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.
Friday, November 01, 2013
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
On this show, we are going to be exploring the different types of submissive white men, what it means to Blacks in a racist society to have so many white men sexually submissive, what impact does this trend have on our culture, why this trend has remained so hidden in plain sight, and we will hear from the mouths of submissive white men and Black dominants who will tell all their secrets. Join us for this fascinating conversation that will surely open your eyes and make you rethink everything you know.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Monday, June 01, 2009
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 in 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 ale 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
Thursday, April 30, 2009
You don’t have that luxury. Your identity as a sub is still unstable; you are still uncomfortable in your own submissive skin. You are not comfortable with the concept that a real man is strong and dominant and that if you willingly and consciously choose to be submissive, you are not deserving of the honor of being called a man. You are not what you’ve been socialized to be; and giving up that concept can be pretty scary when faced with the reality. You aren’t a man. You aren’t assertive, aggressive, or domineering, you don’t have it in you. You pretend to be in control, you play the role, but inside, you know the truth. You come with the equipment of a man yet you do not possess the inherent strength and character to be a real man. You aren’t a woman for a woman is to be revered and honored. A real woman is holy and sacred and beautiful. You are “other”. You are a lowly submissive swine. You are something to be despised, used, mistreated, and abused. You are something whose very existence is an anomaly. You are ashamed of your penis, it’s small size, and of its inability to simultaneously deliver pain and pleasure the way a real man can.
If you were to belong to me, to be my possession and my pet, imagine the possibilities. Imagine if I were to control your desires, your cravings, to transform you into the depraved, perverted, filthy, vile thing of your dreams, to allow you the opportunity to express and live your most warped fantasies. What would your life be like if I owned you like an object, if I had control of your soul? What if you knew you had the honor of belonging to me in a way that no one else could? Imagine being loved by me and despised by me at the same time. Imagine for a brief moment that your entire world revolves around your worship of me and my ability to release you from the confines of being a man and becoming a dirty, insatiable, whore whose only limits are defined by me.
If you were to sign your life over to me, to relinquish your rights as a human being and become my possession, your life would be forever altered. Let’s not pretend here that we are talking about slavery for this would be completely voluntary on your part. You could continue to go through your daily activities, appearing normal to your co-workers and the hoards of nameless strangers you encounter, but your soul would belong to me. Your every waking thought would be filled with images of me, of how I know your kinkiest fantasies and desires and my willingness and ability to make those dreams reality. Our synergy, our balance comes from my desire to see you debased and humiliated in ways that would make most people’s stomachs turn, that would shock and horrify even the most dark and disturbed minds. You long to have no limits, you long to be transformed into a sub-human sexual, feral animal and you know that I can take you there.
Your very body, mind and soul would belong to me. I would take possession of your nipples, torturing and twisting them until you screamed out in pain. The searing ache of having your tits pierced and weighted for my amusement would register in your brain as pleasure. In our world, pain would become your bliss, your state of euphoria. I would deliver crushing blows to your useless nuts, that I would derive enjoyment from seeing you doubled over, on the verge of consciousness, your pain connecting us as lovers, however non-traditionally defined that may be. It would all be worth it I’m sure. You would endure tremendous pain to be able to feel my warm breath whispering in your ear, telling you that you were a good boy, that you made me proud. Your reward would be my soft hand, wrapped around your throat, choking you, my spit dripping from your face, depriving you of air and toying with your life. What a strange sensation that would be, to have your cock throbbing and hard while you feel yourself passing out, while your mind struggles to stay alive but you surrender your will to me, knowing that I will not let you die. Your fight or flight reflex completely abated in deference to the ecstasy you derive from knowing that your life is literally in my hands. Will you beg and plead for more while I reign down blow after stinging blow on your ass with my whip, making your flesh searing hot from the pain? What sort of thing experiences delight from having their faced slapped, feels arousal when their mouth filled with my slimy green snot and phlegm, gets hard from eating their own puke after being forcefully face fucked and gagged? Certainly not a human being, and certainly not a man.
Your pussy would be in a constant state of arousal under my control and direction. Giving up the pretense of being a man would allow you to accept that your cunt is insatiable and slutty, the center of your sexual being, your source for stimulation. Kept in constant chastity, the only time you would be allowed to orgasm would be through stimulation of your prostate. How many months do you think it would take for you to be able to accomplish that, your nuts swollen, tender, and sore, desperate for release. I’d have to completely re-wire your brain until your asshole got swollen and wet like a real pussy when you were aroused, until you lived to feel your hole stuffed with the hard, pounding cocks of real men. You’d have no choice but to give up the pretense of only wanting dildos and strapons in your fuck hole. Released and free to be who you are meant to be, you’d have to acknowledge that your cravings for real, hot, hard, thick, long dicks pounding you is real and undeniable. Being a cum whore is your natural state of being and it would be up to me to protect you as my pet and possession from harm or disease. It would be at my discretion to provide you with your source of men who will satiate your thirst for cum in your mouth and pussy. Needing to please me, however, knowing I derive pleasure from seeing you used and fucked like a cheap slut, you would never get enough. The minute one filthy dick would be pulled from your gaping, used hole, you would be screaming for another to replace it, knowing that seeing you get fucked makes my real pussy wet and swollen with arousal.
To earn the honor of being allowed to pleasure my body must be an intimidating and scary thought. I have to think that you would count the days until I get my period, knowing that your mouth will be my pad, your tongue my tampon, tasting my blood, treasuring it, licking the soft, wet folds of my pussy and longing for the sweet release of my cum in the process. Oh the torture of having your mouth so near my divine center, tasting my hot, salty piss, never knowing if I’m going to gift you with the opportunity to have my pussy lowered to your face, smothering you, suffocating you with the sweetness of my pussy, feeling the full weight of my body on your face, smelling the musky scent of my ass. On those special and rare occasions when I am pleasured by a real man, to know that you will be able to service me by licking my pussy and asshole clean, to feel my explosive cum flavored farts, tinged with flecks of feces, after my body has been satisfied and pleasured will surely be a privilege. Tasting the mixture of cum and sweat from REAL love making, knowing that you will never again in life, as long as you belong to me, feel the sensation of penetrating a woman again. Feeling my hardened black nipples in your mouth as you suckle them while you call me Mommy and know that I am your primary care giver and owner must be a delight incomprehensible to your feeble mind.
Belonging to me, being my possession, praying at the altar of my asshole would mean that my shit would become your sacrament, your holy communion. You long to feel that connection, that intimacy, that gift of servitude and submission, the ultimate act of degradation. Only you don’t see it as humiliating, do you? You see it as your gift to me, our connection and bond cemented by the fact that you CRAVE my shit in your mouth, in your body, as symbolic of your life being mine. You are shit. You are nothing more than a worthless, pathetic piece of shit and having my shit in you makes you somehow more worthy, more validated. Your arousal is perversely tied to my shit. On your hands and knees, getting savagely fucked by my strapon, with your head in the toilet filled with my foul-smelling turds, you can only breathe in their toxic fumes and feel pangs of jealousy and envy that you were not allowed to be my toilet, crying out in pleasure as you feel me pound your asshole and you can see the contents of my bowels mere inches from your face, intoxicated by the stench, salivating and distraught at the sight of my brown gifts being flushed away.
Know, dear one, that if you did belong to me, I would treat you as my perverted little plaything with great pleasure. Your little clit would get hard every time I told you that I was going to prepare you to get fucked, bending you over and filling you colon with water, only to have you go outside and evacuate your intestines in the backyard like some sort of animal. Sliding that nozzle in, filling you with water, caressing your balls gently while I tell you what a nasty piece of trash you are, making you moan in pleasure as I allow the water to fill you to capacity, the cramps blinding you with pain and discomfort, the pleasure unspeakable as you release the disgusting contents of your rectum, shit splattering all down your legs, your face in my hands as I tell you how wet it makes my pussy to see you do something so foul and degrading for me.
Transformed, your entire being would be meant to ensure that I was as pampered, catered to, and indulged with any and every nicety life has to offer. Truly living to serve me, laying at my feet, fulfilling my every whim, wish, and desire. Every chore, every errand and task, you would complete with joy, knowing it might make me happy, that it might bring a smile to my face. Your role as the breadwinner and primary provider for our little “family” would be to give all of your earnings and savings over to me. I would make the financial decisions, choosing which investments would be most fruitful and provide me with the most benefit. Your allowance would be minimal at best, allowing you to exist but certainly not experience luxuries. Your wallet is tied to your manhood, and being less than a man, you would gladly hand over your credit, your cash flow, and your potential earnings so that I might be your queen. You will pay me to own you, to allow you to be the nasty, putrid, degenerate you long to be, that lurks under the surface of your mediocre existence now, desperate to be set free.
For me, my ultimate arousal will be in seeing your uncontrollable tears as I threaten to release you from my control, to send you back out into the world, un-collared and un-owned, to fend for yourself. Your tortured pleas, desperate and pathetic, begging me to keep you, use you, degrade and humiliate you in ways beyond anything you’ve already endured will be sweet music to my ears. I might just tease you with empty threats to see how far you would go for me or I might make good on my word and dispose of you like used toilet paper. I get aroused at the idea of seeing another submissive brought in, paraded in front of you, your replacement, so that you can suffer the insecurity and low self-esteem of knowing that another will be gifted with the opportunity to perform for me. My twisted and perverse pleasure comes from knowing that I could make you so depressed, so despondent at the thought of being cast aside, that you would be reduced to a whimpering, whining, shell of a human being. Knowing that I have that much control over another person makes my fucking pussy unbelievably wet.
In public, you would be my companion and friend, behind closed doors, you would assume your true role as my servant, slut, and plaything. You don’t think you are deserving of belonging to me. You are afraid that you will have to completely redefine yourself and your worldview if you were to belong to me. It terrifies you more to think of what might be than to remain alone and unfulfilled, masturbating to fantasies that could become a reality if you were to only let yourself experience letting go of the pretense of being a real man.
Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The opportunity to join a dungeon and become a pro has presented itself and I’m really unsure of how to proceed. On one hand, I think becoming a pro will eliminate a lot of needless communication. I have no interest in cyber domination; I have absolutely no interest in prolonged emails and excessive chatting. If I’m a Pro, I advertise on pro sites, describe my brand of domination, if a sub wants to pluck down the money for my services, then he does. If he doesn’t, he moves on.
I’m not sure about the legality of my particular brand of domination. I’m going to have to do some research. I know that the bisexual servitude that I require would be considered illegal. I would have to imagine that my particular brand of strapon domination would be considered illegal as well. I’m not at all interested in breaking the law, especially to satisfy the desires of some white dude, but I’m also aware that just spanking some dude, no matter how painfully, is not who I am as a Domme. I’m really not going to pay to give showers. I can see it now, the second my book comes out, the line of white men lining up to say that they paid me to shit on them would be lined up around the FOX News studios, whether I had or not.
I know it also exposes me to the psycho stalkers who are obsessed with me. The dungeon will have security and a screening process but I don’t think that will stop the twisted fucks who think they are in love with me because of some story they read, or they commissioned me to write for them, from having access to me. That creeps me out. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s anything wrong with profiting from my skill set. I am an exceptional Domme. I’m not a woman pretending to be dominant to make money. I’m not a woman who is trying to feel empowered to compensate for some childhood issues or who is taking out her frustrations on men. I know I have a large following because of my writing and that has value. It’s something that I will have to give great consideration.
Monday, April 20, 2009
I don’t even write about the concept of Black supremacy, intellectually or erotically. I believe that Africans were, prior to our enslavement, UNQUESTIONABLY, ethically and morally, more evolved than white people. It’s a point that can’t even be argued. Any race of people that would slaughter, kidnap, brand, torture, and enslave another race of people simple because of their skin tone is clearly morally bankrupt. As to the lame arguments that Africans enslaved other Africans, and it was Africans who sold their brothers into slavery, those distortions and lies are the fairy tales of white people who refuse to accept responsibility, accountability, or blame for the actions of their warped ancestors.
Slavery in African wasn’t race based. It was also not inhumane. If and when Africans engaged in war with another community, the resulting slavery was not that of chattle slavery where individuals lost their rights as human beings. They could retain their names, their families would stay in tact, they could marry and practice their own religions, they were not treated as objects. Clearly they were not ridiculed for their hair, facial features, or bodies because they possessed the exact same physical characteristics of their captors. Africans who had engaged in the trade of human beings with Europeans could have no earthly idea that they were participating in the dehumanization of their brothers and sisters. White people perpetuate that falsehood because they want to appear innocent in their transgressions. It would be akin to a recruiter today getting commission to recruit people to work overseas during this bad economy only to find out that they were essentially selling people into unspeakable conditions. Once Africans on the continent learned of the hellish, nightmarish, disgusting fates that befell their sisters and brothers, they rebelled, and were often captured and enslaved themselves. I’ve said time and time again however that our greatness as a people and race has been diminished and stifled by slavery and that if we are ever to return to our greatness as a people, that it will take nothing short of a miracle to erase the centuries of brainwashing that we have endured. Even then, if and when we assume our true role in the universe, our skills, talents, and abilities should be celebrated as different, not superior.
I have never written about the concept of “getting back” at white people for slavery. It can’t be done. To enslave white people and inflict similar punishment on them is probably the most vile and horrific concept I’ve ever heard of. To assume the role of our oppressor is not to exact revenge for the millions of men, women, and children whose lives were destroyed by slavery, racism, discrimination, oppression, and bigotry. We can not claim superiority and then act as lowly, evil, and immoral as white people. There is no tit for tat, not quid pro quo, no act or acts that can be done to restore the world to the way it was supposed to be had Africans not been enslaved. I DO however write about white people experiencing what it is to be a slave. White people want to sanitize the experience, to make slavery into some Dixieland/Mark Twain fantasy where “it wasn’t so bad” for slaves and I allow them with my work to see exactly what Africans who were enslaved felt. I work diligently to dismantle the delusion that white people have that their sexual servitude is in any way akin to that of the slavery that my ancestors endured that was far from a sexual fetish. That’s VASTLY different than saying that I’m getting back at white people for slavery. Again, it can’t be done.
It seems I have to spell out the lessons to be learned by white people in each of my interracial domination stories.
1. Black Beat: Tracy was a Black woman in a relationship with a white man. They were a couple, a loving couple in fact. Rick desired extreme racial domination with more extreme and cruel punishments. Tracy wasn’t capable of it because she wasn’t secure in her own sense of self as a Black woman. She’d been conditioned by society to see white men as superior so she could barely do more than a light spanking or playful slaps to her partner. It wasn’t until she met Mistress Khadijah (meaning premature daughter) that she became empowered enough to explore her mate’s more masochistic desires.
2. Black Maled (Or Blackmailed on some sites): Ron and Tricia were arrogant, oblivious, perverse, and they objectified Black sexuality. They only saw Black people as objects to satisfy their racist desires. They had no human consideration for Black people other than fodder for their submissive sexual fantasies. Kamal (meaning perfection) was bright, intelligent, articulate, well-read, culturally identified, and wanted nothing to do with playing the Mandingo buck. (For the real definition of Mandingo http://www.accessgambia.com/information/mandinka.html ) He used Ron and Tricia’s perverse lust for him to his advantage and was able to secure a position at work he rightfully deserved.
3. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: It seems apparent to me that the story describes a celebration of Black women who were the victims of institutional racism from insurance companies. The policies of many companies and the people who administer those policies carry with them a great many biases and prejudices. This story was an attempt to show that the kink community could acknowledge that discrimination and contribute to the betterment of Black women while having fun at the same time.
4. Dominant Black Tales and Submissive White Tails: My most popular story and certainly the longest. This story chronicles the evolution of a white man who goes from online fantasies to real time experience and how he tries desperately to hold on to the fallacy of white supremacy every step of the way. Desiree and Derrick are more intelligent, more attractive, and more in tune with their sexuality than Bryan and Becky. The powerful couple masterfully orchestrate and manipulate the white couple. They are superior in that they are more sophisticated, more adept at psycho-sexual torture. They are clearly more than lust-driven ghetto dwellers. Their characters drive the plot; they don’t just act as fillers for white lustful fantasies.
5. Goddess Initiation: This has to be one of my favorite stories I’ve ever written. It’s a story about a secret society of Black people who are trying to restore African ceremonies, traditions, and rituals to their spiritual and cultural practices. They place the woman as Goddess and the men are not inferior, they are protectors and guides. The sole white man in this story is merely there to observe their ritual. He acts as an object in this story, a receptacle for the sperm of the 15 men (or was it 20, I forget). It doesn’t even matter. It shows how Black people can take something like a gangbang that white people would partake in as vulgar and crass and transform it into something spiritual and holy like a Goddess Initiation.
6. Hotel Bonaventure: Steven, the white character, never gets what he wants in this story. Theresa and Carl skillfully play him, making him orally satisfy Carl while not being allowed to touch or taste Theresa. Again, it seems obvious to me that Steven is not made to suck Carl’s dick because it is humiliating and degrading, but its an honor. Steven is the one driven by his lusts, his compulsions, not the Black couple.
7. Jungle Fever: I’ve written extensively already about the social issues of this story. It’s not truly a tale of domination but rather it’s the story of how white people’s racism and obliviousness drive them to act out sexually and it also details exactly how Black men can get sucked up in the hysteria of believing that white women are better and that they are sexual studs simply because of the color of their skin.
8. Neighborly Hospitality: It’s not really a story of domination but it explores the cuckold fetish. Syreeta and Dixon were two highly successful, sexually aware individuals who happened to be Black and who happened to move in next door to a sexually dysfunctional couple, Lisa and Brad. Because Lisa and Brad didn’t talk about their fantasies with each other, because they weren’t open and honest with each other about their sexual issues, it was easy for Dixon and Syreeta to use those things to their advantage. The typical cuckold story doesn’t include a Black woman. This story is woven around the Black woman and her approval and orchestration of the events. The typical cuckold story doesn’t show the lives and backgrounds of the Black man, this story shows Dixon to be an epicure, a jazz lover, a cultural powerhouse, and a LOVING partner to his mate.
9. Plantation Lullabies. This was originally supposed to be a 1250 word story written for a client. It ended up almost 7000 words and what I consider to be one of the most powerful pieces I’ve ever written. The words poured through me and I was awed by how they were being transcribed at my fingertips. It is about replicating the true slave experience, just as the fake website indicates. It’s not about getting back at whitey for slavery. It’s not about proclaiming Black supremacy. Just as the concentration camps at Auschwitz today allow people to see what it was to be a Jew in Nazi Germany, the fictitious plantation on Dewees Island in South Carolina (http://www.deweesisland.com/ )was created to allow white people to see and experience what it was like to be an African who was enslaved. It is a living museum; it is a classroom like none other. At no point does Mistress Emmanuel ever say she is getting back at white people for slavery. She is breaking white men of the notion that slavery is something voluntary, she is divesting them of the false and offensive concept that sexual slavery is in any way comparable to what real slaves had to endure.
10. The Making of a White Sissy Slut: If there was ever a story written to illustrate how a Black woman can use and discard a white man like a piece of trash, this is it. White people assume that because I write stories to show Black people in a positive light, that automatically assumes that I have some responsibility to show white people in a positive light as well. My job is to hold white people up to the mirror of racism and make them see their ugly reflections. My job is to show white people that Black people are more than just one-dimensional savages. If this story were written about two white people, the Female Dominatrix would be considered the quintessential Domme. Black women are allowed to be sexually dominant without that being ALL they are allowed to be. We can enjoy our power as women, as Black women, and enjoy D/s kink as much as any other woman without that being our sole identity. We can be masterful and sadistic in the bedroom and be vulnerable, sensitive, empathetic, compassionate, and very humanly flawed outside the bedroom.
11. Black Daddy Domination: I’m not even sure it’s worth identify the glaring social issues of this story because white people aren’t going to get it even if I do. All they will read is the white man worshipping the superior black cock.
I don’t see the reason for even writing interracial domination stories anymore if white people can’t grasp the social commentary that seems blatantly and painfully obvious.
Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK