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.  

Queening for a Day

There are some individuals who believe that coincidence can be explained away by logical explanations.  There is a certain comfort in life when one supposes that everything can be calculated and replicated.  Bret Matthews lived his life that way; he was methodical and premeditated with everything he did, with how he interpreted every experience in his world.  It wasn’t until he found himself being challenged and pushed to beyond his limits, in a situation where he had no power over his lusts and no will of his own to assert, that he learned what it meant to be truly free in the confines of mental enslavement. 

Spring is meant to be experienced outside, enjoying the flowers and the sunshine and all the things that contribute to nature’s ability to elevate hormones and arouse lust.  There was something amiss, some sort of itch, a longing perhaps that was gnawing at Bret’s psyche, tugging at his spirit.  Feeling all the effects of the change in season, he decided that he would forego his usual lunches in the food court with co-workers and dine alfresco in solitude.  He felt a need to be alone, to observe his surroundings, to meditate on life and its meaning while absorbing a little Vitamin D and fantasizing about his perversions. 

Lincoln Park provided the perfect backdrop for his midday musings.  He could sit and eat his brown bag lunch and watch all the people go by.  Technically, it wasn’t really a brown bag, it was a white bag filled with amazing food from a little gourmet shop that made the best sandwiches and salads in town.  Moreover, he wasn’t really concerned with watching all the people go by, just the ones with breasts and brown skin.  If warm weather had him feeling naturally horny, it was exacerbated by the fact that the change in climate made Black women come out of hibernation and start wearing more form-fitting clothing and open-toed shoes.  Bret had a fascination if you will for the exquisitely manicured tootsies of Black women but that was not his primary fetish.

Bret had a love for the shapely butts of women blessed with only what could be termed, Afrocentric behinds.  He loved everything about them: the way they moved and jiggled when they walked, the way they filled out a particularly tight pair of jeans or swayed beneath a skirt, he loved big, round, sexy black asses.  Discretely, he would watch as they walked by, imagining what those fabulous brown asses looked like with no clothes on, what they smelled like, and of course, what they tasted like.  There was nothing not to love about his midday excursions because he could get out, sit in the sun, and get more than enough fodder for his fantasies.  It was a helluva lot better than sitting around talking about boring work stuff with his colleagues. 

Being a creature of habit, Bret pretty much sat on the same bench every day.  One day, feeling like he needed to stretch his legs a bit and explore other sights, he ventured out to explore more of the park.  That day, he felt compelled to change his vantage point to see what else the world had to offer.  As luck would have it, he stumbled upon a pavilion with chess tables set up and people standing around watching the games.  As is usual for most public parks, there were homeless Black men stationed at each table, schooling white boys who were looking for diversions from their mundane lives on their lunch breaks as well.  It seems like in every corner of the country, in every park, Black men who look like they haven’t bathed in months play skilled and strategic chess games.  This park was no exception save one small exemption. 
Seated at the end table was a young, Black woman with a petite frame and short, curly Afro.  She didn’t look like she was homeless; in fact, she looked like she could have been a college student. 

As she stood up to stretch a bit, Bret could tell that she couldn’t have been more than 5’3” and if she weighed 125 pounds, 10 pounds of that has to be distributed evenly between her tits and her ass.  She was wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt with a drawing of the Statue of Liberty depicted as a Black woman with a raised fist that said, “Statue of Liberation” in bold, graphic printing.  Her 32D’s filled out that shirt perfectly.  Her complexion was smooth, like melted chocolate and her little round button nose fit her angelic face perfectly.  She had sexy, full lips that were highlighted with shiny, clear lip gloss and as she spoke, her tongue touched the bottom of her front teeth like she had a slight lisp. 

Bret wasn’t close enough to hear exactly what she was saying but he was close enough to watch her play her game.  She played like a master.  Bret was undone.  He needed to get back to work but he was transfixed to that spot, unable to move.  He was studying her every move, both her chess moves and her chest moves.  He made his way closer to her table but he didn’t dare approach her or talk to her.  It was clear she was the center of attention because women hardly ever played chess in open-air forums like this one and everyone took notice not only because of her striking beauty but also because she seemed unbeatable.  Chess was a man’s game and there were very few women whom Bret knew who were patient enough to learn the intricacies of the strategy or bother to play the game at all.  When he did meet women who were skilled players, he could beat them easily but he always dragged the game out and allowed them to win so as not to look like too much of an asshole and defer to his hidden desire to practice female superiority.  She looked up briefly and made eye contact with Bret and said, “Whose got next,” like she was a basketball player on the court taunting and teasing her opponents to an intellectual azz whuppin. 

Bret politely mouthed the words, “No thanks,” and made his way back to his office.  He was fine the rest of the afternoon, distracted with projects, details, and minutia.  It wasn’t until he was stuck in traffic on the way home that his mind started to race.  What normally should have been a 30 minute ride was taking forever and a day which led Bret to some dark and deviant ruminations.  He began to fantasize about the strange woman in the park, about her peeling off her incredibly tight jeans and revealing a pair of red satin panties.  Standing before him in nothing but those sexy panties and red, high-heeled shoes, Bret imagined that she bent over in front of him and lowered her undergarments down over the full, round asscheeks barely contained within.  She wiggled and flaunted that ass in his face, teasing Bret with it.  Pulling her cheeks apart, Bret dreamt that he could smell the heady aroma of her ass wafting from between those perfect, brown globes.  In his fantasy, he gently placed his nose near her sacred butthole and smelled her natural scents.  He was aroused and his cock was hard; he rubbed it through his pants to relieve the pressure and to add just the right amount of pleasure.  Just as he was about to place his tongue to her hole in his mind, traffic started moving and he was snapped back into reality.

The next day at work it was all he could do to wait for his lunch hour.  He was preoccupied with thoughts of her and could barely concentrate on anything but visions of her ass.  Finally, around 11 a.m., he could take no more and he made excuses about somewhere he had to go, something he had to do, and stole away to head to the park.  Because it was earlier than the usual lunch hour, there were very few people in the park except some tourists, some preschool children’s groups, and some other people who were like him and escaping work and having an early, extended lunch.  The chess tables were all occupied but not with the lady with whom he’d taken an interest.  Today, rather than it being the homeless versus the white boys, it was simply Black man versus Black man, their residence, or lack thereof, not playing any role in their game.  Never before had he taken the opportunity to watch their moves so intently, to study their game and he wondered as to how someone who could master the analytical skills of chess could end up being destitute and anti-social.  He wondered how a woman who looked so out of place among those men could be comfortable around them, around their smells and clearly brash and rebellious demeanors. 

“Are you going to play today?”  Bret froze momentarily as he felt the presence of someone next to him, dangerously close, invading his space, practically touching his arm.  Without looking, he knew it was her.  Her voice was soft and melodic yet raspy and erudite at the same time. 

“No,” he mumbled, “I have to get back to work,” and he hurriedly left the park and spent the rest of the afternoon kicking himself for not taking her up on her offer.  In any other circumstance, Bret was confident, secure, he was never one to waffle or crumble under pressure.   He’d wanted to meet her, to talk to her but he choked under pressure. 

The next day, Bret kept his anxiousness in check and waited until noon to blend in with the rest of the crowd.  He didn’t go close this time, he watched from a distance.  She was there again and he could tell she was undefeated at her tenure at her table.  A few Black men, business men and workers from the neighboring office buildings, approached, played, and slinked away.  She wasn’t arrogant in her play but she didn’t seem to use much effort either.  White men seemed hesitant to approach her, like there was some invisible line that they knew not to cross, or dared not cross lest people see their hidden thoughts, their secret desires, their blatant yearning for her.  Bret was to be counted among that population.  He was content to watch from afar and observe.  Every day, his thoughts of her consumed more and more time.  His daily commute to and from work, his time at work and school were compromised by his fantasies.  At home alone, he masturbated to thoughts of her and when he was with his girlfriend Amanda, he was thinking of the mysterious woman as well. 

For five days straight, it seemed that Bret was in a constant state of arousal from someone to whom he’d never even spoken.  Everyone in the office was getting a little nosey, asking where he was rushing off to for lunch every day, implying that he had a secret life, that he was having an affair, just being generally obnoxious.  He was afraid someone might follow him so he had taken to using different routes to the park and stopping off at different locations first.  His paranoia was unjustified but he was so used to his life being compartmentalized, so fragmented that he compensated by being slightly neurotic.  If anyone ever found out that he was aroused by a woman’s butts, by fantasies of being smothered by them, he would die a thousand deaths.  In his heart, he just knew that he was the only one among his peers who had dark thoughts and fantasies like that. 

At lunch, he made his way to the park but he chickened out at the last minute, opting just to watch her play.  She saw him watching her and she stared back, letting him know that she was aware of his attraction to her.  He went back to the office feeling like a fool and later told everyone that had to leave about an hour early.  He made his way back to the park, practically running, hoping against hope that she would still be there.  As luck would have it, she was, casually talking and laughing with her homeless crew, talking like they were her peers.  Gathering his nerve, he made his way to her table and sat down.  “Finally,” she said, “what took you so long?” 

Uncomfortable with small talk, Bret gave her a half-hearted smile and ignored her comment.  “Black or white,” he mumbled.

Laughing, she said, “Honey, I’m always Black.” 

Their game lasted almost an hour but he’d seen her win in four moves with other novice players.  It was a good thing that the game wasn’t timed because Bret had met his match and he was making him nervous, he made a few careless mistakes out of sheer anxiety.  Eventually, she was victorious again; remaining undefeated in all the games he had witnessed her play.  He felt drained yet satisfied in a way he’d never felt before.  Here was this petite woman, clearly more than just his equal, it was more than evident she was his superior.  His intellectual libido was stimulated beyond belief.  Throughout the game she didn’t say a word, she concentrated.  She watched him, studied his moves.  Bret was off his normal game but he knew that even at his best she still had the skills to beat him.  Of course it didn’t help that he was intellectually stimulated which made him partially erect. 

Pushing his chair back from the table, Bret extended his hand and said, “Great game, thanks so much.”  He’d wanted her to win but he never imagined that she could do it without him throwing the game.  Her skill set exceeded his which said a lot.  Her victory was real and he felt defeated but wildly alive for the first time in a long time as strange as that may sound.

She reached out and shook his hand and replied, “Come on, let’s go.”

She grabbed her backpack and tossed it to him.  He clutched it close as he followed her, running to catch up when he realized exactly what her invitation was; watching her butt with every step that she took, hypnotized by her unspoken power over him.  They walked to a bus stop and Bret intervened, “I have a car,” but she ignored him.  They sat down and she turned to him and formally introduced herself. 

“I’m Shauntay, I was wondering when you were going to get up the nerve to come talk to me.  You really played a great game.  You had me in check that one time and I was thinking that you might end my reign as Queen of the park.  What’s your name?”

In a million years, Bret never would have imagined a woman named Shauntay would be able to beat him at chess.  To him, Shauntay was a ghetto name and people from the ghetto . . . well, it didn’t even have to be said.  There was nothing ghetto about this woman and as he repeated her name over and over in his head, it began to sound lyrical, beautiful, not at all ghetto.  Realizing he hadn’t answered her question, he blurted out, “I’m Ted,” always thinking of protecting his identity, never wanting anyone to get to know the real him.  Thinking it over, realizing that he might just be in the presence of the woman who could take him places he’d never been, he said, “I’m sorry, I lied.  My name is Bret.”  Still not quite sure he was up to the witty repartee stage of conversation just yet; he remained silent, waiting for her reprimand.  None came but the bus did and they got on.  He didn’t know where they were going, what they were doing; he just knew that he would do just about anything she asked of him.  She was brazen, well, not so much brazen as she was bold.  Shauntay caressed his body, felt for muscles, caressed his leg and openly stared at the erection she was causing him.  The blood boiled in his veins as other passengers watched this open display of groping and Bret was helpless to do anything about it.  He loved it and secretly wished she would go even further. 

Shauntay kept asking more and more questions, eventually bringing Bret out of his shell as they rode.  Every once in a while, she would lean close and whisper sweetly in his ear and send chills up and down Bret’s spine.  She was equally as forthcoming, sharing details about her life.  It turned out that she was 33, which he would have never guessed because she looked almost a decade younger than that.  She was getting her Ph.D in Physics which intrigued Bret that much more.   

As the got off the bus, Bret was in another world.  This was out of his comfort zone; this couldn’t be explained by any reasonable construct.  He was following a total stranger to God only knows where to do God only knows what.  No one knew where he was, he hadn’t explained his absence to anyone.  His heart was pounding.  Bret was terrified that she was going to do something crazy or unhinged but he clearly outweighed her and towered over her.  He kept wondering why she wasn’t afraid that he was a psycho killer, why she wasn’t paranoid that he was going to do something unstable or psychotic to her.  She didn’t even have a cautious look in her eye.  In fact, she seemed to be the one that was comforting Bret. 

They reached her apartment, and still carrying her backpack, Bret blindly followed her up the stairs of a two story walk-up to her apartment.  She intentionally stopped short and Bret ended up face first in the seat of her pants.  He froze there, inhaling her scent openly, hoping to detect the stench of her asshole.  Shauntay wiggled her ass in his face, giggled, and opened the door to her home and invited him in. 

It was exactly as Bret had envisioned in his mind, it matched who he thought she was.  It was small, so tidy it would make any obsessive-compulsive jealous, and obviously occupied by an academic and an intellectual.  Shauntay excused herself and left Bret alone as he scoped the scene.  There was no TV in the living room and the bookshelves were lined with books about Black History, chemistry, art, travel, alternative medicine, and of course, physics.  Her music collection didn’t have any artists Bret recognized and the décor was simple and contemporary but accented with pieces that looked like they might have been inherited from an older family member.  “What are you writing your dissertation on, uhmmm, if you don’t mind me asking,” he yelled in the direction of the bedroom as he tried to gain further insight into her without getting caught while she changed her clothes.

“The Instantaneous Quantum Teleportation of Information Across the Time and Space Continuum as it Relates to Members of the African Diaspora.”  She waited for the pause of dumbfounded silence that followed every time she told someone her topic, and sure enough, like clockwork, 8 . . . 9 . . . 10, he responded, “How did you master the art of playing chess?  And those guys . . . you seem . . . so . . . you know . . . comfortable with them . . . how . . .”  She didn’t answer. 

It all seemed too coincidental.  She was like a dream come true for him.  Most of what he knew of her concretely was learned in the last 45 minutes.  For a week, he’d fantasized about her, speculated, surmised but she was turning out to be more than he’d even allowed himself to contemplate.  Beauty, brains, the ability to control him with subtlety, and an ass that made his mouth water.  His mind couldn’t even makes sense of the fact that he was in this strange apartment, waiting rather impatiently for a women he didn’t know, for exactly what, he wasn’t sure. 

Emerging from her bedroom dressed in tight, leather, black pants, a corset that looked like she might have had two or three people in her bedroom helping her tie it so tightly, high-heeled, black patent leather boots that came up past her knees,  and a look on her face that inspired sheer terror in Bret.  Shauntay was carrying a riding crop in one hand and stood perfectly still so Bret could take in her image.  His jaw dropped.  She looked like a rare Ebony centerfold straight out of Obeah magazine (without the staples).  He jumped up and reacted almost violently.  “Hey, look, I don’t know who you think I am . . . or what you think I’m into, but you don’t know me.  I’m not . . . I don’t want . . . Don’t you dare presume that I’m . . . that this is something . . . that you can . . . you have assumed too damn much.”  He was flustered because he was undone by her complete ability to read him.  He felt trapped and angry but he wasn’t exactly sure why.  All he knew was that his chest felt tight, his knees felt weak, his mouth was dry, he’d lost the ability form complete sentences and he was wildly aroused, more than he’d ever been in his life.  He was out of his element and in a strange environment.  Taking a deep breath, he said, “Look, I appreciate your hospitality and thanks for the great match but I think I better be going.” 

“OK.”

She didn’t say another word, she didn’t make a move.  She motioned her eyes toward the front door and remained stoic.  Bret looked like a deer caught in headlights.  He didn’t want to go; in fact, he wanted desperately to stay, throw himself at her feet, beg for her forgiveness, and be subjected to her cruel punishments.  He wanted her to give him an ultimatum, to say something that would give him the chance to stay.  She walked to the door, opened it, and stood aside. 

“I . . . uhmmm,” he mumbled as he walked past her, too prideful to ask to say, feeling like an idiot for totally fucking up, “Great match.  Thanks.” 

He hailed a cab to take him back to his car and relived every second of the past week in his mind over and over again on his way home.  All weekend, he was withdrawn and quiet.  He made excuses to his friends why he couldn’t hang out and sex with Amanda was nothing more than perfunctory.  Every time he closed his eyes, however, he would see Shauntay.  He couldn’t sleep at night and Monday morning couldn’t come soon enough.  He watched the clock all morning long and made a beeline for the park.  Of course, she wasn’t there, and subconsciously, he knew she wouldn’t be.  He asked one of the homeless men if he’d seen her and waited around for almost two hours before going back to work.  All week long he went to the park; all week long, she wasn’t there.  He was beginning to get depressed, angry at himself for not throwing caution to the wind and taking a chance.  She intimidated him and that wasn’t a sensation he had ever truly experienced before. 

Bret began to fill his time at the park by playing the men there, talking to them, befriending them, observing their chess skills and speculating how they seemed to possess such amazing analytical skills but couldn’t get a job.  He saw the casual glances from white passersby who belied their true feelings of disgust when he would share his food with them.  Over the course of several weeks, he tried to convince himself that he was no longer going there to look for Shauntay but to engage in great chess with worthy competitors.  The truth was, he couldn’t imagine the day that he would stop looking for her, she’d made a huge impact on him and he was convinced he wasn’t going to be the same ever again. 

Deeply engrossed in a great game, he felt the breath of her words as she whispered in his ear, “Have you missed me?’ 

Bret’s heart skipped a beat; the palms of his hands broke out in an immediate sweat.  It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to fall to his knees and show his devotion to her.   He wanted to forfeit the game but it wasn’t in his nature, and somehow, he knew that Shauntay would be displeased.   He continued playing, glancing around, looking for her but she had faded into the masses.  He knew she was there, watching him, he could feel her intense presence.  Just as with his first game with her, he was nervous, making stupid mistakes.  He lost.  He lost fair and square.  He scanned the crowd and saw her sitting on a bench about 50 yards away.  He approached cautiously and sat down, waiting for her to say something.   She didn’t utter a sound.

“You were right.  About . . . you know . . . you were right.  How did you know,” he queried, “about . . . me, about . . . you know.  How did you know that I would like that sort of thing?”

She moved closer, pressing her leg against his.  “I read you.”  The puzzled look on his face indicated that he needed a more in-depth explanation.  “Your game, the reverence you have for your queen, the way you protect her, it speaks volumes about you.  I can tell all sorts of things from the way you play.  You want people to see you as extraordinarily intelligent, but deep inside, you not only feel average, but there’s a part of you that feels unworthy, contemptible even. You are inherently submissive and you are drawn to that part of me that is inherently dominant.”

“There’s no way you can tell all that about me from watching me play chess,” he said indignantly. 

“Oh, really?  Am I wrong?”

It was Bret’s time to remain silent now.  He sat staring at the ground.  Every time he would look up, she would be staring at him.  There was communication in the silence.  So many things were unsaid, unarticulated.  None of that seemed to matter.  Finally, he said, “So, what now?”

“Well, that would depend on what you want.”  Shauntay was a bit more aloof than Bret would have liked.  He wanted her to show interest in him, he wanted her to see him as different, to WANT to dominate him.  She stood up, dropped her backpack in his lap, and leaned in close, her lips close to his, like she was about to kiss him.  “I’ll see you later.” With that, she walked away, Bret’s eyes transfixed to her ass as she disappeared into the sunshine, gripping her bag like it sustained his life. 

That day after work, Bret took out his phone, called Amanda saying that he had to go out of town for the weekend for work, which was not at all unusual for him, and he drove to Shauntay’s apartment, backpack in tow.  He stood outside her building, terrified to go up but driven to cross the threshold into a new adventure.  He knocked, nervous and afraid.

“One moment, please.”  He heard her movements behind the closed door.

Bret waited what seemed like an eternity.  Finally she opened the door completely and stood before him and he literally gasped for air.  Shauntay was dressed, or barely dressed rather, in a bright turquoise lace bra that was doing a lousy job of containing her overflowing breast flesh.  Her matching garter belt sat atop her hips and the colorful straps went down her slender ebony legs and held her black, silk, lace-topped stockings in place.  Her small feet were encased in high-heeled black, patent leather pumps, tasteful and sexy.  The most striking feature of her outfit was the chocolate brown strapon protruding from her body.  At first glance, it appeared to be about 8 inches long and at least as wide as his wrist.  She stood there calmly, stroking it, taunting Bret.  He glanced nervously up and down the hallway, terrified that someone would see her, terrified that someone would see him standing there, practically salivating. 

“Welcome,” she said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Bret wanted to say something to let her know that she wasn’t the one pulling the strings, that he was still in control of his actions, that he understood the dynamics of what was happening, no words would come out.  Her comfort level with being so open, standing where anyone who opened their door or came up the steps could see them, threw off his equilibrium.  He wasn’t in control; she was controlling the game.  He was a pawn and she a dynamic Black Queen Bitch.  He wanted to appear aloof but if she had commanded that he drop to his knees right there in the hallway and suck that dick, he would have done it without hesitation. 

“Come in.”

Bret stepped forward but she didn’t move to the side.  He had to squeeze past her; his body brushing up against hers, the strapon wedged tightly between their bodies as he made his way inside.  The room was lit with candles around the perimeter and the furniture had been moved out of the center, creating a void, a playroom essentially. 

“Undress!”  Her command was so simple and to the point it needed no further instruction. 

Bret removed his shoes and socks, placed them neatly under a chair in the corner.  He removed his shirt and then t-shirt, and took his took belt off completely, stalling.  He took off his watch and placed it in his shoes and hesitated for a second before he unzipped his pants.  She was staring at him, inspecting, him, objectifying him like a piece of meat, inspecting him like a slave on the auction block.  He lowered his pants and folded them neatly, maintaining the creases.  He slid his hand in his underwear and squeezed his cock before he slid them down his legs and stepped out of them and placed them neatly on the pile of clothing. 

Shauntay ran her soft hands over his body, caressing him, twisting his nipples causing him to stifle a small moan, rolling his balls between her fingers.  She stroked his cock, making him leak precum and turned him around and ran her fingertips gently over his butt.  She spread his asscheeks and softly rubbed the tight rosebud of his asshole.  This time, Bret couldn’t stifle his moans and bent over to give her more access, to show off his slutty nature.  He wanted her finger; he wanted to be penetrated.  That was not to be her next move. 

She grabbed his cock roughly and pulled him to the center of the living room.  She made him stand there as she circled him, stroking his cock to full erection and then rubbing her strapon against it.  “You like that big, black, dick, don’t you?”  Bret nodded.  “Answer me; let me hear you say it.” Bret mumbled in the affirmative but that was the best he could do.  He felt like he was high.  Shauntay pulled her breasts from the top of her bra, exposing her erect, dark, chocolate nipples.  She rubbed them on his torso and he knew better than to reach out and touch them, to drop to his knees and suck them like he longed to do.  She rubbed them sensually and then wet her finger and traced her areola.  She cupped his balls and squeezed them hard, making Bret cry out in pain and his knees buckle.  “I told you to ANSWER ME!”

Bret’s breathing was erratic.  She placed her hand on his shoulder and pressed gently, signaling that he was to kneel.  He was eye level with her fake dick and she rubbed it over his lips.  “Mmmmm, yes, I like that black cock.” 

“Now, Bret, is that any way to show your appreciation?  Now, tell me how much you love that dick, tell me how much you crave it.” 

Inspired to impress, Bret turned up the intensity.  “I love that big, black cock.  I want to suck you off, I want you to ram it in my throat, make me gag on it.  Make me worship it, make me worship you.” He began blowing that strapon like a cheap whore.  He made love to it with his mouth, licking, sucking, and swallowing it.  There was no denying he was enjoying himself as he moaned and drooled all over it.  He threw himself into his act, gagging and stroking it.  He reached around and placed his hands on her ass, filling his hands with her soft flesh.  That propelled him deeper into true sub space and he went even wilder on her strapon.  “Yeah, I’m a cock-sucking slut.  Give me that hard Black meat.  Fuck my face.  Mmmmm, yeah, I love your cock.”  All of his inhibitions were gone.  Bret was behaving like he’d always wanted; he was free, free from restrictions, free from societal constraints. 

“Bret?  Sweetie?  Did I tell you that you could suck my dick?”  She pushed him to the floor harshly but it wasn’t a deterrent to Bret, it was inspiration.

Making himself prone at her feet, Bret begged for her forgiveness.  He placed his lips on her stilettos and kissed them.  He ran his tongue over the smooth patent leather and pleaded.  “Please, forgive me.  I’m so sorry.  I was so overwhelmed with your beauty, your brilliance, your sheer power.”  Shauntay removed her shoe, kicking it to the side of the room, and waved her foot in Bret’s face.  She placed it gently on his lips and he inhaled deeply the aroma, the slightly musky, familiar scent of a sweaty foot that had been encased in leather.  It was more intoxicating than poppers for him and infinitely more arousing.  He wanted nothing more than to run his tongue over that foot.  Her toenails were painted a brilliant turquoise to match her lingerie but remained clearly visible through the reinforced toe of her silk stockings.  He licked her sole and then placed her entire foot in his mouth, as much as he could swallow.  He worshiped her foot, praising it, praying to it.

She kicked him hard in the side, sending him to the floor, curled in the fetal position.  Removing her other shoe, she circled him like a lioness circling her prey, the queen of the jungle stalking, surveying, ready to psychologically devour her helpless victim.  Bret’s heart was racing and his breathing was labored.  She rubbed her stockinged foot over his cock and balls.  The threat hung heavy in the air but remained unspoken that at any moment she could kick him in the nuts and make him scream out in agony.  Bret waited for what he was sure to come. 

To her credit, Shauntay prepared him for the evening of erotic torture.  “I own you now, you understand that, don’t you, Bret? You are mine to play with, tease and torture, to destroy in any way I see fit.  Your screams will be my music; your pleas for my benevolence will amuse and entertain me.  I will use your body for anything I see fit and you’ll beg for more.  I’ll allow you to be the filthy, disgusting, lower-than-human scum that you long to be, that you’ve been craving, needing to release inside you.  The need grows stronger each and every year, to be more perverse, to submit to a mistress so cruel, so diabolical that your mind reels with the creativity with which she degrades you.  I’m that mistress, Bret.  I’m the woman who will turn you into a pain pig, who will make you crave dicks, real dicks; big, hard, black dicks shoved in your tight, white pussy.” 

Bret rolled his eyes in arrogant disbelief.  “Oh, you don’t believe me, Bret?  You don’t think I can control your will, your desires?”  Her voice was soft, not annoyed or irritated and it was hypnotic, soothing, arousing.  “Well, I’ll let you have that today.  We are new, you and I; we haven’t worked out the dynamics of our relationship yet.  You don’t know me nearly as well as I know you.  When you get to know me, when you understand how mentally sadistic I can really be, you won’t disrespect me by rolling your eyes at me.  She continued, calmly this time, with her riding crop firmly in her hand.   Shauntay gently tapped the tip of it against Bret’s throbbing, leaking erection.
 
“Turn over, on your knees.”  Bret complied swiftly.  Head down against the cool plastic, he stuck his ass in the air, proud to show off his slutty nature.  Shauntay rubbed the crop against his nut sack, up the crack of his ass.  “Bret, would you be shocked if I told you that I am going to shove ice cubes in your ass and watch you writhe in pain while you’re bent over like this?”  She spread the cheeks of his ass and rubbed her finger gently over his exposed asshole.  Bret wasn’t moved.  He wasn’t truly a masochist so the thought of pain didn’t really scare him.  “Well,” she persisted, “a little cold should be countered with a little heat.  You see, I have this chili paste that I’m going to apply to your cock and balls while those ice cubes are melting in your ass and you feel the burning, searing heat up and down the shaft of your cock.” 

Bret squirmed more.  He was intrigued by the sheer novel ingenuity of this powerful woman.  He wanted to belong to her; he wanted to be inflicted to her cruel punishments.  He was leaking precum as she continued to circle him, to tease him with her feet, rubbing them on his face, across his chest, jerking him off with her feet.  She caressed his body with her riding crop, her preferred instrument of punishment for the evening.  “Imagine that Bret.  Ice cubes shoved in your asscunt, excruciating heat spreading over your cock and balls.  I’m going to fuck you senseless, like the little bitch you are.  You understand?  Is that what you want Bret?  Is that the sort of torture you want to endure for me?  Your pathetic cock virtually ablaze, your intestines cramping in pain, and getting fucked with my beautiful strapon?” 

Bret was moaning uncontrollably now.  He was thrusting his ass in the air, desperate to be invaded by more than her fingers, silently shedding tears in fear of what he was becoming, what he was allowing happen to him.  “Oh, God, yessssss, I want that.  I want you to fuck me, use me, and punish me any way you see fit.” 

THWAPPP! The first blow of her riding crop came down on his balls without mercy and he cried out, scrambling away from the blinding pain. 

“Come back here bitch; get your ass up here.” 

Bret assumed the position again.  This time, he felt the slippery head of her lubricated strapon rubbing sensually up and down his ass crack.  Bret forgot all about the pain in his testicles and he started humping back against that strapon, trying to get the head of it positioned so that she could take him; so she could enter him, make him her ass slut.  The head of that black dick felt amazing on his hole, in his soul.  Bret’s mind spun with new sensations.  He wanted to get fucked, to become an animal.  Shauntay gripped his hips and pushed.  The head of the strapon pierced his tight anal ring and Bret moaned out in pleasure and in pain.  Her ownership of him was complete.  There was no way he was going to let her out of his life.  In that moment, he knew he would suck any dick, swallow as many loads of cum as she demanded.  He heard himself chanting, “Fuck me, fuck me, ram that black fucker deep in me, make me your bitch, make me your white sissy faggot. FUCK ME.  USE ME!  OWN ME!  Please, I beg of you.  I’m begging you Mistress.”  He was crying uncontrollably, openly now.  She was gently fucking his ass, sending outrageously pleasurable sensations throughout his pussy, and savagely fucking his mind, torturing him mentally; the pleasure and the pain melding into one

The transformation was complete.  Shauntay knew it.  Hence forth and forever more, Bret would crave her.  She was the one who knew his desires and would risk his relationships, his job; he would offer his life to be the object of her sadistic ministrations.  “On your knees, bitch.  NOW!”

Bret scrambled to a kneeling position, his eyes diverted to the floor.  Shauntay turned around and put her ass inches from his face.  Startled, he looked up, enchanted by the magnificent brown globes of flesh before him.  Reaching back, she spread her asscheeks and made her asshole wink at him.  He swallowed hard and grabbed his dick and stroked it as he put his nose closer.  Without warning, she farted directly in his face, the noxious, rank fumes overwhelming him as he moaned out and stroked his cock that much harder.  He inhaled deeply, the gas ambrosia to his senses. 

“Lie down on the floor.”  She pointed and he followed her command.  She slid the strapon down her legs and knelt over his face.  She rubbed her pussy lips, spreading them, showing Bret her inner, pink flesh.  His mouth watered.  He wanted to taste her wet cunt, to feel her cum all over him, flooding his mouth with her thick juices.  Her pussy was just inches from his face and it took every ounce of strength not to grab her hips and pull her body to his mouth.  Shauntay grabbed his cock and gently stroked it as she taunted him.  He was out of his mind.  Her soft hands felt incredible sliding up and down his hard shaft, eliciting moans of pleasure from deep within his core.  She lowered her pussy to his mouth and he tasted her sweetness for the first time. 

It was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, better than any pussy he’d ever eaten before.  Her juices were slippery and sweet, her lips were thick, and her clit was hard and felt like a small cock in his mouth.  She rode his face and rode him hard.  She took no consideration for his comfort or his safety; making herself cum and reveling in the fact that his life was in her hands.  Putting her entire body weight on him, controlling his light and his air, forcing him to use his tongue to lick anywhere and everywhere she wanted.  Shauntay used her big, round ass as a weapon. 

She sat back and gave him access to her entire lower region.  The smell of pussy and ass together was overwhelming.  Bret drove his tongue deep inside her, trying to fuck her asshole better than any cock could.  She sat squarely on his face as she stroked his cock.  Shauntay was a true Ebony Queen, sitting on her throne, and Bret was thrashing around, gasping for air and ready to cum at any second.   She held still and Bret could feel the heat rising up his body; the lack of oxygen to his lungs triggering his fight or flight response.  Just as she felt his body go limp, she lifted her ass off his face, flooding his with light and air, Bret gasping and coughing but begging for more.  He wanted the warmth and the sensation of her full weight on his face again, he craved it. 

Shauntay began bouncing up and down, one the verge of orgasm.  She began to slap and twist Bret’s balls cruelly, pulling them to administer pain, or was it pleasure?  Determined, he refused to stop until he could taste Shauntay’s cum pouring down his throat.  Her legs covered his ears, he could barely hear her moans but he knew that she was about to cum.  He sensed the muscles in her legs tighten up and she was more aggressive with her gyrations, bouncing up and down harder.  For a moment, he thought he was going to be crushed.  The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that she was stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, masturbating him cruelly.  He couldn’t breathe; he was feeling faint.  The pleasure was indescribable and she was riding him hard, cumming even harder.  He could feel her nails digging into his flesh and she exploded in his mouth, causing Bret’s body to explode in orgasm like he’d never known before. 

He woke up the next morning, in her bed, spooning Shauntay’s beautiful body.  “Good morning sleepy head.”  She kissed his forehead as he struggled to put the pieces together after his last memory of near suffocation.  He jumped up in bed and slid out of the sheets to the floor.  He didn’t deserve to be so close to her, he didn’t deserve to be treated like a man.  Shauntay held out her hand and, without words, invited him back to her bed.  Sensing his fears, reading his mind, she said, “Antoine de Saint- Exupery said, ‘You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.’  I would say that I’ve tamed you so . . .” 

“But,” Bret interrupted, “I uhmmm, I don’t want to be, you know, like this, I want it to be like last night.  I want to be that thing I was last night.” 

“Relax, sweetie,” Shauntay comforted him.  “I am your owner; I will control, use, abuse, and discard you at my whim.”  The word discard rang in Bret’s ears more than any other.  He didn’t want to be thrown away like a piece of trash; he wanted to sacrifice for her, to give her the ultimate sacrifice.  He wanted to surrender all that he was, all that he could ever be to her.  Tears filled his eyes as his mind raced.  Shauntay pushed his head between her legs.

“Bret, you have work to do.  Now get down there and eat my pussy.”  Bret threw the covers back and dove between her legs, seeing her gorgeous cunt in the light of day took his breath away again.  He hoped, no, he prayed, that this would be the beginning of a life of servitude and extremes beyond anything he’d ever allowed himself to contemplate, beyond any reasonable, logical explanation for how he was willing to redefine his entire existence as something inanimate and perverse. 




Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK All rights reserved.

My Perfect Pet

There is no such thing as the perfect submissive.  There’s no such thing as a perfect Domme for that matter either.  There is, however, a symbiosis, a precious and delicate balance, an equilibrium that can only be achieved between Domme and sub, involving owner and pet that transcends all other relationships.  No vanilla/romantic relationship can compare to the bond that is formed when complete trust and adoration marries with utter depravity and absolute control.  When the desires of the Domme perfectly match the perversions of the sub, when the hunger of the filthy bitch satisfies the appetites of the Divine Bitch, perfection in domination and submission is achieved. 

I created Michael.  I made him from a vision formed from my perverse imagination.  When I met him online all those many years ago, he was submissive and eager but he needed to be molded.  Without a doubt his blond hair, blue eyes, his transparent pink skin and inherent slutty nature, and, of course, his laughably small but typical white cock made him a prime candidate for my particular brand of racial domination.   He had to learn a very expensive lesson after he sent out a racist email about Obama.  He had to pay and pay dearly for that little mistake.   I asked him how, in fact, he could profess to be submissive to Blacks in private, especially intelligent, articulate, professional Black men exactly like Obama but espouse racist thoughts to his friends and co-workers.  He had no answer other than to feign outrage, behave arrogantly, lie, and deny – behavior absolutely typical of white men when they are wrong.  Learning that expensive lesson humbled him.  He recognized how fucked up he was to profess love and worship of Black men in private, to crave denigration and humiliation from men of African descent sexually and then pretend he was superior in public. 

Our virtual relationship started out slow.  At first, he provided me with tributes.  He did so willingly and of his own free will, with absolutely no coercion or pressure on my part.  I think that’s what made him stand out from all the rest of the subs who said they desired my attention.  I’m not a financial Domme and I don’t solicit, demand, or require tributes in any form from subs.  So when he voluntarily provided the funds for me to get a brand new laptop, without strings or attempts to manipulate me to dominate him, I found favor in him.  It was a thoughtful gesture that made me happy and, in turn, gave him joy in pleasing me.  From there, things just seemed to flow naturally.  I was dominant, he was submissive, and we understood our roles very well.  He wasn’t overly whiny and annoying but he wasn’t arrogant and obnoxious either.  It took us a lot of late night conversations to get to a point where he understood that I needed him to be submissive behind closed doors but that he had to be able to engage me as my equal; the perfect complement to my personality.  I needed a sub who was as exceptional in his hunger for depravity as I am and as balanced, sane, and as charming as my vanilla persona is as well. 

Today, after lots of bumps in the road, Michael has become all that I had ever hoped for and dreamed of in a submissive.  More than his miraculous social transformation that allowed him to perfectly parrot my positions on race and racism in public; I expertly and patiently crafted and molded him into the single-most filthy slut, cum whore, and insatiable queen addicted to black dick I had ever encountered.  His boicunt stays wet, throbbing, and ready for fucking at the drop of a hat, like a good whore always is.  Even in chastity, he remains constantly aroused and dripping, in a persistent state of horniness.  I allow him to maintain his job but he has voluntarily all but given up his regular social life, friends, family, and outside interests for our D/s relationship.  Behind closed doors, immediately, from the very milli-second he walks beyond the majestic foyer of my custom home after work, he is subjected to some sort of extreme sexual situation where his nasty butthole is stretched, filled, and fucked relentlessly.  Every day is a new adventure to see how far I can push him, to see how many loads of cum he can take, to see what sorts of extreme and nasty things I can think of and to get him to a sub space where he not only enjoys my warped demands but where he craves, needs, and BEGS for more.  Honestly, I think his depth of perversion goes beyond my creative scope but for now I keep finding new and innovative ways to add variety to our repertoire of kinky games that seem to keep him satisfied.  Well, at least as much as he can be satiated. 

Reflecting back, our first meeting was extreme by most standards; it was pretty typical for the sorts of encounters that we’ve come to share however.  I remember very vividly that first Friday evening as we dined at a cute little bistro on the river.  Arriving early, he was nervous and fidgeting as he sat at the bar waiting not so patiently.  I arrived exactly on time with my usual flair that turned heads when I walked in.  I made sure to exaggerate my moves, sway my hips accented by the click of my high heels on the wooden floor.  I extended my hand in greeting and Michael stared in disbelief, frozen to his bar stool.  If I had said, “BOO!” I’m sure he would have pissed his pants right there in public.  His hands shook with nerves as we were seated for dinner and he held my chair.  I almost got up from the table and walked away I was so irritated with his inability to have a normal conversation.  If the night wasn’t so beautiful and the view wasn’t so damned spectacular I would have excused myself 15 minutes into the evening.  I kept saying, “Take a deep breath,” and eventually, he started to relax, to gain control of his nerves and we began having a very pleasant exchange about the intricacies of straight ahead jazz and the wretched scum they call smooth jazz.  We were able to converse freely and comfortably about all things kinky, casually discussing things that would have made the people at the next table cringe in horror had they had been listening carefully.  In many ways, our friendship was cemented that evening, over amazing seafood and wine and laying the foundation for what would become the ultimate union of Domme and sub.

After an amazing dinner, as we sipped our coffee and slid molten lava cake around the plate with our forks, too full to eat another bite, I said, “There’s a club not too far from here, would you like to join me in an evening of play?”  He looked like a deer caught in headlights, staring blankly at me, eventually mumbling something incoherent, visibly shaking.  You would have thought I would have said, “Would you kiss my ass, right here, right now, in front of all of these people.” 

“Relax, sweetie,” I reassured him, “It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything.  I was offering because there’s chemistry between us, because I spoke to a couple of my friends earlier and they said that they would be hanging out and the place isn’t far from here.  I was just . . .” 

Before I could even finish my thought, he blurted out, “I’ll do it.”  His breathing was labored and it looked like he might hyperventilate any minute.  “It’s just that . . . I didn’t . . . you know . . . I didn’t think that we would do anything tonight . . . I thought we were just meeting to get to know each other in person.” He was hyperventilating. 

“Calm down, relax, take a deep breath,” I assured him for the thousandth time.  I could see that he was anxious and aroused but also a bit overwhelmed at the same time.  I did my best to help him settle down.  “I have some friends, some male friends in fact, and we get together about once a month to play.  We are all connected because we are all from Kenya.  Jomo and Matunde, we all call him Matt, they were both born in Kenya but moved to the US when they were small children.  Reginald and I are both first generation American.  Our parents were born in Africa and we were born in the US but we both lived in Mombossa, Eldoret, and Kisumu for much of our adolescent years, visiting our grandparents and cousins and such and we continue to travel back and forth with some frequency.  I met Reggie on the plane coming home and I introduced him to Jomo and he introduced me to Matt.”  Michael seemed spellbound, captivated, hanging on my every word.  “Are you okay, sweetie,” I asked, genuinely concerned about him and his state of mind. 

“Ma’am, I had no idea . . . You know, I’ve been to Kenya,” he said shyly, almost imperceptibly.  I went to Narobi and Narok and I was VERY aroused by the concept of submitting sexually to the Maasai people . . . it has been a fantasy of mine for a very long time.” 

We both laughed out loud and shared a moment of pure destiny and coincidence. 

I continued on.  “Well, like I was saying, the fellas and I all met and related because of our Kenyan connection but we share a fetish connection as well and we all like to get together and play every once in a while.  Being who I am, with my following, I’m sort of the group leader of course and we’ve had some pretty amazing times with me heading up my marauding band of sexy brothas.  Tonight, they called me and asked me if I wanted to hang out at the spot.  I told them that I had plans and they said if things didn’t work out, to swing by.  They also said that if things DO work out, that I could swing by and bring them a toy to play with.” 

“Have you ever, I mean have they ever used a white boy for you Ma’am?  I mean, what would be expected of me?” 

After a little more deep breathing I told him, “Yes, we have used white boys before.  In fact, that’s our specialty.  We’ve done everything, and I mean everything with them.  I control the subs, the situation, what happens, and how far things go.  They do the fucking.  If you want, and only if you consent, we can meet up with them later this evening and I’ll see what sort of cock-sucking cum slut you can really be.”

Michael swallowed hard.  “I’ll do whatever you want me to do Mistress. ANYTHING.”  His desire to please was written all over his face but I wasn’t really sure he was up for anything that I would require of him.  I thought I would put him to the test however and see just how far I could push him.  I certainly didn’t have anything to lose and if had regrets the next day, that wouldn’t be my problem. 

We walked to the car.  “I’ll drive,” I said, and I unlocked the door to my car and held open the rear passenger door.  He climbed in and I made sure to buckle him in like he was a toddler in a child seat in plain view of the other restaurant patrons who had a clear view of the parking lot from the deck.  Leaning over him, my cleavage was inches from his face.  I could hear him inhaling the fragrance of the mango shea butter that I wore to make my brown skin glisten.  People stared, some with shock on their faces, others with intense curiosity.  I’m sure some couldn’t quite figure out what sort of dynamic was going on between us and I’m sure others could only have imagined in their wildest fantasies what was about to happen. 

We drove a short distance to the club, less than 15 minutes in fact, and I watched in my rear view mirror how Michael was squeezing his cock through his pants, trying to play with it discretely but more so to make adjustments because he was hard and leaking.  He had nothing but questions.  “Do they have big cocks?  This place we are going, what’s it like?  Am I going to get to do anything with you?  Are people going to watch me do . . . you know, stuff?  Are you lovers with all of them?”  He wouldn’t stop asking questions.  I answered some and let him wonder about others. 

“Jomo and I dated for about a year. We are still great friends and we’ll probably get back together in the future but for right now, he wants to concentrate on his career and says he doesn’t have time for a relationship.  We still love each other and we get together every once in a while and we occasionally fuck like wild beasts, sometimes in front of others just for the fun of it, other times in private because the chemistry is so strong.  The rest of the guys observe a very strict ‘hands off’ policy as far as penetration is concerned but they have both eaten my pussy on more than a few occasions with Jomo there to give his ‘permission’ sort of.   They are both very respectful of that male bond thingie that men have and they don’t want to do anything to destroy the friendship so they are cool with just getting together to explore our kinks and not really too stressed about sex with me.  Besides, I make sure they get all the pussy they can handle from white bois.  I have so many white bois who want to submit to me, we could all get together and they could fuck someone different every night of the week and there still would a line of subs waiting for their turn.” 

In that instant, a look of fear came over Michael’s pale face and made him look even whiter.  “Ma’am, If they are going to fuck me, I didn’t, prepare for that if you know what I’m saying.” 

I knew exactly what he was saying but I pretended not to.  “No sweetie, what do you mean?”

“Well,” he stuttered, “Sometimes, when . . . well, what I’m trying to say is, if you are going to tell them to fuck me, they might be offended if I . . . how can I put this?”

“Just say it precious, no need to be afraid, just say whatever’s on your mind.”

“OK,” he took a deep breath.  “Usually, if I know I’m going to be getting fucked, I will take precautions to be clean, you know, back there.”

“Ohhhhh, you mean that your asscunt might be dirty and you will get shit on their dicks if they fuck you?” I’ve always found the white boys cower at the plain truth being spoken unapologetically.  I could see him squeeze his semi-erect cock harder in the rear view mirror.  He moaned in arousal as I said, “Well, you won’t mind sucking their filthy cocks clean in that case, licking those thick, black dicks covered in your shit, up and down the shaft streaked with brown stains and the engorged heads covered with your smelly crap and their hot sperm from fucking you hard and deep in your dirty shit hole?  That won’t be a problem, will it?  Will you look up at them and show them what a dirty pig you are that you are eager to lick your own foul waste just to get a taste of their sweet, hot cum and feel their gorgeous cocks in your shit eating mouth.  That’s the price you have to pay, isn’t it, for getting three, thick, hard, black cocks shoved deep and hard in your asshole, pounding the shit out of you, making you scream, making that hole gape open, and dumping their hot loads of sperm deep inside you?”  He didn’t need to answer.  He was moaning uncontrollably at that point and his breathing was labored.  “I hope for your sake that you aren’t too full because you are going to be eating all that nasty packed fudge while they fuck you deep in your shitbox.  I better not smell any of your shit so you would be wise to beg them to fuck your mouthcunt the second you think there might be any shit on them.  Who knows, before the night is over, you might be so be such a depraved shit-eating pig, that you will be begging my friends to shit in your mouth.”  I smiled sweetly. “The night is so very young.” The fact that a black woman, especially one so sophisticated and classy, was so casually discussing the prospects of him eating shit, and being so graphic about it, almost made Michael cum in his pants. 

Michael was sobbing a tearless cry, whimpering like a baby.  “Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered over and over again as we pulled into the parking lot of the club, wanting, no needing to be subjected to that and more.  Coincidentally and totally without planning, Reginald pulled in seconds after us.  I left Michael in the back seat of my car, his mouth hanging open, confused and wondering about the possible solution to his dilemma, drooling at the thought of doing what I had suggested, actually he was more aroused about the concept of doing something so nasty in front of people.    

Reggie and I both got out of our respective vehicles and hugged in the crisp night air.  We caught up with one another as it had been some time since we had last had an opportunity to chat.  Michael sat in the back seat of my car and I pointed to him and Reginald casually glanced and we kept on with our friendly banter.  I had the child locks in place so Michael couldn’t get out of the car without me and he was helpless to do anything but sit there with his veritable nose pressed against the window and stare.  Jomo and Matt were car-pooling so we decided to wait for them so that we could all go in the club together. 

We didn’t have to wait long; it was only a matter of minutes before they pulled in.  I’m sure it must have felt like a million light years to Michael however.  Jomo and Matt parked and got out and they all did the hugging/kissing ritual with me and the “giving dap” male ritual with each other.  Jomo, I guess feeling particularly flirtatious and quite possibly even romantic, pulled me to him and ran his hands all over my full backside, his hands caressing the smooth, chocolate-colored silk of my dress.  He put his tongue in my mouth, pressed his soft, full lips gently to mine and kissed me deeply, passionately and I forgot all about anyone else or anything else for that matter for a brief moment. 

“OK guys, break it up.  I’m in the mood to get my dick sucked now,” Matt chimed in.  “And little white boy over there looks like he is hungry to swallow my load.  Hell, I might even have two loads for him.”  We all glanced towards the back seat of my car and saw Michael there with his pale face glowing in the night and laughed at him looking like a wild-eyed child imprisoned and seeking release. 

I let Michael out of the car and I think he assumed there were going to be introductions and some sort of cordial conversation but my boys didn’t give a fuck about him.  He was just another slut to be used by them, they didn’t care about his name, his likes and dislikes, they simply trusted me to direct the situation and they would go with the flow. 

The club was really a swingers club for straight couples but in recent years, they had relaxed their “no homosexual play” rule.  So while they didn’t actually promote it, they didn’t frown upon it either.  I guess with so many cock-hungry white bois out there, they needed to adapt and change with the times.  Bisexual women were always welcomed at the club so on the last Friday night of every month, they had a “Bi-friendly Party” that was geared towards men exploring their same sex desires.  We didn’t always use white boys to play with, sometimes we went there to just enjoy some sensual fun.  The owners knew that when my boys and I walked through the door however, that there was going to be a super hot show and they would always make an extra large private room available just for us. 

Courtney, the goth chick at the door who takes the money and gives out the membership cards and stuff like that, said, “Ohhhh, hi you guys.  Long time no see, we missed you last month.  Will you be needing a room with a view tonight or do you want something a little more secluded?”  She looked Michael up and down with a slight look of disgust and possibly even envy on her face.  We all conspired, did a quick vote and decided that tonight we wanted a room with a large window for voyeurs to watch and, if possible, we wanted a room that was large enough to accommodate people on sofas to sit and watch if it was available.  I think we got such VIP treatment because people would show up just to watch us play, even on the nights we weren’t there, with the hopes that they could see some of the super hot play that we brought to the club.  Lots of swing clubs have little enclaves of sex but mostly people just wander around either looking for people who are fucking.  With us, we brought our own party favors and would get the party started the minute we walked in the door.  That inspired other people to loosen up and do their own things in their own private rooms and even in the public group rooms. 

When most people hear that my friends and I are all African, they form an opinion that we are going to be half dressed African savages with beads and spears and doing a traditional Up Down Dance.  My friends were all very good looking, if I must say so myself, accomplished, professional and Americanized to a certain extent.  While none of us have forgotten our history or where we come from, we’ve assimilated well into our surroundings and we’ve flourished in Western society.  I think we’ve all maintained that delicate balance that allows us to remain true to our history and culture but also to take advantage of living in the most industrialized, capitalist nation of the world without becoming enslaved to the dysfunctional and oft times hysterical behaviors that are so rampant upon our peers who denounce our homeland. 

We ran the full gamut in terms of skin color, Matt and Reginald were the deepest, most delicious shade of rare African ebony found anywhere on the planet, their rich, dark skin almost casting a bluish hue they were both so dark.  I fell right in the middle with a milk chocolate complexion and anyone who knew anything about Kenya could tell by my signature haircut and facial features that I was Maasai.  In fact, Matunde and I were both Maasai so we both were tall and our frames were lean.  That’s not to suggest either of us were skinny.  I have the curves that make a woman a Goddess and a man’s mouth water and Matt spent many hours in the gym building muscle mass and ate a diet that filled out his frame that was uncharacteristic of Maasai men.  Jomo was Luo and Reggie was Kikuyu but Jomo was a mixture of Asian, African, and European bloodlines so his features were “more refined” as they say.  Jomo was Obamaesque in complexion.  Reginald was the shortest of the bunch at 5’9”, Matt was over 6’ tall according to my estimates and Jomo was the tallest of the bunch.  I, of course, am 5’10” but in heels, I’m almost as tall as my sweetie pie. 

I let Matt give Michael a tour of the place, get comfortable with his surroundings while I got drinks for everyone from the bar.  The rest of us socialized with the other patrons and danced a bit as well.  Because the four of us have such an unconventional friendship, because we are so comfortable with our sexuality, it was nothing for Jomo and Reggie to start kissing me on my neck, undressing me on the dance floor and fingering me to the beat while white people stared in awe of our sensuality.  We are all bisexual and not ashamed of that in any way so we turned heads when our play culminated in passionate, sensual eroticism where we were all just a tangle of beautiful bodies licking, sucking and fucking each other without regard to gender.  Of course, the other Black people in the club were interested in watching us as well and would often start their own little public displays of affection only appropriate in a sex club inspired by our freedom, beauty, and blatant sexuality. 

By the time Matt and Michael came back from exploring the club and going over the rules, I was hot and bothered and ready to play.  That had given Courtney just enough time to velvet rope off, The Madison, my very favorite room that could accommodate us in comfort and allow for a few spectators to recline and watch with relative ease as well.  We found our way to the room and people started to follow us, mostly regulars who knew that the white boy with us was about to get fucked like no one’s business. 

As the five of us poured into the semi private room and began to make ourselves comfortable all I could say was, “What the fuck is that god awful smell?”  I put my hands over my mouth and nose and I almost wretched because of the foul odor. 

“Yeah, that’s ole boy.  I guess he’s so nervous that he’s sweating like a pig.” Matt’s face was scrunched up and he was holding his nose and pointing at Michael. 

“God Damn, he stinks like a fucking pig,” Reginald said. 

“Well, one of you needs to take him to the showers and get him washed because he is going to make me vomit,” I said. 

Michael made an attempt to defend himself with some lame, feeble excuses but I wasn’t hearing any of it.  We all trotted over to the shower rooms and the boys did rock, paper, scissors to see who would be the unlucky bastard to have the job of bathing whitey.  Reggie lost.  “And burn those fucking clothes,” I yelled, “cuz I don’t want him riding back in my car smelling like a barnyard animal.”  We’d actually been through this routine before.  It was really a ritual in humiliation more than anything else but it was working.  Oh, trust me he stunk, but the thrill was in the imagery of him being bathed like a little boy by his big, Black daddy.  It seems like the hormones and pheromones of white boys kick into overdrive when they are nervous and it comes out in their pores as a funky smell, regardless of their personal bathing or deodorant habits.  And what could be more humiliating than having to be bathed like a child, to stand there and have viewers gather and whisper in not so hushed tones about how embarrassing it must be to have to endure such treatment? 

Reggie undressed Michael, taking off his clothes like a father does his child.  Michael stood there, trying to cover up everything as it was being uncovered.  Naked and exposed, he blushed from head to toe, making his pasty flesh turn pink, and quite honestly, slightly repulsive to me.  Reggie undressed and everyone in the room couldn’t help but stare.  Even the men who called themselves straight, and they were few and far between on a night like tonight, had to take a second look.  A perfectly sculpted body and a dick of mammoth proportions, with skin that was blacker than midnight, he was the embodiment of perfection.  In contrast to Michael, the two literally and figuratively looked like night and day. 

Under the spray of the communal shower, Reggie soaped Michael up roughly from head to toe.  He had no choice but to comply and conform to Reggie’s commands as he twisted and contorted Michael’s body, lifting his arms and washing away the stench from his pits and bending him over and making a huge show of spreading his ass cheeks and fingering his asshole.  Michael, struggling to stay balanced, braced himself on the shower wall and thrust his ass backwards, revealing his true slutty nature.  As women and men alike, both black and white started to gather in the small communal shower room, Michael moaned loudly as Reggie had three, soapy, thick fingers twisting and thrusting in and out of his asshole.  He humped back, his face pressed against the cold shower wall as Reggie gripped the back of his neck and forcefully held him in place as he pulled his cock back, between his legs, and soaped and stroked it roughly.  On his tip toes, teetering between shame and pleasure, he grabbed his ankles as he was being milked like a cow.  The crowd that gathered was closer now, turned on by the atypical show of a Black man so easily manhandling a white man, almost with disdain.  Reggie’s cock stood out straight, practically aimed right at Michael’s hole and men and women alike who were spectators would have gladly gotten on their knees and sucked off that tower of erotic black flesh. 

Satisfied that Michael was not only clean but sufficiently humiliated, Reggie grabbed a couple of towels and dried him off.  Holding out his hand, he said, “Let’s go.”  Michael reached for that strong hand like a little boy and padded naked through the nosey, aroused onlookers as Reggie waved his hand and they quickly dispersed like Moses parting The Red Sea.  The crowd scurried quickly behind like rats enchanted by the tune of the African pied piper, anxious to see how the rest of the evening would unfold. 

Matt, exceptionally horny that evening, started undressing and said, “Move out the way, I need to get my dick sucked now.  I’m so ready to bust a nut I can’t see straight.” 

“Oh hellllll naw.  I had to wash his funky ass so I get first dibs at whatever hole I want.  I want it tight and hot for me.”  Reggie was already naked and erect and he did have a right to go first.  Jomo and Matt nodded reluctantly as Michael looked at me for permission or direction as to what to do. 

“What are you waiting for bitch, get on your knees and service my beautiful friend,” I commanded.  He complied, anxious and ready to get the party started, his heart pounding out of his chest.  Reggie stood stoically; his manhood before him, the head glistening with precum as he stroked it to maintain his stiffness.  People started squeezing into the room, trying to find a spot where they could see everything.  Glancing around, for a brief moment, Michael felt self-conscious.  All of these people were going to see him be used, abused, and dominated by three beautiful Black men and a gorgeous Ebony Domme.   The tiny part of him that is white, the holdover part of him that had that instinct, that arrogant gene, that little white devil who whispered in his ear and said white men were not, under any circumstances, to be submissive to black men, caused him a few seconds of hesitation.  He looked around the room and saw the faces of strangers whose minds he could almost read, that said, “What sort of white man would lower himself to do something like that?  What sort of white man could degrade his race and his gender to let those savages use him?”  All of those thoughts and apprehensions hastily faded away when he looked in my eyes and I simply motioned for him to do whatever he was instructed to do.  He KNEW that his responsibility, his job was to make me proud.   It was only then that his true nature, that of a filthy cum slut, took over.  The part of him that made him long, no NEED to be used, fucked, abused, and degraded, the part of his being that craved humiliation and cum took over.

Falling to his knees, Michael knelt before Reggie and blocked out all the spectators except Jomo, Matt, and myself.  His mouth watered at the sight before him and Reggie tormented him by waving that beautiful dick in his face, the weight evident as his hand gripped the heavily veined shaft, the engorged head peeking out from the thick foreskin.   Peeling back the hood, Reggie revealed the glans of his penis and the unmistakable presence of head cheese.  It wasn’t that rank and raunchy odor some gay dudes get off on, but it was that undeniable, manly, piss, sweat, and cum odor that was the trademark of uncut cocks.  Knowing Reggie as I do, he probably had fucked some woman at lunch time in his office to add a little more flavor to the mix because that’s the way his twisted mind worked.  He loved making sure white bois KNEW unquestionably that they were sucking a man’s dick: a testosterone driven, dominant, alpha Black male’s dick.   Michael closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrance like a sommelier breathes in the aroma of a vintage 1964 Chateau Lafite Bordeaux. 

Reaching out for it, Michael stopped in mid air, looking up, asking permission with his eyes to touch it.  Reggie nodded and he placed his hand around the base.  His fingers were able to wrap around its girth, but just barely.  His pale hand looked striking against the blue/black skin of his exquisite master and Michael marveled at the contrast in skin tones that made him aroused on a cellular level.   To him, there was nothing in the world quite so beautiful as a thick, hard, big, black, cock, especially one that was about to give him a copious load of hot, creamy, sperm down his throat.  His own small, pinkish cock leaked in aroused anticipation. 

One last time, he looked to me for a nod of approval and the go ahead to begin a night of complete and utter depravity and filth.  It was as if my signal was the starter pistol for his whorish, piggish, slutty behavior.  My nod was the proverbial, “On your mark, get set, GO!”  I made him wait.  I circled him, looked down upon him, I caressed Reginald and tongue kissed him.  I lifted my dress and displayed my black lace covered ass a mere inches from Michael’s face.  I could have easily blown a fart right in his face but I’m sure he would have enjoyed that more than regretted it.  Reggie fondled and caressed the full cheeks of my butt, slid his finger in my panties  between my already moistening pussy lips.  Michael whimpered like a little bitch and started begging, “Please, please, please,” over and over and over again.  I’m not sure what he was asking for specifically because he seemed just as mesmerized by my ass as he was by Reggie’s cock, both centimeters away from his desperate tongue. 

I leaned down and whispered, “You better suck that dick and suck it good you little white fruit cocksucker because this will be the first and last time you ever perform for me if you don’t please my friend, understand?” 

Michael nodded and whined which was enough of an affirmative response for me.  I took Reggie’s dick in my hand and I stroked it; precum dripped now from the head.  I grabbed the back of his head and fed him what was clearly the most superb cock he’d ever had in his mouth.  “You told me you love cum, bitch, that you love the taste of cum, well you better prove it to me.”  That cock was so thick, Michael was only able to get the first three or four inches all the way in his mouth, leaving the vast majority of it unattended.  He wrapped both hands around the base of his dick and immediately set out on a rhythm to suck and stroke, suck and stroke.  The slight taste of smegma fueled his slutty passions as his taste buds filled with the creamy makings of a dick in heat.  He used his tongue to lick all the creamy residue he could and used his lips to cover his teeth and make his mouth nothing more than a pussy to be fucked and pounded.  Reggie wasn’t impressed; he wanted Michael to work for his cum, to pig out on his cock.  He delivered a sound smack to the side of Michael’s head, filling the small room with the sound of flesh against flesh, and demanded, “Suck my dick, slut, and make me shoot my load down your faggot throat.” 

Inspired, Michael, did his best porn star impersonation and began sucking that incredible cock like his very life depended on it.  He was moaning, slobbering, sucking, and stroking for with all his might.  He could feel every thick vein, the soft smooth skin of the shaft, the ridge of the head sliding in and out, in and out.  Drool ran down his face to his naked chest as he put on a show that was turning all the spectators on.  Everyone had moved in closer and the crowd was visibly turned on by the show.  A few of the regulars had seen my friends in I in action before and they were turned on by the dynamics but there were always others, first timers, who stared in shock, awe, and what I can only assume was jealousy, or maybe it was disgust. 

I leaned in close and whispered in Reggie’s ear, “Baby, fuck his throat, jam that fat dick down his esophagus and make him choke on it.  No mercy.”  Reggie responded by kissing me, pressing his full, soft lips against mine and sliding his tongue in my mouth.  That was his way of saying, “Anything for you sweetie,” and he proceeded to grab the sides of Michael’s head in his powerful hands and skull fuck him without mercy. 

There is a very subtle art to shoving your dick down someone’s throat so that they don’t throw up all over your dick.  It demands patience, restraint, mercy, and PERFECT timing.  Reggie was not versed in that technique.  He grabbed Michael’s ears like handles and began ramming, pounding, and thrusting his hips with all his might, forcing more of his cock down Michael’s throat than most people would have thought humanly possible.  Michael gagged and tried to push away with his hands on Reggie’s firm thighs but it was absolutely an exercise in futility.    With more than half of his cock in Michael’s mouth, he wasn’t going to be happy until his nuts were resting on Michael’s chin.  Perhaps, if his dick hadn’t been so thick it might have been possible.  Tears were streaming down Michael’s face and he could feel the remnants of his dinner getting ready to come back up.  He loved the feel and taste of that dick in his mouth.  He even adored the staggering pain of that huge dick forcing its way past his tonsils.  The words used and abused took on new meaning with this blowjob and all the while he wanted to make me proud, so he sucked and swallowed and stroked with all his might.  He was gagging, doing his best to hold on to his stomach contents down but I knew it was only a matter of time.  I was shocked that he had lasted as long as he did and with one more violent thrust, Reggie forced his dick further down that throat than even I thought possible and all the contents of his stomach came rumbling back up.  Greenish, brown slime poured out his mouth and nose and cascaded down his body.  Michael spit and coughed and looked up at Reggie with a craze, animalistic look in his eyes and panted like a dog, “MORE! Please, more.  Fuck my mouth some more, use me, give me that hot cum, use it like a cunt, shove it down my throat.  MOOORRREEEE!” 

That was all it took for me.  My pussy was dripping wet.  There is nothing I love more than seeing a white man in the midst of getting used and degraded and craving more.  Reggie found his rhythm and started fucking that mouth pussy senseless.  I had Jomo undo the zipper of my dress and slide me out of it.  In the midst of all the action, both he and Matt had gotten completely undressed and they were stroking their cocks, preparing for their turns at bat so to speak.  Still in heels, bra, and panties, I paraded around the small room, looking at spectators dead in the eye, visually taunting them, asking them if they wanted to be next, if they wanted to trade places.  One of the black men in the crowd had gotten a white woman to suck his dick while he watched but her skills were nothing compared to Michael’s; she was coughing and gagging and keep telling him to stop. 

Jomo and Matt moved in closer, surrounding Michael.   If there is a heaven for cocksucking whores, being surrounded by three gorgeous men with beautiful dicks, all hard and dripping has to be pretty damn close.  Not giving a damn about asking for permission, he dove for Reggie’s dick, this time, swallowing pretty much the entire thing, his throat open and accommodating.  The one and only goal of a true cum pig is to get that sticky, hot load.  He wanted to taste that jism, eat it, swallow it; he needed it inside him.   My boy Reggie made me proud, holding back and denying him that cum, slapping his face with his hard meat, making him beg for it. 

Matt decided to get in on the play and spun him around and starting ramming his dick in Michael’s mouth next.  While his dick is the same beautiful charcoal black color, he’s cut, not nearly as thick, about the same length but his dick as a marvelous curve to it that was made to go down a throat perfectly.  Michael dove for that dick like he was a dying man who needed cum to live.  His eyes watered as he took a severe throat pounding from Matunde and I instructed him, “Suck that big, beautiful, cock you bottom bitch, eat it, swallow it you filthy cocksucker.  Suck that cum out.  Show everyone what a nasty cum whore you are.  Suck that hot load out so you can get that little sissy cunt of yours stuffed.  That’s what you want isn’t it, to get that pussy of yours stretched and filled with stiff, black, cocks, right?” 

Those were the magic words.   Michael and Matt both went into over drive, Matt pounded and Michael grabbed his hips and held on tight as he swallowed every inch, his nose was pressed against Matt’s crotch as drool escaped the sides of his mouth.   Matt knew the score and he pushed Michael away and Jomo immediately grabbed his head and shoved his dick in that little bitch’s mouth.   For the next ten minutes, Jomo skull fucked Michael without mercy.  I almost felt sorry for him.  The pounding was relentless and Jomo showed no clemency, no compassion.  Harder, deeper, faster, he thrust.  “Yeah white boy, that’s a good girl, show daddy how much you love that dick, take it, suck it,” Jomo taunted him as he continued with his brutal throat fuck. 

My panties were soaking wet and Reggie and Matt were fingering me, waiting for their turn at that hot mouth again.  “Boys, first one to unload in this cum dump gets to eat my pussy.”  The fellas all nodded each one got a twenty or thirty second shot at Michael’s mouth.  Greedy slut that he was, Michael tried his best to get both Matt’s and Jomo’s cocks in his mouth at the same time.  The two of them rubbed the silky heads of their cocks against his lips, slapping his face and alternately feeding him juicy, man meat.   I would have bet money that Reggie would have been the first to go because he had been aroused the longest.  In fact, it was Matt who was the first to unload.  He started breathing hard, and he began to piston his dick in and out of Michael’s throat like a machine.  He started moaning, and grunting, and saying, “You want this cum sissy, you want it?”  That inspired Michael to moan and whimper louder, unable to speak because his mouth was full.  He was practically crying tears of joy.  Matt let out a sound that echoed in the room and pulled his dick out and shot no less than six times, filling Michael’s mouth with thick, creamy, hot, cum. 

Before Matt was even finished, Reggie grabbed his head and started stroking, saying, “Hold that cum in your mouth bitch, don’t you dare swallow, don’t you dare fucking swallow until I tell you.”  Every submissive cum-loving button Michael had was being pushed.  He loved cum, the taste of cum, he adored being used as a cum dump, he loved big black cocks unloading in his mouth, he loved being treated like a cheap whore, he loved being told what to do, and he craved people watching him perform for a Black woman, he loved being on display as a sex toy, used, abused, manipulated and hungry for more.  The taste of Matt’s cum on his tongue drove him crazy as he waited not so patiently for Reggie to empty his balls.  Grabbing the back of his head, Reggie stroked out his baby-making juice in Michael’s mouth, overflowing now with two huge loads of authentic, potent African cum. 

Michael swallowed.  The slimy, thick, white, cum tasted like bleach and salt, but it was the taste he craved, the taste he loved more than anything.  He turned and crawled to Jomo.  “More, give me your cum,” but Jomo had other plans in mind.  As Matt, Reggie, and I moved to one of the beds, both of them planned on feasting on my body, Jomo turned around and lewdly squatted, bending over and pulling the cheeks of his ass apart.  “Get your tongue in there bitch, eat out my nasty shithole, lick it clean, let me feel your tongue licking my insides.  Little cunt, get deep in there.  Suck out my assjuice.”  Hornier than he’d ever been in his life, and desperate for more stimulation, more degradation,   Michael grabbed those full, brown globes and dove in.  He wasn’t tentative or shy; he made a nasty showing of tongue fucking that hole, getting in deep, sucking it for all he was worth.  He could feel the fine hairs that surrounded the hole against his lips.  Unbeknownst to anyone else in the room, Jomo was pushing out his sexy hole, opening it up, flexing it, he was essentially kissing Michael with his ass lips. 

Michael kissed back.  He French kissed that asshole like it was a long-lost lover.  Driving his tongue in as deeply as he could, he felt the tip of something hard, something bitter tasting pushing back against him.  Jomo looked back and smiled; it was sort of a reassuring, sadistic smile, one that said, I’m not going to do it, but I could if I wanted to.”  Michael understood exactly what he meant and that only made him lick, suck, and kiss that much harder.  He loved the feeling of being powerless, of being so nasty that he could, with the snap of my fingers, become a human toilet.  Feeling brazen, he blew air up in Jomo’s hole, only to be rewarded seconds later with a hot, rank, foul-smelling fart that almost knocked him off his knees.  He inhaled it, luxuriated in the scent and started licking harder, sucking more, trying to get deeper. 

Glancing over at me, Michael saw the look of lust and satisfaction on my face that inspired him to pig out more.   It wasn’t satisfaction because Matt was licking and sucking my clit like a masterful pussy eater.  No doubt, he was.  I was pleased because I had found the ultimate sub.  Michael was a true pig, he was a born slut who hungered for cum, cock, and disgrace like babies need a mother’s milk, like diabetics need insulin, and like addicts need a fix.   I was proud.  He was the sort of sub that I could tell to do anything, no matter how nasty, how disgusting, no matter how many people were around and he would do it with pride.  I just knew in my heart that I could lead him around on a leash and offer his hole to anyone that I wanted and he wouldn’t even have to turn around to see their face or know their name, he would throw that ass up in the air and beg for his cunt to be filled with cock and cum.   It was a Domme’s greatest desire, to have a sub with no limits, one who lives to satisfy and please me above any other needs, desires, or wants he may have.  It was my greatest desire to have a sub who craved the most foul, obscene treatment from Black men possible.  Seeing him like that, with his mouth plastered to Jomo’s asshole, knowing full well that all I had to do was say the proverbial word and Michael would make a meal of the thick, hard, logs that packed my lover’s colon; chewing them, feeling that waste slide down his throat, entering his body, being absorbed by his very soul until he was nothing but shit.  I made me want to cum. 

The crowd was undone.  The very fabric of society is held together by the unspoken code that certain things were only supposed to be done behind closed doors and some things were supposed to be left to the imagination.  Here was this white man doing all the filthy things that so many of them had dreamed about doing and not only was he not ashamed, he was proud to be doing them with dozens of eyes watching.  This was his and my dream come true.  He wanted nothing more than to be subjected to sexual objectification every single day of his life, from morning till night, to be the fuck hole, cum dump, cock sucking white queer that got black men off for my amusement and pleasure.  He needed to be fed cum and piss around the clock, to have his pussy stretched and sore from relentless pounding. 

At this point in the evening, both my pussy and Michael’s pussy needed to get fucked.  I can’t help but be aroused watching subs perform for me like sexual circus monkey’s, doing anything and everything I tell them to do for my amusement and entertainment.  I got wet seeing white men submit, worship, and serve black men.  Michael’s body was wired wrong.  He got more pleasure from getting deeply, soundly, savagely fucked than he got from stroking his cock.  His asshole functioned like a pussy, an insatiable one at that.  It would throb and twitch and wake him up from a sound sleep in desperate need to get filled.  He was convinced it actually got wet, that it produced a lubricant like substance that allowed him to bend over and get the largest of cocks forcefully rammed deep in him without preparations.  Of course, he liked a little pain with his pleasure, he liked when he was getting fucked and it started to hurt but the man fucking him wasn’t finished, wasn’t satisfied, and didn’t care whether or not he was in discomfort or not.  He enjoyed being fucked raw, being left sore, it only made him want more cock in his asscunt.  I was ready to see that myself.  I needed to see him fag out on some beautiful black cocks and beg, plead, and scream for more.  Just the thought of that, the idea that he quite possibly could be the perfect sub of my dreams who needed more dicks than I could provide him with, whose cock would leak and drip and dribble cum from getting hammered relentlessly. 

Everyone in the room was beyond aroused at this point.  People were panting, gasping, groping, moaning, and some were fucking like wild animals.   Michael was the center of attention and he loved every second of it.  This was all foreplay for him however.  He loved dicks shoved down his throat, he loved the taste and feel of cum in his mouth, he lived to be degraded but the main show had to be getting fucked.  The entire evening would be for naught if he didn’t get several loads of semen deposited deep in his colon.  So while he was licking furiously, putting on a filthy show, he was waiting for me to give the signal that the real games were to begin. 

Jomo knew what time it was as well.  His dick was hard and dripping and he was ready to RAM it in a hole and get off.  While he loved the feel of a white man, humbled and on his knees, wildly licking the crap and filth from his anus, he wanted to make him is bitch, mount and breed him like he was nothing more than a rutting animal in heat.  White boys, in his eyes, deserved to be used without mercy because they talked shit, had a feeling of entitlement and arrogance that was truly unearned, and their true place, their true role was of that of servant, maid, foot stool, and fuck hole to divinely superior Africans. Abruptly, he turned and delivered a backhand that sent Michael crashing to the floor and echoed throughout the room.  The crowd gasped.  The neurons on Michael’s brain registered the hard slap as not pleasure, but not pain either.  To him, it was just acknowledgement that he was serving a superior. 

“Baby,” I moaned, bring him over here so I can see you fuck him.  I want to see your gorgeous meat ramming in and out of that slutty hole – up close. I want to see baby.”   Grabbing him by the arm, like nothing more than a rag doll, he pulled Michael to the bed, right next to me and Matt and Reggie.  We slid over, making space, but it was a tight fit with all four of us piled on that bed; Jomo stood at the end of the bed and stroked his cock. 

Everyone in the room moved closer, well, everyone who wasn’t in a chair or sofa, leaned up against a wall, or on one of the other beds fucking.  The room was beginning to stink like hot sweaty bodies and sex and we hadn’t even started yet.  To me, it just showed how unsophisticated and savage most people really were.  They were driven by their lust, aroused by the slightest of stimulation.  I, on the other hand, could control my desires.  I enjoyed the wait.  Prolonging the pleasure was a sign that I could not and would not be a slave to my hormones.  

Michael was on his knees, his face down on the bed, his ass high in the air.  His face was inches from my own.  Without taking my eyes off his, I said, “FUCK HIM!” 

Jomo took aim.  He held the fat head of his dick to Michael’s hole.  He spit on it, stretching the opening with his thumbs, prying it obscenely open so his saliva dripped in his already gaping hole.   That was the only lube he was going to get.  He didn’t need it, his hole was so used to being ravaged, so fucking slutty, so used to getting fucked with huge dildos and toys that even Jomo’s enormous dick wouldn’t faze him.  The one thing that his toys couldn’t do was pound him with the ferocity, force, and relentless intensity that only a real Black man could.  

“AHHHHHHH, oh yessss.”  Climbing to his hands and knees so he could feel the friction even more, so he could have that dick hit his magic spot, Michael lowered his head and raised his ass, presenting his asshole like a bullseye for target practice and Jomo was the expert marksman taking aim.  His moans spoke a language of their own.  He was communicating in grunts and groans, speaking in tongues, vocalizing his profane and perverse desires with his eyes, telling the story of his lustful desires.  “What are you waiting for?  Use me like a dirty, white cum dump, with no regard for me or my pleasure or pain.  Make me pay, pay for my white privilege, for the vile treatment of your ancestors, fuck me like the sissy faggot I need to be, nothing but a hole for your to dump your superior sperm.  I need that big, black dick pounding me, fucking me, using me.  You’re a real man.  Make me your white cunt bitch. FUCK ME.” 

Speed, power, and precision are what make for a great fuck.  Jomo possessed all of those things plus a dick with the length and girth to make even the most seasoned bitchboi cry.   Michael indeed looked like he was going to cry, but his tears were tears of joy.  He was being impaled by an extraordinary Black cock, on display for everyone to see his sluttish nature, and it was all being orchestrated by the Black Bitch of his dreams.  It was the stuff submissive white boys lived for, dreamed of, craved.  Jomo built up a steady, pounding rhythm; never backing off, not caring if he was causing discomfort or pain.  His fierce fuck was jarring Michael’s teeth and causing the bed to bump against the wall.  I whispered for Reggie and Matt to start warming up for their turns and the crowd watched in shock, awe, and arousal.   I slid out of the way and allowed the fellas to take their positions for the main event. 

A gorgeous sheen of perspiration glowed on Jomo’s skin as he worked out his frustration and lust on Michael’s battered hole.  Matt knelt on the bed and force fed his cock into Michael’s mouth, insuring that he was getting fed dick from both ends, that he was going to get cum in his belly and his bowels simultaneously.  He gagged and moaned on that beautiful cock, glancing at me for approval and acknowledgement.  I smiled.  Matt grabbed him by the head and forcefully skull fucked him as I leaned in closely and whispered, “Make me proud, show me what a nasty slut you really are.” 

With those few words, it was as if all of Michael’s antics and actions up until that point had been foreplay.  He grabbed Matt’s cock long enough to hold it and turn his head to moan, “FUCK ME HARDER.  DAMN YOU!  Ram that hot, black pole in my white, slutty hole.”  Precum was literally dripping from Michael’s cock like a faucet.  He was thrusting his ass back; the epitome of a hot fuck.  He dove for Matt’s cock again, swallowing it whole; spit dripping from the corners of his mouth as he moaned around every beautiful, black inch of it.  The cock in his mouth was so long, so hard, that it was literally being shoved two or three inches down his throat. 

I positioned myself so that he could see me playing with my hot, wet, pussy but so as not to interfere with the hot action.  A white woman came up to me and started licking my pussy without even so much as an introduction let alone my permission.  She appeared to be in a daze.  I don’t think she was as aroused by watching all the gay fucking as she was jealous that she wasn’t being the gangbang whore that Michael was.  It was all speculation of course because she had her face buried in my wet snatch and I was grinding my pussy on her face, using her to get off because I was outrageously aroused by the scene before me.  Michael possessed a hunger, a ravenous need that most subs didn’t even understand, let alone were they capable of achieving.  I could tell Jomo was on the verge of orgasm because he was pounding harder, moaning loader.  I timed my orgasm to match his as he pumped his creamy sperm in Michael and I squirted my juices into the 50 something brunette who was fingering her pussy while licking me. 

Jomo came.  His orgasm was powerful and he deposited his seed deep inside Michael’s guts.  Withdrawing his satiated dick, he grabbed Michael by the hair and spun him around, not caring that he was denying Matt the pleasure of his blowjob.  He placed his cock, fresh from a hot, sweaty, shithole on Michael’s lips.  He inhaled the aroma deeply.  That cock stunk of spunk and ass juice.  It wasn’t exactly apparent to me if there were streaks of shit on it but I assumed there were given that the fuck had been so savage and deep.  It didn’t seem to matter if there were slight streaks or if it was completely covered in filth, Michael devoured it hungrily.  In fact, his oral assault was a bit too aggressive and Jomo pushed him down and staggered away, literally drained after such a vigorous fuck.  Undaunted, Michael screamed for more. 

Matt, warmed up and ready, lay down on the bed.  “Climb on this stick, whitey.  Ride me, bitch.”  Michael straddled Matt, placing his legs on the outside of his strong, muscular thighs and his hands on Matt’s perfectly sculpted chest.  He lowered his asshole, now dripping with cum, sore, and gaping open, down onto Matt’s African spear.  Pain was an aphrodisiac at that point and he loved the feeling of that black meat piercing his, raw, abused hole.  He bounced up and down, furiously, fucking himself on Matt’s cock.  Looking down, he could see the impression of Matt’s cock in his stomach.  Something about that fact made him feel that much nastier.  Throughout the evening, he hadn’t even touched his own cock but the pool of dick snot that collected on Matt’s stomach was no indication of that.  He was producing a steady stream of clear precum and his ass was . . . it was wet, actually wet like a woman’s pussy. 

Not to be left out and ready to get in on the action, Reggie came up from behind, pushed Michael down and lined up the head of his dick next to Matt’s.  Michael’s face was a mere inches from Matt’s face.  In that moment, he wanted to be kissed; he wanted to be the ultimate faggot.  He could feel Matt’s breath on him, their chests were pressed together.  Reggie saw an opportunity, looked at me for my approval and I simply mouthed the words, “Go for it.” 

He climbed on the bed between Matt’s and Michael’s legs and took careful aim.  He lined up his cock alongside Matt’s and started pushing.  It was a tight fit and completely unsuccessful at first.  It didn’t seem like it was going to work but it was Michael who insisted that he not give up.  He begged, in a chant-like, hypnotic prayer, “Fill me up with those gorgeous cocks.  Use that hole, abuse it, fuck me.”  He kept saying it over and over again. 

Finally, after some serious effort, Reggie accomplished his mission.  Michael was impaled on not one but TWO beautiful, black cocks.  It was a tight fit but it was actually Michael who wanted that fuck to be intense and savage.  He started working his ass on them, wiggling, fucking them back.  The smell of sweat and nasty ass sex filled the room.  I grabbed the white woman’s head and forced her to start licking my asshole, making her drive it deep inside to satisfy my own anal desires.  My orgasm was seconds away.  I was witnessing a white body sandwiched between two of the most spectacular black bodies, it was a Black Domme’s dream come true.  Michael was insatiable.  He glanced at me and asked, “Are you proud of me?”

In that moment, I was outrageously proud.  He was the voracious slut that I had longed to own, to use, to control his desires.  “Yes, sweetie, I’m incredibly proud of you,” I said. 

With those words, his eyes glazed over with tears and lust.  He was sobbing and moaning, drooling and chanting, “Fuck, fuuuuck, FUCK!”  Reggie was the first to unload, pile-driving deep and hard, depositing the second load of cum up that nasty fuck hole.  Matt was last.  He began pistoning in and out at a machine-like speed.  Cum from Jomo and Reggie frothed out of Michael’s asshole, dripped down Matt’s cock, covering his balls, creating a wet, nasty sound as he neared his nut.  Michael met each thrust, worked his pussy like a cheap whore.  I was grinding my pussy and ass on the white woman’s mouth, nearing my own explosion.  I grabbed a handful of her brown hair and held tight as I unloaded my cream in her mouth and Matty deposited the third load of the night in Michael’s cunt. 

That was the evening that Michael became my possession.  Even with his asshole gaped and prolapsed, with multiple loads of cum dripping obscenely from it, he wanted more.  He didn’t want or need to cum; all he wanted was to get his pussy and throat pounded, to eat hot loads of jizz.  That was his satisfaction.  He begged and pleaded for more cocks but he was not to get them that evening.  Eventually, he’s come to perform for larger crowds with more men but he’s never been satisfied.  He’s never gotten enough cock, enough cum, enough abuse and I’ve never gotten enough of seeing him perform for me like my perfect pet.

Copyright 2011 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved