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

Saturday, October 22, 2016

True Power and Control (discarded ending)





The following is the ending of a story I wrote for my book, In Loving Color, but I’ve decided to go with a much different story line, a much more hardcore one in fact, so this one is no longer needed.  Even though it doesn’t have any of the story details and character development found in all my other stories, you pervs should still enjoy it.



Veronica opened the door and Evan almost lost his balance.  She looked better than he could have even imagined.  Her face was fully made-up; her eyes were smudged with a dark shadow, making them look smoky and mysterious.  She wore a black halter-top and black mini skirt, not fetish wear, skimpy and sexy but sophisticated at the same time.


“Oh, I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?  You look like you’re ready to go on a date.  I can come back some other time if you’re busy.”  He was looking for any excuse to turn around and go back to his condo.


 “Come in.”  She stepped to the side and held the door open for him to enter.  Evan felt like his legs were going to give out on him as he crossed the threshold.  He heard the door close behind him and was paralyzed with fear.  He had no idea what was going to happen.  She could have just invited him over to say, “Look leave me alone,” but he didn’t care at that moment.  All that mattered was the fact that he was there and there was the potential to plead his case, however small it may have been.


He sat quietly, taking in his surroundings.  Her living room window faced the city, substantially more moving than his view of the parking lot of the Save-Right grocery store.  Veronica’s view was nothing less than breathtaking and he sat hypnotized by the illuminated urban skyline, trying to distract himself from his fears.  He fidgeted.  A few minutes had passed and he shuffled his feet and twirled his thumbs in nervous anticipation.


Carrying two glasses of wine, Veronica strolled in casually, placing one glass before him and sipping from the other as she sat in the chair adjacent to him.  “What are your limits?”  She was direct and to the point.


“My limits?  What do you mean?”  Evan looked puzzled and immediately tried to back track as his mind raced for an answer that wouldn’t make him look like a total fool.  He had to pull out whatever stops he could to make “this” happen.  He wasn’t quite sure what the details of “this” were, but he was damn sure, well, reasonably sure, okay, almost sure that he wanted it.  “Ohhh, you mean my limits?  Right.  Well, I’m not into kids or animals or anything like that, of course.  You know, I believe the children are our future,” he said, trying to be funny.


Veronica didn’t crack a smile.  “Is that so?”  With that, she began rattling off a list of things that sounded so perverse, Evan didn’t know what half of them were, the others he could figure out and he didn’t like the sounds of them one bit..  “So, you are open to CBT, handballing, feltching, chemical play, golden showers, klismaphila . . .”  It really might as well have been Charlie Brown’s teacher sitting there, mumbling in incoherent banter, because Evan didn’t grasp a word she was saying.  She was testing him and Evan was failing miserably.


He cut her off.  “Wait, are you saying that I’ll get a chance to  . . . you know . . . serve you?”  He chose his words carefully; he didn’t want her to think that he was only trying to play and he wanted to be sure that they were on the same page.  Veronica pulled her legs underneath her and sat back in the chair.  Evan didn’t wait for a response.  He was in survival mode and he started pouring out his plea.  “I don’t know what all those things are.  I know you are more experienced than I am and I know I don’t deserve this opportunity.  If you give me a chance, just one chance, I’ll show you that I can please you.  Even if it means that I endure pain just for your pleasure.  Let me serve you; let me be your plaything.  I want you to take control of me; I want you to reduce me to nothing.  I don’t know why but I feel like I owe it to you.  I know you know more than me but if you just give me a chance I know that I can prove to you that . . . ”


Evan’s declaration of servitude froze on his lips.  Veronica shifted in her seat and he could very clearly saw her pussy between her legs.  She wasn’t wearing panties and she intentionally shifted to give him a view of heaven.  It was as if he’d lost his train of thought and could only focus on the thing of beauty before him.  His gaze remained there, transfixed, glassy-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights.  He swallowed hard and tried to find the words to continue but he couldn’t.  Two months ago, he was a pompous ass, trying unsuccessfully to get laid.  Today he was pleading his case to be allowed the pleasure of being submissive to an incredibly beautiful and mesmerizing woman.  A woman like he’d never known before.


A wave of insecurity washed over him, he stood, downed his wine in one gulp, and got ready to make his exit.  “I’m sorry.  You’re obviously more experienced than I am and I don’t have a right taking up any more of your time.  I’m sorry.  I promise I won’t bother you any more.”  He looked around for a second, getting his bearings, and turned towards the door.  “I’ll let myself out.  Have a good night.”


“Freeze!”  There was no mistaking a direct order and Evan stopped in his tracks.  He stood like a statue and heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floor behind him.  He felt her presence, her body heat near him.  He shut his eyes tightly; the alcohol was warming his insides, rushing to his head.


“Do you remember, Evan, that first day we met?  Do you remember how obnoxious you were to me?  Playing your offensive music and invading my privacy?  What happened to him?  What happened to that guy who got an attitude because I wouldn’t fulfill his fantasies?  Where’d he go, Evan?”  Hearing her speak his name made him feel weak.  Sweat formed on his upper lip and he worried that his deodorant wouldn’t withstand the stress.  He wanted to run but his feet were glued to that spot.  “The entire reason you are here right now is because I was impressed by your email.  It showed incredible change.  In fact, it turned me on.”


Evan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Without warning, he felt the buckle of his belt being unfastened.  His first instinct was to push her hand away but he stood still, not wanting to move until he was instructed.  Veronica pulled his belt free from its loops and circled him slowly, dragging it behind her.  She undid the button on his pants and slowly lowered the zipper.  His pants fell to his ankles and his heart skipped a beat.  His cock didn’t miss a beat, however, and was as hard as it had ever been in his life.  It was throbbing and pulsing and dripping with desire.


Reaching into his boxers, Veronica pulled his hard cock out and stroked him softly.  He wasn’t anticipating such tender treatment; her touch was delicious, soft, mind-blowing even.  He couldn’t control the guttural sounds of pleasure that escaped his lips as she jerked him off, try as he may.  With one swift motion, she yanked his boxers down to mid thigh and inspected him like a piece of meat.  Every millimeter of his penis was standing at attention.  She went about her inspection casually,  squeezing his cock and nuts.  She took her finger, rubbed it across the head, and held it to his lips.  Maintaining eye contact, she whispered, “Lick it.”


Evan instinctively began sucking and licking the precum from her finger.  He was ravenous as she fucked his mouth with her digit.  His enthusiasm was obvious and she yanked her hand away and left him standing there in a state of longing.  Immediately feeling embarrassed he started to explain.  “It’s not like what you are thinking.  I was just trying to show my enthusiasm.”  Shame consumed him.  He’d been eating his own cum since he was a teen.  He didn’t do it all the time, only when he was “in the zone.”  That was the way he described it when he was so horny that nothing could satisfy him, when he craved stimulation.  It was in those moments that he drink his own spunk, rationalizing that it was his so it wasn’t really gay or anything.  He felt transparent, as if Veronica could read his mind, as if she knew all his dirty little secrets without him saying a word.  Evan felt as if the was telepathically transmitting his depravity to her and he was desperately trying to send her false signals.


In some parallel universe, that might have worked.  In this one, however, Veronica was manipulating his every move, two, three, and maybe even four steps ahead.  Evan was out of his league.  “Bend over, hands on your knees,” she said.  Feeling degraded and proud at the same time, Evan leaned forward at the waist and let her continue her inspection.  She pulled his shirt tail up and ran her soft hands over his ass.  Evan would have given anything in that moment to have a big fat bubble butt like a black man.  His was flat, pale, and pretty unspectacular in the scheme of things but he tried his best to stick it out, he wanted her to approve of him.  He never thought feeling like an object could feel so liberating, so sexy.  The irony of the role reversal wasn’t lost on him and his cock jumped even more.  He wondered momentarily if she would look in his mouth like a horse as well.


Unceremoniously, Veronica spread his asscheeks and examined his hole, not touching it, just looking at it.  Even was so humiliated he couldn’t speak.  Then, without warning, he felt the first blow of his belt come crashing down on his ass.  He cried out, not in pain, but more out of fear.  He hadn’t expected things to go like this.  What was going to happen?  What was she going to do?  He wanted to just stop things and call it off, say, “time out” and start over.  The next blow landed with greater force and he knew deep in his soul that he couldn’t leave.  He’d volunteered himself for her pleasure and there seemed to be a karmic debt he had to pay, so he endured in silence, muffling his cries of pain by biting his lower lip.  The heat spread quickly across his ass, the pain grew more intense with each strike.  At some point, reality shifted and the pain turned to pleasure.


Veronica punctuated each stinging blow with a question.  “Do you want to stay, Evan?  Do you like the kiss of pain, the sting of pleasure?  You’ve waited a very long time to be here, haven’t you; you’ve waited a long time to submit to me.  Is it everything that you’d thought it would be?”  She played him like a violin, asking questions he could only answer in the affirmative, forever branding in his mind that the pain he was experiencing was tied to pleasure.  Instinctively, he grabbed his cock and started stroking it.  Veronica stopped the whipping and pressed her body against his, leaning in close.  “Does that feel good, Evan, you like stroking your little cock?”  The words “little cock” turned him on; it was embarrassing and oh so arousing.


“Oh, yes, Mistress, yes, it feels so good.”  He’d never uttered the words mistress before in his life but it felt so natural rolling off his tongue.  He was stroking himself to beat the band, pounding away, feeling her soft breasts pressed against his shoulder, smelling her sweet perfume, feeling the heat on his ass from his spanking.  Even the word spanking seemed erotic, he had just gotten a spanking.  He was ready to cum, to shoot his load all over the floor.  He was prepared to lick it up if he had to, to show his submission.  Just then, with her hand gently stroking his hair, Veronica said, “Evan, I didn’t give you permission to jerk off, did I?  If you cum, I can assure you that not only will I make you pay for it, but you’ll never get the chance to play again.”


Evan panicked.  He was going to cum, there was no holding back, he was on the verge.  He stood up quickly, grabbed his cock, and squeezed with all his might.  His body was convulsing and he was having an orgasm.  He squeezed harder, crying out in anguish.  He was in such excruciating pain but it was also a pleasure like he’d never known.  He stumbled backwards, still gripping his cock tightly, terrified that if he let it go, his cum would leak out.  He used the edge of the sofa for support and tried to regulate his breathing.


Veronica let him take his time.  “Are you okay, Evan?”  He was confused by her compassion but he welcomed it at the same time.  He was expecting her to be cruel, to be irrational and demanding.  Quite the contrary, she seemed genuinely empathetic.  He looked at her with a puzzled look in her eyes and he did his best to communicate his fears to her non-verbally.  He wasn’t as fluent as she was with this language and he questioned in his mind what was going to happen next.


“You were right, Evan, I was just about to go out when you came over.  My girlfriend is on her way and she should be here any minute.  Now, you are more than welcome to stay and  . . . how shall we say it . . . entertain us, or your can call it a night and go home now.  Now, if you stay, you’ll be subjected to more humiliation than your puny imagination can comprehend.


As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.  Evan looked around, wanting to pull up his pants and run.  There was no back door.  Maybe he could make a flying leap off the balcony to his.  A million thoughts ran through his mind as to how to get out of there but he didn’t listen to one of them.  His throbbing cock dictated his actions and he stood erect, in more ways than one, while Veronica ushered in her guest.  She actually made introductions, as inappropriate as they were.  “Yvette, Evan.  Evan, this is my friend Yvette.  Isn’t she beautiful?”  The two women shared an intimate kiss that was the stuff of fantasies, right in front of him.


He tried to remain as still as possible, blending in as it were, trying to camouflage himself off as if he were a piece of furniture.  A piece of half naked furniture.  A piece of half naked, completely aroused furniture, if there was such a thing.  The ladies giggled like schoolgirls playing with a doll.  “Ronnie, you are a trip.  Girl, where do you get these white boys from?”  The women, obviously not new to the experience, inspected him together, unbuttoning his shirt and caressing his muscles.  Four hands fondled him while they talked like he wasn’t even there.  “You remember that one that you made do all those brothas at that party, turned him into a sissy.  What ever happened to him?”


“Hmmm, I can’t remember which one you are talking about.  OHHHHHH, him,” the dawn of recognition in her voice.  “I have no idea.”  Evan swallowed hard, trying to drown out his terror from what he had just heard and the casual inference that Veronica had discarded so many guys like a pieces of trash once she had broken them completely that she could barely keep track of them.


Yvette was interested in taking advantage of the situation.  “He’s not that cute but he does have a nice body.  He’s truly not cut out for fucking.  Can you make him eat my pussy?”


Confident and unfazed by the question, Veronica replied, “Girl, I can make him do anything you want, name it.”  Evan’s arousal was tied to humiliation.  He was turned on by the fact that didn’t have regard for his feelings, that they were not afraid to ridicule him, that they talked about him like he wasn’t even there.  “Come on, let me show you the work I’ve done on my new playroom and you can have him use him any way you want.”


Veronica pulled him by his tie, using it like a leash, and the three were off to get into some hot and heavy action, Evan struggling to walk with his pants and underwear around his ankles.  Veronica opened the door to a bedroom and his heart dropped.  The room had been equipped with custom built furniture that was obviously intended for hardcore domination.  The women laughed at his fear, pulled him in the room, and shut the door.  “Don’t worry, Evan, I made sure the walls were soundproof so no nosey neighbors can hear.”


Veronica led him over to some sort of medical table and handcuffed him to it.  The steel cut into his flesh, they were too tight but he dared not complain.  The ladies finished undressing him, tossing his clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor.  “Evan was a bad boy earlier, jerking off without permission, so we’ll have to make sure he can’t do that anymore.  Bend over!”  Her tone was still soft, but her intent was clear.  Even put his face on the padded table and waited, exposed and vulnerable.


Veronica kicked his legs open and reached between him and felt up his crotch.  She pulled his cock backwards, grabbed his balls.  Some sort of leather strap was secured around his genitals and was surely intended to prevent him from cumming.  He felt the softness of someone’s hands caressing his ass again, and then, without warning, a finger was invading his hole.  He bit his lip and held back his moans.  It was clear that lube was being applied to his hole.  It was cool, the hands were soft, and the sensation was out of this world.  He was squirming, enjoying it when he felt the head of a dildo being pushed in.  He grabbed the table and held tight as the ass plug pushed deeper.


Evan was determined not to scream out in pain, to endure more than he had thought was possible.  His knuckles were white as he gripped the table and felt the burning sensation in his hole.  He wanted to make Veronica proud, to prove to her friend that he was worthy of sticking around.  Soon, the pain turned to indescribable pleasure as the dildo started hitting the right spots.  Within seconds, Evan had gone from one extreme to the other, only now, trying to stifle the moans of pleasure instead of ones of pain.  He didn’t want them to know that he had been so easily converted, he was afraid of what potential scenarios that would create.


The sounds of talking brought him back to reality and he listened intently to a conversation that had been going on for some time, drowned out by his own voyage of anal pleasure.  “. . . yeah, I know, me too.  But right now, I can’t think about that.  Right now, all I want is for him to eat my pussy.  I’m so wet and I want to cum so hard.”


Veronica released the handcuffs and instructed him to lie on the table.  He did as instructed and felt his hands being handcuffed again.  He spoke up on his behalf.  “Please, I don’t want to get away.  I’m not going to resist.  Can you please leave the handcuffs off?”


Veronica smiled and nodded, acknowledging his demands but not meeting them.  Yvette slipped her skirt down her legs and then her tiny thong.  Evan was mesmerized and he looked at Veronica, seeking some sort of approval.  He wanted to make her proud, he wanted her to know that he was doing it for her.  He desperately wished he could be eating Veronica’s pussy but he knew that was an honor he’d have to earn.  Yvette was incredibly sexy but it was Veronica that Evan wanted to belong to, whom he wanted to worship.  She looked deeply into his eyes, conveying her compassion and understanding and admonishing him with her stare that he had better not disappoint her.


Yvette climbed on the table, lowering her cunt slowly to his face.  Evan stared up in disbelief.  Her pussy held him captive by the sweet folds of flesh as they opened for him.  He stuck his tongue out and waited, not so patiently for his first taste of dark desire.  Teasing him, Yvette let him take in every detail before she positioned herself comfortably on his face, using it as a seat cushion of pleasure.  The full weight of her body was a bit overwhelming but he felt Veronica’s hands caressing his body and he was inspired to do whatever he had to do to make her proud.


Even though Yvette was petite, with her full body weight on him, Evan hovered somewhere between consciousness and ecstasy.  His senses were deprived and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of wanting to gasp for air along with the intense feelings in his throbbing, restrained cock.  Her full ebony ass shielded his vision and prevented much movement on his part.


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


Occasionally, she would raise herself up to give him a brief second of reprieve.  For that instant, his eyes would be flooded with light, he would gasp for air like a man drowning, and he would feel the cool air revive him.  Rather than being the sensation he craved, he longed to feel the warmth and security of that gorgeous black pussy on his mouth again as he teetered near the edge of suffocation and orgasm.  He pretended it was Veronica, riding him, using him.  He imagined he was driving his tongue up in the sweet recesses of her sexy treasure.  Veronica taunted him, teased him, asking him if he could take more, demanding that he make her friend cum or else.  She humiliated and degraded him.  “Look at your pathetic cock, jerking wildly, dripping like a faucet.  Make her cum white boy.  Make her cum and I just may let you back to experience more.


Yvette began bouncing up and down, one the verge of orgasm.  Veronica began to slap and twist Evan’s balls cruelly, pulling them to administer pain, or was it pleasure?  Determined, he refused to stop until he could taste Yvette’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 Veronica was stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, masturbating him cruelly.  He couldn’t breathe; he was feeling faint.  The pleasure was indescribable and Yvette was riding him hard, cumming even harder.  He could feel her nails digging into his flesh and . . . without warning, Veronica removed the strap, causing Evan’s body to explode in orgasm like he’d never known before.


Evan awoke the next morning in his own bed.  His limbs were fatigued and sore; his body ached and his mind was drained.  He stumbled to the kitchen to get some juice and after that he wasn’t really sure what to do.  His experience the evening before had left him emotionally drained.  He couldn’t go back to the way things were, he had been transformed.  He was experiencing every detail over in his mind.  He opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside to get some fresh air.  Veronica was seated outside, sipping iced coffee and engrossed in the morning paper.  She looked up, acknowledged him with a wave, and went back to reading.  Evan retreated back inside, unsure of what to say, what to do.  When he sat at his computer and opened his email that he saw that Veronica had emailed him.



“I was extremely proud of you last night.  You did very well.  I will look forward to pushing you further, exploring more in the future.  V.”


He felt a sense of accomplishment and pride like he’d never known.  He ran to the balcony again and opened the door.  Veronica was gone but she’d left her mark, on his body and in his soul.




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.”  

“OK.”

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

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory



One of the real joys of the holiday season is how the kink community comes together to celebrate.  It seems that everyone is allowed to let their hair down that much more, to party like pagans, and to lose him or herself to pure hedonistic pleasure.  This holiday season, the Houston kink community was coming together not only to celebrate in grand style, to say goodbye to ’05 and usher in a brand spanking new year, literally and figuratively, but also to raise funds for those in their BDSM family that were displaced by Hurricane Katrina.  Meaning, quite bluntly, insurance companies left many Black Dominas from Crescent City to fend for themselves when it came to replacing many of their custom built pieces of furniture, equipment, and paraphernalia while their white counterparts got a check cut, no questions asked.  Houston PEP recognized the disparity and decided to have a fundraiser for its newly adopted Lousiana transplants to help them re-establish themselves and to embrace them with open arms and have a hell of a blowout party at the same time.



The generosity of the partygoers that evening was beyond compare.  People brought everything from whips and paddles to swings and straight jackets, to a St. Andrew’s Cross and everything in between.  One generous benefactor was even kind enough to donate space so that Mistresses Eden, Cree, Ana, Ebony, and Chocolate would have a place to set up shop without much hassle.  Electricity was in the air as the ladies mixed and mingled among their newfound family to introduce themselves.  Charlie Papadopoulos was particularly aroused at the presence of the guests of honor.  He had always been attracted to women of color and he had acknowledged that he was submissive for nearly two decades.  He was like a kid in a candy shop, distracted and fidgety.  His wife, Eva, was barely able to have a conversation with him because he was so preoccupied.  He hadn’t even heard her inform him that he was going to be a contestant in a very special selection process to serve and worship the honorees for the evening.  It wasn’t until she led him to the stage by a leash where he stood among four other subs and waited to be inspected to see if he would have the privilege of serving the Black Dommes that he truly got an understanding of what could potentially happen.



His heart was beating fast and his face was flush.  His cock was so hard it ached as he stood for what seemed like hours.  People passed by, making comments and speculations about who would win and be subjected to the sadistic whims of FIVE strict Dominatrixes.  Charlie swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the floor.  He dared not look at the other subs that stood next to him.  He felt inferior; his body not as young, lithe, or muscled as his other competitors.  He could hear their laughs and taunts as they described his small cock and middle-aged paunch, assured, in their minds at least, that they would get a place at the feet of the Dominas and the opportunity of a lifetime.



The lovely Dommes examined the submissives one by one.  First was Mistress Eden.  The youngest of the group at 21, she had a lot to prove.  She wanted everyone to know that she was truly a dominant and not just a kid playing at being domme.  Charlie only saw her well-pedicured feet as he kept his eyes on the floor but he certainly felt the pain in his nuts as he grabbed them and twisted them enough to bring him to his knees.  He wouldn’t, however, crumble that easily and he kept his composure through the pain.  His honor was at stake and he focused his mind to endure whatever was necessary in order to serve.  He would endure more humiliation, more degradation, more pain than the human mind and body was capable of for the honor of serving.  Mistress Cree, dressed in a full-length latex gown, and Mistress Ana, wearing a leather corset and panties, poked and prodded Charlie like he was a piece of livestock.  They opened his mouth and examined his teeth like they would a horse as he stood stoically as the onlookers took bets to see who would survive the next elimination.  They bent him over and fingered his ass and Charlie couldn’t help but whimper.  He felt his knees weaken slightly but the prize was too close.  Two of the others had been eliminated and it was down to just him and two others.  He felt them shoving fingers in his tight mancunt and he looked out into the audience and saw his wife Eva casually chatting away with her friends, oblivious to his predicament while everyone else in the room seemed to have their eyes glued to the makeshift stage.



Mistress Ebony was a super-sized BBW, tipping the scales at well over 300 pounds.  Her red see-through negligee showed her pendulous breasts and rolls of fat.  She seemed to be intrigued with having each sub on his knees to swat his tender flesh with her riding crop, listening to the most creative pleas for more punishment.  Charlie was in sub space.  He was intoxicated with lust.  The words came tumbling out of his mouth as the crop came down on his body.  “Oh Mistress, I crave your punishment.  I’m a dirty, filthy, lowly white pig that lives to serve your Superior Ebony whims and desires.  Make me endure the most cruel penalties, the most degrading tortures and I’ll prove to you that I want more by begging your to push me further.  I’m a disgusting white slut that needs to be used and I will gladly eat your ass, drink your piss, or anything that you desire to show my submissiveness to you.”



By the time Mistress Chocolate stepped on the stage, it was down to Charlie and one other sub.  The crowd was in a frenzy.  Mistress Chocolate didn’t lay a finger on him.  She simply whispered in his ear with a sweet melodious voice, that if she selected him, she was going to make regret his desire to submit to her.  She began stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, and rubbing it gently with her black satin-gloved hand, trying to bring him to orgasm.  Every tendon, every sinew in his body was tensed as he focused on her words and kept his eyes focused on the crowd.  She pressed her very muscular frame into his back and whispered, “I’m going to take you down.  You’re the one I want to see suffer.  You have the most to lose.  You, with your high paying job, your middle class air of superiority.  I want to see you kneel at my feet and worship me.”  Charlie let out a moan like a wounded animal and fought with every ounce of his being to hold back his cum.  Everyone was in a state of arousal.  Subs were licking wet pussies and being forced to lick feet as the all white crowd watched with wide eyes. 



Charlie passed out.  When he awoke, he was trying to figure out what had happened.  Had he won?  Had he cum?  He tried to speak but he was overwhelmed with the sensation that he was firmly secured in a stockade in a room with a glass window.  He couldn’t turn his head to see anyone but he assumed that there was a large audience.



For the next few hours, Charlie was the plaything of the five black women.  Mistress Eden was intent on using his asshole with her black strapon like he was a whore.  No longer feeling the need to hold back, he moaned, groaned, and begged for more.  “Oh Mistress, I need your hard, thick, black strapon rammed in my sissy pussy.  Fuck me.  Fuck me harder, make it hurt.  It feels so fucking good, ram me.  Use my white slutty asshole.  Can’t you fuck me any harder than that?”  His taunts were met with the Domme fucking him like a rag doll.  His pleas for more weren’t to be heard for very long because he his mouth was quickly put to use licking the huge, sweaty asshole of Mistress Ebony.  He could barely breath with the fleshy mounds of her enormous ass covering his entire face.  He worked his tongue in and licked the musky flavors as he could hear the muffled laughs as he felt he was going to pass out.



Deeper in sub space than he had ever been, being watched by dozens of onlookers, Charlie felt the sting of even more punishment applied to his ass.  Mistress Ana administered a cat-o-nine tails on his back, ass, and thighs, hitting his tender balls.  He would have cried out if Mistress Cree hadn’t grabbed his hair firmly in her hands and pressed her hot cunt to his mouth and forced him to drink her hot piss.  It was a never-ending onslaught of sensation, each woman demanding pleasure in different ways.



It was the mysterious and gorgeous, Mistress Chocolate, however that stalked her prey.  She wanted his singular focus and she waited patiently for the others to tire of using him.  Charlie wanted more; he was desperate to be pushed past his limits.  His neck was aching as he strained to look up at her.  Her toned brown legs were inches from his face.  She lifted her skirt slowly, making the crowd gasp in shock.  Underneath the short miniskirt was the fully functioning cock of a transsexual.  It was a full 8 inches in length and impressively thick.  Charlie swallowed hard and started begging, “Feed me that hot black cock, shove it in my mouth, fuck my face, make me suck it like the depraved cocksucking whore that I am.”  Not one to disappoint, Mistress Chocolate fed him her entire dick, making him choke and gag.  In the zone, Charlie used his tongue, lips, and mouth to make that gorgeous cock shoot loads of creamy cum in his mouth.



Exhausted and sore, Charlie and Eva made the trip back home the next day in relative silence.  Charlie could be more proud because his actions were part of a terrific fund-raiser for a very worthy cause.  It was a night to remember and the stuff dreams are made of for a white sub named Charlie with an incredible desire for chocolate.



Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK



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