“Females can be ___________,”

When a woman says, “Females can be ___________,” and the blank is filled in with some sort of negative comment that indicates that women tend to be naturally backstabbing, disloyal, manipulative, deceptive, devious, bitchy, etc., etc., etc., that is one of the most blatant forms of self-hatred possible.  To assert that women are somehow genetically prone to being inherently evil, bad, and/or wrong, WHEN IN FACT YOU ARE A WOMAN YOURSELF, is essentially saying that you are inherently those negative traits, that you are not capable of behaviors that are any better than those stank behaviors.

Black culture has handicapped young Black women.  Having been fed nothing but constant media images that represent Black women as constantly fighting, constantly competing for men, constantly needing to prove their worth with their clothes and shoes and fake hair, Black women have no concept of what it means to be a woman.  To be a “female” is to be some negative, reprehensible thing.  We have not taught Black women how to love themselves, let alone love their sistas as friends.   We have not taught them how to be friends let alone how to honor their friendships.   We have not shown them how to form bonds and unions with other women that are truly loving because we teach girls to be self-centered and narcissistic.

People think that self-hatred means literally saying, “I hate myself,” or at the very least saying, “I think I’m ugly.”   They don’t grasp that disliking the things that are inherent in you, natural to you, your core identity is what self-hatred really means.  Conversely, people also are delusionally convinced that being egotistical and making proclamations of, “I love myself,” is a sign of self-love.   Self-love is, in actuality, loving the skin you are in, being self-aware and not needing to conform to anyone else’s definition or standard. 

The inferiority complex that has been bred into Africans born in AmeriKKKa is the very definition of self-hatred. We hate our natural, nappy hair, we think it’s unmanageable, ugly, bad, and wrong.  We hate our natural features.  Our own Black hair isn’t good enough, we need blond hair, we need blue contacts, we need thin lips and light skin and a little tiny nose because our natural black skin is ugly, our natural big lips and noses are grotesque.  And extending that out, when women say “Females can be . . . ,” their subconscious mind says, “Yeah, females are all those bad things.  Hey!  You’re a female so, VOILA’, you are those things as well.”   That is the very definition of self-hatred.

Ladies, let’s start affirming that females are strong, resilient, that we are supportive and nurturing, and that we are capable of boundless, unconditional love.  More importantly, let’s strive to be those traits ourselves; let’s make it our mission to walk in integrity, let’s aspire to not do anything for which we have to apologize.  Let’s be amazing women so that we might attract amazing women into our lives. 

Excruciatingly Pleasurable

He led her to the bedroom, her hand tightly in his, and he prepared to love her exquisitely.  She trembled slightly, afraid of what was to come.  She was almost positive she would be on that list of things however.  Her vision was obscured with a beautiful silk scarf and all she could see was darkness.  That’s okay, she had complete trust in her lover and she knew she was in good hands: strong, sensual hands at that knew exactly how to elicit the most intense bliss. 

Laying her on the bed gently, he began his sensual assault.  There was no need to rush.  He had set aside hours to do nothing but pleasure his lady love.  The first sensation she felt was so gentle, so imperceptible, she couldn’t make out what it was at first.  The feather-light touch was just that, a feather.  She cried out, “Stop, that tickles!” but his technique was relentless.  Every touch of that feather to her skin made her jump and squirm.  He traced the insides of her elbows and the slope of her collar bone, everywhere on her body until it was no longer ticklish; it was like sending erotic stimuli straight to her clit.  Under her breasts, her ankles, her very fingertips, no place was off limits.  Biting her lip, she silenced her moans of joy.  There was no need to however, it was her night and her man was there to cater to her every whim and fantasy.  All she had to do was ask and he was there to respond. 

Next, came the intense sensation of cold.  Cry out she did as he traced ice cubes around her belly button and down to the baby soft hair of her mound.  “Please baby, don’t do this to me,” she whimpered but she spread her legs more, communicating to him that the last thing she wanted was for him to stop.  She gripped the sheets tightly, using them for leverage, voluntarily restraining herself from moving as he put the ice cube in his mouth and created the sensation of cool kisses on her engorged pussy lips.  She was out of her mind with desire, panting, begging, moaning, chanting.  He kissed his way all over her body, leaving a trail of cool, wet kisses. 

Next, the sensations she felt were indiscernible.  While it was apparent that something was being applied to her skin, all over her body, she couldn’t exactly tell what it was.  It didn’t seem to be either pleasurable or unpleasant.  She waited, anxiously, breathlessly awaiting the pleasure to begin for she knew it was right around the corner.  Little did she know it was honey that had been applied to her body until her lover started to sensually lick away every drop of sweetness.  Inch by excruciatingly erotic inch, he licked. He licked until his tongue was tired and then licked some more.  He was inspired by her cries of passion.  With every flick of his tongue on her nipples, thighs, and toes, she would let out a sound that inspired him to keep going.  He wasn’t going to stop for anything. 

Turning her over, placing her on her stomach, the sensation of warmth was the next thing she felt.  Heated massage oil trickled down the small of her back, creating a pool right at the top of her ass.  With skill and intensity, he softly kneaded the oil into her brown skin from her shoulders to her feet and not missing a spot in between.  He wasn’t trying to work out tension or heal a sore muscle, he was caressing and pampering with just the right amount of pressure and gentle, tender caresses.  Holding her ass in his hands he worked the oil in and caused her to arch her back, stick her ass out as in invitation.  He took the invitation and poured the heated oil into the crack of her ass and let it drip between her pussy lips, adding to the moisture and slipperiness she felt there. 

At this point in the evening, she was undone.  She was ready for sex and didn’t need any more foreplay whatsoever, not another minute, not another second.  She wanted to join with her lover, meld with him, to become one.  She needed him inside her.  “Fuck me, Make love to me, I need you inside me, was all she kept saying.”  Pulling the scarf from her eyes, she pleaded with her lover, “Come on baby, you know you want this, come on, I’m so wet for you right now. Make me cum.” 

A man on a mission cannot be denied.  It was his intent to make her cum and make her cum hard before there was any penetration whatsoever.  Taking his middle finger and inserting it slowly, he softly probed for the places that made her squirm.  He looked in her eyes for the reaction that told him that she loved what he was doing.  Pulling back the hood on her clit, he rubbed softly, in a gentle circular motion.  His lady was practically sobbing.  Her legs were in the air and she was almost in a state of panic. 

Almost at his threshold for patience, he used his fingers to softly push, prod and poke all her sensitive spots, he worked her magic button until she was screaming in the pillow, her body a wave of spasm after spasm, her muscles trembling and weak.  It was then that he took careful aim.  Lining up the head of his dick with her sweet, hot, tight, wet hole, he waited.  She tried her best to maneuver around to get him to penetrate her but he would not.  She cursed him, screamed for him to fuck her.  He bent over to kiss her, for their mouths to taste one another, and he slipped inside her.  In that moment, it was like none other.  Instinct took over and he was primal.  He wasn’t aggressive like a predator; he was focused like a laser. 

Their bodies moved in unison.  She enveloped him, providing him with a safe place that felt too good to be true.  He loved her and he was going to pour his unconditional love into her.  First however, he was going to FUCK the living daylights out of her.  Pushing her thighs back to her chest, he stared deep in her eyes.  “Does that feel good?” as he drove his dick up inside her. 

“God damn you, you know it does, fuck me.”

That wasn’t enough for him.  He wanted more.  With more intensity, he drove his dick up inside her again over and over again.   Her nails dug in his back.  Her legs wrapped around his back, pulling him tighter, closer.  Their breathing became synchronized.  He was lost in her pleasure, she was on the verge of another intense orgasm.  He timed it perfectly, and began fucking her like only a man in love can do.  She held on and met every thrust.  Their bodies were working together in unison.  His moans became hers.  They could fight it no longer and they came, together, crashing into one another and enveloped by love. 

Copyright 2012 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Worship

The following story is part three of what was to be an ongoing story.  This was the final chapter.  In going through my old writings I came across it and I needed to post it again.  I'm so in love with the Bitch Domme character and her ability to manipulate the white sub.  To me, there is no greater sense of satisfaction than when dominating a white man and he is seething in anger and he wants to strike you, he hates you, but you can see the look in his eyes that his brain is misfiring, that he realizes for the very first time in his life that he is not truly superior, that the white race isn't truly superior.  It's a thing of beauty to see.  

I hope you enjoy. 

Steven had fucked up.  After his failure of a first meeting with me, he sat and stewed and seethed with animosity.  Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks.  It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him.  He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological.  His need for extortion and blackmail, his fantasies of being “outted”, and financially drained, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women were all indications of him indeed being mentally ill.  He invited women to extort him, he fantasized about his friends and family knowing of his perversions.  He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly. 

At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise.  At the end of the day, he loved all of it.  He sent other women money, bought their used undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00.  In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself.  He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities.  In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms.  He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills or buy them expensive shoes they had no real occasion to wear them, and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and purchases. 

Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously this time.  He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to meet again.  I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia.  True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount.  After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash. 

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century.  Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God pass us by and politely but not so subtly stare.  I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps.  I extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat.  “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously.  All of his fantasies of being humiliated and sexually shamed in public just vanished and he wanted to run and hide.  This was not at all what he had expected.  He said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?” 

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush?  Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning and handed us a program.  Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside.  Never in his life had he felt so out of place.  His was the only white face in the sanctuary and he was the only person dressed casually.  I walked to the very front of the church and he felt compelled to follow.  He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool.  Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior.  Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me.  He started to tell me to fuck off, that he was going to leave, but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice.  The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me. 

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually.  He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came.  The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage.  He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans.  He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship. 

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins.  He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him.  He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with.  I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar.  He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him.  “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins.  Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are.  Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.” 

He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up.  I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins.  Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?”  Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him.  The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation.  The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ.  They passed the collection plate and I whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.” 

His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate.   He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship.  He prayed to be normal.  As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money.  It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts.  He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior.  When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect.  “Mistress, I bow to your will.  I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess.  You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way.  All that I am, all that I have is yours.” 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved

A Letter to My Daughter

A friend of mine asked me to write a letter he could give to his young adult daughter to let her know how much he loves her, what he wants for her.  I wanted to share the letter in the hopes that there might be other men who will use it as an opportunity to express their love to their daughters.  I only wish I had a father who had loved me enough to say these things to me. 

My beloved baby girl,

It’s almost that time when my responsibility as your father is over.  I will always be your Dad, I will love you until I take my last breath and beyond.  But my job, the time for me to actually do the work of parenting is almost done.  It was my job to protect you, to give you structure and guidance, to discipline you when your behavior was detrimental or destructive, and to love you unconditionally.  Sometimes, I let myself down in parenting.  I’m not perfect and I’m probably a harsher critic of myself than anyone.  But when I look at the woman you have become, I know I must have done a little something right because I’m in awe of the fact that the little girl that I once knew is now a really amazing adult.   You are a woman now.  I’m so proud of you.  I’m proud of your accomplishments, your talents, and your beauty, both inside and out. 

To be a woman in this society, in this time, is challenging.  I don’t understand everything about it, I probably don’t understand enough of the demands, complications, and pressures young women your age face.  I do know that we exist in a society that perpetuates rape culture, that tells males that it is their right to take what doesn’t belong to them from women.  I worry.  I pray every day for your safety and that you will never know such pain and violation.  I will not shame, blame, or put the responsibility on you for the evil actions of my gender.  I will, however, ask that you try to be safe.  Know your worth, not just as an attractive woman, but as a human being.  Don’t let the need to feel attractive or desired put you in a situation where you fear for your safety.  You don’t have to prove to anyone that you are sexy or hot.  Our society tells young girls that being attractive is their only value, their only worth.  You are so much more than just the package you come in.  Know this.  Know this always.  If you feel you need to wear less to be attractive, if you feel you need to show off your body or that you the number of boys who like you somehow validates your attractiveness, please remember that your real beauty, your real value is being strong, independent, intelligent, and outspoken.  Know that your femininity is not found in the backside of your jeans nor is it enhanced by your hair, make-up, clothes, or shoes.  

As much as it pains me to admit, I know that I’m not going to be the most important man in your life any more.  I know I must accept that reality.   I want the men you share your life with to be men of integrity.  Don’t let me have to go out here and bust some young brotha in his head because he has hurt you.  Choose wisely in your mates.  Set your standards high and don’t compromise them.  Make sure he treats you with respect and that he’s honest with you, that he is invested in being in a relationship with you and he knows what an honor and a privilege it is to be with you.  You deserve the absolute best.  The best doesn’t mean how much money he has or what kind of car he drives.  The best means someone who will do the right thing, even when it’s hard, someone who will put your needs and the needs of the relationship above his own.  If you make a commitment to be honest to each other, and he then lies or he cheats, kick his ass to the curb and don’t look back.   If he hits you, pray that I can dispose of the body without leaving any trace DNA.  But in any relationship, you must make sure that you keep your promises too, that you are a woman of integrity as well.  And while I don’t want you to compromise on your standards, the traits you require in a man, I do want you to know that a truly heathy, loving relationship is based on communication, compromise, and working together.  Love does not hurt.  Love should not make you sad or cry.  Love should give you the added strength to go out and conquer the world like I know you are going to do.    I wish for you profound, unending, enduring, true love.   Don’t ever forget that.  You are my pride and joy.  I will always be here for you.  

Love,

Dad