It was the sound of his voice
that triggered the knowing. In that
split second, when I heard the acoustic waves created only by his vocal cords,
I knew I had found my perfect submissive.
He is the other half of the amulet, the yin to my yang, the missing
piece that fits my kinky puzzle perfectly.
Intelligent, articulate, completely depraved and perverted; he fits
me. He is my equal and my opposite in
every way. For all of my excellence and superiority
he is excellently and equally inferior. He
craves filth in a way that is far more extreme than most people could wrap
their heads around and I can deliver what he craves and then some. He recognized my inherent dominance from our
first communication and I could see his sub-human true nature instantly.
He’d been molested as a
child. His father’s best friend had his
hands in his pants before he was in little league. The abuse lasted until he was well into his
teens and it grew more and more extreme, more twisted and perverted as the
years progressed. By the time the man
was promoted and moved away, my bitch had been emotionally and psychologically warped
beyond repair and sexually used by more men than he could count. Now in his 40s, he’s become successful in his
career and maintains the image of normalcy but it is just an image, a fake
persona he wears. He is obsessed with
sex. It consumes him. All day, every day, he thinks of nothing more
than how to get his next nut, of how he can make it more extreme. His needs for stimulation have graduated far
beyond anything remotely close to vanilla.
He’s spent thousands of dollars over the years on toys and gear and
hookers and memberships to websites. In
every meeting, at every conference, he schemes and plots about how to be
nastier, more sinister. At every company
luncheon, he looks at his co-wokers and knows that they would be horrified if
they knew he could fit a dildo the size of a grown man’s forearm in his slutty boicunt
. . . and that he craves bigger, thicker, longer ones fucking him
senseless.
Because of the abuse, he has
trust issues. His father knew of the exploitation
and turned a blind eye to it. They had a
network of deviants that shared each other’s kids. His father liked little girls so he would allow
his son to have sleepovers and camping trips with his friends while he got to
play house with his friend’s daughters. Because
of that, my little bitch doesn’t know what real affection and innocence feel
like; he doesn’t know what it means to be a child who is protected and loved. I exploit that. I make him call me Mommy and make him feel
like shit because of it. I toy with his
emotions, degrade and humiliate him, taunt and tease him and remind him of how
inherently fucked up he is, how he will never be normal, never have a normal
relationship with anyone. I threaten to
withhold my attention from him for my arousal; I terrorize him by intimating
that I will throw him away like a piece of trash. It hurts him.
I can see it in his eyes. But it
arouses him. The more I tell him the
truth, the more it makes him insane with lust and hunger. The more I toy with his emotions, the more it gets
my pussy incredibly wet.
I own his very soul. I can tell him to do anything and he will
still need more. If I tell him to suck
my dog’s cock, he will ram his tongue in his asshole. My absolute favorite thing to do to him is to
have him on his knees, with my lover fucking him savagely with his huge black
cock, with his face in my hands, whispering in his ear, telling him that he is
my white bitch boi. I punish him with
threats that I will make him suck disgusting, old, white cock, like his abuser’s
and he curls up like a ball and cries like a baby at the thought. He knows that his whiteness is an
illusion. He knows that he isn’t more
intelligent, that the arrogance and all his accomplishments were ill gotten
gains. The truth, and he knows it, is that he has only achieved his success
because white men have manipulated, lied, cheated, oppressed, cajoled, and stolen
whatever advantages they have gotten. He
knows, every time he has a black cock deep in his throat, that white men are
the sick and twisted ones because I remind him that white men are the ones who
created him to be what he is.
Every time he reads the racist
rants of white men online, virtually screaming about how Blacks are inherently
inferior, he knows that they are fighting their own demons, trying to deny what
they know to be true in their hearts as well, that Blacks have more integrity,
more ingenuity, more common sense, and a stronger will to survive than any
white person could ever hope to have. With
me, he can let down that defense. With
me, he can be the pig he knows is his bloodline, his birthright. He comes from a long line a pigs and he is
proud of it with me. He sees my grace,
dignity, and my morality in my beautiful brown skin, in my deep, intoxicating
eyes. He sees that I can control him
with just a glance, a word softly murmured when he is on the verge of
orgasm. I have the ability to break him
down in a way no other person has ever done.
He tries to build relationships with women, to pretend to be “that guy” the
bachelor who Barbie wants, but his DNA is damaged and we both know it.
He has cried in my arms when I speak
of the real horrors of slavery, of what heinous and evil things white men have
done for generations. He has sobbed like
a baby when I described the generations of racist privilege he had inherited to
the detriment of my beautiful, strong, resilient, and inherently SUPERIOR ancestors. He knows that his father’s perversions weren’t
isolated, that his father’s friends weren’t unique or exclusive. With me, he understands that the depravity in
his blood has been there for generations and that Africans who were enslaved
could never have been as twisted and damaged as his ancestors had been. His mother loves to be abused. His sister is a slut of extreme
proportions. His father is a
monster. And with me, my bitch is
completely free to be the slug that he was born to be and give up his false
sense of white superiority.
Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK All
Rights Reserved
