AfroerotiK

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

Showing posts with label white faggot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label white faggot. Show all posts

Friday, August 24, 2018

"Reprogram me not to be racist."

Daily, I get some form a communication from white men who ask me to reprogram them to be a sissy/to crave Black dick/not to be racist.  Apparently, white manhood is so deeply entrenched into them, they need guidance and instruction from a Black woman to become a faggot sissy Jack of Spades (NOT my terminology, I would never denigrate Black men that way).

Listen up, racist white assholes.  No, I absolutely will not help reprogram you not to be racist.  You want me to “retrain” you not to be a racist asshole but that is clearly not possible because you are conflating your sexual fantasies with being a decent human being.  Why do you need to be retrained?  Were you indoctrinated in secret whiteness school to think that unarmed Black people should be murdered for minor violations, violations that you and your white friends can get away with with impunity?  Find someone else to reinforce your racist sexual fantasies that Black men are driven by lust for your nasty white girlfriend.  I support Black love, Black men and Black women being emotionally mature, intimate, honest, loving, and working together to eradicate racism, not your racist cuckold fantasies that reinforce that Black men are nothing more than sexual savages, nothing more than human dildos that service slutty, racist, white women or fuel your gay submissive desires.

I am superior to white men.  It’s not a role I play and I find your assertion that you need me to dominate you in order for you to see the humanity of Black people incredibly offensive.  You want me to alleviate your guilt over wanting to be a sissy faggot.  If your racist beliefs are that deeply ingrained that you can’t grasp that Black people have been oppressed, discriminated against, and disadvantaged since being kidnapped, enslaved, denied basic human rights, and objectified for centuries without having your dick in your hand, then you aren’t even worth my respect, let alone my precious time.  Go bother someone else who will tell you that your little cock is pathetic and feed your cucky fantasies.  I am not the one.

To all the white men who insist that they need to be reprogrammed in order not to be racist, I say go, read my blogs, my writings, my essays and my erotic stories.  Explore this new invention called the internet where you can find lots of information about white privilege, the fallacy of white supremacy, and racism.  Read a book, read a few, written by Black scholars.  Wait, you don’t value what Black academics have to say so go watch a few Tim Wise videos.  Apparently, learning about your racism is easier when it comes from a white man.  When you can come to me with some humility and respect for my race without it being tied to your racist sexual fantasies, when you have started doing the work of divesting yourself of the fallacy of white supremacy that is not connected to your erection, then I will be more than willing to converse with you about your racism.  Otherwise, it’s not my job, responsibility, or mission in life to make sure you aren’t racist.  That is your job!

Saturday, August 30, 2014

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 become 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 just never took the time to update their profile.  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




Sunday, February 23, 2014

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