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, January 12, 2015

Blinded by the Light





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob almost came in his pants. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or the next. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2015 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved







Friday, October 24, 2014

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 tow.  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 worshiped 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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