Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.

Showing posts with label humiliation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humiliation. Show all posts

Monday, January 12, 2015

Blinded by the Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob almost came in his pants. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or the next. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2015 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Saturday, August 30, 2014

White Male Submission

It is time to explore this subject again.  Attention needs to be drawn to this as it is rampant and pervasive and it's indicative of a mental illness en masse.  This was written about 10 years ago.  I will post the follow up that I wrote about two years ago.  With the proliferation of white cops slaughtering Black men in the streets, arresting them for nothing more than being black, I will not let their pathology go unchecked.  

One can’t pick up a magazine or listen to a discussion about the black community these days without reading about “DL brothas”, or black men that have sex with other men while representing themselves as heterosexual.  There is a homoparanoia and fear that is largely media driven that is telling black women that they need to question every black man they meet because he might be having sex with other men.  Certainly, one has to believe that black men must be driven by their desires more than any other portion of the population because this “DL” trend is so rampant among black men, according to every single, solitary book, article, and discussion prevalent today. 

I have the unique opportunity to be in a position where people come to me and tell me their fantasies as a function of my career.  There is a HUGE and very stealth underground sexual movement that is growing that has escaped any mainstream examination whatsoever.  While black men’s sexual practices have been put under a microscope and they have been demonized in the media as sexually irresponsible and morally bankrupt latent “faggots,” white men have been able to slip under the radar, with stealth efficacy, with their sexual secrets. The numbers of white men that come to me and tell me that they have fantasies of being sexually submissive, not only to black women, but also to black men, is STAGGERING.  Literally, thousands of white men have approached me in the last several years, all reiterating very much the same themes in their desires, that they believe that white people are inferior, that they want to pay for the atrocities of slavery by their sexual servitude to black people, that black people are more beautiful.

There are common themes and consistencies in their fantasies and the types of white male submissive men can be grouped into three main categories: white men that want white female partners to engage in interracial sex, white men that want black female partners and white men that want domination by both black men and black women.  The first group of men, the men that want their white wives or girlfriends to engage in interracial sex, are known as cuckolds.   Cuckolds are men that get arousal from having a white wife, commonly referred to as a “slut wife,” that has multiple black lovers. The husband is forced to live a life of sexual denial and servitude while the wife has sex with these so called “superior black bulls.”  Servitude can include anything from getting the wife ready for her lover to cleaning her orally after her lover has ejaculated inside her, to orally or anally servicing the black lover himself. Many times, the sexual component is heightened if there is some level of implied “extortion” or money demanded of the white submissive male to perform theses homoerotic acts.  I’ve had innumerous white men tell me that they want their wives to be “black bred”, meaning impregnated by a black man and they are sexually aroused by the idea of their wives forcing them to raise a biracial child as their own.  There’s little doubt that the origins of these fantasies are steeped in the mythical “Big Black Mandingo” stereotype as they profess love for his abnormally large penis while begging to be taunted and humiliated for their comparatively small endowment.  Sexual submission is usually limited to the bedroom for these men because they seem to be able to compartmentalize the fact that they are only inferior because of their perceived, small penis and, on occasion, express angst that they have fantasies of seeing the black man as superior, even if it is only in a sexual situation. 

The second category of white male submissive is the men that hold black women in the highest esteem.  These men love and desire the black woman far more than white woman and very often admire the natural features of black women that have long been rejected by society at large.   Big butts, dark skin, full lips, natural hair, and sassy and domineering attitudes are the attributes that they most readily describe as the epitome of beauty, black or otherwise. The  number of occasions when white men have said they want a black wife to pamper and provide for, to put her on a pedestal as the true mother of all civilization, are too numerous to mention.  Many times, they reiterate the same sorts of fantasies of the cuckold husband: they want her to have a black lover, but more often than not, they describe feelings of inadequacy because they believe they are unable to satisfy or undeserving of having sex with a black woman. They describe fantasies whereby they are forced by a black woman to engage homosexual acts as an act of punishment or for her amusement. They reiterate they same sorts of fantasies about cleaning Black  woman of ejaculate deposited by her lover, being denied orgasm, being “forced” to humble themselves before the black man to show their  unworthiness and inferior status.  The instances of white men telling me that they want to serve as human toilet to black women are so commonplace, so frequent, I don’t blink an eye any longer when the topic is broached. These men describe how it would be an honor to receive the waste of a black woman and how it is their duty as a white male to do so.  Many desire to be subjected to perform household duties for black women, seemingly with no sexual gratification in return, only the desire to be humiliated for their whiteness.  Most desire to form lifelong, loving relationships with Black women as adoring pets or servants and most refer to themselves as slaves. 

The third category of white male submissive is interested whatever forms of degradation they can receive from whatever Black source that sees fit to dish it out.  They are unashamedly bisexual and, in many cases, prefer to perform sexual acts with black men.  Among this group are the most masochistic of the population.  They are constantly asking for approval and validation that they truly are inferior to black people.  They confess that they want to become slaves, stripped of their rights as a human, that they want to pay for the sins of any white person that owned slaves, and that they want to be degraded and humiliated for their whiteness. Their fantasies are extreme, many expressing desires to be lynched and beaten reminiscent of true slavery as part of their sexual fantasies.  Many tell me that they desire to become black and have romantic notions that they will become well-endowed athletes or big-bosomed matriarchal archetypes.  Several have requested books to read to tell them of a more accurate Black history than the limited exposure they’ve received.  I’ve had white men tell me that they go out of their way to hire black people, support black businesses, or provide daily acts of kindness to black people as their own personal form of reparations. 

These examples are the norm not the extreme and I’m confronted with these examples on a daily basis.  It should be noted that almost 100% of the time, white men use the singular adjective black to describe the collective of people rather than as a descriptor.  i.e. “I want my wife to fuck black, I am attracted to black, I am a slave for black” rather than the proper usage, “I am attracted to black women, I want my wife to fuck black men, I desire to be submissive to black people.”  Their grammatical objectification of us is but a minor indication that they have yet to shatter the racist beliefs that they claim so boldly to have done.

If there is any level of validity in my findings, my observations lead me to believe that there is no concurrent movement by black people whereby we, on any sort of collective basis, are expressing desires to make white people pay for the atrocities of slavery or to restore a Black supremist racial hierarchy and to do so by the sexual subjugation of white people.  We seem to be naively playing into the role of dominatrix and Black bull and walking away from the experience and not being particularly braggadocios about them either. Those few African American individuals that have confided in me of experiences with submissive white men seem to take pity on them that they are so warped in their thinking that they could actually believe that black people could be superior.  In my amateur anthropological opinion, these black people feel guilty for holding a position of power over white men, even if it’s only sexually and for brief periods of time.  I’ve yet to meet the black person that has engaged in a sexual liaison with a submissive white man that has truly recognized the larger political implications.  Many black women have seen this as an opportunity to capitalize on their “most coveted object” status and made attempts to use white men for money, which seem to backfire more often than not according to their tales. While very few black men confide in me about their experiences with submissive white men, (and one can only assume from the reports of white men that the numbers of black men that are engaging in these behaviors are equally as staggering) I can only assume that they feel some sort of temporary reprieve from the stresses and strains of a racist society while engaged in the act, and as they go on about their daily lives, they replace their societally-imposed veil of powerlessness, never recognizing that their true power does not lie in their penis. Black people, still largely ignorant of our own past, the origins of African greatness, and still largely brainwashed to believe that white people are better, are sadly, too uninformed to  assert that they will not be made pawns in a sexual game to rid white people of their guilt or fulfill their dark continent lust.

There are a multitude of larger implications that are happening beneath this absolutely HUGE movement that need to be discussed and simply can’t be unless the topic is put on the table so that society at large can examine the trend and not have it kept as white America’s dirty little secret.  First and foremost, these men are still, for the most part, holding onto racist, stereotypical and degrading beliefs about Black people while they are insisting that their desire to submit to black people indicates that they are free from all such beliefs.  They assume that because they are sexually attracted to Black people that automatically means they are not racist.  Many white men claim they used to harbor racist beliefs and some sexual event with a black person cured them of their racism, which is obviously an absurd assumption.  If these white men are in fact engaging in sexual acts with black men as they claim, then the source and spread of HIV in the Black community needs to be examined.  These white men should be spreading the virus to their partners in equal proportions to black men. 

I imagine that there are scores of therapists, counselors, sex workers, medical practitioners and journalists in this country that have the same knowledge as I.  Why aren’t there medical journals and articles that are discussing this trend and the psychological implications?  Where are the 20/20 and Dateline exposes, where are the radio talk shows that are discussing this phenomenon, why isn’t every magazine warning white women about the potential hazards of white men that are engaging in unsafe sex with black men?  Given the current political climate in this country, with this move to the ultra-moral, ultra-conservative right, what conclusions can one draw about this population of white men that have this race-driven guilty, envy, and lust?  Are there white men that are secretly harboring these sexual desires in positions of power and exacting stricter punishments on black men to assuage them of their desires to “submit to black?” 

Race in America is still and extremely volatile topic.  If there are, as I’ve experienced, multitudes of white men that are having these types of fantasies and desires, there needs to be an open and honest discussion in a public forum to determine the origins, the implications, and to form support groups and allegiances to address the very important issues that these types of issues bring to the table.  White men are begging, even if it is only privately, to be immersed in a black sexual experience, and they are being led by individuals that don’t have the ability to train, instruct and accurately inform.  This issue can not be swept under the table because it upsets the equilibrium of the status quo.  White men are desiring to be submissive to Black people in phenomenal numbers and the reasons why and the social implications thereof must be discussed. 

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe
CEO and   Founder of AfroerotiK