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 whiteboi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whiteboi. Show all posts

Monday, April 19, 2021

A Kinder, Gentler Cuckoldress

 Once upon a time, in an enchanted forest in a distant, far-off land, there lived a rare mystical, magical, creature, part human, part scarab, that possessed the keys to eternal life; legend held that it would grant immortality and untold riches to anyone who could clear their mind of all thought for 17 seconds. This is not a story about that legend however. It is a story about an equally rare creature nonetheless. This is a story about Erick Fairlie, a cuckold of distinction.


One can suppose that any tale pertaining to Erick should start off describing him. Erick is an anomaly in a sea of conformity. From all outward appearances, Erick looks rather average. There is nothing particularly remarkable about his countenance, you could meet him and a half hour later not be able to pick him out of lineup. Ex-military, his body is fit but he is not going to stop traffic with his physique by any stretch of the imagination. His mother considers him attractive so take that for what it’s worth. Is he a captain of industry, is that what makes him so unique, an entrepreneur with a cutting edge new business concept that is poised to change the world, or a billionaire mogul commanding power and influence around the globe? Nope, Erick will never make an impact in commerce as he is decidedly more comfortable being a cog in the machine as opposed to being the precision engine that drives the vehicle. Add to that he has a certain social ineptness that makes him habitually shy and there you have the composite portrait of a man with deep secrets and lacking the requisite skills to form any sort of healthy, mature relationship.


For those with salacious minds, here is where it should be noted that Erick has a more than adequate sexual appendage. It’s important to declare that he doesn’t have a particularly little cock or a particularly large one either. That point is essential to the telling of his tale because Erick Fairlie is sexually submissive, he derives the greatest pleasure in pleasing his partner and that is usually perceived as the domain of white men who are anatomically deficient below the belt. It’s not his submissiveness that makes him so unique either. In fact, his submissiveness makes him pretty average.


Submissive white men are ubiquitous. Despite society doing their level best to perpetuate the false belief that white men are the original Alphas, that their inherent nature is to dominate and subjugate, that white maleness is the epitome of sexually-conservative heterosexuality, the reality, in plain sight for all the world to see, is that the overwhelming and vast majority of white men are bisexual, hyper-sexual, perverted, and submissive in numbers far greater than, well, certainly the media would ever dare to acknowledge. Yes, mainstream media depicts interracial relationships all the time. What mainstream media doesn’t do is address the truth. The truth is that white men desperately lust after Black sexuality in pandemic proportions.


Before the internet, before the age of porn at our fingertips, people were largely left to their imaginations and speculation about what happened in other people’s bedrooms, about what sorts of fantasies and desires other people had. There was more than enough room for conjecture that no one else in the entire world had the same erotic proclivities as you, that you were alone in your desires and curiosities. The internet, smart phones, tube sites, social media, and dating apps changed all that. One didn’t have to feel alone any longer, isolated in that they were the only person who is aroused by a particular kink that seemed obscure or abnormal. What didn’t change with the advent of daily porn consumption was the secrecy, shame, and lies that surrounded the very mention of the word sex in larger society.


At first, white men were satisfied to merely look at interracial porn to, you know, “see if the myth is true.” Their initial interracial curiosity evolved, however. Eventually white men started imagining themselves in place of the white women getting fucked by big, thick, long, strong, Ebony dicks. They began lusting after the big, black cock for themselves.


But white men are not supposed to be gay, and they are certainly not supposed to be gay to Black men so in order to compensate in their minds, in order for their own homosexual lust for big, Black dicks to make sense to them, they started to embrace being sissies and crossdressers in staggering numbers. White men have embraced dressing and acting like white women in outrageous numbers in order to validate the fact that they want to be degraded, humiliated, used, and abused at the hands of Black men in the same way they have fantasized about their wives and girlfriends being objectified for years. They have co-opted transgenderism to excuse their homosexual lust for Black men.


What sort of white man would ever admit that he wants his wife to get fucked by a Black man, or that he wants to look at a Black man’s foot-long cock going in and out of her well-used asshole, or that he wants to suck that big black cock clean after she gets rammed hard and deep, let alone that he wants to get fucked so hard by a Black man that his asspussy gapes open like a blooming onion at . . . well . . . the chain of restaurants that sells blooming onions? None of them will admit it in public but all white men want that and more. White men are OBSESSED with Black sexuality despite being raised, socialized, and brainwashed to believe in the inherent inferiority of Blacks. That’s how deep racism runs in this country. White men are socializing and interacting with their friends and family, their coworkers and associates, telling racist jokes, degrading any efforts for social equality from Black people, and CONVINCED beyond all reasonable doubt that they are the ONLY white male, the only one in existence in the entire Universe who obsessively lusts after the larger than average genitalia of Black men.


In commercial porn, white men are always depicted as dominant and aggressive, white women are always the objects for men’s pleasure, little more than receptacles for cum. Commercial porn shows white men spitting on, slapping, choking, and violating women, not riding big black dildos the size of fire extinguishers or begging to be gangbanged by groups of well-hung ghetto inhabitants. Amateur porn shows a more realistic and accurate version of white male sexuality, it is replete with homemade videos of real white men showing how deviant they really are. Commercial porn appeals to white men’s false sense of superiority and masks their insecurities and low self-esteem by portraying white men degrading and using women as if women are genetically predisposed to being submissive. Commercial porn is little more than white men’s lame attempt to hide their shame in not being well-endowed like Black men, at not having the charisma, stamina, and inherent sensuality and sexuality of Black men, and obscuring their inherent need to experience sex at its most base, vile, and filthy level. Commercial porn reflects the sick need for white men to portray themselves as oppressors when they actually desire to be objectified.


Because society is incapable of having informed, realistic conversations about sex and race, white men are left to create their own online dialogue about the nature of sex and to create a narrative where they are able to validate their preferences without any pesky reason or logic interfering with their quest for sexual gratification. It is white men who are creating the gifs that call for the extinction of the white race, it’s white men creating the New Black World Order memes, promoting white slavery, and it is most assuredly white men creating videos hypnotizing white men to be pussy free and become cross-dressing sissies.


So, in that way, Erick Fairlie was vastly different than his peers. He didn’t want to see his girlfriend abused and violated by Black men, he wanted to see her pleasured. He didn’t want or need to dress up in lingerie, makeup, heels, and a wig in order to validate his lust for Black dick. He was comfortable, at least within himself on some level, that he was bisexual. He still had a need to hide his identity online lest he be discovered however, afraid that someone will find out that he isn’t straight and that he is attracted to an “alternative lifestyle” as they say. He didn’t want to be degraded or humiliated, he didn’t want to be left sexually unsatisfied or merely be an observer while his lady friend was pleasured by her Black lover. What Erick wanted was a loving relationship with a beautiful woman who just so happened to be addicted to pleasure from having sex with hung Black men. That’s not too much to ask, is it?


Well, Erick must have found that magic beetle to make all his wishes come true because he met the woman of his dreams one Friday night when he was having dinner and a beer and the local restaurant. He was by himself sitting at the bar, he wasn’t looking for anyone, well, not intentionally. He was watching the game and minding his business when the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen in his life sat next to him and ordered a gin and tonic. She was stunning. She had so much thick, curly, light brown hair that he was sure the people sitting in the booth behind them couldn’t see the TV after she sat down. Her hazel colored eyes were captivating and she had an olive/tan skin tone that accentuated her pouty full red lips that were begging to be kissed. She looked to be about 5’4” and she had small breasts, barely a B cup, and smooth, sexy, toned legs that ended in the sexiest feet framed by sexy little sandals.


“Hi, I’m Arianna,” she said, “do you come here often? Can you suggest anything good on the menu?” She had a sexy accent that Erick couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t British or Australian, maybe it as a bit of both but whatever it was, it sounded sexy as hell.


Erick wiped his mouth with his napkin and extended his hand. After introducing himself, he said that menu wasn’t that extensive but that the burgers were the best. He had no game whatsoever so it was a good thing that Arianna seemed intent on maintaining the conversation. She said she was new in town, in fact she had just gotten an apartment not too far from the restaurant a few weeks ago and was finally unpacked and trying to get a lay of the land and was starting to venture out to make new friends. She had just finished grad school and was working at a research facility for the government.


“What are you,” Erick blurted out? It was an unsophisticated question but Arianna had heard it a million times in her life. Ethnically, she was a rare mix. Her father was German, straight out of the Aryan playbook with blond hair and ice blue eyes, and her mother was Native American and Indian, as in India Indian. No one could ever guess her ethnic makeup and she was often confused for being Latina or a light skinned Black woman and mostly people assumed she was Middle Eastern, but almost every nationality had claimed her as their own at one point or another in her life. Luckily for Erick she wasn’t too offended by his question and she continued to engage with him. She was born and raised in post-apartheid South Africa and had moved to the States 8 year ago after college for her career. She was some sort of scientist who specialized in algae . . . maybe she said fungus, or was it bacteria? Whatever it was, it sounded way too gross for a hottie like her to work with.


Everything about Arianna was captivating to Erick. She was beautiful, she was smart, she was confident; it was his perfect woman. He tried to make his life sound interesting to be more appealing to her but he wasn’t that creative. None of that seemed to matter to her, she seemed to like him despite his mediocrity. By the time the restaurant was closing, she was touching him softly on his arm, smiling, and she suggested Erick walk her back to her apartment so she would be safe.


She lived about two miles away which was perfect for a late night stroll. They stopped at a little park and sat on a bench and people-watched for a while as they continued to flirt and get to know each other. Erick had just about worked up the courage to go in for the kiss when her phone rang. From the second she answered, her face lit up. She was smiling ear to ear, giggling like a little girl, thrilled with the news she had gotten from the person on the other end of the phone.


“Really? When? July? Wow, that’s great, I can’t wait to see you,” was the last thing she said before she hung up the phone. “I’m sorry about that. My ex-boyfriend is finally coming to the States for a visit. We haven’t seen each other in 3 years and . . .” her voice trailed off, her sentence unfinished. She went on to explain that she and her ex, Thato, had known each other since they were 5 years old in Cape Town. They were each other’s first love. He was in the military and couldn’t leave South Africa when she moved to the States so they decided to part ways with the understanding that they would always love each other but they needed to live their lives so they wouldn’t grow to resent each other and maybe one day they would reunite.


Erick’s heart was pounding. He wanted to ask if Thato was Black but he knew enough not to, he wanted to know if they were going to fuck when he came to town. Mostly, he wanted to know if Thato had a big Black African cock. Arianna pulled up pictures on her phone of their last meeting in Aruba and Erick gasped out loud. He tried to play it off by saying he had swallowed a bug but his eyes were glued to the phone. Not only was Thato Black and handsome, he was so dark his skin looked like charcoal. He had muscles on top of muscles. His stomach was an 8 pack of ripples, his chest, arms, legs, everything was supersized. Not like Mr. Olympia on steroids but more like a well-built stallion.


His smile was blinding his teeth were so white. He looked like he towered over Arianna in the pictures by almost a foot. In picture after picture, they were kissing and touching and his hands were resting on very intimate places on her body. The contrast in skin tones was dramatic and it drove Erick insane. And it was more than evident from their beach photos of Thato in his bathing suit that Arianna was accustomed to getting a lot of big hard cock.


“Uhmmm, you aren’t jealous, are you?” Arianna had busted Erick looking way too intently at the photos.


“What? No! No way! I was just . . . you know, I was just . . . I’ve always wanted to go to Aruba is all.” Erick didn’t have the ability to be honest and say that he was turned on by the idea of her having sex with her ex while he watched.

“Good. I can’t deal with jealous guys. Come on, let’s go.”


They walked the rest of the way back to her apartment. When they got to her building she didn’t seem like she was anxious to have the evening end so Erick insisted he walk her all the way to her front door. When they got to the front door, she asked him if he would like to come in. The minute he walked in her apartment, she said it was too late for him to walk back to his car alone and that he might as well stay until the morning. Erick, used to lying about what he really wanted out of habit, tried to play it off like he was a big strong guy and it was no big deal, that he could walk back to his car with no problems at all even though he wanted nothing more than to stay. Arianna blew his mind and said, “That’s fine. If you’d rather go home and masturbate thinking about fucking me rather than actually fucking me, that’s alright with me.”


Rather than say anything, Erick decided the best thing to do was to be quiet. Arianna led him to the bedroom and told him to undress. She inspected him, circled him. She didn’t exactly say that she liked what he was working with but she nodded and sounded as if she was pleased. Erick was sure he was dreaming. Stuff like this just didn’t happen to guys like him, not with women like this.


They fucked that night. Arianna pulled no punches, she asked for exactly what she wanted. She was verbal, explicit, and seemed to have a confidence about her beyond any woman he had ever been with before. Erick was smitten.

In the morning, Erick woke to find Arianna already up and dressed. Well, she was wearing panties and a t-shirt and she was eating a bowl of cereal and checking her emails. “Hey, you’re awake! Cool. I have a long to-do list to tackle with the new apartment and all, wanna hang out today and help me?” Erick was almost too enthusiastic in his affirmative response.


They showered and dressed and headed out to get his car and then head to a couple of different home improvement stores to buy paint and patio furniture and fluorescent light bulbs and closet organizers and bookshelves. Erick spent the afternoon with a drill and a hardon. That evening, they fucked again. This time she was even more enthusiastic. She wanted her toes sucked and her ass licked. She decided when they changed positions and she rode Erick to several orgasms with little assistance from him. By Sunday morning Erick had to go home and take care of a few things at his place but he was back at her apartment that evening as soon as she called and told him to come over.


For the next several weeks Erick spent four or five nights a week with her, either at her apartment or his house. She enjoyed being in control, telling him what to do, dictating their sexuality. She introduced a strapon into their play without even asking him if he was interested in it. She sat on his mouth and pissed on him without even asking permission. It was clear she was in charge and as long as she didn’t start playing with knives or fire or some dangerous shit, Erick was down for almost anything. Then there were some nights when she would text and say she had plans and that they could see each other the next day. There was never any further explanation and Erick didn’t dare ask anything more because it was clear she was in charge and he didn’t want to mess up this good thing they had going. Besides, he loved jerking off imagining her with other men anyway.


Erick was too immature to approach the subject of Arianna’s ex coming to town but he was painfully aware that she hadn’t mentioned him since that first night. They had been seeing each other for just shy of two months. He was in love with her, in many ways, it was the first time he had really been in love, at least it felt different with her than any time he thought he had been in love before. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life making her happy.


Finally, the day came when she brought up the subject. She had excitedly called Erick and told him that she needed to go shopping for lingerie. Erick jumped at the opportunity because he loved when she wore sexy outfits for him and he was anxious to see her in something new that he bought for her. As Arianna floated about the store, picking out really provocative items: garters, stockings, corsets, and teddies, she gushed and wondered out loud if Thato would like them. Erick couldn’t respond. He was too distracted. This woman, the woman he loved, knew his secrets without him even telling her. She had to. There was no way she would be so blatant, so bold if she didn’t know.


After lunch and with a few hundred dollars’ worth of shopping bags in tow, he drove her back to her apartment to drop her off. Arianna said nonchalantly, “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight. Thato’s flight gets in a couple of hours and I would love for you to meet him. I think you two will have a lot to talk about. I think you will really like him.” Erick didn’t really have a choice, he had to say yes. His hard cock wouldn’t let him say no.


Nervously, he dressed for his “date.” He was uneasy about what would happen. He knew Arianna well enough to know that she loved to be in control and that she knew how to push his buttons but he regretted that he had never had enough courage to address his particular brand of cuckold desires before. He didn’t want to be degraded or humiliated, he just wanted to be a voyeur. He wanted to watch and participate actually. He worried that she would view him differently, think less of him if she knew he wanted to suck off her lover . . . and more.


Erick arrived exactly at 6. Arianna answered the door and he almost didn’t recognize her. She had straightened her hair and she looked . . . white, well almost. Usually, with her gigantic mop of curly hair, it would have been impossible to think she was Caucasian but with it straight, she almost looked like she was white with a tan. She looked great, just different. Erick sat on the sofa in silence. Was it too late to bring up the subject of cuckoldry with her? Should he just take a chance and see what happens and hope for the best? All of his questions were to go unanswered as the doorbell rang.


Erick sat frozen to the sofa, he couldn’t move. He could hear the door open and he could hear Arianna’s squeals of delight. What he didn’t count on was the fact that they would be speaking a different language, they were speaking Afrikaans and he didn’t understand a word of what they were saying to one another. For what seemed an eternity, they kissed and hugged each other and made small talk until they finally made their way to the living room.


Arianna looked like a school girl, holding his arm and looking up at him with stars in her eyes. She introduced them. “Erick, I would like you to meet Sergeant Major Thato Dlamini of The South African Army and the true love of my life. Thato, this is Erick.” For the first time since they had met, Erick felt humiliated and it was a conflicted feeling. He had expected her to introduce him as her boyfriend or at least give more than his name. There was a part of him that actually felt jealous of how she seemed to gush over him, how enraptured she seemed to be in his presence. He wanted her to feel that way about him but deep inside he knew she would never be able to love him the way she loved Thato. And on a deep, twisted level, that fact was intensely arousing to Erick.


Erick stood and saluted him. “Sir, Corporal Erick Fairlie, at your service, Sir.” Being a true submissive, being of service was Erick’s raison d'etre and in that moment he wanted to be subservient and obedient to this African god. He stood erect, awaiting inspection.


“At ease Corporal, you did hear her say The South African Army, right? I’m on leave so no work talk.” Thato said, his voice sounding like the melody to a song.

Thato made himself comfortable on the sofa and Arianna climbed across his lap and put her arms around his neck, her back to Erick. They talked of South Africa and family and personal things that Erick knew nothing about. Their conversation went back and forth from English to Afrikaans and he was quite sure they were talking about him as they would say something, look at him and laugh from time to time, and resume their conversation. Erick wanted to be angry but he couldn’t. Arianna was in heaven and that was all he ever wanted. If he had to be made to feel insignificant and inconsequential in front of her lover, then so be it. Thato was taller, he had a better body, he outranked him, he was almost sure that his dick was significantly bigger, by just how much he wasn’t exactly sure but he would have dropped to his knees to pull it out and measure it in a heartbeat.


They ordered takeout. Arianna said, “Be a dear and run and get the food for us, will you?” She didn’t make an effort to reach for her purse to pay him for the food or even contribute to the meal. Erick felt like a dunce. Here he was going to pay for food for his girlfriend and her . . . boyfriend? Lover? He wasn’t even sure how to refer to himself any longer. Erick wanted to get back to the apartment as soon as possible because he didn’t want to miss anything. He had no idea how Arianna felt about being watched and he was terrified that Thato might kick his ass if he realized that Erick was a cocksucker but he was so aroused that he was willing to take that chance.


Erick returned with the food and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, this time louder but still there was no answer. He called her cell phone and after four rings she answered, out of breath, and said she would be right there, no apologies offered. She opened the door and he half expected to see her clothes disheveled and awry but they weren’t. Her hair did look at bit curlier but considering he had never seen it straight before he didn’t know if that was normal for her after a few hours or not. Bi-racial women’s hairstyling and hair textures were not his area of expertise so he was content to imagine that she was sweating in the throes of passion with Thato and that’s why her hair was going back to Africa in its natural state.


The trio dined in the living room and half-heartedly watched Netflix. Thato seemed to be extraordinarily interested in discussing Trump and politics and he was proving himself to be as intelligent as he was attractive. Before long, the Kush came out and was passed around and everyone got more comfortable. It was relatively early in the scheme of things but Thato was tired from his flight and Arianna moved the ball down the field. “Erick, Thato and I are going to shower and retire to bed. Would you like to join us?”


Erick was speechless. He had never mentioned anything about being a cuck to her before. He had never mentioned anything about being submissive either but she seemed to instantly know his true nature so he figured that she had some sort of clairvoyant powers that tapped into his innermost thoughts and secrets.


For a brief second, Erick’s white maleness reared its ugly head. He acted offended, outraged that she would even suggest something like that. Erick could feel himself pretending and he wanted to stop because there was an intrinsic part of him that did not want to be seen as submissive or bisexual in that moment that caused him to lie and deny his true feelings. Yes! He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and watch and participate and more if they would allow him. That part of him that had been socialized to believe that white men were superior to Black men kicked in and he went into arrogant mode. Erick tried to force his hand. He stood up to leave, acting as if his every sensibility had been offended, trying to play the “forced bi” card and absolve himself of his guilt at lusting after this extraordinary Black man. The saddest/funniest part is that in his head, Erick had always visualized himself a willing participant, a voluntary cuck that encouraged his mate to find pleasure with Black men. Here, in the midst of the reality, he was behaving in ways that actually confused him.


“Sit down,” Arianna said calmly. She and Thato started speaking in Afrikaans again and laughing every time they glanced in his direction. Erick felt truly inferior in that moment. She continued. “You really think I couldn’t tell from day one that you were hot for Black dick? Really? Sweetie, we were born the year apartheid ended. We’ve spent our entire lives around white men who wanted to fulfill their dark continent desires with Thato. You think you are somehow unique or different? Give me a break. Just like I didn’t have to ask if you wanted to be fucked with a strapon, or lick my ass, or drink my piss, I didn’t have to. You are a white man. You’re all the same. Don’t get it twisted. I might not be Black but I’m 100% African. I might look like I’m white, you might see me as exotic and ‘other’ but I’m a woman of color and I’m WAY more informed about race than these silly ass American white women. I don’t see having sex with Black men as a fetish or a novelty. I’ve been in love with this man since we were 8 years old. He is not some one-off fantasy I have, this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. We don’t have time to play games. Do you want to stay or not? It really doesn’t matter to me at this point if you are going to act like a little white bitch.”


Erick wanted to be angry but he couldn’t. He wanted to object but everything she said was right. He desperately wanted to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness but he couldn’t manage to do that either. He simply looked at the ground and said, “Yes, I want to stay.”


The threesome moved to the bedroom. Erick wheeled Thato’s luggage to the bedroom like the bellboy at a hotel. Arianna undressed slowly and seductively down to her undergarments. She undressed Thato as well, revealing his blacker than midnight skin with each piece of clothing she removed. She left his white briefs on. They could barely contain what looked like a boa constrictor hiding in them, they were stretched out of shape obscenely by his engorged prick. She rubbed it through the thin white material and made him moan.


“I’ve missed you,” he said to her and kissed her softly. “Are you sure you want to have him here, I haven’t been inside you for three years. Don’t you want to be alone so I can make love to you the way you really need it?”


Everything that Erick wanted in life hinged on the next words out of Arianna’s mouth. He held his breath. “Beloved. I want to experience the fullness of you, taste you, to become one with you. But you have to understand that in your absence I need companionship. Erick is my lover. He’s going to be my lover when you leave in a week. He is more than likely going to be my lover until one of us decides that we are going to move to make our relationship more permanent. I want him to stay. I want him to participate and see all of me. He does things for me that you can’t do and vice versa. I want to feel all of that.

You don’t want to deny me that pleasure, do you?”


Thato and Erick answered in stereo even though the question was only posed to one of them. “Noooo.”


Erick undressed himself. He wanted to feel proud of his body but it was hard to do in the same room as Thato. That turned him on.


The three made their way to the bathroom where they left their underwear on the floor. Never in his life had Erick seen a penis the length and width of Thato’s. It was breathtaking. His balls were equally as enormous and Erick’s mouth watered at the thought that he might be able to suck Arianna’s pussy clean after being fucked by that enormous cock. He immediately knew why Europeans were so mesmerized by Africans when they first landed on their shores. He wasn’t trying to justify slavery but he immediately understood that it was about far more than money and labor, it had to be based on sexual lust. There was no way a white man could see something that magnificent, that intimidating and not be moved to experience it first-hand, especially not a white man with a pathetically inadequate cock. That thought made Erick more ashamed of being white than he had ever been.


The bathtub was too small for all of them to fit comfortably so Erick made himself content to watch as Thato caressed and bathed this incredible woman. Her moans seemed more intense under Thato’s manipulations, more than they had ever been with him and Erick stroked his cock to full erection.


Back in her bedroom, things heated up quickly. The couple obviously had experience with threesomes and submissive white men before because they seemed to move fluidly, like a choreographed pair and they weren’t at all uncomfortable or awkward with a third party being there. Erick took a few more hits of weed and made his way to where the action was starting to take place.


Thato welcomed him to the party by grabbing Erick by the waist and pulling him close and kissing him on the lips, his tongue pushing in his mouth. Erick responded in ways he had never imagined himself. He wrapped his arms around Thato, the contrast in skin tones making him giddy, and he kissed this strong, gorgeous African man like he was the Homecoming Queen at prom and Thato was the captain of the football team. He felt feminine and submissive and ashamed and aroused at the same time. He was sweating and hyperventilating. He looked over to see what Arianna thought and she was casually fingering her pussy and watching with intensity. Erick responded by wanting to kiss Thato even more but he was afraid to initiate it less he be considered a faggot. Kissing was for gay men, he was only bi, he only wanted the dick. At least that was what he kept trying to remind himself.


“Come here, Erick, get my pussy wet and aroused so I can take that big dick.” She spread her legs and motioned for him to get his mouth, lips, and tongue to work on her wet swollen pussy. Erick feasted on her cunt. He licked and sucked and tongued it. He wanted to make her feel pleasure. Thato had been away from her for too long so he told Erick to get out of the way, that it was his turn to experience her treasure.


Thato took his place between her thighs. Arianna cried out. Her legs wrapped around his head and her back arched. She was chanting something. It could have been another language, it could have been total gibberish. Thato and Erick then proceeded to give her an endless string of orgasms, one after the other. Erick sucked her nipples while Thato fingered her pussy. He sucked her toes while she sucked Thato’s dick. He sucked Thato’s dick while she rode his face. For hours, they played.


Finally, Thato could take no more and he pulled Arianna to her knees and positioned himself behind her. Erick maneuvered himself beneath her so that his mouth was directly beneath their intersection of light and dark. He licked her clit as Thato slid himself deep within her. Her moans were so loud they surely woke the neighbors. He could see her juices coating his cock. Thato stroked her expertly. He had a rhythm that was unparalleled. Erick stroked his cock in time with their fucking.


Arianna was on the verge. Erick had witnessed her orgasm too many times to miss the signs, she was ready to explode. She was groaning and fucking him back and working her pussy on him. She reached down and started stroking Erick’s cock and he almost lost it. He had to wait. He couldn’t cum before Thato, he had to prove his manhood was comparable. He started fingering Thato’s balls and licking his shaft as he pumped his girlfriend full of obsidian dick. Erick was high but not from the weed. He was smelling sweat and pussy and ass and cum. He was desperate to get fucked. He wanted to be used. He started spurting cum and crying as he felt Thato grab Arianna’s hips and start driving his dick deep inside her in places his dick would never and could never touch. They came in succession. Erick first, Arianna next, and Thato pumped more cum in her than he could have ever imagined.


For the rest of the week, they fucked. They fucked in every possible pairing with no inhibitions or hangups. They fucked right up until Erick had to drive Thato back to the airport. He didn’t know what he future held for him and Arianna or for Thato and Arianna for that matter but Erick was damn content that he had achieved nirvana in his expression of cuckoldry and that was something special, unique, and treasured. Who needs immortality when you have self-actualization and the realization of your dreams cum true?


Copyright 2018 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved



Thursday, August 23, 2018

White Male Pathology


Submissive white men are ubiquitous.  Despite society doing their level best to perpetuate the false belief that white men are the original Alphas, that their inherent nature is to dominate and subjugate, that white maleness is the epitome of sexually-conservative heterosexuality, the reality, in plain sight for all the world to see, is that the overwhelming and vast majority of white men are bisexual, hyper-sexual, perverted, and submissive in numbers far greater than, well, certainly the media would ever dare to acknowledge. Yes, mainstream media depicts interracial relationships all the time.  What mainstream media doesn’t do is address the truth.  The truth is that white men desperately lust after Black sexuality in pandemic proportions.   

Before the internet, before the age of porn at our fingertips, people were largely left to their imaginations and speculation about what happened in other people’s bedrooms, about what sorts of fantasies and desires other people had.  There was more than enough room for conjecture that no one else in the entire world had the same erotic proclivities as you, that you were alone in your desires and curiosities.  The internet, smart phones, tube sites, social media, and dating apps changed all that.  One didn’t have to feel alone any longer, isolated in that they were the only person who is aroused by a particular kink that seemed obscure or abnormal.  What didn’t change with the advent of daily porn consumption was the secrecy, shame, and lies that surrounded the very mention of the word sex in larger society. 

At first, white men were satisfied to merely look at interracial porn to, you know, “see if the myth is true.” Their initial interracial curiosity evolved, however.  Eventually white men started imagining themselves in place of the white women getting fucked by big, thick, long, strong, Ebony dicks.   They began lusting after the big, black cock for themselves.

But white men are not supposed to be gay, and they are certainly not supposed to be gay to Black men so in order to compensate in their minds, in order for their own homosexual lust for big, Black dicks to make sense to them, they started to embrace being sissies and crossdressers in staggering numbers.   White men have embraced dressing and acting like white women in outrageous numbers in order to validate the fact that they want to be degraded, humiliated, used, and abused at the hands of Black men in the same way they have fantasized about their wives and girlfriends being objectified for years.  They have co-opted transgenderism to excuse their homosexual lust for Black men.  

What sort of white man would ever admit that he wants his wife to get fucked by a Black man, or that he wants to look at a Black man’s foot-long cock going in and out of her well-used asshole, or that he wants to suck that big black cock clean after she gets rammed hard and deep, let alone that he wants to get fucked so hard by a Black man that his asspussy gapes open like a blooming onion at . . . well . . . the chain of restaurants that sells blooming onions?  None of them will admit it in public but all white men want that and more.  White men are OBSESSED with Black sexuality despite being raised, socialized, and brainwashed to believe in the inherent inferiority of Blacks. That’s how deep racism runs in this country.  White men are socializing and interacting with their friends and family, their coworkers and associates, telling racist jokes, degrading any efforts for social equality from Black people, and CONVINCED beyond all reasonable doubt that they are the ONLY white male, the only one in existence in the entire Universe who obsessively lusts after the larger than average genitalia of Black men.  

In commercial porn, white men are always depicted as dominant and aggressive, white women are always the objects for men’s pleasure, little more than receptacles for cum.  Commercial porn shows white men spitting on, slapping, choking, and violating women, not riding big black dildos the size of fire extinguishers or begging to be gangbanged by groups of well-hung ghetto inhabitants.  Amateur porn shows a more realistic and accurate version of white male sexuality, it is replete with homemade videos of real white men showing how deviant they really are.  Commercial porn white men’s false sense of superiority and masks their insecurities and low self-esteem by portraying white men degrading and using women as if women were genetically predisposed to being submissive.   Commercial porn is little more than white men’s lame attempt to hide their shame in not being well-endowed like Black men, at not having the charisma, stamina, and inherent sensuality and sexuality of Black men, and obscuring their inherent need to experience sex at its most base, vile, and filthy level. Commercial porn reflects the sick need for white men to portray themselves as oppressors when they actually desire to be objectified.  

Because society is incapable of having informed, realistic conversations about sex and race, white men are left to create their own online dialogue about the nature of sex and to create a narrative where they are able to validate their preferences without any pesky reason or logic interfering with their quest for sexual gratification.  It is white men who are creating the gifs that call for the extinction of the white race, it’s white men creating the New Black World Order memes, promoting white slavery, and it is most assuredly white men creating videos hypnotizing white men to be pussy free and become cross-dressing sissies. 

Friday, September 16, 2016

LWC or the Little White Cock


I have a theory. Trump and all his supporters are CLEARLY, IRREFUTABLY insane. No question about it, period, the end. Their insanity is accepted as the norm and the media and society as a whole dismisses, ignores, rationalizes and debates their talking points as if they have actual validity, as if they are worthy of consideration as valid. What if . . . their mental instability is a result of them all being deficient anatomically, or more accurately, they are mentally ill because they have anger, frustration, jealousy and envy for anyone who threatens their perceived manhood and power because they measure less than average below the belt. 

Wait, follow me here. Let's suppose that the individuals who are the most virulent racists, the ones who feel the most emasculated by powerful women, the ones who are so desperate to go back to the good old days when niggers knew their place and women stayed at home are the ones who are the most frustrated by their lack of manhood. I think it's very reasonable to assume that because they feel so lacking in the genital department their psyches have compensated with their rampant xenophobia, racism, bigotry, and sexism that has gone unchecked in this country for centuries.

It makes sense if you think about it. Society equates manhood with dick size. The smaller their junk, the more power hungry they are in an effort to compensate for how inadequate they feel as "real men". The more delusional they are, the more limp their equipment is. The individuals who have made policy in this country since its inception are the one who have had the least impressive Popsicle sticks. The women who support Trump are the women who have been left frustrated by their spouses inferior equipment. If they've never had a thorough sexing in their lives, if the most they've ever had is a woefully inadequate 30 second hump, that would make any woman crazy. Certifiably so.

My theory might seem fringe to a sexually repressed society but let's take a look at the men who are conducting the Republican crazy train. Trump, Guliani, David Duke . . . does anyone believe for a fraction of a second that they have more than three or four inches below the belt? It's not that much of a leap to think that the individuals who support Trump are similarly handicapped. They hate Obama because they think he has a big black dick. They hate Hillary because they think she is trying to cut their nuts off. And the rest of sane society is left to integrate their insanity into our lives as the norm.

Just think about it.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Queening for a Day




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

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

Lincoln Park provided the perfect backdrop for his midday musings.  He could sit and eat his brown bag lunch and watch all the people go by.  Technically, it wasn’t really a brown bag, it was a white bag filled with amazing food from a little gourmet shop that made the best sandwiches and salads in town.  Moreover, he wasn’t really concerned with watching all the people go by, just the ones with breasts and brown skin.  If warm weather had him feeling naturally horny, it was exacerbated by the fact that the change in climate made Black women come out of hibernation and start wearing more form-fitting clothing and open-toed shoes.  Bret had a fascination if you will for the exquisitely manicured tootsies of Black women but that was not his primary fetish.  Bret had a love for the shapely butts of women blessed with only what could be termed, Afrocentric behinds.  He loved everything about them: the way they moved and jiggled when they walked, the way they filled out a particularly tight pair of jeans or swayed beneath a skirt, he loved big, round, sexy black asses.  Discretely, he would watch as they walked by, imagining what those fabulous brown asses looked like with no clothes on, what they smelled like, and of course, what they tasted like.  There was nothing not to love about his midday excursions because he could get out, sit in the sun, and get more than enough fodder for his fantasies.  It was a helluva lot better than sitting around talking about boring work stuff with his colleagues.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s no way you can tell all that about me from watching me play chess,” he said indignantly. 
“Oh, really?  Am I wrong?”

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

“Well, that would depend on what you want.”  Shauntay was a bit more aloof than Bret would have liked.  He wanted her to show interest in him, he wanted her to see him as different, to WANT to dominate him.  She stood up, dropped her backpack in his lap, and leaned in close, her lips close to his, like she was about to kiss him.  “I’ll see you later.” With that, she walked away, Bret’s eyes transfixed to her ass as she disappeared into the sunshine, gripping her bag like it sustained his life. 
That day after work, Bret took out his phone, called Amanda saying that he had to go out of town for the weekend for work, which was not at all unusual for him, and he drove to Shauntay’s apartment, backpack in hand.  He stood outside her building, terrified to go up but driven to cross the threshold into a new adventure.  He knocked, nervous and afraid.

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

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

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

Bret wanted to say something to let her know that she wasn’t the one pulling the strings, that he was still in control of his actions, that he understood the dynamics of what was happening, no words would come out.  Her comfort level with being so open, standing where anyone who opened their door or came up the steps could see them, threw off his equilibrium.  He wasn’t in control; she was controlling the game.  He was a pawn and she a dynamic Black Queen Bitch.  He wanted to appear aloof but if she had commanded that he drop to his knees right there in the hallway and suck that dick, he would have done it without hesitation.  
“Come in.”
Bret stepped forward but she didn’t move to the side.  He had to squeeze past her; his body brushing up against hers, the strapon wedged tightly between their bodies as he made his way inside.  The room was lit with candles around the perimeter and the furniture had been moved out of the center, creating a void, a playroom essentially.  
“Undress!”  Her command was so simple and to the point it needed no further instruction.  
Bret removed his shoes and socks, placed them neatly under a chair in the corner.  He removed his shirt and then t-shirt, and took his took belt off completely, stalling.  He took off his watch and placed it in his shoes and hesitated for a second before he unzipped his pants.  She was staring at him, inspecting, him, objectifying him like a piece of meat, inspecting him like a slave on the auction block.  He lowered his pants and folded them neatly, maintaining the creases.  He slid his hand in his underwear and squeezed his cock before he slid them down his legs and stepped out of them and placed them neatly on the pile of clothing.  
Shauntay ran her soft hands over his body, caressing him, twisting his nipples causing him to stifle a small moan, rolling his balls between her fingers.  She stroked his cock, making him leak precum and turned him around and ran her fingertips gently over his butt.  She spread his asscheeks and softly rubbed the tight rosebud of his asshole.  This time, Bret couldn’t stifle his moans and bent over to give her more access, to show off his slutty nature.  He wanted her finger; he wanted to be penetrated.  That was not to be her next move.  
She grabbed his cock roughly and pulled him to the center of the living room.  She made him stand there as she circled him, stroking his cock to full erection and then rubbing her strapon against it.  “You like that big, black, dick, don’t you?”  Bret nodded.  “Answer me; let me hear you say it.” Bret mumbled in the affirmative but that was the best he could do.  He felt like he was high.  Shauntay pulled her breasts from the top of her bra, exposing her erect, dark, chocolate nipples.  She rubbed them on his torso and he knew better than to reach out and touch them, to drop to his knees and suck them like he longed to do.  She rubbed them sensually and then wet her finger and traced her areola.  She cupped his balls and squeezed them hard, making Bret cry out in pain and his knees buckle.  “I told you to ANSWER ME!”
Bret’s breathing was erratic.  She placed her hand on his shoulder and pressed gently, signaling that he was to kneel.  He was eye level with her fake dick and she rubbed it over his lips.  “Mmmmm, yes, I like that black cock.”  
“Now, Bret, is that any way to show your appreciation?  Now, tell me how much you love that dick, tell me how much you crave it.”  
Inspired to impress, Bret turned up the intensity.  “I love that big, black cock.  I want to suck you off, I want you to ram it in my throat, make me gag on it.  Make me worship it, make me worship you.” He began blowing that strapon like a cheap whore.  He made love to it with his mouth, licking, sucking, and swallowing it.  There was no denying he was enjoying himself as he moaned and drooled all over it.  He threw himself into his act, gagging and stroking it.  He reached around and placed his hands on her ass, filling his hands with her soft flesh.  That propelled him deeper into true sub space and he went even wilder on her strapon.  “Yeah, I’m a cock-sucking slut.  Give me that hard Black meat.  Fuck my face.  Mmmmm, yeah, I love your cock.”  All of his inhibitions were gone.  Bret was behaving like he’d always wanted; he was free, free from restrictions, free from societal constraints.  
“Bret?  Sweetie?  Did I tell you that you could suck my dick?”  She pushed him to the floor harshly but it wasn’t a deterrent to Bret, it was inspiration.
Making himself prone at her feet, Bret begged for her forgiveness.  He placed his lips on her stilettos and kissed them.  He ran his tongue over the smooth patent leather and pleaded.  “Please, forgive me.  I’m so sorry.  I was so overwhelmed with your beauty, your brilliance, your sheer power.”  Shauntay removed her shoe, kicking it to the side of the room, and waved her foot in Bret’s face.  She placed it gently on his lips and he inhaled deeply the aroma, the slightly musky, familiar scent of a sweaty foot that had been encased in leather.  It was more intoxicating than poppers for him and infinitely more arousing.  He wanted nothing more than to run his tongue over that foot.  Her toenails were painted a brilliant turquoise to match her lingerie but remained clearly visible through the reinforced toe of her silk stockings.  He licked her sole and then placed her entire foot in his mouth, as much as he could swallow.  He worshipped her foot, praising it, praying to it.
She kicked him hard in the side, sending him to the floor, curled in the fetal position.  Removing her other shoe, she circled him like a lioness circling her prey, the queen of the jungle stalking, surveying, ready to psychologically devour her helpless victim.  Bret’s heart was racing and his breathing was labored.  She rubbed her stockinged foot over his cock and balls.  The threat hung heavy in the air but remained unspoken that at any moment she could kick him in the nuts and make him scream out in agony.  Bret waited for what he was sure to come.  
To her credit, Shauntay prepared him for the evening of erotic torture.  “I own you now, you understand that, don’t you, Bret? You are mine to play with, tease and torture, to destroy in any way I see fit.  Your screams will be my music; your pleas for my benevolence will amuse and entertain me.  I will use your body for anything I see fit and you’ll beg for more.  I’ll allow you to be the filthy, disgusting, lower-than-human scum that you long to be, that you’ve been craving, needing to release inside you.  The need grows stronger each and every year, to be more perverse, to submit to a mistress so cruel, so diabolical that your mind reels with the creativity with which she degrades you.  I’m that mistress, Bret.  I’m the woman who will turn you into a pain pig, who will make you crave dicks, real dicks; big, hard, black dicks shoved in your tight, white pussy.”  
Bret rolled his eyes in arrogant disbelief.  “Oh, you don’t believe me, Bret?  You don’t think I can control your will, your desires?”  Her voice was soft, not annoyed or irritated and it was hypnotic, soothing, arousing.  “Well, I’ll let you have that today.  We are new, you and I; we haven’t worked out the dynamics of our relationship yet.  You don’t know me nearly as well as I know you.  When you get to know me, when you understand how mentally sadistic I can really be, you won’t disrespect me by rolling your eyes at me.  She continued, calmly this time, with her riding crop firmly in her hand.   Shauntay gently tapped the tip of it against Bret’s throbbing, leaking erection.  
“Turn over, on your knees.”  Bret complied swiftly.  Head down against the cool plastic, he stuck his ass in the air, proud to show off his slutty nature.  Shauntay rubbed the crop against his nut sack, up the crack of his ass.  “Bret, would you be shocked if I told you that I am going to shove ice cubes in your ass and watch you writhe in pain while you’re bent over like this?”  She spread the cheeks of his ass and rubbed her finger gently over his exposed asshole.  Bret wasn’t moved.  He wasn’t truly a masochist so the thought of pain didn’t really scare him.  “Well,” she persisted, “a little cold should be countered with a little heat.  You see, I have this chili paste that I’m going to apply to your cock and balls while those ice cubes are melting in your ass and you feel the burning, searing heat up and down the shaft of your cock.”  
Bret squirmed more.  He was intrigued by the sheer novel ingenuity of this powerful woman.  He wanted to belong to her; he wanted to be inflicted to her cruel punishments.  He was leaking precum as she continued to circle him, to tease him with her feet, rubbing them on his face, across his chest, jerking him off with her feet.  She caressed his body with her riding crop, her preferred instrument of punishment for the evening.  “Imagine that Bret.  Ice cubes shoved in your asscunt, excruciating heat spreading over your cock and balls.  I’m going to fuck you senseless, like the little bitch you are.  You understand?  Is that what you want Bret?  Is that the sort of torture you want to endure for me?  Your pathetic cock virtually ablaze, your intestines cramping in pain, and getting fucked with my beautiful strapon?”  
Bret was moaning uncontrollably now.  He was thrusting his ass in the air, desperate to be invaded by more than her fingers, silently shedding tears in fear of what he was becoming, what he was allowing happen to him.  “Oh, God, yessssss, I want that.  I want you to fuck me, use me, and punish me any way you see fit.”  
THWAPPP! The first blow of her riding crop came down on his balls without mercy and he cried out, scrambling away from the blinding pain.  
“Come back here bitch; get your ass up here.”  Bret assumed the position again.  This time, he felt the slippery head of her lubricated strapon rubbing sensually up and down his ass crack.  Bret forgot all about the pain in his testicles and he started humping back against that strapon, trying to get the head of it positioned so that she could take him; so she could enter him, make him her ass slut.  The head of that black dick felt amazing on his hole, in his soul.  Bret’s mind spun with new sensations.  He wanted to get fucked, to become an animal.  Shauntay gripped his hips and pushed.  The head of the strapon pierced his tight anal ring and Bret moaned out in pleasure and in pain.  Her ownership of him was complete.  There was no way he was going to let her out of his life.  In that moment, he knew he would suck any dick, swallow as many loads of cum as she demanded.  He heard himself chanting, “Fuck me, fuck me, ram that black fucker deep in me, make me your bitch, make me your white sissy faggot. FUCK ME.  USE ME!  OWN ME!  Please, I beg of you.  I’m begging you Mistress.”  He was crying uncontrollably, openly now.  She was gently fucking his ass, sending outrageously pleasurable sensations throughout his pussy, and savagely fucking his mind, torturing him mentally; the pleasure and the pain melding into one.
The transformation was complete.  Shauntay knew it.  Hence forth and forever more, Bret would crave her.  She was the one who knew his desires and would risk his relationships, his job; he would offer his life to be the object of her sadistic ministrations.  “On your knees, bitch.  NOW!”  
Bret scrambled to a kneeling position, his eyes diverted to the floor.  Shauntay turned around and put her ass inches from his face.  Startled, he looked up, enchanted by the magnificent brown globes of flesh before him.  Reaching back, she spread her asscheeks and made her asshole wink at him.  He swallowed hard and grabbed his dick and stroked it as he put his nose closer.  Without warning, she farted directly in his face, the noxious, rank fumes overwhelming him as he moaned out and stroked his cock that much harder.  He inhaled deeply, the gas ambrosia to his senses.  
“Lie down on the floor.”  She pointed and he followed her command.  She slid the strapon down her legs and knelt over his face.  She rubbed her pussy lips, spreading them, showing Bret her inner, pink flesh.  His mouth watered.  He wanted to taste her wet cunt, to feel her cum all over him, flooding his mouth with her thick juices.  Her pussy was just inches from his face and it took every ounce of strength not to grab her hips and pull her body to his mouth.  Shauntay grabbed his cock and gently stroked it as she taunted him.  He was out of his mind.  Her soft hands felt incredible sliding up and down his hard shaft, eliciting moans of pleasure from deep within his core.  She lowered her pussy to his mouth and he tasted her sweetness for the first time.  
It was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, better than any pussy he’d ever eaten before.  Her juices were slippery and sweet, her lips were thick, and her clit was hard and felt like a small cock in his mouth.  She rode his face and rode him hard.  She took no consideration for his comfort or his safety; making herself cum and reveling in the fact that his life was in her hands.  Putting her entire body weight on him, controlling his light and his air, forcing him to use his tongue to lick anywhere and everywhere she wanted.  Shauntay used her big, round ass as a weapon.  
She sat back and gave him access to her entire lower region.  The smell of pussy and ass together was overwhelming.  Bret drove his tongue deep inside her, trying to fuck her asshole better than any cock could.  She sat squarely on his face as she stroked his cock.  Shauntay was a true Ebony Queen, sitting on her throne, and Bret was thrashing around, gasping for air and ready to cum at any second.   She held still and Bret could feel the heat rising up his body; the lack of oxygen to his lungs triggering his fight or flight response.  Just as she felt his body go limp, she lifted her ass off his face, flooding his with light and air, Bret gasping and coughing but begging for more.  He wanted the warmth and the sensation of her full weight on his face again, he craved it.  


Shauntay began bouncing up and down, one the verge of orgasm.  She began to slap and twist Bret’s balls cruelly, pulling them to administer pain, or was it pleasure?  Determined, he refused to stop until he could taste Shauntay’s cum pouring down his throat.  Her legs covered his ears, he could barely hear her moans but he knew that she was about to cum.  He sensed the muscles in her legs tighten up and she was more aggressive with her gyrations, bouncing up and down harder.  For a moment, he thought he was going to be crushed.  The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that she was stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, masturbating him cruelly.  He couldn’t breathe; he was feeling faint.  The pleasure was indescribable and she was riding him hard, cumming even harder.  He could feel her nails digging into his flesh and she exploded in his mouth, causing Bret’s body to explode in orgasm like he’d never known before.  
He woke up the next morning, in her bed, spooning Shauntay’s beautiful body.  “Good morning sleepy head.”  She kissed his forehead as he struggled to put the pieces together after his last memory of near suffocation.  He jumped up in bed and slid out of the sheets to the floor.  He didn’t deserve to be so close to her, he didn’t deserve to be treated like a man.  Shauntay held out her hand and, without words, invited him back to her bed.  Sensing his fears, reading his mind, she said, “Antoine de Saint- Exupery said, ‘You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.’  I would say that I’ve tamed you so . . .”  
“But,” Bret interrupted, “I uhmmm, I don’t want to be, you know, like this, I want it to be like last night.  I want to be that thing I was last night.”  
“Relax, sweetie,” Shauntay comforted him.  “I am your owner; I will control, use, abuse, and discard you at my whim.”  The word discard rang in Bret’s ears more than any other.  He didn’t want to be thrown away like a piece of trash; he wanted to sacrifice for her, to give her the ultimate sacrifice.  He wanted to surrender all that he was, all that he could ever be to her.  Tears filled his eyes as his mind raced.  Shauntay pushed his head between her legs.  “Bret, you have work to do.  Now get down there and eat my pussy.”  Bret threw the covers back and dove between her legs, seeing her gorgeous cunt in the light of day took his breath away again.  He hoped, no, he prayed, that this would be the beginning of a life of servitude and extremes beyond anything he’d ever allowed himself to contemplate, beyond any reasonable, logical explanation for how he was willing to redefine his entire existence as something inanimate and perverse. 

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