Minority Affairs: Intense Interracial Erotica

Check out this groundbreaking book of sexy tales across color lines.  Not only will you get hot erotic stories but breathtaking images as well.  

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 18^th 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

Worship

The following story is part three of what was to be an ongoing story.  This was the final chapter.  In going through my old writings I came across it and I needed to post it again.  I'm so in love with the Bitch Domme character and her ability to manipulate the white sub.  To me, there is no greater sense of satisfaction than when dominating a white man and he is seething in anger and he wants to strike you, he hates you, but you can see the look in his eyes that his brain is misfiring, that he realizes for the very first time in his life that he is not truly superior, that the white race isn't truly superior.  It's a thing of beauty to see.  

I hope you enjoy. 

Steven had fucked up.  After his failure of a first meeting with me, he sat and stewed and seethed with animosity.  Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks.  It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him.  He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological.  His need for extortion and blackmail, his fantasies of being “outted”, and financially drained, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women were all indications of him indeed being mentally ill.  He invited women to extort him, he fantasized about his friends and family knowing of his perversions.  He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly. 

At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise.  At the end of the day, he loved all of it.  He sent other women money, bought their used undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00.  In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself.  He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities.  In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms.  He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills or buy them expensive shoes they had no real occasion to wear them, and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and purchases. 

Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously this time.  He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to meet again.  I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia.  True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount.  After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash. 

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century.  Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God pass us by and politely but not so subtly stare.  I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps.  I extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat.  “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously.  All of his fantasies of being humiliated and sexually shamed in public just vanished and he wanted to run and hide.  This was not at all what he had expected.  He said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?” 

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush?  Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning and handed us a program.  Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside.  Never in his life had he felt so out of place.  His was the only white face in the sanctuary and he was the only person dressed casually.  I walked to the very front of the church and he felt compelled to follow.  He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool.  Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior.  Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me.  He started to tell me to fuck off, that he was going to leave, but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice.  The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me. 

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually.  He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came.  The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage.  He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans.  He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship. 

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins.  He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him.  He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with.  I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar.  He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him.  “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins.  Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are.  Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.” 

He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up.  I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins.  Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?”  Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him.  The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation.  The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ.  They passed the collection plate and I whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.” 

His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate.   He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship.  He prayed to be normal.  As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money.  It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts.  He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior.  When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect.  “Mistress, I bow to your will.  I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess.  You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way.  All that I am, all that I have is yours.” 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved