Bad, Bad, Boy

Working for an advertising agency has its advantages.  At the drop of a hat, for barely any reason at all, there’s cause for an after work get together with free-flowing drinks for all.  On this particular Friday evening, there was reason for celebration because Michael Shield’s company signed a major client and glasses were being raised all around Schmidt's Bistro.  Michael was his usual self, in his element.  He was an interesting fellow because while an outsider would think that Michael was a CEO or at least someone of importance, he was merely an accountant, a job considered mundane, boring, and non-integral to the advertising game.  He raised his glass and made toasts; he laughed and patted backs like he had written the ad copy himself. 

As the night wore on, Michael was becoming increasingly more intoxicated.  He began to slur his words and he was insulting to the waitresses for no other reason than he thought he could be.  He even slapped one young lady on the ass hard enough for it to be heard from across the room.  Michael thought it was part of his charm; his male bravado entitled him to treat anyone he wanted like shit.  In a word, he was an asshole.  He wasn’t the most obnoxious asshole in the world; he was just a regular ole, intolerable asshole, exacerbated by the alcohol. 

Everyone started thinning out, and the place was becoming empty.  Michael was still in the mood for festivities and he was one of the last people to leave.  He stumbled outside in the cool night air and couldn’t really remember where he had parked his car.  The fact that he was totally unable to operate a motor vehicle had no meaning to him because if he got pulled over by the cops, surely they would let him slide.  It was his right as a white man; his skin color gave him a get out of jail free card.  By the time he found his car, he realized that he didn’t have his keys.  Either they had fallen out or someone had been wise enough to take them in deference for the other drivers on the road. 

Michael cursed and kicked the tire of his vehicle, hurting his foot in the process.  He made plans to go back to the bar and try to find his keys but the call of nature was stronger.  He had to piss like a racehorse and piss immediately.   Rather than try to find a bathroom, or even a discrete place to urinate, Michael pulled out his stuff right there on the street and started whizzing away, on the front steps of a brownstone row house.  As luck would have it, Michael’s particularly bad luck in this case, the owners of said brownstone were returning from a night out on the town just as he was hosing down their front steps. 

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?”   Michael turned to see a young man, Black, about his age, of the same size and stature, angered but not irate, scolding him.  Unable to control himself or his bladder, Michael continued to piss right on the young man’s shoes as he mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of an apology.  The young lady who stood next to him didn’t say much; she seemed to be quite confident that her companion could take care of the situation.  Michael noticed that they looked rather different, like they were punk rockers or something.  Most Black people he knew blended in, but the young woman, a pretty brown skinned woman with a bright pink Mohawk and piercings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip, was vastly different.  She was dressed in a ripped t-shirt that had strategic safety pins to cover her small, braless breasts under a black, leather motorcycle jacket.  Her jeans, equally as ripped, showed her smooth chocolate colored skin off even in the moonlit night.  She wore black Doc Martens that had been spray-painted with red, black and green artwork. 

There was something sexy and dangerous about this chick that didn’t escape Michael ’s notice and he openly and brazenly started pulling on his still pissing cock, his judgment clouded by the alcohol.   The guy, now past his limit for tolerance, went to grab Michael’s arm and he pulled away and defiantly said, “Fuck you.”

The punch that landed on Michael’s jaw knocked him out cold, aided by the alcohol, because the next thing he remembered was waking up with his hands handcuffed behind him and he was secured to a chair in a strange room.  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the couple sitting, casually watching him.  His clothes reeked of urine and vomit, the air smelled of cloves and he felt considerably more sober.  He began to protest rather loudly, demanding an explanation. 

“I see you’re awake,” the young woman said with a clearly British accent.  She put a filter-less cigarette to her lips between her thumb and forefinger and inhaled like a rebel with a cause; the light of the burning ash illuminated the contours of her ebony face.  “I don’t know what sorta manners you have, and I don’t know what sorta bloke thinks it’s okay to use other people’s homes like a public loo, but you need to be taught a lesson. Don’t you agree Percy?”  She turned to her male counterpart and he laughed casually as the young woman circled Michael like a panther. 

“Unquestionably, Patra.  Me thinks he needs to be taught a serious lesson about respect. G’won, teach him bout respect.”  It was only then that Michael noticed that the male half of the couple was dressed in a similar fashion to the female but his accent seemed to be more Jamaican than British.  Percy was about 6 feet tall; around 190 pounds if one were to guess, and he appeared to be the Black version of Sid Vicious only with outrageously long dreadlocks piled atop his head.  He too wore black Doc Martens with the picture of a lion airbrushed on his left boot and a picture of Haile Selassie airbrushed on the other. 

Patra whispered in Michael’s ear, “You have been a very, very, bad boy and you are going to be punished, ya hear?”  She grabbed his face, pushing his cheeks together and blowing smoke in his eyes.  Michael tried to turn away but she held his face firmly in her grip. 

WHAP!  She slapped his face hard and the sting brought Michael to a new level of sobriety.  He looked around the sparse room and noticed it was a basement, bathed only by the soft, fluorescent glow from the street lamps streaming in the small, street level windows.  Even though he was scared, and rightfully so, there was also something erotic for Michael about being held against his will, punished for his wrongdoings, tormented by this odd, Black couple like a naughty schoolboy. 

Percy seemed to enjoy sitting back and watching the show as Patra went about her business.  She spit in Michael’s face, pulled his hair, used his mouth as an ashtray, and for entertainment, burnt the backs of his hands with her cigarettes.  Trying to remain defiant and strong, Michael felt his will slowly bending to hers.  He became her puppet.    She was ruthless, relentless in her punishment.  Placing her boot against his crotch, she stomped his nuts without care for his well-being or health.  Kicking the chair over, Michael struggled against his restraints.  For a brief moment, he was released only to be secured again with his hands behind his back to a metal pole in the center of the room. 

Being made to kneel on the cold, cement floor, the ordeal continued for Michael, who felt himself desperate for his release and willing to perform any duty, no matter how degrading, no matter how painful, so that he could please his captors and be let go.  Patra placed her boot squarely on Michael’s mouth and made him lick.  The grime and the dirt were foul.  He licked the heavily soiled treads while the pair laughed at him.  She kicked him in the side of the head so hard he saw stars but he kept on licking.  His cock was fully awake and aware of the fact that he was suffering and in pain.  His arms were sore and aching, his knees were raw and nearly bloody as the night turned to day yet he was turned on by the humiliation, aroused by the pain.  The couple didn’t seem to care that the hours passed.  With each new hour they dreamt of a new torture that pushed Michael ’s body to new limits.   Painful enemas, burning hot candle wax, dangerous breath play, and extreme cock and ball torture seemed to go on in an endless cycle.  At one point, improvising with what was laying around, Patra found an extension cord and used it to beat Michael’s face, chest, and body in a cruel show of pure sadism.

Percy couldn’t sit idly by and watch, he joined in the fun as Patra directed.  Her arms were tired from beating him without mercy so she called on her lover to take over.  What Michael thought was excruciating pain before was magnified 10 times when Percy began his lessons in respect.  “You treat my home like a toilet, I’ll show you what a fucking toilet is . . . “ and he unzipped his jeans and pulled out a hefty cock, blacker than midnight and as thick as a beer can, and hosed Michael down.  The piss was strong and forceful and Michael tried to turn his head but he was slapped and his head held in place, forced to drink the urine.  The salt in the pee stung as it seeped into the open sores on the backs of his hands and in his eyes. 

“Enough of this playing around,” Patra said, “make him your bitch, baby, show him who the real man is.”  The pair seemed to silently acknowledge that the entire night’s antics, and the better part of the morning’s, were all leading to the grand finale when Michael would be forced to endure the ultimate humiliation. 

Percy grabbed Michael’s head and forced his semi-erect penis into his mouth.  He tried to turn his head, he contemplated biting it but he was far too scared.  There was no way he could fight, his arms were still tightly handcuffed behind him, and he was weak from exhaustion.  He could hear Patra’s cruel laughter in the room, around him, unaware of exactly where she was.  As Percy fucked his mouth, choking him, making him gag, forcing that black cock deep in his esophagus, Michael felt the rumblings of what was surely stale beer coming back up.  He tried to hold it back but Percy showed no mercy and kept pounding away, using his mouth like a pussy.  Vile smelling chunks of puke came up and big black cock forced it back down.  Michael was trying to gasp for air but his airways were blocked with dick and vomit and cum.

“You fucking son of a bitch, look what you did!”  Patra kicked him in the side and made him cry out.  Quickly, she undid the restraints and repositioned him on his hands and knees.  She took the belt from his khakis and pulled it free.  She lowered his pants and bared his naked ass for her punishment. 

Blow after painful blow reigned down on Michael’s pale, flabby, white ass.  He began sobbing uncontrollably.  “I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again.  Each time the leather made contact with his skin, the pain reverberated up his spine.  Welts formed, blood dripped.  Just when he thought he could take no more, he heard Patra say, “Spit on it to get it wet first or else you won’t be able to get it in on the first thrust.” 

Michael’s heart dropped.  He was completely virgin and terrified of what he knew was coming.  He cried, begged, and pleaded.  He tried to bargain and negotiate.  He sobbed uncontrollably like a little bitch.  “Please, please don’t do this.  I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.” 

Patra and Percy would have no such talk.  “Now look who’s the big man now.  What happened to all that arrogance?  You’re not so full of yourself now, are you?  Well, you are going to get fucked and you are going to beg for it.  In fact, you are going to plead to get fucked like the sissy faggot you are, do you hear me?”

Michael was broken.  He didn’t even feel like a man anymore.  He was a bad, bad boy who was suffering the ultimate abuse.  There was something in him, something dark and perverted that wanted, no craved being taught this lesson.  His manhood had been taken, his dignity and self-respect destroyed, and he was a mere shell of a man.  With his eyes on the ground, he whispered a demure, “Please.” 

“That’s not good enough,” she yelled, “beg for it like you need it.  Prove that you want it.”

His arrogant taunt of “Fuck you,” that caused him to end up in this predicament turned into a chant of “Fuck me.”  “Fuck me,” he cried out as he felt the enormous head of Percy’s cock against his asshole.  “Fuck me,” he yelled as he felt the pain of his sphincter being ripped and inch after inch of black meat invading his anus.  “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he begged over and over again as he was pounded and used like a little rag doll.  “Fuck me like I’m a dirty whore.  Fuck me like I’m a little bitch.  Fuck me harder.  FUCK ME DAMN YOU!  FUUUUCKK MEEEEE!”

Sometime that afternoon, hungry, thirsty, and smelling like the men’s room at a bus station, Michael stumbled out onto the street.  His car had been ticketed and he still had no idea where his keys were.  He was ashamed to call his wife and explain where he’d been all night but he knew she would be worried to death.  He didn’t emerge a new man; he wasn’t somehow magically cured of being an asshole.  He was, however, sore and tired, his nuts ached for relief, and he had been relieved of some of his white guilt that had brought about immense sexual satisfaction. 

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Interracial Domination Duo

WHAP!  He slapped his face hard and the sting brought Michael to a new level of sobriety.  He looked around the sparse room and noticed it was a basement, bathed only by the soft, fluorescent glow from the street lamps streaming in the small, street level windows.  Even though he was scared, and rightfully so, there was also something erotic for Michael about being held against his will, punished for his wrongdoings, tormented by this odd, Black couple like a naughty schoolboy.  

For more intense interracial erotica, check out Minority Affairs.  

Submissive White Men: A Decade Later

I’ve been putting off writing this follow-up piece to White Male Submission for almost a year now.  My love/hate relationship with submissive white men on any given day is tempered by how many cups of Roobois tea I’ve had to keep me calm, exactly how effective I think I’ve been in communicating to them another way to look at their behaviors, and how annoying they insist on being.  Submissive white men love me and I . . . well . . . I don’t hate white men, of the submissive or any other variety, but I’m not fond of the arrogance, lack of empathy, compassion, or concern many of them have for anyone with different experiences than they, or the sheltered, and unjustly privileged existence they lead that allows them to think that the world revolves around their fantasies, and how they manage to think that I owe them my time and attention. 

My very first exposure to the concept of submissive white men began in January of 2000.  I had just quit my job on the corporate plantation and I was starting the new millennium unencumbered by the chains of a nine to five.  In my particular case, I was in retail management so it was more like my nine to nine.  Nevertheless, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life but I knew for a fact it wasn’t making some shareholders rich while I managed to exist comfortably but on an austere budget that allowed for few, true luxuries.  For the first month of my unemployed status, I obsessively visited different chat rooms.  I was new to the concept and yahoo had a chat room for every possible interest.  At first, I joined all the African-American chat rooms and then the political ones.  Next, I ventured to the dating ones for thirty-somethings; and eventually the ones about sex.  I wasn’t interested in chatting about sex with random strangers for my own personal arousal but I can remember, even then, YEARS before the concept of AfroerotiK was even a tiny seed in my consciousness, that I was intrigued by people sharing their fantasies with me.  I wanted to know what made people tick.  I wanted to know what got them off.  I would ask questions and people would confess to me like I was their own personal, sexual high-priestess. 

It didn’t take very long to figure out the patterns of submissive white men.  Everyone told the same story; there wasn’t much deviation in their fantasies.  For a while there I thought I was chatting with the same person because the stories sounded so similar and their lamentations so identical.  Like I said in my previous article, they usually fell into one of three categories: cuckolds, practitioners in female supremacy, and bisexual submissives.  I’m going to suggest that the categories have remained essentially the same but they have grown, morphed into some sort of amalgamation of white male submission where the lines are blurred and the identities aren’t nearly so neatly defined any more.  Cuckolds have become sissies, female supremacists have become black supremacists, and bisexual submissives have become depraved, perverse, degenerates and everyone has ventured over into someone else’s territory to explore and test the waters.  Today, there are financial pay pigs, blackmail addicts, castration junkies, service-oriented subs, and good old-fashioned pain pigs.  The sheer numbers of white submissive men is incomprehensible to me but I can tell you that they are an outrageously large percentage of the population and still growing it seems. 

What do submissive white men fantasize about?  You don’t even want to know. 

Who is the typical submissive white male?  Look around you and you will see one.  They are blue collar, white collar, single, married, educated, degreed, high-school drop outs, middle management cogs, entrepreneurs, law enforcement, those under the law, jocks, nerds, run-of-the-mill Joes, Republican and Democrat and even Tea Partiers, American and European, rich, poor, short, tall, fat, skinny, straight, gay, and in the closet bisexual, muscular, 98 pound weaklings, young and old, ugly and attractive, and the guy next door.  The very guy you think of and you say, “Oh, he would NEVER be one of those guys,” is the same guy who has shared with me filthy secrets about how he wants to be a slut for black cock or a toilet for a group of Black women.  The very person you say is too (fill in the blank) good looking – successful – racist – normal – average – macho – creepy – mousey - conservative to be submissive to Blacks is the exact type who is.   On an almost daily basis, I have men who identify as Dominants in the BDSM world send me messages that say, “I’m a Dom to white women but I secretly dream of being sub to a Black woman, would you train me?”  Am I suggesting that every white man is submissive?  By all means no.  I am suggesting that every type of white man is.  There is no type.  While their behaviors and words are eerily similar, they come from every different background conceivable. 

Are white women equally as motivated by their interracial submission?  I have no idea.  Luckily for me, the white women in my circle of friends are sane, healthy, balanced, exceptional women.  Do I think the white women I call sisters are reflective of the majority of white women?  As much as I would like to believe that, I know in my heart that is not the case.  I do know that there are legions of white women who identify as sluts for Black cock, Black only whores, and those who are sexually aroused by the concept of getting “bred Black.”  I know there are interracial cuckold sites galore with white women who are being joined by their submissive white husbands in their worship and adoration of the mythical big, black cock.  White women are not inclined to seek out my advice or counsel so I have no ideas of their numbers or pathologies.  I can say that Black women are not nearly as motivated dominate as white men are to submit.  I can say that Black men are FAR less likely to be interested in dominating white males than they are white females.  Perhaps because white women have so many outlets for their desires and white men have so few, perhaps white women are more . . . shall we say adjusted . . . with their interracial fantasies.  I wouldn’t even hazard a guess because, again, I don’t communicate with them on any meaningful level so my knowledge of the drives and motivations of white women, submissive or not, is limited.  If the number of interracial porn sites on the internet is any indication, I would say that the numbers must equal or surpass those of submissive white men. 

I wouldn’t be exaggerating in the slightest if I said that I got no less than 50 forms of communication a day from submissive white men.  The actual number is probably twice that and it can go even higher than that on days I post stories or essays I’ve written about the topic.  I remember when I wrote the first article discussing the phenomenon, I would get death threats, literal death threats, from white men who were OUTRAGED that I would suggest that the numbers of white men who were sexually submissive was so high.  It was imperative for them to dismantle my logic by using numbers.  They would come up with these extensive calculations as to why there couldn’t have been thousands of white men who had confessed their secrets to me over the course of several years.  I think there was something reassuring and comforting for them to know that they could assert that there was no way I could have had conversations with 3.2 submissive white men a day (or whatever number they came up with), every day for 365 days a year for three years so there was no way that I could have spoken with thousands of submissives therefore everything I said was false.  White men apparently need to quantify everything empirically for it to have validity and if they can’t, it means their reality is safe.  They would go on to tell me that they were going to kill me and call me every racist nigger bitch in the book.  I threatened their sense of entitlement so completely that they had no issue with threatening to take my life. 

A great many submissive white men are suffering from some form of mental illness.  I’m sure it stems from the fact that they compartmentalize their sexuality so much, being sluts for black cock, servants, and open admirers of Black beauty in front of their computer screens and telling racist jokes in front of their friends and coworkers and never really working to dissolve themselves of the racist mindsets all white people have inherited in this country.  It’s not enough to just say, “My parents didn’t raise me to be racist.”  Your parents might not have but society certainly did.  To divorce yourself from the racist mindsets that lurk behind every facet of society, white people have to do real hard work.  Work that most of them don’t want to do or even acknowledge.  They have been socialized to believe that white men are superior for 30, 40, or 50 years or more of their lives and behind closed doors, they crave degradation, humiliation, they want to do unspeakable things to and for Black people and that fucks with their sense of security, their identity.  This “white guilt” they have for being privileged fucks with their heads.  They want to be punished for their whiteness.  Why?  I have no idea.  But the fact that their lives are these fractured, Add to that a great many submissive white men STILL think that they are the only white male on the planet with their fantasies.  Overwhelmingly, submissive white men cannot conceive of another white man craving to do what they dream of doing, to the extent they crave it, regardless of how many websites they join, how many pictures they look at, videos they masturbate to, or how many stories they read.    If I had a million dollars to burn, I would bet every penny that the white police officers involved in the Skip Gates fiasco and the hoards of white men who rallied in their behalf have volumes of interracial porn on their hard drives and a bajillion interracial porn sites in their browser history.  Why can I say that with such conviction?  That’s how their disconnect manifests itself, their lust for Black sexuality behind doors, their insistence that they are the ONLY white men with such fantasies has to come out in public as, “I hate Blacks and I’m not going to let them get away with being uppity, I’ll show them who is still in charge and put them in their place.” 

There is a magic force, driving, propelling, COMPELLING white men to be sluts and depraved whores for Black sexuality.  It’s true.  There is some force, greater than gravity, greater than centrifugal force and atomic power that is making white men want to behave in such unspeakable ways.  Not only that, but I alone have a magic crystal ball or some sort of magical powers that can explain this strange phenomenon so it makes sense to them.  I know it must be true because on a daily basis, white men come to me, telling me that they are amazed that I understand the mind of the submissive white man so well (as if it’s really difficult and I’ve cracked some sort of secret and ancient code) and they ask me to tell them why they have such submissive inclinations.  I don’t care how many times I’ve said that I don’t have a fucking clue as to why there are so many submissive white men, the only answer that they are prepared to hear  is that there is some cosmic force making them have these sorts of fantasies.  In fact, quite a few submissive white men are quite intent on telling me that there is some Divine motivation behind their fantasies. It seems they NEED to believe that their fantasies are beyond their control because to admit that they find Black women more attractive than the blond-haired, blue-eyed, size 2 model of the week, to admit that they are bisexual and attracted to Black men, is a reality they can’t comprehend.  For it to make sense to them, ordinarily rational, logical white men start ascribing some sort of spiritual/karmic power to blame for their interracial desires.  I don’t think I’m going out on a limb to suggest that until white men start taking responsibility for their desires, owning them, not trying to assert that their lust for Black flesh is because of some alignment of the stars, they will forever be dysfunctional. 

On more than a few occasions, I get letters of admiration from individuals, praising me with my keen insight on race and pledging their undying devotion to the Black race and our superior sexuality, offering to do ANYTHING disgusting they can think of and when I don’t respond the way they want, I get vicious attacks, denigrating not only myself but the entire black race. They call me sick and racist and tell me I need help.  If I ignore them or don’t play their game, then all Black men are illiterate criminals who just want to fuck white women and make babies.  After Obama was elected, the 180 degree switch from singing my praises to hating me would inevitably include some reference to how stupid he really is, how he has destroyed the country, how his wife is a monkey, and how undeserving he is of the office of the Commander in Chief because, of course, he was only elected because “the Blacks” voted for him.  Let a few months pass and those same individuals will be on the AfroerotiK bandwagon again, proclaiming to me privately that my stories touch them in ways no other story has ever done and that I am a Nubian Goddess worthy of only the highest praise.  The flip flop from one extreme to the other is never accompanied by an apology or acknowledgment of their wrong doing.  No, that, as my grandmother used to say, would be too much like right.  They don’t feel they have to apologize for their racist rants or childish behavior because to them, I am nothing more than an imaginary figure in their fantasies.  I’m not a real person who demands the basic tenets of common courtesy. 

I maintain profiles on most of the major Femdom or BDSM related sites.  Almost hourly, I will get some sort of correspondence from a submissive pouring out his little heart to me, telling me how he has dedicated his life to serving the Black race.  When I go to his profile, there is NOTHING there that indicates this devotion and all of his friends are white women or other white submissive men.  When I inquire as to why that is, they usually dismiss my concerns by saying that they have another profile, just for Blacks.  It seems white men don’t even want other submissive white men to know that they are submissive to Blacks.  That’s denial to the second power times delusion. 

On the rare occasion when someone sends me correspondence that’s literate and engaging, sometimes just plain sweet, there are times when I’m moved to take the conversations offline.  Sometimes the conversations are sexual in nature, at times, they are not.  In every instance, I reveal myself to be exactly who I am, a complex, intellectual, multi-faceted woman.  I’m not a character in my stories, calling them whitey and demanding that they suck a big black dick for me.  I’m not the sassy black Domme demanding that they refer to me as Mistress and pay tributes or bark like a dog.  I’m the same person I am when I talk to my friends, bill collectors, and men who are romantically interested in me.  Those men who are most invested in the concept of whiteness, meaning those who are the richest, who have benefitted the most by having a penis and pink skin, those who are the most distanced from any sort of Black peer are the ones who will make plans to meet and NEVER contact me again.  They will not text, email, or call to cancel.  They will not respond to text, email, phone call, instant message, carrier pigeon or smoke signal from me.  As one particularly introspective white male sub explained it to me in relation to this particular phenomenon, “I can be attracted to the idea of a high dive off of a cliff. When it comes to do the dive I can become fearful because the cliff is not the idealized cliff of my fantasy but a real cliff. Unless I can deal with real cliffs I will be unable to make my dive.”  I’m not sure if other Black Dommes deal with this particular issue to the same extent as I do or not.  I represent the most dangerous cliff they’ve ever encountered and a dive that puts their reality in danger.  I’m cool with them if I’m just a screen name on a computer screen but to think that an actual person, a human being, a sentient, complex woman is out there and who can get inside their heads with such ease is a leap they aren’t willing to take.    

White men tell me daily, “Oh Mistress, I believe in all that you believe.”  When I ask them what exactly it is that they think I believe, nine times out of ten they will respond by telling me that I’m a believer in Black and female supremacy.  Never, not once in all my writings, not in one single erotic story, article, essay, status update, or tweet have I said, intimated, hinted, or implied that I believe in Black or female supremacy.  I have said that I am Black, female, and outrageously superior but I do not ascribe the trait of superiority to everyone of my gender or race.  I do believe that indigenous Africans were questionably physically stronger and morally superior simply because the form of slavery they practiced was not dehumanizing.  It’s a hard argument for white people to make that they were superior with the knowledge that they treated African life, human life, like it was less than that of an animal’s.  But after two hundred and fifty years of enslavement, another hundred of racism and institutional racism, brainwashing by a set of morals and beliefs that are antithetical to African psychological health, and there is no way we can still be considered collectively superior.  Some of us, by the grace of God, have slipped through the cracks and have proven that even when the playing field isn’t level, we can still excel.  Do I wish that all of us could?  Hell yes.  Do I think that all of us are capable of an excellence that has been systematically kept from us?  I do, but there will need to be such a shift in consciousness, such a transition to a whole new way of thinking, that the possibility remains so remote and obscure as to have very little basis in reality.  I’ve explained that over and over again.  As many times as I can point to places where I’ve outlined exactly how I feel about the concept of Black and/or Female Supremacy, it’s like it goes in one ear and out the other for the white submissive male.  He hears what he wants to hear, he interprets it in a way that fits his worldview. 

I write stories of interracial domination not because I have a great stake in it emotionally but because I recognize the tremendous opportunity I have at my fingertips to educate and enlighten.  I asked the question recently of my white submissive followers and fans, what they liked most about my stories.  Almost without exception, they all lavished the same extensive praise about what a great writer I am.  “You paint such a vivid picture,” I can see every detail in my mind,” “You know the mind of the submissive male so well.”   ONE individual, one out of several dozen responses suggested that it was my unapologetic examination of race that made my stories so good.  That shows how much in denial and delusional white men continue to be about their own sexuality. 

My stories are about race.  My stories examine race from the first paragraph, often times, the very first sentence.  “Scott Clair hated his whiteness.  He wasn’t able to articulate it exactly in that way; he claimed to be coming to terms with his submissive nature and his overwhelming desire to serve the Black race.”  “Did she have a hidden agenda?  Was her desire to dominate white men driven by some racial hatred or need to seek revenge for her enslaved ancestors?”  “For most white people, their knee-jerk, conditioned response at the mere mention of the word reparations is to scream, ‘My family never owned any slaves.  I’m not paying any reparations!  You Blacks need to just get over it, slavery was in the past, let it go for Christ’s sake.’”  Not to acknowledge that my stories are set apart from everyone else’s because of the way I handle race is denial of the highest order.  White writers are stereotypical and one dimensional in their portrayal of Black characters in their tales of interracial domination.  Even the best white writer doesn’t make their Black characters anything more than a tool for a white person to get off on their fantasy.  Their grammar, sentence structure, and story development might be good but they can’t, they aren’t capable of giving color, literally and figuratively, to Black characters they way I can.  In the best case scenario, white writers make the Black characters colorless with the exception of throwing around the N word and the black male always has a big, black cock.  In the worst case scenario, which sadly is the case more often than not, the Black characters are a replication of the very same ghetto dwelling, Ebonic-speaking, lust-driven savage who craves white flesh. 

I write interracial domination stories for white men to get an ugly picture of themselves.  I write interracial domination stories because every once in a while, a white man will write to me and express that he has been humbled and that he is learning to see Black people in a different light.  I write hardcore, explicit tales of Black people dominating white men because I know that if I arouse them with the erotica, if I push their buttons and stimulate their desires, that they will explore more, they will follow me and read my other works, see the pictures, they will be forced to see Black people in a different light.  No, I don’t back down off the subject matters that most people are repulsed by.  I write about heavy scat play, and bareback gangbangs, and make reference to bestiality not because I find any of those subjects particularly arousing, but because the number of white men who share their fantasies with me on a daily basis about those subjects is staggering. 

For submissive white men, several things have remained consistent.  Their submission is still largely sexual.  For them it is about what gives them sexual pleasure, what arouses and stimulates their libidos.  They SAY that their submission is more than sexual, they claim that it’s not about them, that it’s about their servitude to the Black race but their actions don’t match their words.  For them, there is still a disconnect.  They think that as long as they perceive themselves as being degraded and humiliated in acts that aren’t sexual, like housework and holding a door, or giving up their seat to a Black person on the train that means that they no longer have any racist beliefs and that they are somehow exempt from taking any action to rectify their unearned privilege in society.  The vast majority of submissive white men still refuse to accept that they have any unearned privilege and those who do aren’t willing to do anything more than give lip service to the idea that they might actually have to take a stand socially or politically for racial equality.  Most are content to say, “I voted for Obama” whether they did or not, and call it a day. 

Copyright 2011 Scottie Lowe of AfroerotiK

Broken John

The feel of the cool cement floor against his face allowed John Anderson to be revived momentarily.  Drool pooled beneath his cheek, seeping uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth.  A single, uncovered red light bulb hung precariously from an extension cord that had been duct-taped to the ceiling in the middle of the basement, providing the only source of illumination in the make-shift dungeon that had been his coven for the past three days.  He was still disoriented from the pain, pain that permeated every cell, muscle, and sinew in his body.  With his arms still securely tied behind his back, it was actually the pain of hunger that roused him from his unconscious state. 

Tempted to call out, to ask for help, to request nourishment, John knew better than to do anything that might stir the wrath of his Mistress.  His throat was sore, his voice weak from having his mouth savagely fucked by both dildos and cocks, all relentless in their efforts to leave his throat and jaw aching.  Load after load of hot cum had been deposited inside him from both ends.  Salvation came in the form of the click of his Mistress’ heels against the exposed floor.  John was too weak to lift his head to greet her properly.  He was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained from his experience.  Oddly enough, even after days of humiliation, perversion, and inexorable punishment masterminded by this brutal woman, he felt satisfied.  He was content, blissful in fact that he had finally found the mentally sadistic Black bitch of his dreams, the one individual who divested him of his arrogance, his false sense of superiority, of his white male attitude. 

A mere 72 hours previously, he could have said no such thing.  Three days earlier, John was clueless as to the potential his long weekend would hold.  He’d flown into New York City for business actually but he’d arranged to arrive a few days early for some hardcore playtime as well.  He’d been corresponding with a certain Dominatrix who called herself Mother Africa.  Everyone lies on the Internet and everyone exaggerates so he assumed her claims of psychological domination expertise and race play were blown out of proportion.  He’d been sufficiently aroused by their initial interaction so he thought it would be interesting to say the least to see where it could lead. 

Mother Africa was a soft-spoken, pleasant woman.  They’d communicated on the phone several times as well as chatted online.  Not once did she come off as irrational or overly demanding.  In fact, her demeanor could have been described as sweet.  She said she dabbled in BDSM when the notion hit her and she was extremely selective of the subs with whom she chose to play.  She never brought up the subject of money and she wasn’t even particularly interested in cam shows or making John perform tasks to show his sincerity or submissiveness.  She did ask a lot of questions: blunt, straightforward, embarrassing questions.  “Do you have a small cock?  Have you ever eaten shit?  How many times have you been fucked in the ass? Do you get off on being dressed like a sissy?”  All those questions and more rolled off her tongue as easily as if she was casually asking about the weather.  To make matters worse, she didn’t allow any stalling or beating around the bush when it came to answering the questions.  She demanded direct, explicit answers with exacting details and made it clear that her time was precious and she had no tolerance for coy or elusive answers.  John was outrageously aroused by her demeanor, by the fact that she could be so open and unambiguous about what she wanted.  It was that aloof sense of superiority that cemented the deal, that set the stage for their meeting.  Thinking he was paying her a compliment, he mistakenly said, “Of all the profiles of Black Dommes I’ve read online, yours is the most amazing I’ve ever come across.  You’re different.  Your analysis of race is humbling to say the least and you are obviously very intelligent.  I can’t believe you understand the mind of submissive white men so well.” 

She replied by saying, “Are you suggesting that most Black Dommes are stupid and that white men are so incredibly complex so as to render them indecipherable?” 

John backtracked, apologizing and trying to clarify.  “Ohhhh, noooo.  I was just saying that it’s clear that you are very well educated. I was . . . I was paying you a compliment, believe me.  It’s rare to come across someone as articulate as you are.” 

“Well, let me see if I understand,” she said.  “Based on what you’ve repeatedly told me, you believe that women are superior to men.  Additionally, you’ve said numerous times that you find Black women specifically to be the ultimate archetype, that we are, in fact, Goddesses, ‘supreme beings’ to you-- your words not mine.  Yet it seems like you’re saying that you’re shocked that I’m not some illiterate welfare queen who can barely form a coherent sentence, that you can’t believe that I’m as intelligent as say . . . a white person.  To my untrained ear, it sounds as if you’re saying that understanding the mind of a submissive white man requires super human/magical powers because a normal Black woman simply isn’t capable of understanding your uncomplicated albeit warped desires.  Does that about summarize what you’re trying to say?  Because what I hear you saying is that you’re practically dumbfounded that you found a Black Domme who is as intelligent as . . . you are.  I can assure you that I am outrageously offended by the notion that you would even consider yourself qualified to judge my intellect, let alone compliment me for it.  Moreover, white men are transparent and simple in their desires and it hardly takes a superior intellect to dissect your rather uncomplicated motives.  Additionally, the fact that you seem to espouse such love for Black women and then make underhanded, disparaging comments about us is quite troublesome.  It leads me to believe that you don’t actually think we’re truly superior but nothing more than sexual fetishes for your depraved fantasies.”

He couldn’t even form words.  He was speechless.  His cock was rock hard and dripping precum and his mind was reeling from arousal.  He mumbled another insufficient apology.  “I’m so sorry Mother Africa.  That’s not at all what I meant.  I’m just a stupid white boi.  Please forgive me.  Is there something I can do to make it up to you?”  He almost couldn’t hear her response he was jerking off so frantically just from her verbal reprimand.  John loved being put in his place.  He loved being knocked down from his self-defined pedestal of superiority.  The sensation of being told off, of being made to feel stupid was almost like having electricity sent from his nipples, to his cock, all the way to his asshole. 

They made arrangements to meet in October and his assignment over the course of the preceding month, his prerequisite for play as it were, was to read Nile Valley Contributions to Civilization by Anthony Browder and The Black Holocaust for Beginners by S.E. Anderson and write a literature review for each of them.  Never in his life had John even heard of someone requiring homework for a domination session so he didn’t take his task too seriously.  He googled the books and found them on Amazon and printed out their reviews.  They seemed like interesting reading from what he gathered but he didn’t even bother to buy the books. 

Twenty minutes late, he rushed into the lobby of the Hyatt authentically upset for being tardy; slipping the bellboy $50 to take the rest of his luggage to his room.  He’d wanted to be there early to make a good first impression but midtown traffic wasn’t so kind.  As arrogant as he tended to be, he did understand the rules of D/s play and was fully aware that leaving a Domme waiting was a big no-no.  She was already there, seated at the table of the restaurant, looking just as one would think a woman who called herself Mother Africa would look.  She wore her hair in a big Afro like a character from a 70s Blaxplotation flick.  Without any makeup at all, her brown complexion was glowing and radiant.  She wore a t-shirt with some sort of graphic design of an African mask on it that accentuated her rather large breasts and a long denim skirt that reached the floor.  Her Timberland boots were so small they looked like a child’s size.  She wore an arm-full of wooden bracelets on her right arm and an arm-full of copper bangles on her left arm that made noise every time she punctuated her sentences with arm movements.  One thing for sure, she was far more attractive in person than she was in her photos and she didn’t seem at all like John expected.  She looked like she could have been a graduate student waiting to have lunch with her professor rather than a Dominatrix ready to use and abuse a white boi. 

Mother Africa stood to greet him and turned her face to indicate that he should kiss her cheek as a sign of respect.  She graciously accepted his apology for being late, seemingly very understanding of the unavoidable traffic from JFK.  They sat and ordered lunch and had a very pleasant chat, not at all strained or awkward, without even the slightest hint of strain.  Erotic tension was in the air.  She teased and tormented him effortlessly and with skill and everything was going great, up until the moment she asked to see the summaries of the books he was assigned to read. 

John got away with anything and everything in life with his good looks, money, and arrogance.  In that moment, as he fumbled in his carry-on bag for the wrinkled papers, he felt ashamed he hadn’t even attempted the assignment he’d been given.  This was a real woman, a real-life flesh and blood woman whose dominance and superiority were evident in her very aura, not some picture on the Internet, and he was about to let her down.  He realized he’d fucked up by not following her orders.  He wasn’t about to let it show on his face however, and he handed the papers over and began what he thought was a fairly decent but superficial discussion of what he’d read from the printouts. 

“What is this?”  Mother Africa didn’t even bother to pick up the papers; she had a look of disgust on her face. 

“It’s the reviews you asked for,” John said, trying to appear confident. 

Crossing her arms in front of her, she didn’t say a word, her face not showing any signs of emotion. 

John’s heart was pounding.  This was the stuff of submissive dreams.  He could either choose to be defiant and willful, arousing her ire and wrath and eliciting what would surely be a severe session in discipline or he could choose to be apologetic and remorseful, showing the respect that every true sub longs to display in the presence of one to whom he truly feels inferior.  It wasn’t a decision he had to contemplate for too long as his cell phone rang and he held his finger up to excuse himself and answered the call.  For a good three minutes, he talked business, never taking his eyes off the lovely woman who sat inches from him, hoping the length of the phone call would distract her from his blunder. 

Leaning in, Mother Africa whispered to him, “I see you are here to waste my fucking time.”  With that, she took his cell phone from him, summarily closed it, and dropped it in his water glass. 

John stood up, knocking over his chair, causing quite a scene.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?  Are you crazy? First of all, that was an important call.  Second, that phone was expensive. Every contact I have is in that phone.  WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with you?” 

Mother Africa stood and walked away, leaving John there trying to dry his cell phone with his linen napkin, looking like an idiot screaming and cursing in front of the other lunch patrons.  John knew in that moment that he’d pushed too far.  He didn’t want her to leave.  He didn’t want things to end before they had even started and he ran after her.  “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing her arm before she entered the revolving doors of the hotel. 

She turned, looking at his white hand on the brown flesh of her arm and then looking directly in his eyes.  Her eyes burned a hole in his soul.  If looks could kill, John knew that he would die a slow, painful death.  She didn’t say a word.  She communicated everything she wanted to say with her eyes.  She didn’t even have to move them; it was if she was telepathically giving him commands.  There in the middle of the very public lobby of the Hyatt Regency in New York City, John Anderson, knelt on one knee and kissed the hand of Mother Africa and said, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”  To the average person, it might have looked like he was popping the big question.  He looked up for approval and it was apparent his actions weren’t enough.  His face was burning from embarrassment and he heart felt as if it might actually explode.  His cock was straining against his pants and he felt like he might faint.  Looking around quickly, he knew that if he were to truly seek the forgiveness of this divine woman, he would have to assume a truly inferior position.  The shame of it all was intoxicating and she still hadn’t said a word.  On his hands and knees, he lowered his head to her foot and placed his lips on her boot and kissed it.  “Please, forgive me Mistress.  I beg you for the opportunity to make it up to you,” he said, loud enough for anyone nosey enough to want to hear. 

“Follow me,” she commanded as she walked outside into the beautiful Fall afternoon.  John panicked.  He stood up and looked around at all the people who were trying to be discrete but staring at his blatant display of submissiveness.  He ran back to the table, threw some money on the table for the food that they hadn’t even eaten, grabbed his bag, and ran after her, praying that she would still be outside. 

She wasn’t. 

The bell captain called out to him.  “Sir . . . the young lady . . . the one who . . . well sir, she told me to put you in a cab and have it take you to an address but I’m not supposed to tell you where.”  John looked around again, sure that everyone in the world could read his every deviant desire.  He was humiliated but more aroused than he’d ever been.  Slipping the bell captain a hundred dollar bill, he got in the cab and it set out for an unknown destination.  What was less than a half hour ride seemed like it took an eternity.  As the taxi weaved its way in and out of traffic to a quiet, tree-lined street in Queens, John was tempted to whip out his cock and masturbate right then and there. 

They arrived at an unassuming looking house and he paid the cabbie, tipping him well also, and clutched his bag so hard his knuckles were white.  He made his way to the front door and knocked, terrified that he was being set up but never more determined to experience additional discipline from this amazing woman. 

Mother Africa opened the door.  “Go around to the back,” and she shut the door in his face.

Making his way to the backyard, John knocked again.  This time, a Black man answered the door.  Wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots, he clearly resembled Mother Africa in his attire but John had no idea what to say to him.  He didn’t have to say anything as the man said, “Get downstairs, boy,” and moved aside.  John’s feet were frozen in place.  He didn’t even have a cell phone to call for a cab or call 911 if he wanted.  Every bit of common sense told him to run and not look back.  His knees shook as he descended the stairs to the basement that had clearly been altered to accommodate some serious kinky play.  The walls were padded and there was a drainage hole in the middle of the floor.  Restraints and BDSM equipment were everywhere.  While John was trying to get his bearings, trying to figure out exactly what he’d gotten himself into, Mother Africa came downstairs wearing the same t-shirt but tight, black leather pants that hugged her every curve and black high heeled leather boots. 

“Undress.” Her command was simple and to the point.  John wanted more.  He wanted an explanation of what was going to happen.  He wanted a detailed discussion of rules and limits and more head games.  He was too terrified to ask any questions.  Somehow, instinctively, he knew that he didn’t have a choice that he was supposed to go along for the ride or forever regret this once in a lifetime opportunity to experience something he’d only ever dreamed of. 

John slowly unbuttoned his shirt as the Black couple looked on, talking with each other in hushed tones he couldn’t understand.  The man sat casually in a chair, with one leg over the arm of it and his hand squeezing an impressive length of dick that snaked down the leg of his jeans.  If he wasn’t aroused by the white boi taking off his clothes in front of him he was certainly aroused by the sexy dance that Mother Africa was doing for him.  John tried to concentrate on his surroundings should he decide to make a run for it but the scene of these two people in such an intimate display proved to be too distracting.  They were kissing and caressing each other as they watched and laughed at John standing before them naked, his cock hard and completely out of his element, unsure of what to do next. 

“Oh, where are my manners?  I forgot to introduce the two of you.  Worm, this is my lover, Eric.  He’s my partner in crime shall we say,” she laughed as she applied nipple clamps to John and made him wince with pain.  “For the weekend, you will call him Daddy, got it?  And you’ll call me Mommy, understand?” 

John nodded, whispering, “Yes, Mommy,” in accordance with her desires, tingling with the sound of the word coming from his lips. 

Without warning, she slapped him hard in the face.  John was stunned but the hurt registered as pleasure.  She ran her hands over his body, gently caressing his chest, down his abdomen over his hard cock to his balls.  Without even a second’s hesitation, she squeezed his nuts so hard John fell to the floor, blinded by the pain, crying out.  Curled in the fetal position, he tried to pull himself together, to get back in the game.  His competitive nature wouldn’t allow him to lie there like a little wounded animal; he had to prove that he was in it to win it. 

The point of her black leather boot making full contact with his side divested him of any notion of competition and he lay on the floor, the wind knocked out of him. 

“I gave you one small assignment and you didn’t even have the common fucking courtesy to pretend to do it.  You think you’re so smart,” she kicked him again, “I’ll have to show you who’s the boss around here.”  She spat directly in his face, her saliva dripping down his cheek.  She put the sole of her boot over his mouth and commanded that he lick it, all the while, taunting him.  “Look you little asswipe, I’m in charge here and what I say goes.  For the next three days, you belong to me.  You are my property.  You are my possession, my plaything.  I can do anything and everything I want to you and you won’t have a say.  I don’t care if you enjoy it or hate it.  It doesn’t matter to me what you experience.  I intend to use you for my entertainment and my pleasure any fucking way I see fit.” 

As if perfectly timed, the doorbell rang and Eric got up to answer the door.  “We have company.  I’ve invited a few friends over and I expect you to do whatever they want.  Understand?” 

John managed to get to his knees and remain upright as the first guest came downstairs.  The guy looked almost as nervous as he was.  “Are you guys sure about this?  I can do whatever I want to him, no questions asked?  This isn’t a joke is it?  I mean, I’m not going to pull out my dick and the cops are gonna jump out and arrest me or anything, right?”  After he was reasonably assured that it wasn’t a set up, he pulled out his dick and rubbed it on John’s face.  The smooth skin felt erotic and sensuous, the raunchy stench of man smell aroused him: the sweat, the piss, and the stink of an unwashed, uncut black cock was driving him mad. 

John’s mouth watered; he opened his lips, desperate to be fed some real stiff meat.  He didn’t have to wait long.  There was no need for prolonged foreplay or anything of the sort; the guy was there to get his dick sucked by a white guy.  All the initial trepidation gone, John sucked.  He got his face fucked and fucked well.  He tried to look over to see if his Mistress was pleased but couldn’t see.  His nose was deeply embedded in the wiry pubic hairs of the man who was using his mouth like a pussy.  The stranger grabbed his ears and started pounding, causing John to gag and almost puke.  That didn’t stop either of them.  John kept sucking that gorgeous black cock and the guy kept fucking his throat.  Tears formed in his eyes and he gasped for air.  Spit ran from the corners of his mouth and he sucked that cock like a porn star.  Like a true slut, he licked the smelly balls of the guy he was sucking and tried to work his tongue lower.  The guy caught on quickly and turned around and bent over, grabbing the back of John’s head and shoving it between his magnificent ass cheeks.  “Yeah, bitch, lick my dirty asshole.  I kept it dirty just for you, just in case you wanted to taste a Black man’s raunchy turds. Suck that dried shit out of my ass.”  He farted a rancid, wet, fart right in John’s mouth, which only made him ravenous for more.  

Without any more inhibitions, the guy turned around and shoved his dick in John’s mouth again, this time with every indication that he was going to shoot his load.  The dick swelled to mammoth proportions, he could feel the veins engorged with his tongue.  The man was grunting like an animal and thrusting the head of his dick deep in his throat.  “Come on white boy, eat my fucking black dick.  Oh shit, take this nut.  I’m going to give you a pint of my ball juice.  Swallow it.  Suck that thick scum right down your sissy throat.  Dumb white cunt.”  Just as John felt the first spurt of hot cum in his mouth, he felt the mind-numbing sting of a whip against the flesh of his ass.  He tried to scream out but he couldn’t.  He thought he was going to choke, to suffocate.  The persistent pounding in this mouth was accented by the rhythm of being whipped.  His brain misfired.  He loved the feeling of being a cum dump, nothing more than a receptacle for sperm for a Black man, he loved having that hard, black cock being shoved in his oral cavity, but he hated the pain being delivered by Mother Africa as she beat his ass like he was a renegade outlaw. 

John fell to the floor, drained and broken.  He had little reprieve as the doorbell rang again.  Before the first guy was even dressed, a second Black man was being escorted down the stairs.  A wave of shame coursed through his body as he realized that these weren’t actually friends as he had first thought but total strangers that Mother Africa had found on the Internet and who had been invited over to abuse a random white guy.  Eric insisted that the first man stay and use him some more, to enjoy the show, and to think of other ways he could be used. 

For the next few hours, as more and more strangers were invited to join the party, John was used over and over again, each time more brutally and savagely than before.  Just when he thought his face couldn’t get fucked any harder, he was forced to suck two dicks.  Each asshole was dirtier than the previous one, making him crave more filth.  Mother Africa taunted him.  “Work your nasty tongue up in that black asshole.  Get in there deep.  You feel it don’t you?  You taste that hot, nasty chocolate in there?  You want to eat it, don’t you?  You want to be fed like a shit-eating whore, don’t you?  You want to suck that log like it’s a shit cock, lick all that slimy ass juice out of the crevices.   I know you do.  You’re nothing but a filthy pig that craves being used.  You live to worship Black men, to prove to them how nasty you are. Worship him.  Worship his nasty shit as your holy sacrament.  Show him how much of a filthy white worm you are.  Tell him.  Tell him he’s your God.  Tell him that you dedicate your life to serving him.” 

John was high with lust.  “Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted.  “Give me everything.  Give me your shit, your piss, your cum, your snot, and your puke.  I’ll eat it all and beg for more.  I’m nothing.  I’m a filthy, white bitch that needs to be used by Black men.  Fuck my hole raw.  Make me your bitch, sir.  I love black cock.  I’m nothing but a faggot slut for Black dicks fucking me any way they want.”    John was breathless and in heaven.  It was as if he was revealing his true nature to everyone and proud of it.  He was telling them the things he’d felt and dreamt and believed and voicing the truth for the very first time in his life.  He was liberated and free.  The abuse continued for hours.  Every time one of the men would cum in his mouth, he would be beaten.  He began to crave the sensation of the whip as much as he craved the taste of their creamy, thick, hot jizz. 

Mother Africa whispered in his ear, “You ready to get fucked, boy?  Are you ready to have that pussy of yours used like a cheap tramp?  Do you want that cum in you?  How about a filthy, hot piss enema?  All these guys could probably pump a couple of gallons of urine in your colon.  This is going to be fun.  Watching you get turned out.  Making you the slut for black cock that you have longed to be.”  In all the hours of being used, he’d yet to be fucked.  That was what he wanted more than anything, to be fucked and used like a dirty slut; he needed to be a white gangbang whore with an insatiable asscunt.  “Well, I have a little surprise.   We’ve got one more special guest for you.”

John’s mind reeled.  He had visions of a savage Mandingo warrior with a gigantic dick fucking his asshole, making it his own.  His own cock surged in anticipation.  His asshole throbbed as he looked around the room, all the Black men he’d sucked off were idly stroking their hard dicks waiting for the final act of the show.  Eric ushered the last person down the stairs but John’s eyes were filled with terror.  It was a fat, sloppy, dim-witted white guy. 

“Please, no, please, Mommy?  Daddy!  Nooo, I’ll be a good boi.  Anything but that.  Don’t make me do that.  I can’t.  It’s disgusting.”  Tears flowed down his cheeks as the white guy pulled down his khakis and dingy yellowed underwear to his ankles and waddled around the room giving high fives to everyone, totally oblivious to the fact that they were all laughing at him.  It was the ultimate humiliation for John.  Sucking black dick was an honor and a privilege.  To be forced to suck a white cock was unthinkable; it was nasty and horrible and seemed an unfair punishment.  He crawled on his hands and knees, pleading one more time for reprieve.  “Mommy, please, let me show you what a good boi I can be.  Anything, ANYTHING you can think of, I’ll do.  Just, please, don’t make me do that.  I’ll be a bitch for your dog; he can knot with me.  I’ll be your toilet, you can piss and shit in my mouth and I’ll eat it down and beg for more.  Daddy, you can be the first to fuck me, rip my ass open, make it hurt, use me anyway you want.  Fist fuck me.  I’m begging you, please don’t make me do this.”  John was pleading for his life.

It was then that Mother Africa worked her magic.  She leaned in close to his ear and he could feel her hot breath on his neck.  “You little fucking bitch,” she whispered.  “Don’t you get it?  You are the same as Tony here.  You are equally as repulsive, equally as nasty, you are white, JUST LIKE HIM.  You are going to suck him off alright and you better make him cum with your cocksucking mouth like you did all our other guests, ya’ hear me?  Eric’s going to fuck you in your whore asscunt while you suck his pathetic cock.”

Time stood still for John.  Tony’s cock was little more than folds of pink foreskin over a two-inch nub.  His stomach lurched at the thought of putting that thing in his mouth.  He looked around the room at all the beautiful black men of all shapes, sizes, and shades with their dicks hard and waiting to fuck him and then he looked down at his own cock.  He looked up at the white guy and then to Mother Africa.  This time, he used his eyes to communicate with her.  He pleaded and begged for her to not make him do this.  She slapped him again and forced his mouth open and forced it onto Tony’s flaccid penis. 

The feeling of that thing in his mouth made him want to puke.  It wouldn’t get hard and it felt soft and mushy.  The room filled with laughter as everyone found the sight amusing.  He tried his best to suck hard to get this unbearable task over and done with.  Tony pumped but his fat stomach kept getting in the way.  The smell of his sweat wasn’t arousing to John; it was sickening.  As hard as it could get, there was no way it could fuck his throat, it was like sucking a little, deformed finger.  This was humiliation beyond his wildest imagination.  And again, just when he thought he was at his limit, just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore, he felt the head of Eric’s dick at his ass. 

John got on his hands and knees and spread his ass waiting to get fucked.  He forgot all about the white cock he was supposed to be sucking.  The sting of the whip on his back reminded him of his task.  “Come on bitch, suck that white cock while you get fucked by a real man,” someone in the room yelled.  “Take that dick up your faggot asshole,” they chanted.  Tony had to get on his knees to work his prick back in John’s mouth but he didn’t seem to mind.  It was probably the only time he’d ever had anyone suck his cock and he didn’t have to pay for it.  He was enjoying the attention; he didn’t care that it was negative.

John could see his Divine Mistress Africa stalking him, walking around him, surveying her prize.  She’d masterminded the entire thing.  She kissed her partner and ran her hands over his naked chest, saying, “Baby, I want you to fuck him HARD, make him scream.  Do it for me, baby. Use him.  Ram every inch of your beautiful dick in his rectum and make him pay for being an insolent, disrespectful little bitch.” 

Feeling the head of that enormous cock rubbing on his asshole felt amazing.  It was the searing hot pain that blinded him as it pushed in his anus and made it’s way deep in his bowels that almost made him pass out from pain.  He knew not to say stop and the riding crop across his back reminded him of the other part of his assignment.  He put his mouth on the cock in front of his face and started sucking.  His mind was playing tricks on him.  He loved the feeling of pain in his ass, he loved the sensation of being fucked like a rag doll, he hated the feeling of being forced to fellate the man that reminded him of his inherent inferiority. 

“FUCK HIM! FUCK HIM!”  Everyone in the room was cheering and applauding.  John grabbed his own cock and started stroking it frantically.  Mother Africa kicked him soundly in the side, reminding him that this was not about his pleasure but about hers. 

The room smelled of sex.  Pheromones and sweat and lust and pure man-fucking overwhelmed his senses.  A half a dozen Black men were lined up, waiting for their turns to get a piece of white tail; all he had to do was make the two men fucking him cum.  Degraded and dejected, John worked his finger up Tony’s flat, flabby ass and wiggled it around, coaxing him to cum.  It worked and Tony fell, collapsed on the floor, his little cock jerking and leaking what little cum his inferior testicles could produce. 

John had accomplished the first part of his mission and it was on to the best part.  “Oh God.  Daddy. PLEEEASE fuck me harder.  Ram your cock in me.  Make me your bitch.  Use my fuckhole, Daddy.  Fuck the shit out of me.  More, I want more black cock.  I’m a slut for black cock.  Give it to me.  POUND ME.  MORE.  I need a cock in my mouth.  Feed me more superior black cum.  Give me everything.”

It was the lone female in the room that would fulfill his desires.  The only one who hadn’t gotten any satisfaction thus far, she stepped up with a very formidable ebony strapon attached to her hips.  It was longer, harder, and thicker than all the other cocks he had sucked that day but he was in the zone.  He was in that sub space where everything was arousing; nothing was too extreme. 

“You belong to me, cunt, you know that right?  You’re my little white bitch.”  She reached down and started pulling his nipple clamps, twisting them, when things started to black out for John.  Everything he was feeling was pleasure.  From the 12 inches of hard black plastic that was ravaging his throat to the 10 inches of magnificent black cock that was breeding his twat, to the pain he experienced in his nipples and the searing hot flesh where he’d been beaten, he was experiencing everything as pleasure. 

John couldn’t use words anymore.  This is what he’d prayed to experience all of his adult, submissive life.  All he could do was grunt and groan like a feral, wild animal and hope that everyone understood his primal sounds to mean, “FUCK ME HARDER. FUCK ME!!!!” 

Over the course of the next three days, John experienced more mental and physical torture than he’d ever hoped to imagine.  He knew his Mommy had come to release him, to send him back out into the real world.  He didn’t want to go.  He wanted to stay there forever.  He wanted to live in that basement and be used 24/7 as a white cum dump.  He’d never felt more whole, satisfied, or authentic as he did being tortured and abuse by such beautiful and vicious individuals.  His spirit and his body had been broken.  With his last bit of energy, he was prepared to negotiate a way to stay with his Nubian Dominatrix Extraordinaire and her lover to be their pet, plaything and sub. 

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