was too extreme. 

“You belong to me, cunt, you know that right?  You’re my little white bitch.”  She reached down and started pulling his nipple clamps, twisting them, when things started to black out for John.  Everything he was feeling was pleasure.  From the 12 inches of hard black plastic that was ravaging his throat to the 10 inches of magnificent black cock that was breeding his twat, to the pain he experienced in his nipples and the searing hot flesh where he’d been beaten, he was experiencing everything as pleasure. 

John couldn’t use words anymore.  This is what he’d prayed to experience all of his adult, submissive life.  All he could do was grunt and groan like a feral, wild animal and hope that everyone understood his primal sounds to mean, “FUCK ME HARDER. FUCK ME!!!!” 

Over the course of the next three days, John experienced more mental and physical torture than he’d ever hoped to imagine.  He knew his Mommy had come to release him, to send him back out into the real world.  He didn’t want to go.  He wanted to stay there forever.  He wanted to live in that basement and be used 24/7 as a white cum dump.  He’d never felt more whole, satisfied, or authentic as he did being tortured and abuse by such beautiful and vicious individuals.  His spirit and his body had been broken.  With his last bit of energy, he was prepared to negotiate a way to stay with his Nubian Dominatrix Extraordinaire and her lover to be their pet, plaything and sub. 

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