AfroerotiK

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

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Sold, to the Highest Bidder!





The prospect was just too tempting not to investigate further.  When Donald Meadows was sent an exclusive invitation from Mistress Veronique to an event that was described as a private, very real, and completely voluntary interracial slave auction, he first thought it might be a party or munch where people meet and greet but he certainly couldn’t believe that it was an authentic slave auction.  He was intrigued, however, and he trusted the source of the invite so he started doing his research.  The slave auction was being held in New Orleans and submissive white men were coming from every corner of the country, potentially from all over the world even, to be bought, sold, and traded by Black Masters and Mistresses. 
All the I’s were dotted and the T’s were crossed, avoiding the pesky little fact that the enslavement of real human beings is very much illegal, by virtue of the white men paying for the opportunity to be treated like actual slaves on an auction block.  You can’t technically, or more importantly legally, be considered a slave if you have paid for the opportunity to be treated as such.   And the fee was not at all insignificant; participants could choose from a menu of how long they wanted to be “enslaved” and what circumstances they preferred: the plantation experience, the dungeon experience, or the domestic experience.  The shortest term for participation was for a week and while $5,000 dollars wasn’t enough to take out a second mortgage or anything, it would make anyone who wanted to participate think twice before they RSVP’d. 
                Donald was intrigued.  Being a true masochist, being driven by his obsessive need to experience real slavery at the hands of a sadistic Master, combined with his compelling interracial desires, and driven by this burning, inexplicable NEED deep within his soul to be humiliated, degraded, objectified, and deeply tortured, the potential was just too intriguing to ignore.  Having acquired enough fiscal freedom in his lifetime to fulfill his fetishes and fantasies afforded Donald the time, finances, and opportunity to pack a bag, make a deposit online, and purchase an airline ticket for The Big Easy. 
                Sweltering, sticky, and steamy, the oppressive heat of Louisiana was more than a colorful, descriptive alliteration for dramatic effect from a Mark Twain novel.  From the moment he emerged from the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, Donald started sweating like a pig.  He hailed a cab and headed for his swanky Bourbon Street hotel so he could wash off the perspiration and calm his nerves.  In the heart of all the action, in the center of the city, he could look out his window and see drunken revelers sipping alcoholic beverages from giant, tacky, colorful plastic cups, he could practically taste the heady flavors of spicy gumbo and delectable jambalaya, and he could faintly hear the distinct sounds of zydeco, jazz, and blues blending harmoniously.    Pathologically shy, he ventured out, but he didn’t interact with the vibrant pulse of his surroundings, he simply observed.  He would have been more comfortable had he been there with someone he knew or even if he was assured of what was before him.  Donald’s mind raced with anticipation and nerves.   Long ago, he had resigned himself to the fact that he had a deviant nature, a perverse core within him that would lead him to do dangerous, questionable things in pursuit of sexual pleasure.  Taking chances, being secretive, it all added to the excitement, the thrill of the ultimate sexual experience he was assured was out there somewhere. 
                The next morning, Donald awoke to a text message instructing him to show up at The Marigny Opera House located at 725 Saint Ferdinand Street, at 11:00 am for orientation.  Nervously, he checked out of the hotel and asked the concierge the best way to his destination and as fate would have it, it was within walking distance.  “Who does this?  What’s wrong with me?”  The questions were rhetorical because the tingle in his cock was like a compass pointing due north, leading him to explore the possibilities.  It was do or die, time to shit or get off the pot so to speak.  Taking a deep breath, Donald set out on a journey that would lead him to the realization of his wildest dreams come true. 
                Unaware of the historical significance of the address, Donald walked up to the massive door at the address and knocked far too softly.  No one would have heard him but the security cameras had alerted the hosts of a new guest and they responded accordingly.  The expansive door opened and a young Black male, no more than 20 years old with a boyishly cute face and chiseled muscular body stood there and asked, “Name?” 
                Donald fidgeted.  This kid?  There was no way he could be in charge, he was barely out of high school.  Immediately, Donald’s brain had conflicting messages bombard his consciousness at the sight of this young, Black man.   He didn’t think of himself as racist, he had no reason to believe he was racist as he never used the N word, but his mind flashed to every, single, solitary media source, every core belief, everything in his existence told him that Black men were inherently ignorant, violent, criminal, and, most importantly sexual savages.  He thought of gang-bangers and thugs, he thought of uneducated rappers and basketball players who were all beneath him in status.  He thought of barely-literate ghetto dwellers, unemployed and smoking weed, with enormous, hard black cocks exploding with potent Black sperm in his insatiable asshole and his cock throbbed.  “Donald Meadows,” he whispered as he stepped through the doors. 
                “Follow me,” the young man said as he walked through the huge opera hall, Donald’s hard-soled shoes the only detectable sound, echoed off the walls.  Their first destination was what looked like a classroom with a blackboard and desks from primary school.  As he stepped through the threshold, he saw five other white men sitting at tiny desks, filling out paperwork.  Almost as if choreographed, they all looked up simultaneously, sized up their competition, and nervously looked down again, as if to pretend that they were filling out job applications for a coveted, high-paid, executive position.  They weren’t.  They were signing endless disclaimers and filling out questionnaires.  At the head of the classroom was a long table where three very beautiful Black women were seated.  They were older than the young man who escorted him inside but not by much; the youngest looked to be about 25 and the oldest maybe in her mid-thirties, but given the fact that Black people don’t age the same way that whites do, Donald was open to the possibility that every last one of them could have been older than he was imagining them to be. 
                The entire operation was like a well-oiled assembly line with submissive white men being the finished product.  First, Donald was instructed to pay the balance of his fee and make any additions or changes to his previous online selections.  He had initially chosen the one-week plantation experience with both male and female dominants but being stared down by the Black female across the table from him, he felt intimidated and at the last second, for no good reason, opted for two weeks and as quietly as possible asked if he could use his phone to make the transaction complete.   The cocoa-colored, beautiful woman nodded and he furiously thumbed his phone while she explained that he would be given a refund, minus a 10% handling fee of course, if he was not purchased by any of the prospective buyers. 
As he moved down the line he was told that he would be giving up all of his possession, including his cell phone, his identification, and all of his belongings.   He placed his wallet, his keys, his phone and whatever money he had in his pockets in an overnight express envelope that was pre-labeled with his home address on it and it was sealed and dropped in a bin with about a dozen other similar looking packages.  His luggage was taken from him and opened and the contents examined in front of the room.  He hadn’t packed too much clothing, just enough for two or three days, with the standard toiletries and a few inconspicuous sex toys that could easily avoid detection by nosey TSA officials.  Everything was thrown away.  Even his suitcase.  The young man dumped everything in a huge, gray, industrial trash bin and Donald was instructed to move down to the final young lady.  
At no point after entering the event space did Donald have the desire to stop, go back, or change his mind.  He was invested.  Electricity coursed through his body and the entire experience was erotic, even if nothing sexual had happened yet.  The last young lady at the table was responsible for explaining all the forms.  There were a stack of papers two inches thick that he was supposed to read and sign before he could proceed.  The first pack was, of course, stating that he was there voluntarily and that even though he was submitting himself to be “a slave” that he was not forced, coerced, or blackmailed into the agreement and that he was entering into it with the full acknowledgement that he was going to be treated as closely as possible to what actual Black slaves had endured during the 18th century antebellum South.  There were medical release forms that had the phrase “in the event of death” highlighted several times.  Donald initialed and signed every place that was highlighted, really only reading the last paragraphs above the signature lines fully, briefly skimming the rest of the documents.  The last packet of papers were to be given to his future owners and he was to fill out what seemed like hundreds of questions about past experiences, fantasies, fetishes, proclivities, skills, talents, and extremely personal, private inquires. 
Moving to one of the schoolroom desks, he started filling out the endless questions.  Just as he got settled, the door to the room opened and another white man entered.  As before, it was now Donald’s turn to look up to see who it was, quickly assess him as competition, and shamefully lower his gaze to the task at hand, answering all those goddamn questions.  How many bowel movements did he have in a week, how often did he ejaculate, how much did he ejaculate, did he have prostate issues, had he ever had hemorrhoids, could he maintain an erection without ED meds?  The questions had no boundaries.  Donald was mortified.  With each question he became more and more aroused.  The more personal and invasive the question, the more he became aroused.  He tried to quantify how much pain he thought he could handle on a scale of 1-10 without exaggerating and without making himself unappealing to potential buyers.  It was all dizzying. 
The building was completely modern and centrally cooled but it seemed that all the white men, seated at desks only appropriate for small children, had drenched their shirts with underarm sweat and had rivulets of perspiration dripping from every possible gland.  When he had finished, Donald, stood to take his completed packets to the front and the male immediately yelled at him to sit the fuck down, in no uncertain terms.   It was as if lightning had hit his body.  Donald realized that all his rights had been signed away and that he had forfeited everything, even the right to stand and sit when he pleased.  His mind reeled at the concept and it aroused him in a place that he had never experienced before.  Not only was he going to be a slave, he was going to be a slave to actual descendants of slaves.  He was going to be subjected to tortures and punishments by individuals who had every right to seek sadistic and cruel revenge against white men who had historically done more evil than he had ever thought to imagine.  The ever-popular adage, “My ancestors never owned any slaves,” didn’t seem like it would to matter very much to this team.  The fact that he was white and had all the privileges that having white skin and a penis in this society would afford him seemed to be all they cared about. 
In his lifetime, Donald had been subjected to treatment by white men, sadists, that was beyond perverted, that was sick and truly fucking twisted.  If white men had been capable of doing those things to him, of getting sexual pleasure from his abject pain and he was one of them, if he in fact “belonged to the club” so to speak, what had white men done to actual slaves that they had no respect for, whom they didn’t even see as human, whom they despised for their skin color?  Donald was too privileged, too enmeshed in the fallacy of white supremacy to even grasp the implications.  The fact that actual slaves, actual Black people couldn’t sign a paper or fill out a form stating their preferences, the fact that actual slaves didn’t get sexual gratification from having their babies ripped from their arms, they didn’t voluntarily choose to be raped or castrated or branded or hanged, that he would never know what it’s truly like to be sold like a horse with no say in the matter; it never crossed his mind and it was beyond his comprehension.  All he could think about was his voracious need to be gangbanged by Black men and being a toilet for Black women.  All he could think about were his own sick fantasies. 
Once all the papers were completed, once everyone had finished, the seven white men were all instructed to follow the young Black man to another destination.  They walked calmly through the majestic stone halls and up a grand staircase where they were ushered into a large room that was completely empty; the only real feature that the space offered were the spectacular views of the historic city.  Inside the room were five other white men who had made themselves comfortable, or at least as comfortable as they could be, seated on the cold, tiled floor.  The door, slammed unceremoniously behind them, was locked from the outside and almost immediately, a few of the others started making small talk.  They were nervously asking questions and making introductions. 
Donald, never one to stand out, remained a little more protective of his personal information than a few of the others seemed to be.  He made sure to put names with faces but he didn’t care about or even believe them when they spoke of careers and families and even their personal lives.  It was not long before Donald had to go to the bathroom.  There was no restroom and he was a victim of a weak bladder that had to be emptied frequently.  One of the other men noticed his predicament and slid next to him to whisper that there was a bucket in the corner that they had taken to be what they were supposed to us to relieve themselves.  As if by unspoken code, everyone turned their backs and pretended not to see or hear the urine collecting in the bucket.  The smell was not as easy to ignore as the strong yellow piss mixture created a rancid odor. 
As the evening wore on, hunger set in.  The setting sun created a magnificent backdrop to the cityscape with its beautiful hues of orange and purple.  Donald’s stomach growled loudly as he tried to think of other things.  A few of his roommates were not as willing to remain silent and they started banging on the door, demanding food, demanding that someone tell them what was going to happen.  They tried to open the windows; they started to get agitated, irritated, and annoyed.  As the lights of the city night illuminated the skyline, it was apparent that they were not going to get any food or answers and Donald took off his shirt to make a makeshift pillow out of it as he lay on the floor. 
With only minutes of sleep, morning came none too soon.  While the city was still sleeping, the door unlocked and a different Black man this time, an older, much larger and menacing one called the name Ted and one of the men stood nervously.  “Come with me,” he bellowed, and his fellow submissive used his eyes to scan the room for empathy and answers.  As the door shut behind him, the others came alive with nervousness and anticipation.  Donald maneuvered his way to one of the windows and used the sill as a seat and he glanced nervously at the guy named Mark and they whispered about what they thought might be happening.  Mark said, “Man, don’t you get it?  This is the true slave experience.  Real slaves were starved to death, they were made to sleep on floors, they were transported and held captives with no explanation, and they were sold like cattle.  We signed up for the true slave experience and we’re getting it.  Pissing and shitting in a bucket, it’s humiliating.  Even this place, man, it’s rumored to be one of the last standing slave trading auction blocks of the era.”
In that moment, Donald felt the souls of the slaves speaking out to him.  They were haunting him, calling him names, telling him that he was a sexual deviant who would never understand what they felt having their humanity traded like a child’s baseball card.  Several men had to use the bucket to shit and the stench became even more oppressive as everyone pretended to be oblivious.  As the morning wore on, one by one, the door opened and another name was called.  Seemingly they were being called in the order of their arrival which meant Donald was the next to last to be called.  When it was down to he and John, and the door opened, he had tried to smooth his wrinkled shirt out and he was ready to move to the next phase, whatever that would be. 
As it turned out, the next phase was a medical examination.  This new Black man escorted him to a room that looked like it was a doctor’s office.  He was given an EKG and a prostate exam that was more like manual rape than a medical procedure.  The doctor, or rather the person who seemed to be functioning as a doctor because there were no medical degrees framed on the wall and no proof whatsoever of his credentials, was another Black man: tall, dark-skinned, handsome, and quiet, he didn’t explain what he was doing, what was going to happen, he had no bedside manner whatsoever.  He was particularly brutal in the way in which he examined Donald’s mouth, ears, and nose.  He squeezed Donald’s testicles so hard as to cause him to groan which was no small feat given the abuse those nuts had endured over the course of his lifetime. 
Stripped of all his clothing, with nothing on but a hospital gown, Donald was led into yet another corral-type room where his fellow slaves were waiting for him as before, all in blue or white gowns that no one even attempted to tie to hide their buttocks.  When everyone had finished their medical exam, it was then a Black woman with a clipboard entered the room.  She seemed to be in control of the entire operation. 
“OK, maggots, I’m going to explain to you what’s going to happen.  I’ve had 150 responses to my invitations for tonight’s auction.  A few are leather daddies but the vast majority are Black female Dommes who are looking for white men who are not playing online games and making empty promises.  Mostly, they are lifestyle Dommes who enjoy the lifestyle for personal reasons.  While they will be ‘buying’ you, they will be compensated nicely for their participation and the amount they bid to purchase you is reflective of your potential value to them as a slave.  It’s your job to impress them so that they want to take you on as a slave.  Get it?  Got it?  Good!”
It was then that Donald started truly sizing up his competition.  With the exception of two of the white men, all of them were older, not very attractive, certainly not well-endowed, and even if they weren’t obese, they weren’t very fit.  The remaining two white men were younger, in the context of their surroundings they could be considered reasonably attractive but they certainly wouldn’t win any contests in the real world.  What they did have to offer was beautiful young bodies.  They were smooth, their skin taught and tanned, their muscles rippled as evidence of working out.  Donald immediately thought of himself in his younger days, how he could have competed with any of them, of how he was the object of lust who could easily tempt men with his boyish charm and looks.  His present demeanor made him . . .  ashamed and insecure.  That feeling stirred arousal within him and thusly, created a conflict within him. 
By then, all the white men were all but starving and Donald spoke up and meekly asked about food.  The woman calmly responded by saying that they would get food later.  It was several hours later and they were fed, but it could hardly be called food.  They were served on metal prison plates a meal of oatmeal and fat back, a greasy piece of pork product that might have had a trace of meat if one were to look very closely or if one were to have a very vivid imagination.  Without any utensils, Donald scooped up the bland, nutrition-less, goop with his fingers and fed himself.  Having no taste or flavor it still tasted like a gourmet meal with him having gone far more than 24 hours without any food.  To drink, they weren’t given water, they were given cheap whiskey.  It burned going down and tasted like the dregs of the bottom of the barrel.  Within an hour, all twelve men were completely intoxicated. 
At the dawn of their second evening there, Donald could hear the makings of a party downstairs.  There were the sounds of music and people being festive, and the aromas of wonderful food being served wafted about, making Donald’s hunger even more apparent.  Intoxicated, Donald tried to figure out a strategy to get purchased.  He was trying to figure out how to stand out, how to make himself more appealing.  His planning was interrupted as several Black men, all ones he had never seen before, entered their room with buckets of water and bars of lye soap that smelled liked disinfectant.  The water was freezing cold and they had no washcloths or towels and the Black men seemed to be amused by their predicament as the white men tried to clean themselves and make themselves presentable.  With each passing moment, the dawn of realization that what actual slaves had to endure was far worse than his circumstances became more and more apparent.  He hadn’t been raised to believe himself inferior his entire life.  He had never done a hard day’s work in his life, he had never been sold away from his loved ones, he had never been forced to do anything sexually that he didn’t want.  It was almost as if the spirits of slaves were whispering to him within those walls, telling him that he would never know what it truly means to be hated for no other reason than the color of his skin. 
The witching hour was nigh.  The woman with the clipboard came in, this time dressed wearing an elegant gold evening gown, and she gave details of what was going to happen.  There was going to be an inspection period where the invited guests would be able to examine, question, and scrutinize them in any way they wanted.   The men were stripped naked and given a hit of poppers, the effects of which combined with the alcohol immediately.  The final insult was that they were all chained together with heavy leg irons that left little room for movement.  Quickly, they had to get in rhythm so as not to fall down and it wasn’t so easy for some of them that didn’t have the natural cadence of Africans. 
In the grand opera hall, opulent and elegant, the white men stood on the stage like they were about to face a firing squad.  Donald tried not to look at any faces in the crowd, rather, he hung his head in shame.  The examination period was akin to gang rape.  The Black men who were present all pulled their dicks out and demanded oral sex from the submissives they were interested in. For Donald, seeing all the sexual activity going on around him flipped the switch in his brain that signaled his love of depravity.  Some slaves were fucked like dogs from behind, without even seeing the face of their penetrators.  Donald was neither required to give oral sex or offer his asshole for use by any of the potential buyers.  He stood there, feeling insecure, and again wishing that this type of event had existed in his younger years, as a few people slapped his nuts and looked in his mouth like they were buying a horse. 
The bidding began.  Even though the room was filled with hundreds, the participants were only allowed to bid on the white men who matched their specific offerings:  Dommes with dungeons were only allowed to bid on those white men who requested that specifically and so on, so the number diminished quickly of potential buyers who had actual property that could be used as a plantation.  The order of the auction didn’t seem to be based on the same order that they had been previously called.  The youngest two were up for auction first.  They both were to be matched with dominants who wanted household domestics, servants, sexual playthings for Black Dommes wanting a boy toy and there was a bidding frenzy for them.  In the age of technology, bids were made by phone and the amounts were posted on large screens around the room.  The opening bid was $100 and quickly rose to $800 for the first and got as high as $1200 for the second young man.  They seemed proud of themselves. 
The next group to bid were the dominants with dungeons.  Six of the remaining white men were matched with those buyers and bidding didn’t get to more than $200 for any of them.  One didn’t get any bids and one got a bid of $50 as a sort of last minute reprieve.  Of the four remaining whites, Donald was feeling pessimistic about his chances of being purchased for the evening.  He would have to go home, dejected and inconsolable. 
Just as his “item number” was being called, and he was being described by the woman in gold, Donald felt the pangs of rejection.  This was his one shot.  In the privacy of his own home, Donald routinely behaved in shameful and disgusting ways in his relentless pursuits of the ultimate in degenerate acts.  This was no time to hold back.  Having no shame and taking a deep breath, emboldened by the amyl nitrate, Donald, desperate to show his depravity to the audience, fell to his knees and turned to his closest neighbor’s hard cock and began sucking it and trying to show just how depraved and perverted he could be.  The bidding began.  Wanting to show their respective perversion, the other white maggots began to perform as well, one fist fucking himself with no lube or spit, another torturing his balls in ways that indicated that they hadn’t produced sperm in a very long time.  By the time Donald had made his fellow submissive shoot a feeble stream of cum in his mouth, the final bid was $400.  Sold!  Now, he could truly be called a slave. 
Donald was given a burlap sack, literally, a bag made from jute with two holes cut for his arms to wear, and he was ushered into a van out a back door of the building.  Seated on a bench, Donald waited.  One by one, the remaining three plantation slaves were loaded in the van and they were again chained together with heavy leg irons and chains that seemed to weigh even more now that the effects of the alcohol and poppers had worn off a bit.  It seems, in his delusional lust, Donald hadn’t noticed that the bidding was for a package deal:  all four subs were sold for $400, $100 a piece, to a consortium of Blacks who took dominating whites very seriously and had purchased a hundred acre plantation in Mississippi for the sole purpose of stripping white men of their dignity and humanity.   For a brief moment Donald wondered what sort of pride and/or shame real slaves felt knowing their value on the auction block.  It was only a fleeting thought; he was more concerned with what sexual thrills might lie ahead of him. 
The ride took hours, exactly how long he couldn’t know, but he was uncomfortable and sleepy and hungry again.  At some point in the middle of the night, the vehicle arrived at its destination and they were herded out of the van and into the night air.  All the slaves were immediately divested of their sacks and they were to remain naked for the duration of their stay.  If at any time a Dominant wanted to use or abuse them sexually, their genitals were to be easily accessible at all times.  Half expecting to be led to their sleeping quarters, the slaves were introduced to their new owners.  There were three men and three women.  Masters Evan, Jason, and Kavai were all professional looking and well dressed, no hoodies or red or blue colored bandanas, there wasn’t a gold teeth or chain among them.  They were not the thugs he had fantasized would be raping him.  They had on expensive designer suits and were groomed to perfection.  They certainly would do, however, as they all sported enormous erections that looked dangerous and lethal. 
Mistresses Alana, Anntia, and Raquel were dressed well but it was not their clothing that captivated Donald.  With their heels, they all stood a foot taller than him and they were all muscular, like body builder/steroid junky/gym rat sort of muscular.  There hadn’t been much miscegenation in their ancestry because all of them were very dark skinned.  Donald couldn’t take his eyes off them.  Mistress Alana wore her hair in braids while Mistresses Anntia and Raquel had their hair styled in a way that Donald didn’t have words for; it was best described as . . . complex and ethnic.  They were dressed exactly how you would expect a professional Domme to look, tight black leather skirts and boots and skimpy tops that barely held their ample breasts and hard, bulging muscles accessorized their ensembles.  They looked like they could crush him like a bug if they wanted to.  And indeed they looked like they wanted to. 
Before they could be led to the place where they were to sleep, all four men had to perform oral sex on their new Masters.  Donald got his face brutally fucked in the wee morning hours as he was slapped, called names, and laughed at by his new owners.  The lovely ladies all donned massive strapons that they forced down the throats of their captives as well.  He choked, vomited, gagged, and swallowed piss and cum before he was thrown in a barn.  The haystacks he made into a makeshift bed felt like a they had been programmed with his perfect sleep number after his ordeal in New Orleans and he passed out from exhaustion. 
His first day of captivity was memorable only in that his surroundings were new and strange.  The very first thing he was subjected to was being placed on a horse with a rope around his neck that was tied to a tree.  He was there for what he imagined to be an hour, his body shaded from the burning morning sun by the shade of the majestic 200 year old maple.   Donald didn’t have to wonder why he was being subjected to this particular punishment and he was made to explain to his owners exactly why he was.  During slavery, Blacks were routinely hanged from trees, it was the strange fruit that Billie Holiday sang about.  Donald felt the fear of his life when Master Jason slapped the horse and it ran off and he was left hanging from a tree by his neck with a rope, his feet were feet from the ground, his air was being cut off while his owners laughed at his predicament. 
He wasn’t sure exactly how he got down from the tree as he had passed out and when he awoke, his legs were spread by a huge bar and his body shackled in a stockade device and he was being whipped by one of his Masters, which one he couldn’t be sure, and a large object, exactly what he couldn’t be sure of either, had been inserted deeply in his rectum.  After that, the days were to run together in his mind because 18 to 20 hours a day, he had no contact with the outside world, and he was being tortured in ways that he’d never contemplated before.  It was clear that while on the plantation his only job would be to suffer the sadistic tortures of his owners. 
The flesh from his back, cock, and balls was beaten raw with various devices until his flesh was a constant shade of red and purple, black and blue.  He was enclosed in metal boxes that had been dug into the ground and left in the unbearable heat with no water with only his head above ground.  Once, his head was covered with honey and he was left there for hours as every sort of insect made a feast of his head, neck, and face.  He wasn’t allowed to bathe, he had no toothbrush, not deodorant, no toilet paper.  Additionally , he was fed food that actual slaves had to eat.  Pig’s feet, chitterlings, and scraps of rotted food that was unfit for humans was served in a trough and they had to eat like real pigs.   Every bite was excruciating. 
It was the Dommes, however, who were the most sadistic.  They took evil delight in seeing their slaves scream in agony.  It was nothing for them to use torches to burn the soles of a disobedient slave’s feet and unleash vicious dogs on them to chase them through the woods, across jagged rocks and rough terrain like a runaway slave.  Donald did not have to endure that particular inhumanity because he willingly submitted to whatever deviant torture he was subjected to but he was ever cognizant of the fact that it could happen to him at any moment.  True to their nature as women, they wanted a more intimate, personal torture of their slaves.  They would sit their full, round, black asses on their slave’s faces until they would pass out, until they were seconds from death, revive them, and then do it again.  Anything that they could put their hands on was used to penetrate their slaves, to fuck them fiercely, and they seemed to be particularly amused by trying to fist each of the slaves as hard and as deeply as possible. 
Perhaps the greatest torture was that Donald was not allowed the pleasure of even seeing his Mistress’s pussies.  Often times, he could smell their arousal and he hear the clear sounds of fucking coming from their quarters so he knew that his owners were engaged in extended sexual pairings, seemingly aroused by their ability to torture and humiliate white men at their whim.  He wanted to lick their cum-filled cunts, he longed to drink their hot piss straight from the source but it was not to be.  During his stay Donald was not to experience anything that was remotely close to pleasure, pain was his only sustenance. 
The evening’s entertainment, after everyone had eaten, the Masters having a catered meal, the slaves eating scraps, would usually be one of the Dommes picking a victim to wrestle.  They would all head to the barn and in a boxing ring, one of the slaves would be made to spar with a Domme while the others watched.  It was the third night before Donald was forced to fight with Mistress Anntia and she thoroughly kicked his ass.  She treated him like a rag doll.  He was flipped and tossed about, punched, and kicked until he was covered in bruises and truly beaten. 
The few hours that they had to sleep, the time before the sun came up when he had a few moments to reflect on his predicament, Donald would think about what real slaves had to endure.  Those were the most painful moments of his day.  He had never been denied education; he didn’t know what it felt like to know that there was no end to his pain.  Everything that he was going through, he knew that actual slaves had it much worse.  That thought tortured him in ways he had never anticipated.  Whatever he had to endure, whatever predicament he faced, Donald knew it was temporary, that he had a home and a life to return to at the end of his “vacation”.  His brain was conflicted.  On some deep level, he wanted this to be his existence for life.  His role in life, his true identity was an inferior pain pig.  He wanted his owners to be proud of him, to be proud of how much pain he could take for them; he wanted them to enjoy inflicting pain on him. 
As the end of the first week drew near, Brain had formed a stronger bond with his captors than his fellow slaves.  He loved the way their minds worked, how they had little or no concern about the well-being of their slaves, he loved the creative and repugnant tortures they came up with.  He loved them.  He loved belonging to them.  And his opportunity to show his utter devotion would be at the slave games which were actually Olympic style competitions for the sole purpose of abusing the slaves for the entertainment of their Masters.  As fate would have it, the competition involved feeding the slaves Viagra and X and then each and every Dominant using stinging nettles from head to toe on each of the slaves until they begged for mercy.  He learned that the use of stinging nettles was actually a punishment inflicted on real slaves in the US historically and he cringed with conflicted guilt and aroused anticipation. 
Set out to pick their own weapons of ass destruction, two of his comrades dissolved into a heaping mass of tears before they suffered the first blow.  They begged for mercy, leaving Donald and Chris, the other remaining slave, to offer any part of their bodies for abuse.  Chris lasted about a minute before he succumbed to the pain and cried out for them to stop.  He was defeated. 
Donald stood proud.  From the moment he entered the opera house he’d felt insignificant, unremarkable.  For the first time since his adventures began, Donald felt noteworthy. Clad in rubber from head to toe, Master Kavai set about to beat Donald about the cock and balls so severely that he would be forced to surrender.  Donald moaned and groaned, but they were sounds of definite pleasure, there was no mistaking that.  He felt each stinging blow as excruciating pain but also pleasure.  Well, it registered as pain, his cock and balls were red and swollen, but the force with which he was being beaten, the level of intense pain, all the eyes watching him, his total surrender, everything worked him into a sexual frenzy.  He wanted to suck cock, to get fucked, he wanted to be put in a head lock with the strong thighs of Mistress Raquel and smell her musky pussy and asshole while his oxygen supply was being cut off.  He wanted, craved, and needed more.  He writhed around on the dusty ground and screamed out, but he never said the word stop. 
Master Even seemed angered and he tied Donald to a tree and donned arm-length rubber gloves and started beating Donald himself.  “You like this?  You want this?  My ancestors didn’t want this.  Who’s really inferior you fucking sick fuck?  Answer me!  Who’s really inferior? Fucking pig!”  He exhausted himself beating Donald.  One by one, everyone took turns beating Donald with the stinging nettles.  Finally, all three Mistresses decided that they would assault him simultaneously. 
Donald’s wrists were tied together and he was strung up in a tree, his feet barely touching the ground.  His cock was hard from the Viagra; his mind was clouded with lust by the Ecstasy.  Front and back, top to bottom, there was not a square inch on his body that did not receive lashes with the stinging nettles.  Donald was in a sub space mentally like he’d never experienced before.  His body was covered with red welts.  He made sounds like a wounded animal.  He was rendered unconscious from the pain momentarily and was revived with ice-cold water only to have the beating start again.  Exasperated and angry, Master Evan cut him down from the tree.  Donald’s body crumpled to the ground and he lay there with his six Masters surrounding him. 
Feral and disoriented, Donald grabbed his cock for the first time since being on the plantation and started furiously jerking off.  His Masters spit on him, kicked him, pissed on him, cursed him and he loved it more and more.  He loved their anger, he loved their disgust, and he loved their cruelty.  His red and abused cock erupted in an orgasm with more force than it had done in 30 years. 
He awoke the next morning in the barn.  He glanced around his surrounding to see that he was alone.  He couldn’t move, his body was literally paralyzed with pain.  Mistress Alana came to give him his breakfast, grits with sugar and butter and more fat back, and he inquired about the whereabouts of the other slaves.
“Oh, you don’t know?  Well, they only signed up for one week, you signed up for two.  We have you all to ourselves for another seven days.” 
Copyright 2016 AfroerotiK





Saturday, November 07, 2015

Interracial Domination Duo




Andre West fidgeted in his car seat.  “OK,” he whispered into his watch, like it was a spy gadget from a James Bond movie, “the time is 17:30 hours and I’ve been surveilling the unknown address for two hours with no sign of any movement other than the mailman leaving a package.”  Did it matter that he didn’t have a smart watch recording him, that his watch was a decade old Timex that only told time?  Ehhh, not so much.  Clearly, he was going a little loopy with no one to talk to and trying his best to stay under the radar slouched down in the back seat of his Tahoe.  He wasn’t a private eye or a police detective on a case, he was a man on a mission to get some answers.  He had been dating an amazing woman named Asali Attison for 6 months.  They were in love by all reasonable measures.  The problem was, she was still being distant and guarded.  Normally, any two people with that much in common, who had amazing, mind-blowing sex, who were interested in a long-term commitment with each other wanted to spend every waking moment with each other.  Asali was being secretive.  For no discernable reason whatsoever, she wanted “space.”  On the nights they didn’t spend together, she would very often rush off the phone and he could tell there was something just not right. 

A decade or so ago, Andre might have had to just settle for her answer that she just wanted time alone but Andre had the internet.  He did a background check on her and found out that she had two addresses listed in Dallas.  He had been to her loft plenty of times.  This other address, the one he had been camped out in front of for a couple of hours was a condo she had never even mentioned.  It’s a good thing he had tinted windows because a Black man in a strange neighborhood sitting in his car for any length of time was enough to cause his name to become a hashtag.  He was stealth.  He had an empty Big Gulp cup with a very secure lid just in case he had to pee and he made sure he was dressed professionally so it would lessen the chances that someone might think he was some sort of thug and chase him through the neighborhood, you know, standing their ground.  Oddly enough, he saw some scraggly-looking white guy walk past a few times who looked like he could have been an extra on the set of Breaking Bad and none of the neighbors even raised an eyebrow.  Meanwhile, Andre made sure he wasn’t listening to hip-hop on his car radio, he had jazz playing very softly on his phone, and he had his driver’s license, registration, and car insurance cards on the front seat of the car so he wouldn’t have to reach in the glove box for them. Oh, the things Black men have to do in an average day to avoid getting shot. 

His time in the car was over as he saw Asali’s black Infinity pull into the parking space for the unit.  She got out, dressed like she had just come from the office, and sauntered in her confident, sexy way to the mailboxes and got her package.  Andre decided he was going to wait for her to get to the front door, with her key in the lock before he decided to approach her.  Just as he was about to open the door to his truck, a late model Honda Accord pulled up and parked in the second space for the unit.  Andre froze.  Of all the scenarios he had run in his head, Asali cheating was never one of them.  That’s what Andre kept telling himself, even as he saw a white man get out of the car and greet her on the walkway, open the door with his own set of keys and let her enter the unit first. 

To say that Andre was heartbroken was an understatement.  He took a few minutes to gather himself and fight back the tears.  If she had some sort of sugar daddy/jungle fever, she could go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200.  Steeling his nerves, he slammed the door of his truck a little too hard and blinked a few times to make sure that he didn’t have any tears in his eyes.  He knocked on the door with the force of someone who was not selling Girl Scout cookies. 

The white man answered.   His face showed signs of shock and fear.  “Andre!  I uhmmmmm.  Hold on, let me get her.” 

“Who the fuck are you and how the hell do you know my name?  Yeah, tell her to come to the door right now because I want some answers.”  Andre’s voice was getting a couple of octaves higher and he could feel his emotions boiling over.  The white guy left him standing outside.  He didn’t want to make a scene and have the police called so he waited patiently.  He loved Asali.  More than any woman he had ever loved before.  This was just not happening.  No fucking way. 

Dressed in a stunning red knit dress that hugged her body but that was still professional, she took his hand and pulled him inside.  “Sweetie, I am so sorry.  I can explain.”  In the seconds that had passed, it was clear there were tears in her eyes as well.  She stood still, waiting for him to say something.  Not letting go of his hand, she led him to the living room and motioned for him to sit down. 

“Todd, come here please.”  The white guy tentatively came out of what was surely a bedroom as the place was exquisitely decorated but very small.  The kitchen was a galley kitchen and there was a breakfast bar that appeared to serve as the dining room.  In the corner of the living room there was a desk with a desktop computer set up.  There was no TV and there didn’t seem to be any happy couple pictures of the two of them framed anywhere.  Andre was devastated but he waited for the explanation.    Todd, wearing the remnants of his business suit from work, stood silently,

“I didn’t know how to tell you and I realize now what a mistake it was to keep it from you and I’m so very sorry.  Andre this is Todd, Todd Wentley.” 

“Really?  This dude?  You are fucking around on me with him?  I’m outta here.”  Andre was emotional and irrational.  He got up and Asali cut him off.

“Noooo, it’s not like that.  It’s . . . it’s complicated.  Let me explain.”  They sat down on the sofa again, this time, her soft hand covered his.  He wanted to pull away he was so disgusted but the part of his brain that adored her wanted this to be all a joke, a terrible, horrible, unbelievable, complex joke where cameras were going to pop out and let him know that he was being pranked.  She continued.  “I know I should have told you when we first started getting serious but there just didn’t seem like a good time.  And after a while, I realized that I should have told you in the beginning and then I was just ashamed and embarrassed by the whole situation.  I didn’t want to lose you and I wasn’t ready to give up Todd.” 

“Oh hell no!  I swear to God if you tell me that you love this dude I will lose my mind.  Him?  Get the fuck outta here!  If you want him, you can have him!”  He pulled his hand away, devastated. 

“Andre!  Stop!  It’s not like that.  I own him.  He belongs to me.”    The room fell silent. 

The look of confusion on Andre’s face was apparent.  He sat back down this time and he collected his thoughts for a moment.  The silence was deafening but Asali knew him well enough to let him have his space to process.  He was aware that she had been a Domme and had dominated white men in the past but he thought that it was just that . . . in the past.  Not once did they ever have a conversation about it being in the present.  Andre was still shaky but he needed details.  He couldn’t even fully pay attention; in his head he was trying to figure out how they could go back to the way things were 2 days ago, before he even had a clue that there was a secret love nest. 

He took a couple of deep breaths and he queried.  “So, this guy is so important to you that you would rather risk our relationship than let him go?  Is that how it is?  I cut off all my previous relationships when we fell in love.”  The word love sounded flat and empty to him as it left his lips. 

“Listen, it’s not how it seems.  I’ve invested a lot of time and energy into him.  I’ve created him to be exactly what I want and need and he’s . . . he’s exceptional.  He’s just too valuable an asset to just throw away.”

Andre was incensed!  “This dude?  You’re telling me that this white man satisfies you sexually so much so that . . . I’m going to be sick.  Where’s the bathroom?”  Andre’s whole world was turning upside down and inside out.  

“Stop it!  Andre!  You have to calm down. Tell him, Todd, tell him what you do for a living.” 

Todd spoke up softly, trying to help ease the tension in the room.  “I work as the Director of Social Media for the Dallas Police Department.  Well, that’s my official title.  In actuality, in secret, I function as a liaison between the media and the community to hold the police accountable when I can verify that they are doing something racist or that there are suspicious circumstances surrounding any incident that involves race that they might try to cover up.” 

“Right,” Andre interjected, “I’m supposed to believe that whitey here is champion for the oppressed black man.  Give me two fucking breaks.  This bitch doesn’t even know what racism means, let alone can he do anything about it.  He sold you a bill of goods.  What he really means is he deletes comments from their Facebook page that the police don’t like.  That’s his damn job.  And how the hell did you get that fucking job in the first place Mr. Black Lives Matter?” 

Both Asali and Todd smiled.  “Well, I got him the job.  He got a divorce slightly after I met him and he needed a fresh start so he moved from Seattle to Dallas and let’s just say I know people who got him the job.  People with secrets.  People in positions of power who don’t want their secrets told so the job was created for him at my behest.  The fact that he is spying on the cops and making their questionable actions known to the press is our little secret.  I promise he’s legit.  You have to trust me.  Todd, tell Andre what racism means.” 

Todd didn’t even hesitate.  “Racism is NOT one race not liking another race. Racism is the historic, systematic, and institutionalized oppression of people of color by Caucasians in their efforts to perpetuate the fallacy of white supremacy in order for them to maintain the power structures that allow them to have social, economic, educational, financial, and vocational privileges. People of color cannot be racist. They can be bigoted, they can be biased, but they can't be racist. More importantly, even if Black people are bigoted, it does not hold the same weight, power, and privilege racist white people have.”  

He had Andre’s attention.  It took him a full minute to collect his thoughts enough to speak.  “OK, OK, so he can repeat what you taught him.  Good little monkey.  But that doesn’t mean that he is really champion for the Black race.  I’ve yet to meet a white man who . . .”

“Quiz him,” Asali interrupted.  “Pick a topic.  Any topic.  The Trans-Atlantic Slave trade.  The principles of Afrocentricity.  White privilege.  Slave mentality.  He’s read Asante, Akbar, Marimba Ani, he can quote John Henrik Clark.  He is not just a parrot that can repeat what I’ve told him.  I’ve trained him, I’ve shaped him, and I’ve educated him.  That’s what I meant by I said he’s far too exceptional to let go.   Let me explain, please.” 

Andre sat back on the sofa.  He was confused but he wanted some sort of explanation that made sense to him.   He nodded. 

“When I met Todd two years ago, the best he could do was say, ‘Racism isn’t fair.’  He was of the mindset that if it didn’t affect him personally, he didn’t have to think about race even though he has only been attracted to Black women for almost all his adult life.  I decided to manipulate his sexuality in order to refashion him into exactly what I wanted him to be.  I would restrain him, handcuff him to the bed and I would whisper in his ear.  I would stroke him, stroke his dick.  I would bring him to the brink of orgasm over and over and over again.  I reprogrammed his brain.  I took the things that he loved, things that aroused him like having his nipples stimulated and I would manipulate them for hours, all the while training and teaching him.  I associated his sexual pleasure with the things I wanted him to learn, the things I wanted him to become.  He would be out of his mind, crazed with lust, begging for release, and I transformed him into my perfect pet.  He will do anything I tell him to do, without question or hesitation.  He craves the things that turn me on; craves them as if his life depends on it.”

“You have sex with him?  Oh, hell no.  You have got to be fucking kidding me!” 

“No, no, no,” she interjected, “that’s not it at all.  He doesn’t really service me sexually, He has never in two years eaten my pussy.  He . . . well . . . he services . . . Black men for me.  I get off on watching him suck and get fucked.  He gets off on it.  It’s like I said, he craves it.”

“Oh, he’s gay?  Yeah, figures. White boys!” 

“Well, not exactly.  I suppose you could say that but it’s a lot more complex than that.  See, well . . .  let him explain it to you.” 

Todd spoke up in his defense again.  “I’m attracted to Black women.  I will always be attracted to Black women first and foremost.  That doesn’t mean my sexuality is singular however.  I’m not gay.  I’m not a sissy.  I don’t have a need to dress up as a woman to assume a submissive role, I would never demean women in that way.  I respect them too much to assert that wearing some heels and some makeup means that I am somehow transformed into a woman.  I’m not a woman, I’m a man who is submissive, I’m a man who is bisexual and I enjoy pleasing Black men and I don’t have to pretend to be forced in order to do it.   I love pleasing my Mistress and it gives me intense pleasure to feel a hard dick explode in my mouth or ass and know that I was able to do that.  I love pleasing Black men for her.  I love making her proud of me.  I experience pleasure from being penetrated, whether it is from her divine strapon, one of my toys, or if it is from one of her lovers.   I’m so very grateful that Mistress allows me release but I know that I will never be allowed to pleasure her sexually.  I know I’m not deserving of that honor.  That is purely the domain of the Black men she allows into her heart as lovers.”

Andre coughed and blinked.  He knew by now not to over-react and to just listen.  He was trying to process it all.  He continued looking around the small condo.  The bookshelves were packed with hundreds of books on black history, black psychology, and black culture.  There was no TV but he figured the computer could be used for streaming media.  The complex looked like it had been built in the 60s but the interior had clearly been updated with dark hardwood floors and a semi-open floorplan that would not have been the style a half a century ago.  Andre studied Todd, now sitting, who looked nervous but not overly so as he was clearly taking his cues from Asali.  In the average Black person’s lifetime they NEVER meet a white person who understands and is sympathetic to the issues of race so it would have been easier if someone handed Andre a piece of paper and said, “Here is a Chinese calculus problem solve for è¿‘å¹³    

Todd continued.  “Eradicating racism has become my mission in life.  Whereas when I first met Mistress, I could distance myself from race, now it consumes every part of my life.  I attack racism online every chance I get knowing that for every one person I dismantle, there are thousands of other lurkers there reading and learning like I did.  I feel like it’s my place to use my energy to combat what my Mistress has had to endure every day of her life.” 

“Man, this is too much to handle.  I’m not sure I can understand everything that is being said.  I will give him credit for at least being more knowledgeable about racism than the vast majority of white people but you can’t seriously think that he . . . I mean come on . . . wait . . . what?  This is all so confusing.” 

Asali turned to him and lifted his face to hers.   “Beloved King.  I take full responsibility for your confusion because of my deception.  I knew from the minute I met you that I wanted you in my life.  I allowed my fears of rejection by you to keep this secret.   I was so ashamed of myself for what I considered cheating that I rationalized that I had to lie.  Trust me, if it had been any other sub, I would have dismissed them before you and I had our first kiss.  Todd is different.  Sweetie, he’s not just a mimicking what I tell him to say, however, he’s come up with his own theories of racism in his efforts to dismantle it.  I mean, he blew my mind with his concepts.  Honestly, you need to hear him out.”

Todd raised his eyebrow signaling he was asking Andre for permission to explain himself.  Andre flicked his hand in Todd’s general direction, indicating that he had the floor, he had better impress him.  “The way I see it, racism permeates every single solitary facet of our society.  There is not one single area where it doesn’t persist so white people as a rule can’t say, ‘I’m not racist, I wasn’t raised racist,’ and all the other rhetoric and clichés they spout when they are trying to silence people of color.  Our nation was built on the foundation of racism.  There has never been a point in our history, recent or distant, where whites have been forced to collectively address, acknowledge, or heal their racist beliefs so they persists like a cancer.  Every childhood book has whites as the heroes.  Every TV show shows whites as upstanding and virtuous and saving the day.  Magazines show people who look like me as the 100 most beautiful people in the world, the world where we only make up 10% of the population.  History books tell us that whites invented everything great when in actuality we stole everything great from people of color; violently stole I might add.  School districts are zoned so that whites get the best educations and Blacks get . . . well, you get the idea.   No white person can escape the breadth and depth of racism.  Racism is the default disease of our society and it has been since whites invaded, stole, and inhabited this nation.  Of course, racism had gone rampant and continues to do so with the advent of technology.  I’ve identified four very distinct classes of racism that persist in this country, and this country is vastly different than any other because of its history of slavery and the long-term effects that linger unaddressed.”

“First, there are the blatant racists.   They are the Klan members, the Neo-Nazi’s, the white supremacists.  They are the most vocal about hating Black people.  They will claim that they are white purists, trying to advance the cause of the white race.  They stay isolated from anyone different from themselves but if you go on their computer’s you will find gigabytes upon gigabytes of interracial porn.  Trust me, I’ve been in the crime lab when the techs go through their computers, I’ve seen time and time again that the most staunch racist will have thousands of files of interracial porn on their computers.  But no one tells you that.  That’s the secret that whites get to keep.” 

“The second group consists of the vast and overwhelming majority of white people in this country.  The members of the second group are equally as racist, but they are the most adamant that they are not.  They are the ones who troll African American websites telling Black people that they are racist.  They believe Blacks are inferior, and they defend whiteness at all costs.  They tell the racist jokes at work and get offended if someone catches them.  Talk about denial, their own children will be addicted to meth, heroin, and cocaine and they will swear that it’s only Blacks who are the criminals.  Just look at the internet, look at any porn site.  White people abound posting their videos of them doing depraved, perverted, extreme things yet white people will swear that Blacks are the sexual savages, driven by lust.  They feel entitled to everything, they think that the world owes them.  They come to the defense of any and every white person who is accused of being racist like they know them personally.  They swear racism doesn’t exist and but they will call a Black person racist in the blink of an eye.  Their mantra is, ‘Martin Luther King said,’ and they always have a Black “friend” who seems to cosign their racism.  They mimic conservative talk show hosts and media and they have never once challenged or questioned their own racism or beliefs about race.” 

“Group 2 not only watches interracial porn, they have all sorts of interracial sex in real life.  The white men are actively engaged with gay sex with Black men in percentages too staggering for my little mind to comprehend.  There are so many married white women having gangbangs in hotels with Black men they meet on craigslist it should be considered a national pastime.  My domain, where I came from, fetish and domination websites, they have millions of profiles with pictures with white men showing their faces proclaiming that they are submissive to the superior Black race.  But those same men have never once challenged their erroneous beliefs about Blacks.  They still hold on to the core racist beliefs that Black men are only as valuable as the inches between their legs, that Black women are ghetto hoochies and reality star drama queens.  The same white men who are sucking black dicks in glory holes and the back seat of their cars, who are pimping their wives out to Black men for unprotected sex, are the same ones in corporate boardrooms who are making deals that keep Black people disenfranchised and oppressed.” 

“The third group is where I fell when I first met Ma’am.  I was in the silent offenders.  I knew that Black lives mattered and that terrible racial injustice existed.  I knew that the hatred of Obama was because of his race but I didn’t have to think about it too much so I could be upset for the total amount of time it took me to read a news article and then compartmentalize it and put it away.  The third group of whites thinks racism is bad but they aren’t willing to do anything about it, they don’t want to rock the boat, so they are just as complicit as the first two categories.  The issue with the third group is that while they won’t burn a cross and they a have sincere desire not to be racist, they still are because you can’t be anti-racist until you study, until you learn, until you dismantle the fucked up baggage that we whites have inherited that tells us that the sun rises and sets around us.  That’s what I didn’t understand until I met Mistress.  She showed me that my apathy meant that I was contributing to the problem, that I was in fact, racist.  That’s the hardest thing for white people to hear.   There is no greater insult than to be called racist.” 

“The final group doesn’t even make up one half of one percent of the white population.  The last group are the true anti-racists who acknowledge that we have privileges based on our race and that history has been distorted to depict us as superior when we as a race have been guilty of the most heinous aggressions against people of color around the globe.  The last group has taken off our rose-colored glasses and we see the hypocrisy and irony of stealing land, enslaving people and then proclaiming yourself superior.  We, the last group, are truly the minority.  It’s my job as part of that minority to fight racism with every ounce of my being.  Ma’am taught me that. 

Andre’s jaw almost hit the floor.  He paused momentarily to collect his thoughts.  “Ain’t that some shit!  I’ve never even heard a black person explain it so succinctly before.  Is this for real?”  Asali and Todd both smiled.  “So wait a minute.  I’m willing to concede that this guy is on some new shit.  No doubt. But I’m still a little confused about the sucking and fucking part.  Don’t think I missed the part about him sucking your lovers off.  I know he hasn’t ever sucked my dick so whose dick is he sucking exactly?  You bring other men over here for him to screw while you watch?  Is that what you do on the nights you aren’t with me?” 

Asali could do nothing but apologize again.  It was her fault Andre had all these doubts and insecurities.  If she had been honest with him from the beginning none of this would be an issue right now.  She explained that they had not had anyone else involved in their play in almost a year.  She also explained that she felt a sense of obligation to Todd to him to keep him aroused so that he could continue to fight for justice both at work and at home because she didn’t feel that his efforts to put his life on the line to fight for equality should go unrewarded and she didn’t just want to release him from ownership. 

“On the nights I spend time with him, I usually let him sniff my pantyhose and massage my feet.   I might fuck him with a dildo or a strapon until he releases.  When I think he’s done a particularly good job at work, when he’s exposed something major, I will let him have my panties to sniff and lick while he masturbates.  I allow him to wear a butt plug when he’s at home and I keep him aroused with stories of how you fuck me. That’s how he knew exactly who you were when you knocked on the door.  He is allowed to fuck himself with toys and I even got a machine that I turn on really slowly and I keep him edging for a few hours while I tease him.  I’ve told him that I will allow him to see other Dommes and even date other women but he’s okay with the situation as it is.  Seeing as we are in full confession mode I have to tell you that it turns me on to get him in that sub space where he craves stimulation.  I do get aroused.  I make sure I release all that arousal allllll over you when we are together but Todd is not the only one getting pleasure from our little sessions.” 

Andre got up and walked around the small apartment.  He was trying to collect his thoughts.  Even though Todd had seen pictures of Andre seeing him in person was a little overwhelming in real life.  They made a beautiful couple.  The man pacing back and forth made love to the woman of his dreams, it was hard to wrap his mind around.  Todd felt something emotional welling up inside him but it wasn’t exactly jealousy.  It was pride.  There was joy in knowing that his Mistress was happy, that she had found someone so much like her that complimented her.    If there were any feelings of jealousy, it was in his desire to see what was beneath that dress shirt and slacks that fit his toned body. 

Andre cleared his throat.  “OK, how do you say it, full confession mode?   Alright, I have some confessing to do too.  I’ve been . . . there have been a few . . . I know some white guys who love to take a walk on the wild side, or the dark side if you will.   At every point in my life I’ve had white men trying to get in my pants.  When I was in college, the coach of the football team would bend over the desk and beg to get pounded.  Shit, my roommate sucked me off every night.  Whenever I’m single, I know I can always go online and within a few hours, meet up with some white guy who is willing to suck me off with no strings attached.  I used to know this couple and the guy wanted to watch while I fucked his wife but that didn’t do it for me so much.   Fucking white women is not that great compared to sistas.”

Todd chuckled, “Ain’t that right,” and they shared a bonding moment. 

“If I’m being fully honest,” Andre continued, “I love the power of having white men service me, bow to me.  I’ve often tried to do what you guys are doing here but on a much smaller scale.  I’ve tried to get white men to see my humanity, not objectify me when they are down there on their knees, sucking my dick.   I tell them about what it means to be a Black man, that it is much more than having a big dick, but I’ve never invested any time in them.  I’ve never wanted anything to do with them after I get my nut.  I’ve never met anyone like Todd though, that’s for sure.  It makes sense that I’m clearly not the only Black man being serviced by white men and I know it’s extremely prevalent I just never, I mean you just never hear anything about it in the media so it’s easy to believe that it’s isolated and rare if you don’t examine and think about it.”

In the blink of an eye, things went from zero to sixty.  Asali stood up and kissed Andre.  She was turned on by his revelations, by the ease with which he was able to share his history with her.  She was aroused because she had spent months fantasizing about him joining her and Todd and them dominating him together: she the psychological manipulatrix who was able to arouse him with just a whisper and Andre who was willing to lend his Hershey colored temple of perfection to be worshiped and adored while she watched.  This was her kinky dreams come true. 

She pulled away and turned her head to Todd.  “Todd, meet your new Daddy.”  Andre, still caught up in the rapture of her sweet, seductive kiss, squeezed her ass playfully, speaking in their non-verbal code that he was down for anything and everything that she had in mind.  He loved her.  He, like Todd, wanted anything that made her happy. 

Todd responded to the sound of Asali’s sexy voice like a Pavlovian dog, his breathing got quicker and the nerve endings in his body were on full alert and his mouth salivated.  He loved seeing her aroused. 

“Come with me,” she said and she pulled Andre along behind her as she went to the bedroom door.   She gave instructions before opening it.  “The rules are the same for you as they are for my sweet submissive.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, no always means no, and there are no judgements within these walls.” 

She probably had to explain those rules to the other people that entered the room but he and she had been lovers for a while, he understood her in all her complex and beguiling wonder.   He was trusting that she understood the reason for his deception was based on the same fear of rejection that she had had with him.  He was reasonably assured that she was not going to think less of him if he revealed a past that was not 100% what he had previously admitted to.  He had butterflies in his stomach but his hardening erection worked to distract him just a bit. 

Inside the room it was just as he had imagined.  There was a large, queen-sized bed on the right side of the room, clearing the way for the rest of the space that had sex toys and equipment set up all over.  There was what was the equivalent of a dog’s bed at the foot of the bed.  Andre pointed and asked, “Is that where you sleep?”

Todd shook his head no.  “I used to.  I mean, I would sleep there when Ma’am would sleep here or when we had company.  But she hasn’t slept her in a long time and Mistress told me that it was fine if I slept in the bed every night, that she didn’t mind.  She’s always been so thoughtful and generous that way.  It’s one of the reasons I fell in luuhhhhhvvv . . .” His words trailed off into the ethosphere.   He knew he had overstepped his boundaries.  Sure, he and Andre had bonded but his role was as a submissive, not a lover.  He never wanted his Queen to know that he loved her because he didn’t want her to be burdened with such unnecessary information.  She would never love him back and he knew it.  It was an unrequited love that tortured his every waking thought but it was also the same impetus to the sweet imprisonment of eternal servitude at the feet of the one he adored more than any other. 

Sensing his discomfort, Asali tilted his eyes towards her, lifting his chin with her finger.  “I’ve known you loved me from the day I told you that you belonged to me.  It was pretty easy to figure out.  Listen . . . I love you, too.  With that, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. 

Ten thousand volts of electricity shot through Todd’s body.  The world could end in that second and he would die the happiest man on earth.   He was in a daze.  He wasn’t even entirely sure what happened.  All he knew was his very next conscious experience was watching Asali and Andre making love on the bed in front of him.  He was nude, restrained in chastity, nipple clamps firmly in place, and one of his vibrating butt plugs was in his ass.  Asali had never had sex with anyone in front of him before.  It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.   

It was exactly as if Todd was living the experience through Andre, like their consciences got mixed up somehow and Todd could look down and see and feel what Andre was experiencing.   He could feel the warmth of her lips as he kissed them and the fullness of her magnificent breasts capped by protruding rock-hard nipples that were created to be sucked.  In the heat of the moment they changed bodies and Andre gifted him with the opportunity to experience Heaven on Earth.  Every thrust he gave her, burying his dick in the deep recesses of her exquisite universe, was him giving his heart his soul and his love and feeling her wet, hot, slippery, frothy love being given in return.  

Andre was purposed.  He had become masterful at reading Asali’s body and crafting his love-making around her responses.  Her moans told him everything he wanted to know in a covert code of grunts and groans that translated to how much pleasure she was experiencing.  Soft whimpers let him know that she was luxuriating in the sensations and wanted them to last as long as possible.  Loud breathing meant that she was climbing the ladder of ecstasy and craved more stimulation.  Feral, hedonistic grunts of un- intelligible origins signaled that she was in a primal state between the throes of pure, unadulterated pleasure and cosmic, orgasmic bliss. 

Asali rode him.  She rode him hard.  She was taking her own pleasure and nothing could stop her.  Todd stood mesmerized.  The room filled with the scent of her wet pussy and sweat and pheromones.  Breathing deeply, intoxicated and bewildered, Todd’s soul ached.  Before his eyes, he could see his Mistress cumming, impaling herself on the erect staff of her true Ebony King.  Exhausted, she fell to the bed; exhausted and satisfied. 

Andre, satisfied and drained sexually and emotionally but still unfulfilled physically, signaled for Todd to kneel at his feet as he stood.  It was Todd’s turn to whimper and moan.  He knelt before the powerful man and looked up.  He dare not make a move until told to do so.  Andre’s dick was beautiful: thick and long and standing proud and tall.  With his hands on his hips he directed Todd, “SUCK IT!”

Trembling, light-headed, Todd reached for that dick and held it in his white hand.  The contrast in coloring was amazing to him.  Even in the darkness of the evening light, he could clearly see the glistening juices of his Mistress thickly coating the entire length of that gorgeous penis.  His tongue came out of his parted lips and touched the silky glans of his new Daddy.  Salty, sweet precum mixed with heady, earthy lady-cum and filled his taste buds.  Todd licked like a puppy licks his brand new owner’s face on Christmas morning.  He wanted to taste every drop.  As many times as he’d imagined it, as many times as he had fantasized about tasting his Mistress’ pussy, never had he imagined it would taste like such sublime joy. 

Todd transitioned from licking to full-on sucking rather smoothly.  Before long, he was handling it like a pro, like he had been trained, and practiced, and he loved to do.  He used all his skills.  He wanted to please Asali and Andre equally.  He wanted her to know that he had been worth the investment and that he appreciated everything she had given him, made him into being.  He wanted to please him because he wanted his new Dom to enjoy being serviced and pleasured by a white man, to want more, to feed him that dick and let him swallow that cum all the time.  He wanted to be a slut for his new Daddy. 

Andre was blown away for the second time in one night.  Meeting a white man who had the racial sensitivity and consciousness of the most ardent Black activist and academic was mind-blowing.  Having that same white man on his knees in front of him and giving him head that was blowing his mind as he was about to blow his wad was too much to process.  Andre gently started fucking his face, not brutally at all, but he clearly took control. 


Todd’s senses were on overload.  In a parallel, surreal universe this could never happen.  But it was happening, here and now.  And just when he thought things couldn’t get any better, he felt her presence kneeling directly behind him.  Her moist, naked flesh pressed against his back.  Her nails pinched his nipples.  She whispered in his ear, “Suck that beautiful dick for me.  Show me how you love it.  Show me how much you need it.  Prove to Dre that you love sucking his heavy, thick, hard, Ebony column.”

Todd did just that.  He sucked that dick and put the most enthusiastic female cocksucker to shame.  Andre spurred him on.  “Yeah, suck that cum out of my balls.  You want this cum?  You want it?  Work for it.  Show me that you love the feel of my dick in your mouth.  Of fuck, that’s it.  Come on.  I’ve got a nice bigggggg . . . Ohh shiiiit.” 

Todd didn’t miss a drop. 

As with most fairy tales, they all lived happily ever after.   But it wasn’t the end.  It was just the beginning in fact.  Andre, Todd, and Asali embarked on an erotic journey together.  One that would push all their boundaries and have them re-define their limits. 

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