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 Femdom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Femdom. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Sold, to the Highest Bidder!





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





Monday, January 12, 2015

Blinded by the Light





If you were to disappear, well, if you were to go away is probably a more appropriate term, would anyone miss you, would anyone care?  What would happen if you decided to give up your life, to walk away from everything that you know, everyone you know and love, and become someone else, something else.  In the case of Bob Gibson, that is exactly what he had to ask himself.  He had six weeks to decide, to put his affairs in order so to speak, making sure that he could make the transition to his new life with little or no suspicions being aroused by anyone.  The story he told his coworkers was that he inherited a rather sizeable piece of land and some money from a distant relative in Germany and he was going to retire and move there to get away from the rat race.  In reality, he was going to be moving less than 10 miles away and he, well, let’s just say that he was not going to be living a life of luxury. 

Everything in his life turned upside down when he was sitting at work like any other day and a woman entered his bank branch and asked to speak to someone about investing a large sum of money.  As he stood to greet her and shake her hand and escort her to his desk, little did he know that he was about to change the course of his life drastically and forever. 

“Yes, Ms. Maxwell, how can I help you today?” 

Elaine Maxwell was a Black woman who looked like she could have been in her late 40s.  Her form-fitting red suit hugged every curve of her mature, sexy body.  Her black, silk stockings caressed her beautiful legs and her tasteful and sophisticated pumps framed her sexy feet to perfection.  Her hair was straight and hung just below her shoulders and her face was stern but pretty.  She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or anything, she had aged well but she wasn’t going to stop traffic by any means.  What she did possess in spades, while possibly lacking the looks of a runway model, was an air of confidence that couldn’t be denied. It oozed from every pore of her body, she reeked of being in control and even a casual observer could see that she was a ball-buster of the highest order. 

“I’ve just come into a large amount of money and I need to set up several different accounts.” 

“Well, Ms. Maxwell, I’m sure we can help you with that.  Exactly how much money are we talking about and what sort of accounts would you like to set up?  We have several products that might be able to help you.” 

She said casually, “I have a total of $1,250,000 and I’m looking to set up an interest bearing checking account, a savings and business checking account, a money market deposit account, and I need a couple of CDs.  Oh, and a personal checking account as well. 

The look of astonishment could barely be hidden on Bob’s face.  In an average month, he wouldn’t get one person with anywhere near that amount of money to invest.  Sure, there were lots of people with those sorts of balances he had worked with before but they were the result of interest and investments and smaller, incremental deposits, not one large sum of money.  He laughed nervously.  “Wow, did you win the lottery,” trying to think of a way to hide his clear shock and awe?  Regretting his choice of words immediately, he shuffled papers on his desk and he felt about an inch tall.  He knew it wasn’t appropriate or professional to ask and he wished he could eat his words but his mind was searching, scrambling, wondering how she could have come into that much money at one time.  There was a part of his brain that couldn’t process a Black woman could have that sort of money without thinking there was some sort of criminal enterprise involved: drugs, prostitution, or perhaps larceny.  He recovered quickly, saying, “I’m sure we can help you with those things. Have you consulted with anyone about some higher risk investments that might yield you greater returns?  I would love to show you some investment options that would . . .” 

Bob felt his words being stifled by her intense stare.  He stopped mid-sentence, his words dying off, culminating in a nadir of insecurity and intimidation.  Elaine didn’t respond to either question, rather she simply gave a sly smile and a look that clearly said, “Just do what the fuck I told you to do and don’t ask any dumb questions.”  She didn’t have to say the words rather she communicated them clearly with some sort of telepathic, mind-bending sorcery.  Bob was always uncomfortable around women socially and this woman seemed to be staring a hole into his very being, peering into the deepest, darkest recesses of his soul.  And Bob had some filthy secrets to hide in those dark, veiled places. 

She opened her purse and pulled out a cashier’s check made out to her in the amount of $1.25 million exactly.   Bob swallowed hard.  He felt a pang of jealousy for anyone with that amount of money and his own massive debts made him feel inferior but he pulled himself together called his supervisor and went about the business of fulfilling her requests. 

The process of setting up all those accounts with that amount of money takes days not hours and there are tons of terms of agreement forms to be signed, tax forms and tax identification numbers to be filed, signature cards on top of virtual signature cards, approvals, overrides, overnighted packages, PINs programmed, free gifts, and credit and debit cards to be issued.  When all was said and done, Elaine and Bob had spent a significant amount of time together.  Their conversations were sparse, strictly limited to business, and after each encounter, when he would go home and unwind from his day, Bob would fill in the blanks with his own fantasies of not only how she came into that sort of money but the things she would do to him.  Oh, the things she would do.

Bob intentionally tried to make their interactions longer than were necessary.  He would say he needed to speak to someone at corporate and then call his personal cell phone from his office phone and pretend to be on hold or mumbling a variety of affirmative responses pretending to talk to someone, filling in the empty space with casual banter.  A few times, his computer seemed to freeze up and he had to call the IT department and reboot his terminal, all the while trying to make small talk and lavish her with very subtle compliments.  In his mind, the more time he spent with her, making small talk, he could get answers to his questions.  He very much wanted to ask her very personal questions. 

She didn’t wear a wedding ring so one of the many scenarios he created in his head involved her being a divorcee and the money was part of her divorce settlement.  In addition to being a drug cartel “queenpin” the lottery scenario played itself out a few times in his head as well.  Mostly, he fantasized that she extorted the money from some rich guy whom she was sexually involved with who had secrets to hide and this was her payoff money.  Maybe he died and left her the money in his will because he was so devoted to her, angering his conservative family who knew nothing about his sexual proclivities while he was living.  That particular fantasy was the most arousing for him as he could have her fit his fantasies of being a cruel dominatrix who inflicted unrelenting pain. 

Every day, Elaine would come attired in a severe but sexy suit, makeup and hair done to perfection, and heels.  It was her shoes that always held his attention.  Bob was captivated by them.  They were expensive, he could tell, and they looked like torture devices with pointy stilettos and pointy toes and platforms that looked like only the most experienced acrobat could walk on. 

As the last of the red tape had been navigated and it was clear that they had no more need to interact on a daily basis, Bob thought for a moment that he would work up the nerve to ask her for coffee.  He rearranged papers and opened and closed drawers and stood at the copy machine and changed the ink cartridge that wasn’t nearly empty trying to work up his nerve before he told her that she was cleared for take-off as it were. It wasn’t professional and he knew he could get in trouble if he did but just the thought of asking her out to find out her real story was enough to keep him running the scenario over in his head.  He fidgeted until he couldn’t fidget any more.   He did everything but ask her out.  Instead he simply said, “Ms. Maxwell, it’s been a pleasure working with you and if you need anything further, please feel free to call me.  Here’s my card.”  That was the best he could do.  He was even too scared to write his own personal cell phone number on the card. 

Elaine smiled and placed the card in her billfold and turned to leave without so much as a thank you or goodbye.  He slumped in his chair as she walked away and he stared at her ass in that form-fitting suit and with nasty thoughts of what he would do to her, well, what she would do to him more accurately.  Just as the door to the bank closed, he looked at his desk and her very expensive Mont Blanc lay there.  He grabbed it and sprinted for the parking lot.  

“Ms. Maxwell,” he shouted, as he saw her opening the door to her big, black truck, “You forgot your pen!” 

She turned to see him trotting like an old, fat horse to her vehicle.  She opened the door to her SUV and climbed inside as Bob approached her.  Then, in the most blatant Sharon Stone/ Basic Instinct move ever made in real life, with her skirt that had “accidentally” been pulled up just enough,  she spread her legs ever so slightly so that Bob could see her naked pussy above her thigh high stockings.  Right there, practically at eye level, was her mature, hairy, black pussy.  Bob was frozen in his tracks.  He dropped the pen, sincerely and honestly by accident, but his lingering stare at the heaven between her thighs was anything but accidental.  He wanted to ram his face in there and start licking and to hell with the consequences.  He didn’t of course.  He didn’t do anything but stare.  He knew she saw him staring and he felt ashamed and embarrassed for not being able to look away but he couldn’t.  The president of the bank could have called his name in that moment and Bob would have said, “Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute.” 

She extended her hand and he placed the pen gently in her palm.  Again, she didn’t even make the civil pretense of saying thank you and that fact made Bob’s cock stir in his sensible and boring suit pants.  She was toying with him but he was too inept and socially immature to respond the way any normal male would so he just stood there, words frozen in his brain, unable to utter a sound.  She turned in the seat and pulled her skirt down just a tiny bit.  He could still see the tops of her lace top stockings and the straps of her expensive garter belt as he watched her foot press the brake, wishing she would press her perfect foot into his balls in much the same way, as she started the engine. 

With his hand on the door frame for support, Bob struggled to stand up of his own volition.  His knees were weak and about to buckle.  And, almost like he was in a dream, he saw her reach for the door and pull it shut, his fingers smashed across the knuckle and the first joint.  He didn’t scream out or curse like most people would do, instead, he made a groan, a muffled grunt and said, “Thank you, Mistress,” automatically.  It was so spontaneous, so unplanned he almost didn’t hear himself say it.  He grabbed his hand and clutched it to his chest with his left hand.  She rolled down the window and said, “Grimaldi’s.  Tonight.  8:30,” put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, almost rolling over Bob’s foot in the process. 

Dazed, confused, and aroused, Bob stood in the parking lot, his hand throbbing and aching, his libido heightened and aroused.  Everyone in the bank was outraged and demanded that he press charges but he insisted that it was his fault, that it was totally an accident.  His boss made him leave work early and get x-rays to make sure that no bones were broken.  He didn’t care if they were.  He had fallen in love with her assertiveness and her cruelty in that moment.  His mind raced trying to figure out how she had identified his fetish so completely in such a short period of time.  He had to go to an Emergency Care office and there was a two hour wait.  He contemplated just going home and wrapping it in an ace bandage and putting some ice on it so he could get ready to meet her but he stayed, against his first inclination he stayed.  He wanted to get home to masturbate before the meeting but if he had broken bones, he didn’t want to have to explain to his coworkers why he didn’t get everything taken care of then and there. 

Nothing was broken but his hand was swollen and purple.  That wasn’t the only thing that was swollen and purple to say the least.  Bob was turned on like never before.  What sort of woman would do that?  What sort of women would show no remorse, not even an ounce of guilt or empathy after doing something so harsh?  The woman of his dreams, that’s what sort of woman.  All his life he’d fantasized about a woman who was unapologetically cruel and sadistic.  She was Black, attractive, not quite rich but if she played her cards right and invested some of that money, she wouldn’t have to work again, or not very hard at least, and she seemed warped and twisted enough to fulfill all of his wildest dreams come true.  And to top it off, she demanded his presence at dinner tonight.  He was not going to be late even if he they had to amputate his entire arm. 

By the time he got home, he looked at porn and jerked off for a couple of hours.  He had to use his left hand because his right hand was in a brace.  He showered and dressed and stopped at the grocery store for a bouquet of cheap flowers because he didn’t want to show up empty handed.  He had no idea what to expect from her.  He knew that she didn’t find him attractive.  She deserved a real man.  He wasn’t a real man.  Real men are assertive and confident; they aren’t warped masochists who get off on extreme pain.  Real men are suave alpha males who dominate women not pain pigs who live from paycheck to paycheck just to keep their heads above water. 

He was three minutes late and she was already seated when the hostess showed him to her table.  “Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the chair, the hostess taken aback by the strict tone of her voice.

Bob slithered into the chair and awaited further instruction.  She saw the brace on his hand and said, “No cast?  I’ll have to do it harder next time.” 

Bob almost came in his pants. 

He looked at the menu nervously, not sure what to say.  He was out of his element.  He’d never been in a situation like this in his life and he wanted to show his reverence but he was terrified beyond belief.  Not terrified of her but rather terrified that he would fuck up and ruin whatever was going to happen.  The waiter came and she ordered for both of them, but not before making sure to ask him in front of the server if he had a little cock.  Both Bob and the server blushed a deep shade of crimson red.  Elaine, on the other hand, looked like she had just said, “Pass the salt, please.” 

Throughout dinner, she asked question after question.  She asked questions so intimate and personal that a ton of people who are married never asked each other for that much detail and veracity.  By the time Bob answered, she had another question lined up.  He answered all of them truthfully, as truthfully as he could.  Elaine didn’t seem to understand the concept of discretion as she asked more and more sexual questions within earshot of the other diners and she wasn’t concerned or moved that she might be offending them.  That turned Bob on.  Over the course of their meal, she learned everything about Bob that there was to know.  She knew about his occasional cross dressing tendencies, his failed relationships, his crazy ex-wife, his drug and alcohol issues, his debt, and most importantly, his love of pain and suffering at the hands of a cruel and sadistic Domme. 

She signaled for the check and the waiter was there in seconds, wanting to hear more of their conversation so he could run back to the kitchen and tell people more of the bits and pieces he had gleaned from their taboo banter.  “Do you have any questions for me, Bob,” she asked sincerely. 

“Well,” he stammered, “I guess.  Actually, just two questions.  First, how did you know, today, in the parking lot, that I would like pain, that I would respond the way I did?” 

“I consulted my African tarot cards and the voodoo gods told me that you need pain in order to feel arousal.” 

Bob swallowed hard.  This woman was surely some sort of other-world sorceress who had magical and mystical powers that could see into his soul.  He inhaled sharply, ready to ask his second question when she finished by saying, “You fucking idiot.  I had no idea you liked pain. What makes you think I cared if you liked pain or not?  I didn’t care then and I really don’t care now.  I just thought it would be amusing to see if I could break your hand.  I could tell you were into feet or shoes or legs or whatever, you aren’t very discrete when you stare, but I didn’t have the slightest clue about the pain thing.  I guess you just lucked out.” 

OK, Bob was pretty much assured that she was a sociopath because she explained it all without even a hint of repentance.  A deranged Black woman with no conscious just explained to him that she was unhinged and unapologetically cruel.  She truly was the woman of his dreams.  His second question would be his last chance, or so he thought, so he wanted to make it a good one.  The entire evening was so arousing he would replay it over and over in his head for years to come adding details and making it end in a flurry of abuse and torture.  He took another deep breath and whispered, almost ashamed to ask, “And the money?”   He didn’t think he needed to explain further. 

He just knew for sure that she was going to say, “None of your fucking business,” but he had to ask; he wanted to know so he could put his suspicions to bed. 

Staring him straight in the eye, not hesitating for a second with her response, she said almost tearfully . . . almost, “I got a settlement from The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York.”  She didn’t have to say more.  In an instant, 100s of questions were answered.  From that tidbit of information he could piece together why she seemed to so blasé about causing a relative stranger such intense pain.  Bob wasn’t Catholic, he wasn’t even religious so he didn’t feel any particular guilt or connection to her situation but he imagined that whatever was done to her to earn her such a huge settlement was something that created this beautiful monster before him to his great benefit. 

She picked up her bag and pulled out her cell phone.  She placed a call and covered it with her hand while mouthing the words, “I’m sure we’ll see one another again,” and she walked out, leaving Bob to pay the bill. 

Every second of every day, Bob fantasized about the mysterious Ms. Maxwell.   There wasn’t a waking moment when he wasn’t obsessed with thoughts about her.  Every time the door to the bank opened, he looked to see if it was her.  He would have to jerk off at work, unable to concentrate or be productive, because he was in a constant state of arousal.  He would go home and spend hours and hours just edging, keeping himself constantly aroused, fantasizing about Mistress Elaine beating the crap out of him, leaving him a bloody, broken mess, exacting revenge for the pain inflicted on her, taking it out on his useless body, transforming his mind, owning his spirit.

He knew she would be back.  He knew it because she had to know how much control she had over him and he knew she was the sort of women that would take advantage of that.  He waited as patiently as he could but was on constant edge, anxious to see her again. 

It was approximately two weeks after their night out that he saw her again.  She walked in the bank, looking as stunning and intimidating as ever, and walked up to his desk.  He was with another customer at the time and his co-worker Elizabeth was trying her best to get Elaine to come to her desk to see if she assist her in any way.  Bob had never been so curt with a customer in his life.   He refunded their overdrawn fee and offered them a lollipop as he made sure to escort them out as quickly as possible.  By the time he returned, Elaine was seated at his desk and seductively sucking on a blue raspberry flavored lollipop.  

“Yes, Ms. Maxwell, how can I help you today?”  He wanted to drop to his knees and kiss her feet but he knew better. 

“I need a mortgage,” she said, “Fifteen-year I’m thinking.  I found the most glorious house and I can’t let it get away.”  Normally, Bob didn’t handle mortgage products but he was not going to let her leave his desk.  He stalled.  He asked her all sorts of questions about the house, how many bedrooms, when it was built, if she had it inspected, anything he could think of before he had to come clean and acknowledge that he had to send her to someone else in order to help her. 

Elaine understood and then said, “Well, maybe you can come and see it and give me some feedback on what you think about it, if it’s a good investment.” 

She didn’t have to ask twice.  Bob was following behind her car minutes after the bank closed.  They pulled into a long, private, winding driveway and drove up to an absolutely gigantic house.  They couldn’t get in and they couldn’t see much of anything in the windows because the lights were out.  It was getting dark and Bob could barely see the green and brown bruises that were healing on his hand in the dusk.  It was then that Elaine made her offer. 

“I’m looking for a real slave.  I want to own, use, mistreat, and abuse a slave, take away all their rights as a human being.  The only rights they will have will be the ones I give them.  I thought you might be interested considering you’re such a warped, fucked-up individual.”

Bob was dumbfounded.  He stuttered.  “I can’t do . . . what would make you think . . . I have a life . . .”  He was grasping for words, feigning indignation. 

Elaine cut him off, “No you don’t.  You don’t have a life.  You’re a loser.  You have a mediocre job and no one who cares about you.  You are sick and twisted and you’re a true pig.  You want what I have to offer.  Think about it.  I’ll give you a couple of days.  If you decide you want to do it, we’ll have to start making arrangements to make sure there’s no trace of you for anyone to follow.  We will have to sell off all your assets, close out all your accounts, we’ll have to make sure you don’t exist anymore.  In return, I’ll torture and abuse you more than your little feeble mind can comprehend.”  She turned, got in her truck, and drove off. 

Bob pulled out his cock and stroked it furiously and feverishly in the open night air.  He wanted it.  He didn’t have to wait a couple of days to make his final decision.  He knew from that day in the parking lot he would do anything that she asked of him with no limits. 

So, for six weeks, he said his goodbyes, he sold off everything he owned and put the money in an account he had created for his new Mistress Elaine.  He was upside down on his mortgage so they decided the best thing for him was to just walk away from it.  Who cares about a FICO score if you are a piece of shit who belongs to a deranged psychopath who gets pleasure from inflicting excruciating pain?  They had a party at the bank with cake and a card and everyone wished him well on his new journey in life.  As the day grew closer, as the time grew nearer that he would give up his existence and become a thing, he stayed constantly horny. 

Finally, the day did come.  Mistress Elaine picked him up in front of the train station with his one suitcase filled all his worldly possessions.  Anyone who noticed him would think he was being picked up by a friend.  What no one would ever suspect was that he was about to begin his life as a piece of property, a thing, an animal. 

They drove the 20 minutes or so to their new house.  This time, Elaine Maxwell was the owner of record and she had the keys.  The house was already decorated and furnished but Bob would only see the upstairs portion of the house briefly.  She ushered him to a doorway, opened it and indicated that he should go first. 

The lower level of the home had been converted to a custom dungeon.  There were no windows and there was a cage in the middle of the floor and torture and restraint devices, of every type, all over.  His first night he suffered more mental anguish than physical.  He was made to strip naked and placed in the cage and given a bowl of dog food and water.   The cage was big enough for a large dog but not a human.  Once he was securely locked in, Elaine patted him on the head, turned off the lights and went upstairs.  She didn’t explain anything, she didn’t make any demands.  He could hear her walking around and he waited for the door to open and for her to begin his mistreatment but it was not to come that night. 

Or the next. 

Bob waited.  He listened to visitors come and go, presumably neighbors and friends bringing house warming gifts.  He didn’t know for sure because he couldn’t hear the conversations clearly, he just knew he was starving and wanted some real food.  He did not eat the dog food.  He refused.  He drank all the water and needed more.  He used the bathroom in the corner of the cage on newspaper like a puppy and tried his best to block it out of his mind but he was going crazy.  The smell seemed overpowering.  He regretted this choice.  He wanted his life back.  He tried to sleep because when he was asleep he didn’t have to think about his circumstances.  His legs were cramped and he wanted to stand up straight.  He couldn’t.  He was afraid to cry out but he was going out of his mind. 

Finally, he heard the door open.  He begged, he pleaded for real food, for more water.  He groveled like a prisoner on death row begging for his life on his way to the gas chamber.  And the Divine Goddess Maxwell granted him a reprieve.  She unlocked the cage and opened the door.  That quickly, after all that begging, he was afraid of what would happen if he left the cage.  He wanted to cower in the corner but the corner had his piss and shit there.  He tentatively crawled on his hands and knees and placed himself at his owner’s feet.  Even though he wasn’t standing, he felt freer. 

Then, without warning, he felt the intense blow of her foot connecting with the side of his head.  Her shoe landed directly on his ear and he was dazed and he thought for a moment that she had ripped his eardrum.  There was no foreplay, no teasing, no sexy banter, she just kicked him in the head.  His pain meant nothing to her.  His life, comfort, safety, and opinion meant nothing to her.  As much as Bob knew it was fucked up, he was aroused in a way that he had never known before. 

Over the course of the next few months, Mistress Maxwell experimented and tortured Bob in ways that most people couldn’t imagine.  She forced anything and everything she could find into his pisshole.  It was nothing for her to grab his cock through the bars of the cage and shove a pen, a mascara brush, a screwdriver, or a toy she found at a garage sale.  Nothing was off limits.  His balls served as target practice any time of the night or day.  She delighted in coming home after a night out to wake him up to hang extreme weights on his testicles and she would kick his nuts until he passed out.  It was like a nightcap for her, a hot toddy to help her sleep.  Knowing that she was inflicting pain, unspeakable pain soothed her.  More than that, it aroused her. 

His asshole was favorite body part to punish.  Unlubricated, she forced things deep inside him, stretching him, making his hole a cavernous pit of depravity.  Her anal punishments registered as pleasure in Bob’s brain and there were times he would release cum as she fucked his sloppy pit with enormous dildos.  He would be punished for ejaculating and she would make sure he suffered, writhing in pain to pay for his pleasure.

She branded him.  It wasn’t some intricate design she had made in the shape of an M or her name, it was a coat hanger she bent with some pliers and heated to glowing red.  Bob got an infection from the first brand.  She would re-brand him every few weeks, making the scar more intense.  She loved hearing him scream in agony.  The first time she branded him however he got so sick, his temperature spiked and he was moving towards the light.  She took him to a doctor who pumped him full of antibiotics.  The doctor asked all sorts of questions, about the burns, about the scars and bruises, about the blood work that indicated extreme malnourishment and anemia, the broken ribs.  Bob knew not to answer.  He couldn’t really, he was too sick.  The doctor wanted to admit him to the hospital to run some more tests but Elaine convinced him that he just needed to convalesce in the comfort of his own home.  She just failed to mention that the comfort of his home was a cage 5 feet by 3 feet by 4 feet. 

There wasn’t a torture that she didn’t try on him.  The list was extensive and Bob grew to tolerate levels of pain he never thought possible.  She truly had pushed him to a place where he was beyond human.  He could take beatings, whippings with paddles, whips, canes and eventually he would ask for more.  The greatest torture was when she would ignore him.  The sweetest sound he had ever heard was the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, wearing a new pair of high heels and she would stand on him, kick, trample, and stomp him nearly to death, literally.  His nipples were elongated and sensitive, his tits filled with saline injections and clamps and weights constantly made sure he was aroused. 

Days turned to nights and without the sound of another voice, Bob was becoming feral.  He wasn’t allowed to speak and never got to touch another human being.  He didn’t have contact with the outside world: he didn’t have a cell phone or access to a computer.  Everything in his world revolved around Mistress Elaine and her sadistic whims.  Even when Elaine would piss on him, when she would use him as her toilet, she never gave him the pleasure of the honor of touching her most sacred place.  She dated other men, real men, but he was never allowed to taste the evidence of it from her freshly fucked pussy or asshole.  She had a cold once and she let him come upstairs.  She lounged on the sofa under a blanket, reading books and drinking orange juice and she would put a finger aside her nostril and blow her nose onto Bob’s blindfolded face as he lay reclining on the floor like a faithful dog.  It was heaven. 

The dungeon grew.  She seemed to always bring home new things, a tens-unit, a posture collar, medical equipment, her arsenal kept expanding.  One day, she came down the stairs and unlocked the cage.  Bob crawled out and kissed her feet.  She instructed him to get on the table and lie face up.  She secured his head in a vice and secured his arms and legs tightly with the custom restraints.  What happened next was too much for even Bob to process. 

Slowly, seductively Elaine undressed in front of him.  He had no idea how long he had been imprisoned in this basement. He slept and woke not by the sun but by the sound of her footsteps.  He hadn’t seen flesh, he hadn’t seen a real woman’s curves, he hadn’t seen a woman’s naked body since he had arrived.  He was mesmerized and tried his best to fix his eyes on her form in order to soak in every detail of her delightful nude frame.  She was perfection to look at, her tits, her ass and her pussy, the same pussy that held him captive that day in the parking lot were like a mirage in the desert to a dying man.  His cock, unrestrained, sprang to attention like he was 18 years old.  



Elaine climbed on the table and she straddled his body.  Bob felt a wave of emotion, a flood of sensations that made him overwhelmed with grief.  He was in love with a woman who didn’t give a fuck about him, who lived to inflict pain on him.  It was, in many ways, the realization of all his fantasies.   The warmth of her flesh felt like the source of all life, like he was being cradled in the birthplace of all humanity.  She sat firmly on him, her nakedness, the wetness of her pussy was touching him, coating him with her juices.  Bob was hyperventilating. 

Reaching in her purse, she pulled out a cigarette and a lighter.  Sensually, she lit the dark-colored cigarette and the scent of the smoke was exotic, spicy.  She blew smoke rings and French inhaled all while rubbing her pussy on Bob’s stomach.  She was enjoying herself.  The smoke was making Bob light-headed. 

She taunted him.  “You know, I could do anything to you and no one would know, no one would care.  I own you, truly.  You know what Bobby?  You’re more terrified of me releasing you, sending you back to your old life than you are of anything I could do to you physically.”  She was correct.  The thought of her telling him to get out, to go back to his old life was the most terrifying proposition in the world to him. 

She took a long drag on her cigarette and he knew what to expect.  She’d never used cigarettes to burn him before but after the branding, cigarettes would be child’s play, or so he thought.  She burned him in his chest, on his arms and he barely flinched.  Pain registered as comfort, as pleasure, as release, as safety.  She spit in his face and he flinched, not because it hurt but because he felt it was like a reward for doing such a good job, being such a devoted pain pig. 

“You know that old saying our parents used to tell us before they gave us a spanking?  ‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you?’  Well, this is going to hurt you far more than it hurts me.  Far, far more.”  She held his face in her hands.  Her touch was tender, soft, almost loving.  Her grip tightened.  He is head was already held firmly in place by the vice, he couldn’t turn left or right.  All he could do was stare up at his Goddess and feel the full weight of her naked body on him. 

She took one more puff.  She blew the smoke in his eyes and it stung.  As the lit end of the cigarette neared his face, he started to panic.  His heart started to race and he started to buck and flail as much as he could under the circumstances.  He didn’t want to show fear.  He wanted to prove that he loved anything and everything that his Mistress could do to him. 

Elaine took her thumb and pressed his eyelid back and took her cigarette and shoved it in his eye in one swift move.  She pushed.  She stamped it out on his eyeball.  Bob screamed.  His body jerked and convulsed.  His eyes stung and burned.  The funny thing was, as his body heaved, as it involuntarily tried to buck the woman sitting on top of him off, it was masturbating his Mistress.  She was using him to get off.  She was rubbing her clit on his body and putting out her cigarette in a way that would leave him blind in that eye.  In all of his life, Bob had never dreamt of anything so sadistic and he’d never felt a sensation as painful.  She slapped him to keep him conscious and his body kept jerking and jolting.  She was rode him like a bronco rides a bull.  She was cumming.  She orgasmed using his pain as an aphrodisiac which made Bob cum, releasing his useless sperm against her beautiful brown backside.  

Bob awoke in his cage.  His eye socket was bloody, he had scratches on his chest where she tried to hold on.  He couldn’t see out of his eye and he was in pain.  His soul ached.  He had never known such pain before but he had also never known so much pleasure. 

Copyright 2015 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved