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.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Black Daddy Domination

Black Daddy Domination

Scott Clark hated his whiteness. He wasn’t able to articulate it exactly in that way; he claimed to be coming to terms with his submissive nature and his overwhelming desire to serve the Black race. Had he been a bit more self-aware, a bit more introspective, he could have accurately described his self-hatred as stemming from his inherent need to feel superior. Whiteness was his disease, magnified by a Napoleonic complex of huge proportions given his height of 5’1”. He suffered from narcissism extraordinaire. In his delusional mind, the universe owed him an apology for his height and he compensated for it by singing “Woe is me,” every chance he got-- the 12” extended, remix, house music version. Lying was his first nature, he could construct a tale of deceit without so much as the blink of an eye, all to make himself seem more important or to perpetuate an image of his false sense of superiority. He treated people as objects to use and didn’t give a damn who was hurt, used, or annoyed in the process. He felt he was the sun, the chosen son, around whom all the world had an obligation to rotate.

He began feeling uncomfortable with his identity, with his whiteness, with the advent of interracial porn. Initially, he was outraged and angered by Black men and their enormous cocks fucking white women. He would watch in disgust at the videos of men endowed with equipment that made his tiny penis look infantile in comparison and seethe in anger, proclaiming how he hated Black men for being lazy, ignorant, criminal, and nothing more than savages. Of course, all that internal dialogue was drowned out while he was masturbating furiously for hours on end to image after image of white women screaming in pleasure and pain while having the sex of their lives with Black men. He would go to Black blogs and forums and protest that size didn’t matter and Black men did not, in fact, have bigger cocks, that it was all just a myth. He took pleasure in his anonymous rants of degrading Black men for being bad fathers, for all being illiterate rappers, and he always seemed to find a way to espouse racist, hateful beliefs that made white men seem inherently and naturally superior. Immediately after taunting anyone and everyone who expressed even the slightest outrage, disbelief, or anger at his psychotic rants, he would log on to one of the numerous pay sites he subscribed to and download videos of white women being fucked by Black men in every orifice so he could jerk off.

In phase two of his awakening, he had a grand epiphany whereby he decided he was sensitive to the Black race. He became a self-proclaimed, liberal, reformed racist who insisted that he was atoning for the sins of all white men, past and present, and righting the wrongs of slavery by being submissive to Black women. His motives might have been pure except for the fact that he wasn’t even capable of seeing Black women as human beings but merely things to satisfy his perversions. He watched BET, he listened to Black talk radio, and he rented every Black movie ever made so he could claim expertise on Blackness. In his submission, he would get off on the idea of black women using him, making fun of his small appendage, slapping him around, maybe even fucking him with a strapon and going home to his white world where he never interacted with another Black person. His sexuality was compartmentalized. For a few hours a month, if he was lucky, a few hours a week, he could take off his white privilege, leave it at the door, and role-play to his heart’s content that he was a slave to a Black woman. When it was over, he could go home and feel absolved of his white guilt and assured that he was free of all inklings of white supremacy and racist beliefs.

In reality, he used Black women like life-like toys. He used the threat of giving them money to fuck with them. He would promise them large amounts of money and then, for no reason whatsoever, he would rescind the offer with the hopes that the women would be irate and that they would in turn then beg and plead for the money in order for him to feel powerful and in control of their lives. He would demand that they fulfill his fantasies, in exactly the way he saw fit; he thought nothing of calling on them at obscene hours of the day or night whenever he wanted to live out his submissive fantasies, stalking them, completely disrespecting their time and lives. The fact that he erroneously viewed his fetish as being submissive is what allowed him to believe that he was pardoned of his responsibility of being a total and complete asshole who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, without regard, respect, or reverence to anyone else.

His fascination with the Black female body was colored by his hatred of the Black male one. The more a woman looked like a man, the more he was obsessed with being the “victim” of her abuse. If she was pumped up on steroids and bulging with muscles everywhere, if her facial features were masculine, if she wore her hair short and natural or if she was transgendered and sporting a big ole, juicy, fat cock, he would make that woman the center of his lust to the extent it would become a maniacal obsession. He would spend endless hours, furiously masturbating, thinking about being pulverized by these she-men, beaten to a bloody pulp, raped against his will, and had no reason to associate his desires with his hatred of the Black male.

It was, in fact, his hatred of the Black male, his odious and undeniable jealousy at his strength, power, and unquestionable masculinity, all things Scott dangerously lacked, which motivated his fantasies. He wanted to destroy the Black man, to castrate him, but short of being able to do that, he could covet these women who were essentially men and feel secure in knowing that he was dominating them passively with his threats of giving and withholding money. In truth, he was worshipping the black male, just minus the penis. Many a night, he would sit at his computer, nipple clamps in place, a black butt plug firmly in place stretching his anus, stroking his small cock with his thumb and forefinger, fantasizing about taking on Mike Tyson, Kimbo Slice, or some other black boxing champion and veritably kicking their ass. He was too stupid to even acknowledge or realize that his fantasies were sexual in nature, that he was jerking off to these images because they aroused him; he could only focus on the adrenaline he felt when he imagined himself victorious over these bastions of Black masculinity. His warped, delusional mind could only comprehend that he viewed the Black male body, the muscular black male body, as his enemy.

Simultaneously, he dreamt of being a Black man. Being transformed to a Black male body, in his warped mind, would mean women, both white and black, would throw themselves at his feet, that he could fuck whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Never, not once did he consider that being a Black man carried more burdens and responsibilities than just standing around on the basketball court waiting for some white woman to get lost in the hood. In his mind, being a Black man was about athleticism, sexuality, and masculinity.

It was indeed a Black man who masterminded phase three of his evolution. Having “graduated” from serving masculine Black women, and compelled by his deviant urges and conflicted emotions, Scott moved on to the worship of the mythical big black cock. He became obsessed with it, all the power it represented and he CRAVED to be degraded and humiliated by Black men with nothing less than 8 inches or more of man meat. His need to be submissive to Black men became obsessive, traveling to adult book stores, bath houses, and gay bars in search of the biggest, blackest cock he could find. The men the cocks were attached to were inconsequential; it was the penis that was his object of desire. He became the proverbial slut for black cock. That was, until he responded to a particular ad on craigslist.

The ad was simple enough. “Professional Black male seeks same for LTR.” It outlined the specifics of who the guy was and what he was looking for: complexion, similar interests, education, height, and age—all the average things in a personal ad. The photo section included several pictures of a tall, very attractive, dark-skinned guy with a nice house, a nice car, and a package that was so big UPS would have refused to deliver it.

Had the ad not included the picture of the cock, Scott probably would have moved on, clicking on another ad to find someone who was looking for a quick, anonymous suck or fuck in the immediate future. It was the perfect cock: uncut, heavily veined, thick, Black, and what had to be 10 inches . . . soft. Scott’s mouth watered and his asspussy throbbed at the thought of feeling that huge monster invading him, pounding him, stretching him to beyond capacity, ripping him, filling him with load after load of scalding hot cum. He had to have it.

He fired off a response, quickly detailing what a fuck slut he was and how he had a hot, wet mouth perfect for sucking and a tight, hot, hole ideal for fucking. He attached a picture he found on the net of a beautiful young twink who could have been a perfect Calvin Klein model. It really didn’t matter to him that he looked NOTHING like the picture, nothing mattered to him other than getting what he wanted. He waited for a response. And he waited. After two days, he figured he would send another response, this time being more explicit.

“Dear, Sir. I sent you an email the other day but it must have ended up in your spam folder or something. I’m a white, 30-something male,” he lied, “who would love to drain your big cock. I’m expert at sucking cock, I have a hot white hole just ready for pounding all night long, and you can do whatever you want to me, treat me like shit, and I can take it all and then some. I especially enjoy race play and get off on being treated rough and you can even beat the crap out of me if you want. I’ll kneel at your feet and worship your superior, Black cock. Anxiously awaiting your response. Submissively, Scott.”

The response came quickly this time, within a few minutes. “Thanks you for your interest. I’m not looking for a sub or anything of the sort, but rather I’m looking for a long-term relationship EXACTLY like I described in my ad.”

For most people, that would have been sufficient. Perhaps a few would have sent a response saying, “Fine, you don’t know what you’re missing,” and left it at that. Scott, however, was not satisfied with that response. He became belligerent and typically arrogant. His response came in the form of an essay, describing how he was informed on Black issues, how liberal he was socially and how he supported Barack Obama. He wrote of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and the history of racism. He went on and on with statistics about Black men in the U.S. He ridiculed the man for his lack of knowledge of Black issues, not even knowing the man’s position on anything. The whole objective of the correspondence was to piss this guy off. Scott was adept at being irritating, it was his weapon of choice and being rejected was not in his agenda.

Send.

No response.

He didn’t even wait a full 24 hours for a response. He fired off another email, this time longer, this time more abrasive.

No response.

Outraged, Scott sat at his computer, looking at that picture of that gorgeous cock, jerking off incessantly, and figuring out ways to get under this guy’s skin. That’s all he wanted at this point. He wanted to annoy him, anger him, to make him frustrated and pissed off. He got a thrill from the attention, the fact that he knew he was an irritant; that was almost more arousing to him than getting fucked.

Still no response, he constructed yet another email, this time, taunting him by reverting back to his tried and true nature of being racially belligerent, claiming that the picture of the cock wasn’t even real, that he probably had a tiny cock and was trying to compensate for not being a “real” black man. That would surely get a response.


“How dare that black piece of shit ignore me,” Scott fumed. “I’ll fix him,” as he sent all three of his emails again, this time, each one from one of his many other email accounts. The drama was arousing to Scott and he fisted his tiny cock in anticipation of a response. This time, he was sure to get some sort of rise out of this guy. It wasn’t even about the sex anymore; it was a game of power. Scott needed to prove that he could not and would not be dismissed. He needed to put this Black guy in his place and teach him a lesson. Scott’s true racist nature had surfaced again, victim of his own delusions of supremacy.

He got a real response this time, simply stating, “Okay, you win. If you want to be dominated, I’ll do it. Be at my house, Friday evening, and be prepared to be pushed past your limits. In fact, you better not have any limits.” He gave an address and signed the email, “Your Black Dom Daddy”.

Scott masturbated endlessly, for days on end, reading those few lines like they held the key to the universe. He fantasized about what it would be like to be the plaything of a strong, Black man who towered over his diminutive size. He didn’t do as he was instructed of course. That would have been anti-climactic. He wasn’t going to go through with it after everything he had written, he just wanted to get off on the idea of being a white fuck slut with no limits being tortured and used by a strong, Black Daddy. So he placated himself by pulling and stroking his tiny penis, imagining unspeakable, disgusting things.

Barely a week went by when Scott’s curiosity got the best of him. He sent another email and not surprisingly, it was returned as blocked. He had no less than 25 email addressed created for just such a reason so he quickly resent it from another account and this time, he apologized profusely for his abhorrent behavior. He humbled himself, “Dear, Sir, what can I do to have you forgive me? I’ve been arrogant and I realize that now. I’ll never do it again, I promise. I want to be your boy. I want you to own me.” He didn’t mean a word of what he said, it was all a part of his twisted pathology.

The response was more detailed this time. “I knew your faggot ass couldn’t resist. The rules are simple. For an entire weekend I’ll use you in ways that you’ve never thought of before. You’ll be my complete bitch. Bring food and beverages to fix me breakfast, lunch, and dinner the entire time you’re here. You’ll be dressed in slutty heels and lingerie all weekend. You’ll keep your holes ready for me to use . . . in any way I see fit. If I bring my friends over, you’ll service them any way they want. If I go out on a date, you’ll suck my cock clean when I come home. You’ll serve as my maid and make sure my place is immaculate and you’ll be my footstool, ashtray, toilet, and cum dump. You’ll be anything I tell you to be and you’ll like it and beg for more.”

Anger boiled up within Scott’s soul, anger and pure, unadulterated lust. He’d never really given up his fallacy of white supremacy, he’d never really reconciled his hatred for Black men and their larger endowments, he was just going through the motions in an effort to satiate his lust for being degraded and abused. His desires to be raped, used, and beaten until unrecognizable were symptoms of a greater evil. Scott wanted to use Black sexuality to satisfy his perverse desires; he never had any intentions of being used to satisfy the desires of a Black person.

His compulsion to be used outweighed reason as he drove around impatiently in his car for 7:00 pm exactly. Being nosey, he opened the mailbox and saw that the name on the Car and Driver Magazine was Todd Harcourt. At least he had a name to put with the description of the supposed mortgage broker, sports enthusiast, and openly gay black man he was about to meet. Scott had purchased enough food for a week, all frozen dinners and semi-prepared deli foods and the like; he wasn’t a great cook and didn’t want to piss this guy off by trying to be creative in the kitchen when he knew good and god damn well that anything he fixed himself would taste like crap. He wanted to leave, to turn around and go home, but he knew that if he did, he would regret it. He’d packed an overnight bag with all the lingerie and high heels he’d stolen from previous girlfriends. With such a big cock pounding him, he knew there was going to be potential for issues so he’d given himself a series of intense and painful enemas to make sure his colon was free from any shit so there wouldn’t be any accidents or mess. All lubed up with a butt plug shoved in to stretch his hole, he knocked on the door.

“Yes, how can I help you?” The guy looked confused more than anything, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to show up.

“I’m . . . from the internet . . . you know . . . your boy. You told me to be here for you to . . .” Scott paused mid sentence, afraid someone had played a joke on him. The guy standing before him was the guy from the pictures in the ad, but he wasn’t sure exactly what was going on so he remained quiet, gripping his bags in his hands tighter and ready to make a run for it.

“Oh DAMN, I knew the picture you sent was fake but GOD DAMN. Could you have found a picture more opposite of what you look like? Shit! Oh well, get in here.” The guy looked like he wanted to throw up he was so disgusted. Scott stepped inside the foyer as the door closed behind him. It was his nature to be so arrogant, so pathological in his need to misrepresent himself, that he didn’t care that he sent pictures that looked nothing like his 40 something, unattractive self.

One thing was for certain, the guy hadn’t lied one bit in his ad. He wasn’t a millimeter shy of 6’4”, he had a muscular, athletic build, bald head, dark chocolate skin and he was VERY attractive. Scott could see the picture of his fantastic cock in his mind and his tiny prick pulsed in anticipation. With the difference in height, Scott did in fact feel like a boy next to a strong Daddy. “Take off your clothes,” were his only instructions.

Scott put his bags down and started to slowly undress. “Hurry up, shithead,” the man bellowed and Scott began to pick up the pace. He took off his shoes and socks and pulled down his pants, standing there with nothing but a pair of tighty whities on and pitching a tent, a pup tent, but his erection was sticking out as far as possible.

“I thought I told you that you were to be dressed in women’s lingerie the entire time you were in my presence, bitch.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know exactly what was expected of me so I figured I would . . .” His words were cut off by a backhand that sent him flying into the wall. Real tears formed in his eyes as he felt the sting of the slap radiating on his cheek. The taste of warm blood trickled in his mouth from his cheek and he swallowed. He tried to steady himself to stand but he was disoriented and scared.

“You will be humble in my presence at all times. You will answer only when spoken to and if your answer isn’t preceded by Yes, Master, or Yes, Daddy, you can be sure I’m going to discipline you much worse than that little tap. I really don’t give a damn what you think, I only expect you to conform to my desires and that’s it. Got it?”

A knot formed in Scott’s throat. It felt like someone was choking him, no, stabbing him with a knife in his vocal chords. The words were stuck and he swallowed hard and responded, “Yes, Daddy.”

Scott was already broken.

Extending his hand in what seemed to be a gesture of kindness, this exquisite male specimen helped Scott to his feet. Scott’s hands were small; his fingers were stubby and short. In contrast, Todd’s hands were large, not too large, but with long, graceful fingers. With his hand placed inside the much larger one, he instinctively knew what it was to be a little boy with a strong, protective parent. With tears in his eyes, Scott removed his underpants and stood covering his small penis, profoundly ashamed by its inferior size. “Move your fucking hands, let me see what you’ve got” were his only instructions and he instinctively covered his nipples like a teenage girl whose top had been pulled down at the neighborhood swimming pool.

Loud, uproarious laughter reverberated in the tiny alcove and Scott’s heart sank at the same ratio that his cock rose. No matter how much he knew on a visceral level, no matter how much he intellectualized and articulated that his penis was small, extraordinarily small in fact, when he heard others say it, especially Black men, he felt anger, shame, and arousal at the same time. He was aroused by the humiliation but he just couldn’t let go of that nasty “white male thing” that caused him to look at Black men with nothing but contempt and disgust. It was a part of his DNA, it was wired into his brain that he was inherently superior so while his rage bubbled beneath the surface, his lust dictated his need to give up that false sense of superiority and become what he knew he was deep, deep inside: a perverse, disgusting, depraved white pain, cum slut. He needed to be set free of his imprisonment of lies to be released so he could experience his true nature as something lower than a human.

“Suck my cock, bitch.” The pressure of the hand on Scott’s shoulder forced him to his knees. He knelt submissively before the fully clothed man before him. His hands trembled as he reached out to undo his jeans and pull down the zipper. Placing his hand inside his pants, he felt for the first time what was possibly the biggest cock he’d ever felt in his life. He could barely get his fingers around the girth. Fishing it out, he was struck with the strong aroma of unwashed masculinity. It was an intoxicating elixir of sweat, piss, and pure, manly funk. Scott inhaled the scent and it made him light headed; it made his cock leak precum.



Peeling back the foreskin, Scott looked up into the deep, dark eyes of his new owner. A foul, raunchy-smelling layer of head cheese coated the enormous crown of the beautiful, brown cock. “You like? I made it just for you. Eat up.”

Rather than hesitating, Scott made a real show of cleaning that nasty smegma. He devoured it like he was starving, proud to show off his cocksucking skills and the devotion he had for the monstrous piece of meat that was before him. The thick paste filled his taste buds and Scott worked first to clean it and then to worship it. Barely able to get his mouth around it, barely able to get even a third of its enormous length into his mouth, Scott licked and kissed it passionately. If a man could form a relationship with a cock, this was the ideal mate for Scott. In his heart, he fell in love with that meat, feeling his chest expand and tighten like a schoolboy with his first crush. He tried to make love to it with his mouth, planting soft and tender kisses along its length to show his reverence.

“What the fuck is this kissing shit? Bitch, I told you to suck my mother fucking cock. NOW SUCK!” With that, he grabbed Scott’s head and fucked his mouth savagely. Scott tried to push away, bracing himself against the firm, muscular thighs of his tormentor, trying to catch his breath as that cock ravaged his throat. He gagged and choked, feeling his esophagus being raped. He was being skull fucked; he was nothing more than a hole being abused. The steady pounding of that cock, its full length wanted to make him cry out in pain but he couldn’t; he could barely gasp for air. The rhythm was fast and furious, his jaw was numb, and his gag reflect was abating after what had to be more than 10 minutes of the most hard core blow job he’d ever given . . . sort of. There was no mistaking that he wasn’t “giving” anything, his throat was being fucked and it hurt in a way that couldn’t be described. Hot, salty tears stained his cheeks as he prayed for the torture to end, and simultaneously, never to end.

The reward at the end of his torture would come soon enough. His master, tormentor, and dream lover shoved the full length of his hardness deep in Scott’s throat. His nose deeply embedded in the thick patch of wiry pubic hairs, Scott felt the expansive cock actually grow and lengthen in his mouth and could detect the peristaltic motion that brought the scalding white, hot, cum from his nuts, through his impressive tube of manliness, out and down Scott’s throat, without even getting the benefit of tasting the scummy spunk he craved so desperately.

Scott collapsed to the floor, exhausted and broken, his face inches away from the feet of his skillful dominator. He wanted to cleave unto those feet, wrap his arms around those legs for protection and comfort and say, “Daddy, I’m sorry I was a bad boy. Please, forgive me.” He couldn’t say anything however because his throat was so sore he’d temporarily lost the ability to speak. It felt as if his vocal chords had been scraped with sandpaper.

“Before I forget, give me your keys and your wallet. I want some assurances you won’t be leaving before I give you permission.” The last thing in the world Scott wanted was to leave. He wanted to stay forever. He wanted to give up his measly life and be the boi of this ominous stranger. His identity was sacred however and he had spent years protecting it, lying, deceiving, and hiding his real life from those whom he used sexually. This time, he reluctantly handed over the requested items and felt a sense of relief. If he was going to be blackmailed, outed, and exposed to the world, now was the time, he’d let his perversions drive him too far. He wanted this man to know his true identity, to have control of his life and his destiny. It was his freedom.

“I expect you to change your clothes, fix me dinner and bring it to me in the den, and be prepared to service me in whatever way I desire.” He pushed Scott away with his foot and went about his business like Scott wasn’t even there.

Unsure of the layout of the house, Scott stumbled around until he found a powder room to change into his female attire. He was an ugly male to begin with which made him repulsive as a woman but he felt sexy in his red see-through baby doll nightie, his high-heel, patent leather, stiletto, Payless Pumps and black butt plug, framed perfectly by his crotchless panties. His tiny penis strained against the silky material and felt good. He rubbed it for as long as he thought he might be able to get away with it without being found out and emerged to fix dinner.

Cooking in someone else’s house is a task. He struggled to find the right pots, the right plates, the tools he needed to pull off his linguine and shrimp, all pre-cooked of course. Salad was in a bag and all he had to do was find an opener for the beer. He wobbled and teetered in his heels that were giving him a blister but he ignored the pain in anticipation of more humiliation and degradation to come. That was his finish line, his raison d’etre. He overheard his new Master talking on the phone, conversing with a friend. “Nah man, I ain’t never done no shit like this before. I figure he’ll be begging to leave after a few hours. I ain’t even going to tell you the shit I have planned for him . . . Word. That’s what I’m saying. Yeah man, I’ll holla at you later, we’ll hang out on Sunday morning or something. I’m out.”

Scott fumed. He felt cheated. He wanted someone experienced in BDSM to control him, not some fucking amateur. His arrogance button was flicked on and he had half a mind to call the whole thing off and leave. He brought the plates out to the den and placed them on the coffee table with silverware and paper towels for napkins. He went back to the kitchen and got two beers and returned, sitting on the other end of the sofa. “I hope you like it, Sir. I can’t take real credit . . .”

Before he knew what was happening, he felt a stinging kick to his side and he flew off the end of the sofa and landed flat on his ass. “Bitch, I told you I didn’t want you speak to me unless spoken to. That’s not a hard rule to follow, is it?”

Shaking his head, Scott mumbled, “No, Master,” and apologized for being a dumbass.

“And while we’re at it, who the fuck told you that you could eat with me?”

Before he could make the same mistake again, he fought the urge to give his opinion and state the obvious that he had to have some sort of sustenance to keep up his strength throughout the weekend.

“I’ll take this beer and let me have that plate so I can fix it for you.” Holding his finger aside one nostril, Todd hacked up phlegm from deep in his chest that sounded like he had walking pneumonia and blew it from his nose on Scott’s plate of food. Repeating the procedure several times, there was a coating of green, brown, yellowish snot coating the Scampi. Scott’s stomach turned and his cock leapt. Placing the plate on the floor, Scott was told to eat without the benefit of utensils or hands and eat it all.

With his ass high in the air, he lowered his face to the plate of food. “Oh, and if you throw up anything I give you to eat, you can be sure I’ll make you eat it again. Understand?” Those instructions were clear and Scott felt nauseated as he began to eat the mucous covered dinner. It wasn’t as bad as he imagined it was going to be after he got down the first few bites with thick, salty boogers, and before he knew it, he was proud to show that he could be such a nasty pig, eating snot like a pig eats slop from a trough.

Before he was done, his Master said, “Thirsty, bitch? Come here.” Scott crawled between his Master’s dark, brown thighs and looked up lovingly. “Drink my piss, and don’t you dare spill a drop.”

Scott had known all along that this was coming. It was the right of every Black Dominant to use his white submissive as a urinal and Scott wanted the opportunity to prove his rightful place as piss pig. He placed the mammoth cock in his mouth and knew to wait for his drink. It came hard and fast; it was rank, hot, yellow and thick, not at all like the watered down beer piss he was expecting but coming from the Black Master of his dreams, Scott swallowed like it was the sweetest wine he’d ever had.

“Oh fuck yeah, bitch, drink my rank, hot piss you fucking nasty toilet whore. Fucking white scum bag.” Those words were music to Scott’s ears. “Don’t swallow it all, I want to see your mouth full of my piss. Hold some in your faggot mouth.”

Before the stream stopped, Scott did as he was told and he held a huge mouthful of urine in his mouth. He sat back and opened his mouth with pride to show what a good job he’d done. He beamed with pride. A few drops escaped the corners of his mouth but surely that was to be forgiven because he had such a huge amount of piss and had shown his talent for being a toilet.

“Good boy. Nice job.” With that, his Master tussled his hair and Scott felt an overwhelming sensation of love that made tears well up in his eyes. His Daddy was proud of him. That was all he ever wanted, for his Daddy to say, “Good job, son.” But that’s not exactly what he said. He completed his compliment by saying, “Lay down on the floor, under my feet, and hold that piss in your mouth and don’t you dare fucking swallow it until I tell you to. If you swallow it, spill it, or throw up, I PROMISE you’ll regret it.”

Steeled with determination, Scott maneuvered himself to lie between the sofa and the coffee table with his open mouth of golden nectar. He stared at the ceiling and decided to get into a space where he was going to breath through his nostrils and ignore the overwhelming pain of his jaw. In a zone, he smelled the evidence of smoke and momentarily panicked. It was cigar smoke, and his owner had lit up to enjoy a night of watching TV and a good smoke.

The sound of the ashes being extinguished in the piss he held so lovingly in his mouth made Scott angered and alarmed all over again. He’d never anticipated this, and a foot was brought down on his chest to prevent him from moving. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t, he thought he was going to drown for a second, and the taste of the ashes, magnified by the piss, made his body involuntarily heave.

“Easy there boy, I told you that anything I give you that you throw up, I’m going to make you eat again. And if you spill any piss or ashes on my carpet, I’m going to beat your ass so bad you won’t sit for a week.”

A Buddhist monk didn’t have more mind control than Scott did in that moment. Tears streamed steadily down his face but he remained focused on a small, imaginary spot on the ceiling. For the next 20 minutes, he was a receptacle for ashes as he held the now cold piss in his mouth. Piss overflowed his mouth as the ashes displaced the pee and he smelled like the men’s room at The Port Authority bus station.

“Swallow!” Those were Todd’s only instructions. “Swallow, it all, NOW!”

Scott rationalized for a moment and turned his head and spit out the foul contents of his mouth all over his Master’s cream carpet. That’s what this game was all about, punishment and reward. He wanted some more punishment. He wanted to get to the fun part where he got fucked and spanked and fucked some more. Over and over, he spit out the nasty remnants of cigar ashes and pee until he could only taste a hint of the disgusting mixture and waited for the slap, the punch, or the severe verbal tongue-lashing.

The pause seemed like an eternity, the silence, deafening. “Okay, okay.” “If you don’t want to play by my rules, get out. Get your shit and get out.” Standing, he stepped over Scott and went to his laundry room to get supplies to clean his carpet.

Scott was outdone. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay and get fucked. He wanted to stay and be humiliated some more. The man returned with a bucket of water and cleaning supplies, threw Scott’s keys and wallet on the floor at his feet, and ignored him as he went about scrubbing the stains on the carpet.

Scott had never felt more defeated. His arrogance had maneuvered him out of his dream situation AGAIN. He’d fucked up big time and there was nothing he could say. Apologies would be empty because he obviously did what he did on purpose. He hated himself for getting himself into this situation, he wanted to say something but the image of this beautiful Black man, on his knees, cleaning the mess that he’d made, silenced him.

“Here, let me clean it. I’m sorry.” The words sounded empty even to himself and he waited for some sort of acknowledgement.

“Get out.” The command was soft-spoken, without emotion.

Scott started sobbing uncontrollably. He had disappointed his Daddy. He had been a very bad boy. He had disrespected the man whom he wanted to own his very being. As experienced as Scott was in the lifestyle, this novice, this guy who had never dominated anyone else in his life, was controlling him in ways he’d never imagined. Scott became hysterical: crying, pleading, and throwing a temper tantrum the likes of which couldn’t be paralleled by even the most monstrous two-year-old. He wasn’t even making sense, he was just babbling about not wanting to leave and about how sorry he was. He got on his knees and tried to suck Todd’s cock again. He offered him money, $1000 in fact, if he could be allowed to stay. Sex and power were all Scott understood so he was offering all he knew how. The fact that he was being ignored caused him greater pain than he’d ever felt before.

“Stop crying bitch. Damn, shut the fuck up. I told you to get out. You obviously don’t want to play by my rules. You obviously think you can dictate and control some shit up in my mother-fucking house so it’s time for your ass to go. I will not be manipulated by some moronic little asswipe like you. Get the fuck out.”

Scott’s body was trembling. He wanted to do what he had been told, to follow orders and leave, but he wanted to stay more. He was having a mental breakdown. Before he knew what was going on, he had been pulled down across Todd’s lap and he was getting spanked soundly. Actually, spanked seems like such a benign term. He was being beaten. Blow after torturous blow rained down on his pale, flat ass, thighs, and even back. His Master seemed to be in some sort of trance of his own. “You fucking white boys are all the same. Thinking you can control shit. I’ll fucking show you. Dumb ass. You want me to be your Daddy, I’ll fucking make you wish you were never born.” The pain was excruciating but comforting at the same time.

With his hard cock sandwiched between those strong thighs and his ass being abused, Scott was screaming and crying like a little bitch. He was incoherent. “Yes, Daddy, beat me for being white. I’m so sorry, Daddy, I’ve been such a bad boy. I’m just a stupid, little-cocked, white boi who deserves to be punished. Take out your frustrations on me, Master. I promise I’ll do anything you say.”

Those words would prove to be the wrong thing to say.

Grabbing Scott forcefully by the arm, practically dislocating his shoulder from the socket, this overwhelming Dominant pillar of masculinity pulled him towards the Master Bedroom. Scott felt a ray of hope. Things were about to get down to business. Scampering along, practically on tiptoe, scurrying to keep up with the long strides of his Master, Scott was flung to the floor. He looked up to see a look of pure, unadulterated hatred on Todd’s face. This look wasn’t one of lust; his eyes were distant and glassy, filled with rage, reminding Scott of a rebel slave who had staged an insurrection against an evil slaveholder and who was about to behead the person who had taken his life, liberty, and manhood from him.

Scott watched as his Master undressed completely, muttering under his breath something incoherent and disjointed. Scott was genuinely scared. He thought maybe this guy was having some sort of slavery flashback, some sort of psychotic homicidal break and would go too far. Just that thought alone aroused Scott’s sick libido. This was it. His fantasy come true. For all of his posturing, for all his arrogance and bravado, Scott knew he was about to feel the true wrath of the mighty Black man. This was an entirely different situation than pissing off Black women. Black women would get angry, they would threaten blackmail and revenge, they would curse him out and try to make him pay with their strapons but they were ultimately just victims of Scott’s manipulative ploys, not capable of pulverizing Scott to within inches of his life. This man could crush Scott’s skull without breaking a sweat. Clearly, he’d pushed too far; clearly, he’d underestimated his ability to piss this man off. He cowered in terror, unable to run, held fast to the bedroom floor as he furiously jerked his cock and waited for the savage beating of his perverted dreams.

Before Scott could say, “Treat me like the filthy, white slut I am,” he was being tossed face down on the massive California King sized bed. As his hips were pulled up, he grabbed the pillow and buried his face in it. The butt plug was pulled unceremoniously from his ass and he was instructed to suck it. Lubricant and ass slime coated the foul toy and Scott turned his head in defiance.

“Oh, you want to play fucking games, bitch? You better suck that fucking butt plug or . . .” There was no reason to finish the ultimatum because within a fraction of a second, Scott was grabbed so hard by the back of his neck he saw stars. The plug was forced in his mouth and he sucked it like a perverse black pacifier. Scott couldn’t decide which tasted worse; the smegma, the ashes, or the funky ass mixture but he was sure that being forced to perform such lewd acts was liberating, freedom from enslavement to his false sense of manhood.

While Scott was wildly aroused, Todd was not. He didn’t find Scott attractive or the situation stimulating in the least. He looked at Scott with utter contempt and disgust. This whole thing had gone past role-playing to something sick and twisted. He grabbed his dick and stroked it, willing it to hardness. He grabbed the remote and flicked on a vid that was in his DVD player. With his flat screen filled with images of hot, sweaty black men, he was able to get hard enough for the task at hand.

Fully erect, Todd was at least twelve inches. This wasn’t exaggerated, Internet inches, when guys claim they are a foot long and they are really only about two inches over average. This was the real deal. Scott felt like he was in the presence of a true god for surely anyone endowed with such a huge cock was more than a mere man. A flash of fear came over Scott as he realized he’d never had anything quite that large in his ass before. He was a small guy and his mind raced with images of where all that meat would actually go forced in his colon. Fear and pain were aphrodisiacs for Scott, so with his tiny cock leaking a steady stream of precum, he dove for that humongous piece of meat with his mouth again, with the hopes that he could get it wet enough to compensate for a lack of lube.

This time, the blowjob he gave was sloppy and wet and dripping with spit. He used his hands to work the copious saliva up and down the shaft. When he felt himself heaving, rather than hold back, he let go with disgusting amounts of slimy fluids from somewhere deep within him.

If that weren’t degrading enough, his tormentor and master was punctuating the scene with a serenade of degrading taunts. “Yeah you fucking white piece of trash. That’s is, suck that big fucking black dick! You love that, don’t you? Fagging out on my big, black knob. Take it you sissy fucking bitch. You know I’m going to ram that big fucker so deep in you that you are going to shit my cum for a week.” In the background, Scott could hear the sounds of primal fucking on the DVD which aroused him even more. The only thing he could see was the muscled abdomen of his master and the wiry pubic hairs that framed the glorious cock that was deep in his throat.

Scott was crying, literally streaming tears of joy down his face. Before he knew what was happening, he was flipped over on his stomach and his ass was pulled in the air. His crotchless, red panties and his flimsy, red nightie were ripped from his body and tossed on the floor. Without a whole lot of ceremony, Scott felt the head of that gigantic dick being pushed in his boycunt. He grimaced a little and took it with relative ease as he felt his prostate being massaged. He started moaning like a cheap whore; his own tiny cock producing a steady stream of dick snot that flowed freely. He worked his ass like the true faggot bitch he was and luxuriated in the sensations of the strong, masculine hands that held his hips and the gigantic dick embedded in his ass making him feel like something sick and perverted and feminine all at the same time.

While it seemed like an eternity, it was really only a few minutes before Scott was filled to capacity. He reached back to feel about four or five, incredibly thick inches of cock that hadn’t been able to fully penetrate him. He pumped his ass like the white women he had seen in pornos and he tightened his ass muscles like he’d been taught by his experiences with men. While Scott was satisfied with that, proud of himself for being able to take a full 8 inches like the insatiable ass slut he was, his Black Dom Daddy was not.

“You think that’s all you’re going to take? Oh, hell no. Bitch, you are going to take every fucking millimeter of my dick and you are going to love it, do you hear me?” With that, he pushed further and Scott tried to scramble away. He moved up higher on the bed and tried to resume wiggling his ass, fucking back on that cock, confident that he was giving his Black Daddy pleasure.

Not satisfied, Todd grabbed Scott by the shoulders and pushed harder, forcing at least another two inches incredibly thick cock deeper in Scott than he’d ever had before. Scott screamed out in pain. He did his best to pull away, fighting and struggling, but his efforts were nothing compared to the strength of the man fucking him. The pain permeated every fiber of his being, racing from his asshole to his nuts that were pulled tightly against his body to his hardened nipples and then all the way to the back of his eyes. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he whimpered, “Please, I can’t take anymore. It hurts.” Surely, his pleas would be understood. He was only 5’1”. There was only so much space for all that meat to go. It wasn’t because of lack of desire; it was logistics. He fought back, trying to save himself from serious internal damage.

“Oh is that so? It hurts, huh? You want me to stop? Do you? Do you want me to stop? Answer me, bitch! I’ll stop, all you have to do is say the word. DO YOU WANT ME TO STOP?” None of this was new to Todd. He’d met lots of guys who couldn’t take his entire dick before. But the power, the control, the domination was making him high. His became relentless, slapping Scott’s ass, spanking him, causing him further pain that only registered as pleasure for both of them.

All Scott had to do was say yes. All he had to do was respond that he wanted things to stop. He didn’t want to be raped; he wanted to be dominated, that was entirely different. He fantasized about being raped but the reality of it was something different. He reached back to feel the last two inches of dick that remained outside his body. They felt like two feet, the heat from that dick seemingly scorching his hand. He didn’t answer. He let his silence speak for itself. He wanted the pain. He wanted to be fucked unconscious and if he ended up in the hospital in the process, then so be it. He lowered his face to the pillow, braced his arms against the headboard, and waited.

On thing Scott had failed to realize, even after all this time, was that he wasn’t in control of things. He was grabbed by the back of the neck and pulled up like a rag doll. Instantly, he felt that dick being pulled completely out of his asshole and he cried out, only this time the pain was emotional. He felt empty and alone and worthless.

“You dirty cunt, clean my prick.” The instructions were not at all ambiguous. Ass fucking was meant to be primal and dirty, so he knew that his responsibility was to taste the ass slime that coated his master’s dick. Not surprisingly, brown streaks coated the dick. It could have been a lot worse had he not prepared himself but the evidence of shit was still apparent. He deeply inhaled the scent, making his dick leak more and his taste buds filled with the musky flavors of his ass as he licked and sucked it clean. It wasn’t enough to make him sick but he reeled at all the disgusting things he’d ingested over the past few hours: dick cheese, snot, piss, and now butt sludge. Just the mere thought of that alone almost made him shoot his load. The only thing that kept him from cumming was the depraved thought that he might be pushed to do even more disgusting things and he wanted to be totally horned up for that possibility.

“Ride my dick bitch,” as the pair repositioned themselves so that his Daddy was on his back, reclining in relaxation, as Scott prepared to mount him and fuck himself silly. Again, as before, the first eight inches went in with relative ease. His asslips sucked and nursed at the huge cock in him as she bounced up and down. Ashamed and aroused, he farted as the air was pushed up in his ass and he rode that cock for all he was worth. Still, he couldn’t get that entire dick up his ass. He squirmed his ass down harder, trying his best to take more but he couldn’t. Frustrated, his Daddy grabbed him around his hips and pulled Scott down even further. This time, as before, Scott screamed out in pain, but this time, he loved it. Pain was his pacifier. Scott was warped, twisted, and distorted, and he knew that only a disgusting white worm like himself could be aroused by pain, humiliation, and degradation.

Being tired of the cat and mouse games, Todd flipped Scott on his back and pushed his thighs back to his chest. He gripped the base of his dick and aimed it up with Scott’s hole. He pushed forward, hearing Scott’s cries in a distant fog. Encountering resistance, he pushed harder, working up a sweat. Determined, he pushed deeper, driving every inch of his dick deep in Scott’s bowels. Giving him a full minute, he waited until he saw a look of acknowledgement on Scott’s face and he began pumping, pounding, pushing and fucking. “Take that, bitch. Take all my big fucking Daddy dick you little twat. You white fucking faggot, I own you. I own your body and your soul.” As if in a trance, he hammered his dick deeper and harder than he’d ever done before, grunting like an animal and turned on by the idea of using a white boy so completely. “I’m going breed your faggot pussy with a gallon of my cum. Do you want my baby, bitch? You want to be pregnant with your Black Daddy’s baby? Say it!”

Scott couldn’t form words. As the last of that massive dick invaded his intestines, he could only moan and scream in ecstasy. The sweat from his master’s body dripped into Scott’s mouth and eyes, the smell of man fucking permeated the air. He grabbed his cock and stroked it in time with the dick that punished his butthole. Glancing down, he could actually see the outline of that gigantic dick pushing against his stomach and he shot his load all over his stomach.

In pornos, that would be the signal for his lover to cum also, to finish in a blaze of glory in unison. In reality, Scott’s Dominant Black Daddy was nowhere near the finish line. He kept pumping Scott’s hole raw. Scott’s legs were cramped, pushed uncomfortably back and his insides felt like they were being dragged out with each extraction of that black stick that fucked him. The pain was excruciating but it was comforting in a way. He felt absolved of his guilt, his arrogance, of his pretense of being bigger and better, at last he was absolved of the wretched stigma of being white. In that moment, he was a filthy fuck pig to be used and abused. He relished in the sensation of his asshole being pumped full of scalding, white, hot cum.

He passed out. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he awoke to being fucked and used time and time again. Night turned to day and he found himself being fucked in various ways, of serving his Black Master in unspeakable ways. Before he knew what was happening, it was Sunday night and he was packing to leave. He sobbed and bawled uncontrollably. Falling to the floor, he begged and pleaded with Todd to retain control of him.

From that day on, Scott Clair lived for the weekends. Mondays through Fridays were lived in a state of suspended animation for him, nothing seemed real; everything sort of floated by in grainy images of black and white. Friday evenings were when life was lived in full HD Technicolor. It was on the weekends when he could assume his true role and shed the pretenses of his average existence. Every weekend, Scott Clair became the possession, toy, and sexual playing of a Black Dom Daddy who inflicted the most horrendous and sadistic tortures on his pale, white flesh. For slightly more than 48 hours, Scott willingly put himself in a position to be degraded, humiliated, and used beyond most people’s comprehension and he’d never been happier or more satisfied in his life.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK



He began feeling uncomfortable with his identity, with his whiteness, with the advent of interracial porn. Initially, he was outraged and angered by Black men and their enormous cocks fucking white women. He would watch in disgust at the videos of men endowed with equipment that made his tiny penis look infantile in comparison and seethe in anger, proclaiming how he hated Black men for being lazy, ignorant, criminal, and nothing more than savages. Of course, all that internal dialogue was drowned out while he was masturbating furiously for hours on end to image after image of white women screaming in pleasure and pain while having the sex of their lives with Black men. He would go to Black blogs and forums and protest that size didn’t matter and Black men did not, in fact, have bigger cocks, that it was all just a myth. He took pleasure in his anonymous rants of degrading Black men for being bad fathers, for all being illiterate rappers, and he always seemed to find a way to espouse racist, hateful beliefs that made white men seem inherently and naturally superior. Immediately after taunting anyone and everyone who expressed even the slightest outrage, disbelief, or anger at his psychotic rants, he would log on to one of the numerous pay sites he subscribed to and download videos of white women being fucked by Black men in every orifice so he could jerk off.

In phase two of his awakening, he had a grand epiphany whereby he decided he was sensitive to the Black race. He became a self-proclaimed, liberal, reformed racist who insisted that he was atoning for the sins of all white men, past and present, and righting the wrongs of slavery by being submissive to Black women. His motives might have been pure except for the fact that he wasn’t even capable of seeing Black women as human beings but merely things to satisfy his perversions. He watched BET, he listened to Black talk radio, and he rented every Black movie ever made so he could claim expertise on Blackness. In his submission, he would get off on the idea of black women using him, making fun of his small appendage, slapping him around, maybe even fucking him with a strapon and going home to his white world where he never interacted with another Black person. His sexuality was compartmentalized. For a few hours a month, if he was lucky, a few hours a week, he could take off his white privilege, leave it at the door, and role-play to his heart’s content that he was a slave to a Black woman. When it was over, he could go home and feel absolved of his white guilt and assured that he was free of all inklings of white supremacy and racist beliefs.

In reality, he used Black women like life-like toys. He used the threat of giving them money to fuck with them. He would promise them large amounts of money and then, for no reason whatsoever, he would rescind the offer with the hopes that the women would be irate and that they would in turn then beg and plead for the money in order for him to feel powerful and in control of their lives. He would demand that they fulfill his fantasies, in exactly the way he saw fit; he thought nothing of calling on them at obscene hours of the day or night whenever he wanted to live out his submissive fantasies, stalking them, completely disrespecting their time and lives. The fact that he erroneously viewed his fetish as being submissive is what allowed him to believe that he was pardoned of his responsibility of being a total and complete asshole who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, without regard, respect, or reverence to anyone else.

His fascination with the Black female body was colored by his hatred of the Black male one. The more a woman looked like a man, the more he was obsessed with being the “victim” of her abuse. If she was pumped up on steroids and bulging with muscles everywhere, if her facial features were masculine, if she wore her hair short and natural or if she was transgendered and sporting a big ole, juicy, fat cock, he would make that woman the center of his lust to the extent it would become a maniacal obsession. He would spend endless hours, furiously masturbating, thinking about being pulverized by these she-men, beaten to a bloody pulp, raped against his will, and had no reason to associate his desires with his hatred of the Black male.

It was, in fact, his hatred of the Black male, his odious and undeniable jealousy at his strength, power, and unquestionable masculinity, all things Scott dangerously lacked, which motivated his fantasies. He wanted to destroy the Black man, to castrate him, but short of being able to do that, he could covet these women who were essentially men and feel secure in knowing that he was dominating them passively with his threats of giving and withholding money. In truth, he was worshipping the black male, just minus the penis. Many a night, he would sit at his computer, nipple clamps in place, a black butt plug firmly in place stretching his anus, stroking his small cock with his thumb and forefinger, fantasizing about taking on Mike Tyson, Kimbo Slice, or some other black boxing champion and veritably kicking their ass. He was too stupid to even acknowledge or realize that his fantasies were sexual in nature, that he was jerking off to these images because they aroused him; he could only focus on the adrenaline he felt when he imagined himself victorious over these bastions of Black masculinity. His warped, delusional mind could only comprehend that he viewed the Black male body, the muscular black male body, as his enemy.

Simultaneously, he dreamt of being a Black man. Being transformed to a Black male body, in his warped mind, would mean women, both white and black, would throw themselves at his feet, that he could fuck whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Never, not once did he consider that being a Black man carried more burdens and responsibilities than just standing around on the basketball court waiting for some white woman to get lost in the hood. In his mind, being a Black man was about athleticism, sexuality, and masculinity.

It was indeed a Black man who masterminded phase three of his evolution. Having “graduated” from serving masculine Black women, and compelled by his deviant urges and conflicted emotions, Scott moved on to the worship of the mythical big black cock. He became obsessed with it, all the power it represented and he CRAVED to be degraded and humiliated by Black men with nothing less than 8 inches or more of man meat. His need to be submissive to Black men became obsessive, traveling to adult book stores, bath houses, and gay bars in search of the biggest, blackest cock he could find. The men the cocks were attached to were inconsequential; it was the penis that was his object of desire. He became the proverbial slut for black cock. That was, until he responded to a particular ad on craigslist.

The ad was simple enough. “Professional Black male seeks same for LTR.” It outlined the specifics of who the guy was and what he was looking for: complexion, similar interests, education, height, and age—all the average things in a personal ad. The photo section included several pictures of a tall, very attractive, dark-skinned guy with a nice house, a nice car, and a package that was so big UPS would have refused to deliver it.



Had the ad not included the picture of the cock, Scott probably would have moved on, clicking on another ad to find someone who was looking for a quick, anonymous suck or fuck in the immediate future. It was the perfect cock: uncut, heavily veined, thick, Black, and what had to be 10 inches . . . soft. Scott’s mouth watered and his asspussy throbbed at the thought of feeling that huge monster invading him, pounding him, stretching him to beyond capacity, ripping him, filling him with load after load of scalding hot cum. He had to have it.

He fired off a response, quickly detailing what a fuck slut he was and how he had a hot, wet mouth perfect for sucking and a tight, hot, hole ideal for fucking. He attached a picture he found on the net of a beautiful young twink who could have been a perfect Calvin Klein model. It really didn’t matter to him that he looked NOTHING like the picture, nothing mattered to him other than getting what he wanted. He waited for a response. And he waited. After two days, he figured he would send another response, this time being more explicit.

“Dear, Sir. I sent you an email the other day but it must have ended up in your spam folder or something. I’m a white, 30-something male,” he lied, “who would love to drain your big cock. I’m expert at sucking cock, I have a hot white hole just ready for pounding all night long, and you can do whatever you want to me, treat me like shit, and I can take it all and then some. I especially enjoy race play and get off on being treated rough and you can even beat the crap out of me if you want. I’ll kneel at your feet and worship your superior, Black cock. Anxiously awaiting your response. Submissively, Scott.”

The response came quickly this time, within a few minutes. “Thanks you for your interest. I’m not looking for a sub or anything of the sort, but rather I’m looking for a long-term relationship EXACTLY like I described in my ad.”

For most people, that would have been sufficient. Perhaps a few would have sent a response saying, “Fine, you don’t know what you’re missing,” and left it at that. Scott, however, was not satisfied with that response. He became belligerent and typically arrogant. His response came in the form of an essay, describing how he was informed on Black issues, how liberal he was socially and how he supported Barack Obama. He wrote of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and the history of racism. He went on and on with statistics about Black men in the U.S. He ridiculed the man for his lack of knowledge of Black issues, not even knowing the man’s position on anything. The whole objective of the correspondence was to piss this guy off. Scott was adept at being irritating, it was his weapon of choice and being rejected was not in his agenda.

Send.

No response.

He didn’t even wait a full 24 hours for a response. He fired off another email, this time longer, this time more abrasive.

No response.

Outraged, Scott sat at his computer, looking at that picture of that gorgeous cock, jerking off incessantly, and figuring out ways to get under this guy’s skin. That’s all he wanted at this point. He wanted to annoy him, anger him, to make him frustrated and pissed off. He got a thrill from the attention, the fact that he knew he was an irritant; that was almost more arousing to him than getting fucked.

Still no response, he constructed yet another email, this time, taunting him by reverting back to his tried and true nature of being racially belligerent, claiming that the picture of the cock wasn’t even real, that he probably had a tiny cock and was trying to compensate for not being a “real” black man. That would surely get a response.

And this time it did . . . instantaneously. Failure Notice. Remote host said: 554 delivery error. The mail recipient, renegadeblack@gmail.com is not accepting emails from your account.

“How dare that black piece of shit ignore me,” Scott fumed. “I’ll fix him,” as he sent all three of his emails again, this time, each one from one of his many other email accounts. The drama was arousing to Scott and he fisted his tiny cock in anticipation of a response. This time, he was sure to get some sort of rise out of this guy. It wasn’t even about the sex anymore; it was a game of power. Scott needed to prove that he could not and would not be dismissed. He needed to put this Black guy in his place and teach him a lesson. Scott’s true racist nature had surfaced again, victim of his own delusions of supremacy.

He got a real response this time, simply stating, “Okay, you win. If you want to be dominated, I’ll do it. Be at my house, Friday evening, and be prepared to be pushed past your limits. In fact, you better not have any limits.” He gave an address and signed the email, “Your Black Dom Daddy”.

Scott masturbated endlessly, for days on end, reading those few lines like they held the key to the universe. He fantasized about what it would be like to be the plaything of a strong, Black man who towered over his diminutive size. He didn’t do as he was instructed of course. That would have been anti-climactic. He wasn’t going to go through with it after everything he had written, he just wanted to get off on the idea of being a white fuck slut with no limits being tortured and used by a strong, Black Daddy. So he placated himself by pulling and stroking his tiny penis, imagining unspeakable, disgusting things.

Barely a week went by when Scott’s curiosity got the best of him. He sent another email and not surprisingly, it was returned as blocked. He had no less than 25 email addressed created for just such a reason so he quickly resent it from another account and this time, he apologized profusely for his abhorrent behavior. He humbled himself, “Dear, Sir, what can I do to have you forgive me? I’ve been arrogant and I realize that now. I’ll never do it again, I promise. I want to be your boy. I want you to own me.” He didn’t mean a word of what he said, it was all a part of his twisted pathology.

The response was more detailed this time. “I knew your faggot ass couldn’t resist. The rules are simple. For an entire weekend I’ll use you in ways that you’ve never thought of before. You’ll be my complete bitch. Bring food and beverages to fix me breakfast, lunch, and dinner the entire time you’re here. You’ll be dressed in slutty heels and lingerie all weekend. You’ll keep your holes ready for me to use . . . in any way I see fit. If I bring my friends over, you’ll service them any way they want. If I go out on a date, you’ll suck my cock clean when I come home. You’ll serve as my maid and make sure my place is immaculate and you’ll be my footstool, ashtray, toilet, and cum dump. You’ll be anything I tell you to be and you’ll like it and beg for more.”

Anger boiled up within Scott’s soul, anger and pure, unadulterated lust. He’d never really given up his fallacy of white supremacy, he’d never really reconciled his hatred for Black men and their larger endowments, he was just going through the motions in an effort to satiate his lust for being degraded and abused. His desires to be raped, used, and beaten until unrecognizable were symptoms of a greater evil. Scott wanted to use Black sexuality to satisfy his perverse desires; he never had any intentions of being used to satisfy the desires of a Black person.

His compulsion to be used outweighed reason as he drove around impatiently in his car for 7:00 pm exactly. Being nosey, he opened the mailbox and saw that the name on the Car and Driver Magazine was Todd Harcourt. At least he had a name to put with the description of the supposed mortgage broker, sports enthusiast, and openly gay black man he was about to meet. Scott had purchased enough food for a week, all frozen dinners and semi-prepared deli foods and the like; he wasn’t a great cook and didn’t want to piss this guy off by trying to be creative in the kitchen when he knew good and god damn well that anything he fixed himself would taste like crap. He wanted to leave, to turn around and go home, but he knew that if he did, he would regret it. He’d packed an overnight bag with all the lingerie and high heels he’d stolen from previous girlfriends. With such a big cock pounding him, he knew there was going to be potential for issues so he’d given himself a series of intense and painful enemas to make sure his colon was free from any shit so there wouldn’t be any accidents or mess. All lubed up with a butt plug shoved in to stretch his hole, he knocked on the door.

“Yes, how can I help you?” The guy looked confused more than anything, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to show up.

“I’m . . . from the internet . . . you know . . . your boy. You told me to be here for you to . . .” Scott paused mid sentence, afraid someone had played a joke on him. The guy standing before him was the guy from the pictures in the ad, but he wasn’t sure exactly what was going on so he remained quiet, gripping his bags in his hands tighter and ready to make a run for it.

“Oh DAMN, I knew the picture you sent was fake but GOD DAMN. Could you have found a picture more opposite of what you look like? Shit! Oh well, get in here.” The guy looked like he wanted to throw up he was so disgusted. Scott stepped inside the foyer as the door closed behind him. It was his nature to be so arrogant, so pathological in his need to misrepresent himself, that he didn’t care that he sent pictures that looked nothing like his 40 something, unattractive self.

One thing was for certain, the guy hadn’t lied one bit in his ad. He wasn’t a millimeter shy of 6’4”, he had a muscular, athletic build, bald head, dark chocolate skin and he was VERY attractive. Scott could see the picture of his fantastic cock in his mind and his tiny prick pulsed in anticipation. With the difference in height, Scott did in fact feel like a boy next to a strong Daddy. “Take off your clothes,” were his only instructions.

Scott put his bags down and started to slowly undress. “Hurry up, shithead,” the man bellowed and Scott began to pick up the pace. He took off his shoes and socks and pulled down his pants, standing there with nothing but a pair of tighty whities on and pitching a tent, a pup tent, but his erection was sticking out as far as possible.

“I thought I told you that you were to be dressed in women’s lingerie the entire time you were in my presence, bitch.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know exactly what was expected of me so I figured I would . . .” His words were cut off by a backhand that sent him flying into the wall. Real tears formed in his eyes as he felt the sting of the slap radiating on his cheek. The taste of warm blood trickled in his mouth from his cheek and he swallowed. He tried to steady himself to stand but he was disoriented and scared.

“You will be humble in my presence at all times. You will answer only when spoken to and if your answer isn’t preceded by Yes, Master, or Yes, Daddy, you can be sure I’m going to discipline you much worse than that little tap. I really don’t give a damn what you think, I only expect you to conform to my desires and that’s it. Got it?”

A knot formed in Scott’s throat. It felt like someone was choking him, no, stabbing him with a knife in his vocal chords. The words were stuck and he swallowed hard and responded, “Yes, Daddy.”

Scott was already broken.

Extending his hand in what seemed to be a gesture of kindness, this exquisite male specimen helped Scott to his feet. Scott’s hands were small; his fingers were stubby and short. In contrast, Todd’s hands were large, not too large, but with long, graceful fingers. With his hand placed inside the much larger one, he instinctively knew what it was to be a little boy with a strong, protective parent. With tears in his eyes, Scott removed his underpants and stood covering his small penis, profoundly ashamed by its inferior size. “Move your fucking hands, let me see what you’ve got” were his only instructions and he instinctively covered his nipples like a teenage girl whose top had been pulled down at the neighborhood swimming pool. **



Loud, uproarious laughter reverberated in the tiny alcove and Scott’s heart sank at the same ratio that his cock rose. No matter how much he knew on a visceral level, no matter how much he intellectualized and articulated that his penis was small, extraordinarily small in fact, when he heard others say it, especially Black men, he felt anger, shame, and arousal at the same time. He was aroused by the humiliation but he just couldn’t let go of that nasty “white male thing” that caused him to look at Black men with nothing but contempt and disgust. It was a part of his DNA, it was wired into his brain that he was inherently superior so while his rage bubbled beneath the surface, his lust dictated his need to give up that false sense of superiority and become what he knew he was deep, deep inside: a perverse, disgusting, depraved white pain, cum slut. He needed to be set free of his imprisonment of lies to be released so he could experience his true nature as something lower than a human.

“Suck my cock, bitch.” The pressure of the hand on Scott’s shoulder forced him to his knees. He knelt submissively before the fully clothed man before him. His hands trembled as he reached out to undo his jeans and pull down the zipper. Placing his hand inside his pants, he felt for the first time what was possibly the biggest cock he’d ever felt in his life. He could barely get his fingers around the girth. Fishing it out, he was struck with the strong aroma of unwashed masculinity. It was an intoxicating elixir of sweat, piss, and pure, manly funk. Scott inhaled the scent and it made him light headed; it made his cock leak precum. **



Peeling back the foreskin, Scott looked up into the deep, dark eyes of his new owner. A foul, raunchy-smelling layer of head cheese coated the enormous crown of the beautiful, brown cock. “You like? I made it just for you. Eat up.”

Rather than hesitating, Scott made a real show of cleaning that nasty smegma. He devoured it like he was starving, proud to show off his cocksucking skills and the devotion he had for the monstrous piece of meat that was before him. The thick paste filled his taste buds and Scott worked first to clean it and then to worship it. Barely able to get his mouth around it, barely able to get even a third of its enormous length into his mouth, Scott licked and kissed it passionately. If a man could form a relationship with a cock, this was the ideal mate for Scott. In his heart, he fell in love with that meat, feeling his chest expand and tighten like a schoolboy with his first crush. He tried to make love to it with his mouth, planting soft and tender kisses along its length to show his reverence.




“What the fuck is this kissing shit? Bitch, I told you to suck my mother fucking cock. NOW SUCK!” With that, he grabbed Scott’s head and fucked his mouth savagely. Scott tried to push away, bracing himself against the firm, muscular thighs of his tormentor, trying to catch his breath as that cock ravaged his throat. He gagged and choked, feeling his esophagus being raped. He was being skull fucked; he was nothing more than a hole being abused. The steady pounding of that cock, its full length wanted to make him cry out in pain but he couldn’t; he could barely gasp for air. The rhythm was fast and furious, his jaw was numb, and his gag reflect was abating after what had to be more than 10 minutes of the most hard core blow job he’d ever given . . . sort of. There was no mistaking that he wasn’t “giving” anything, his throat was being fucked and it hurt in a way that couldn’t be described. Hot, salty tears stained his cheeks as he prayed for the torture to end, and simultaneously, never to end.

The reward at the end of his torture would come soon enough. His master, tormentor, and dream lover shoved the full length of his hardness deep in Scott’s throat. His nose deeply embedded in the thick patch of wiry pubic hairs, Scott felt the expansive cock actually grow and lengthen in his mouth and could detect the peristaltic motion that brought the scalding white, hot, cum from his nuts, through his impressive tube of manliness, out and down Scott’s throat, without even getting the benefit of tasting the scummy spunk he craved so desperately.

Scott collapsed to the floor, exhausted and broken, his face inches away from the feet of his skillful dominator. He wanted to cleave unto those feet, wrap his arms around those legs for protection and comfort and say, “Daddy, I’m sorry I was a bad boy. Please, forgive me.” He couldn’t say anything however because his throat was so sore he’d temporarily lost the ability to speak. It felt as if his vocal chords had been scraped with sandpaper.

“Before I forget, give me your keys and your wallet. I want some assurances you won’t be leaving before I give you permission.” The last thing in the world Scott wanted was to leave. He wanted to stay forever. He wanted to give up his measly life and be the boi of this ominous stranger. His identity was sacred however and he had spent years protecting it, lying, deceiving, and hiding his real life from those whom he used sexually. This time, he reluctantly handed over the requested items and felt a sense of relief. If he was going to be blackmailed, outed, and exposed to the world, now was the time, he’d let his perversions drive him too far. He wanted this man to know his true identity, to have control of his life and his destiny. It was his freedom.

“I expect you to change your clothes, fix me dinner and bring it to me in the den, and be prepared to service me in whatever way I desire.” He pushed Scott away with his foot and went about his business like Scott wasn’t even there.

Unsure of the layout of the house, Scott stumbled around until he found a powder room to change into his female attire. He was an ugly male to begin with which made him repulsive as a woman but he felt sexy in his red see-through baby doll nightie, his high-heel, patent leather, stiletto, Payless Pumps and black butt plug, framed perfectly by his crotchless panties. His tiny penis strained against the silky material and felt good. He rubbed it for as long as he thought he might be able to get away with it without being found out and emerged to fix dinner.

Cooking in someone else’s house is a task. He struggled to find the right pots, the right plates, the tools he needed to pull off his linguine and shrimp, all pre-cooked of course. Salad was in a bag and all he had to do was find an opener for the beer. He wobbled and teetered in his heels that were giving him a blister but he ignored the pain in anticipation of more humiliation and degradation to come. That was his finish line, his raison d’etre. He overheard his new Master talking on the phone, conversing with a friend. “Nah man, I ain’t never done no shit like this before. I figure he’ll be begging to leave after a few hours. I ain’t even going to tell you the shit I have planned for him . . . Word. That’s what I’m saying. Yeah man, I’ll holla at you later, we’ll hang out on Sunday morning or something. I’m out.”

Scott fumed. He felt cheated. He wanted someone experienced in BDSM to control him, not some fucking amateur. His arrogance button was flicked on and he had half a mind to call the whole thing off and leave. He brought the plates out to the den and placed them on the coffee table with silverware and paper towels for napkins. He went back to the kitchen and got two beers and returned, sitting on the other end of the sofa. “I hope you like it, Sir. I can’t take real credit . . .”

Before he knew what was happening, he felt a stinging kick to his side and he flew off the end of the sofa and landed flat on his ass. “Bitch, I told you I didn’t want you speak to me unless spoken to. That’s not a hard rule to follow, is it?”

Shaking his head, Scott mumbled, “No, Master,” and apologized for being a dumbass.

“And while we’re at it, who the fuck told you that you could eat with me?”

Before he could make the same mistake again, he fought the urge to give his opinion and state the obvious that he had to have some sort of sustenance to keep up his strength throughout the weekend.

“I’ll take this beer and let me have that plate so I can fix it for you.” Holding his finger aside one nostril, Todd hacked up phlegm from deep in his chest that sounded like he had walking pneumonia and blew it from his nose on Scott’s plate of food. Repeating the procedure several times, there was a coating of green, brown, yellowish snot coating the Scampi. Scott’s stomach turned and his cock leapt. Placing the plate on the floor, Scott was told to eat without the benefit of utensils or hands and eat it all.

With his ass high in the air, he lowered his face to the plate of food. “Oh, and if you throw up anything I give you to eat, you can be sure I’ll make you eat it again. Understand?” Those instructions were clear and Scott felt nauseated as he began to eat the mucous covered dinner. It wasn’t as bad as he imagined it was going to be after he got down the first few bites with thick, salty boogers, and before he knew it, he was proud to show that he could be such a nasty pig, eating snot like a pig eats slop from a trough.

Before he was done, his Master said, “Thirsty, bitch? Come here.” Scott crawled between his Master’s dark, brown thighs and looked up lovingly. “Drink my piss, and don’t you dare spill a drop.”

Scott had known all along that this was coming. It was the right of every Black Dominant to use his white submissive as a urinal and Scott wanted the opportunity to prove his rightful place as piss pig. He placed the mammoth cock in his mouth and knew to wait for his drink. It came hard and fast; it was rank, hot, yellow and thick, not at all like the watered down beer piss he was expecting but coming from the Black Master of his dreams, Scott swallowed like it was the sweetest wine he’d ever had.

“Oh fuck yeah, bitch, drink my rank, hot piss you fucking nasty toilet whore. Fucking white scum bag.” Those words were music to Scott’s ears. “Don’t swallow it all, I want to see your mouth full of my piss. Hold some in your faggot mouth.”

Before the stream stopped, Scott did as he was told and he held a huge mouthful of urine in his mouth. He sat back and opened his mouth with pride to show what a good job he’d done. He beamed with pride. A few drops escaped the corners of his mouth but surely that was to be forgiven because he had such a huge amount of piss and had shown his talent for being a toilet.

“Good boy. Nice job.” With that, his Master tussled his hair and Scott felt an overwhelming sensation of love that made tears well up in his eyes. His Daddy was proud of him. That was all he ever wanted, for his Daddy to say, “Good job, son.” But that’s not exactly what he said. He completed his compliment by saying, “Lay down on the floor, under my feet, and hold that piss in your mouth and don’t you dare fucking swallow it until I tell you to. If you swallow it, spill it, or throw up, I PROMISE you’ll regret it.”

Steeled with determination, Scott maneuvered himself to lie between the sofa and the coffee table with his open mouth of golden nectar. He stared at the ceiling and decided to get into a space where he was going to breath through his nostrils and ignore the overwhelming pain of his jaw. In a zone, he smelled the evidence of smoke and momentarily panicked. It was cigar smoke, and his owner had lit up to enjoy a night of watching TV and a good smoke.

The sound of the ashes being extinguished in the piss he held so lovingly in his mouth made Scott angered and alarmed all over again. He’d never anticipated this, and a foot was brought down on his chest to prevent him from moving. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t, he thought he was going to drown for a second, and the taste of the ashes, magnified by the piss, made his body involuntarily heave.

“Easy there boy, I told you that anything I give you that you throw up, I’m going to make you eat again. And if you spill any piss or ashes on my carpet, I’m going to beat your ass so bad you won’t sit for a week.”

A Buddhist monk didn’t have more mind control than Scott did in that moment. Tears streamed steadily down his face but he remained focused on a small, imaginary spot on the ceiling. For the next 20 minutes, he was a receptacle for ashes as he held the now cold piss in his mouth. Piss overflowed his mouth as the ashes displaced the pee and he smelled like the men’s room at The Port Authority bus station.

“Swallow!” Those were Todd’s only instructions. “Swallow, it all, NOW!”

Scott rationalized for a moment and turned his head and spit out the foul contents of his mouth all over his Master’s cream carpet. That’s what this game was all about, punishment and reward. He wanted some more punishment. He wanted to get to the fun part where he got fucked and spanked and fucked some more. Over and over, he spit out the nasty remnants of cigar ashes and pee until he could only taste a hint of the disgusting mixture and waited for the slap, the punch, or the severe verbal tongue-lashing.

The pause seemed like an eternity, the silence, deafening. “Okay, okay.” “If you don’t want to play by my rules, get out. Get your shit and get out.” Standing, he stepped over Scott and went to his laundry room to get supplies to clean his carpet.

Scott was outdone. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay and get fucked. He wanted to stay and be humiliated some more. The man returned with a bucket of water and cleaning supplies, threw Scott’s keys and wallet on the floor at his feet, and ignored him as he went about scrubbing the stains on the carpet.

Scott had never felt more defeated. His arrogance had maneuvered him out of his dream situation AGAIN. He’d fucked up big time and there was nothing he could say. Apologies would be empty because he obviously did what he did on purpose. He hated himself for getting himself into this situation, he wanted to say something but the image of this beautiful Black man, on his knees, cleaning the mess that he’d made, silenced him.

“Here, let me clean it. I’m sorry.” The words sounded empty even to himself and he waited for some sort of acknowledgement.

“Get out.” The command was soft-spoken, without emotion.

Scott started sobbing uncontrollably. He had disappointed his Daddy. He had been a very bad boy. He had disrespected the man whom he wanted to own his very being. As experienced as Scott was in the lifestyle, this novice, this guy who had never dominated anyone else in his life, was controlling him in ways he’d never imagined. Scott became hysterical: crying, pleading, and throwing a temper tantrum the likes of which couldn’t be paralleled by even the most monstrous two-year-old. He wasn’t even making sense, he was just babbling about not wanting to leave and about how sorry he was. He got on his knees and tried to suck Todd’s cock again. He offered him money, $1000 in fact, if he could be allowed to stay. Sex and power were all Scott understood so he was offering all he knew how. The fact that he was being ignored caused him greater pain than he’d ever felt before.

“Stop crying bitch. Damn, shut the fuck up. I told you to get out. You obviously don’t want to play by my rules. You obviously think you can dictate and control some shit up in my mother-fucking house so it’s time for your ass to go. I will not be manipulated by some moronic little asswipe like you. Get the fuck out.”

Scott’s body was trembling. He wanted to do what he had been told, to follow orders and leave, but he wanted to stay more. He was having a mental breakdown. Before he knew what was going on, he had been pulled down across Todd’s lap and he was getting spanked soundly. Actually, spanked seems like such a benign term. He was being beaten. Blow after torturous blow rained down on his pale, flat ass, thighs, and even back. His Master seemed to be in some sort of trance of his own. “You fucking white boys are all the same. Thinking you can control shit. I’ll fucking show you. Dumb ass. You want me to be your Daddy, I’ll fucking make you wish you were never born.” The pain was excruciating but comforting at the same time.

With his hard cock sandwiched between those strong thighs and his ass being abused, Scott was screaming and crying like a little bitch. He was incoherent. “Yes, Daddy, beat me for being white. I’m so sorry, Daddy, I’ve been such a bad boy. I’m just a stupid, little-cocked, white boi who deserves to be punished. Take out your frustrations on me, Master. I promise I’ll do anything you say.”

Those words would prove to be the wrong thing to say.

Grabbing Scott forcefully by the arm, practically dislocating his shoulder from the socket, this overwhelming Dominant pillar of masculinity pulled him towards the Master Bedroom. Scott felt a ray of hope. Things were about to get down to business. Scampering along, practically on tiptoe, scurrying to keep up with the long strides of his Master, Scott was flung to the floor. He looked up to see a look of pure, unadulterated hatred on Todd’s face. This look wasn’t one of lust; his eyes were distant and glassy, filled with rage, reminding Scott of a rebel slave who had staged an insurrection against an evil slaveholder and who was about to behead the person who had taken his life, liberty, and manhood from him.

Scott watched as his Master undressed completely, muttering under his breath something incoherent and disjointed. Scott was genuinely scared. He thought maybe this guy was having some sort of slavery flashback, some sort of psychotic homicidal break and would go too far. Just that thought alone aroused Scott’s sick libido. This was it. His fantasy come true. For all of his posturing, for all his arrogance and bravado, Scott knew he was about to feel the true wrath of the mighty Black man. This was an entirely different situation than pissing off Black women. Black women would get angry, they would threaten blackmail and revenge, they would curse him out and try to make him pay with their strapons but they were ultimately just victims of Scott’s manipulative ploys, not capable of pulverizing Scott to within inches of his life. This man could crush Scott’s skull without breaking a sweat. Clearly, he’d pushed too far; clearly, he’d underestimated his ability to piss this man off. He cowered in terror, unable to run, held fast to the bedroom floor as he furiously jerked his cock and waited for the savage beating of his perverted dreams.

Before Scott could say, “Treat me like the filthy, white slut I am,” he was being tossed face down on the massive California King sized bed. As his hips were pulled up, he grabbed the pillow and buried his face in it. The butt plug was pulled unceremoniously from his ass and he was instructed to suck it. Lubricant and ass slime coated the foul toy and Scott turned his head in defiance.

“Oh, you want to play fucking games, bitch? You better suck that fucking butt plug or . . .” There was no reason to finish the ultimatum because within a fraction of a second, Scott was grabbed so hard by the back of his neck he saw stars. The plug was forced in his mouth and he sucked it like a perverse black pacifier. Scott couldn’t decide which tasted worse; the smegma, the ashes, or the funky ass mixture but he was sure that being forced to perform such lewd acts was liberating, freedom from enslavement to his false sense of manhood.

While Scott was wildly aroused, Todd was not. He didn’t find Scott attractive or the situation stimulating in the least. He looked at Scott with utter contempt and disgust. This whole thing had gone past role-playing to something sick and twisted. He grabbed his dick and stroked it, willing it to hardness. He grabbed the remote and flicked on a vid that was in his DVD player. With his flat screen filled with images of hot, sweaty black men, he was able to get hard enough for the task at hand.

Fully erect, Todd was at least twelve inches. This wasn’t exaggerated, Internet inches, when guys claim they are a foot long and they are really only about two inches over average. This was the real deal. Scott felt like he was in the presence of a true god for surely anyone endowed with such a huge cock was more than a mere man. A flash of fear came over Scott as he realized he’d never had anything quite that large in his ass before. He was a small guy and his mind raced with images of where all that meat would actually go forced in his colon. Fear and pain were aphrodisiacs for Scott, so with his tiny cock leaking a steady stream of precum, he dove for that humongous piece of meat with his mouth again, with the hopes that he could get it wet enough to compensate for a lack of lube.

This time, the blowjob he gave was sloppy and wet and dripping with spit. He used his hands to work the copious saliva up and down the shaft. When he felt himself heaving, rather than hold back, he let go with disgusting amounts of slimy fluids from somewhere deep within him.

If that weren’t degrading enough, his tormentor and master was punctuating the scene with a serenade of degrading taunts. “Yeah you fucking white piece of trash. That’s is, suck that big fucking black dick! You love that, don’t you? Fagging out on my big, black knob. Take it you sissy fucking bitch. You know I’m going to ram that big fucker so deep in you that you are going to shit my cum for a week.” In the background, Scott could hear the sounds of primal fucking on the DVD which aroused him even more. The only thing he could see was the muscled abdomen of his master and the wiry pubic hairs that framed the glorious cock that was deep in his throat.

Scott was crying, literally streaming tears of joy down his face. Before he knew what was happening, he was flipped over on his stomach and his ass was pulled in the air. His crotchless, red panties and his flimsy, red nightie were ripped from his body and tossed on the floor. Without a whole lot of ceremony, Scott felt the head of that gigantic dick being pushed in his boycunt. He grimaced a little and took it with relative ease as he felt his prostate being massaged. He started moaning like a cheap whore; his own tiny cock producing a steady stream of dick snot that flowed freely. He worked his ass like the true faggot bitch he was and luxuriated in the sensations of the strong, masculine hands that held his hips and the gigantic dick embedded in his ass making him feel like something sick and perverted and feminine all at the same time.

While it seemed like an eternity, it was really only a few minutes before Scott was filled to capacity. He reached back to feel about four or five, incredibly thick inches of cock that hadn’t been able to fully penetrate him. He pumped his ass like the white women he had seen in pornos and he tightened his ass muscles like he’d been taught by his experiences with men. While Scott was satisfied with that, proud of himself for being able to take a full 8 inches like the insatiable ass slut he was, his Black Dom Daddy was not.



“You think that’s all you’re going to take? Oh, hell no. Bitch, you are going to take every fucking millimeter of my dick and you are going to love it, do you hear me?” With that, he pushed further and Scott tried to scramble away. He moved up higher on the bed and tried to resume wiggling his ass, fucking back on that cock, confident that he was giving his Black Daddy pleasure.

Not satisfied, Todd grabbed Scott by the shoulders and pushed harder, forcing at least another two inches incredibly thick cock deeper in Scott than he’d ever had before. Scott screamed out in pain. He did his best to pull away, fighting and struggling, but his efforts were nothing compared to the strength of the man fucking him. The pain permeated every fiber of his being, racing from his asshole to his nuts that were pulled tightly against his body to his hardened nipples and then all the way to the back of his eyes. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he whimpered, “Please, I can’t take anymore. It hurts.” Surely, his pleas would be understood. He was only 5’1”. There was only so much space for all that meat to go. It wasn’t because of lack of desire; it was logistics. He fought back, trying to save himself from serious internal damage.

“Oh is that so? It hurts, huh? You want me to stop? Do you? Do you want me to stop? Answer me, bitch! I’ll stop, all you have to do is say the word. DO YOU WANT ME TO STOP?” None of this was new to Todd. He’d met lots of guys who couldn’t take his entire dick before. But the power, the control, the domination was making him high. His became relentless, slapping Scott’s ass, spanking him, causing him further pain that only registered as pleasure for both of them.

All Scott had to do was say yes. All he had to do was respond that he wanted things to stop. He didn’t want to be raped; he wanted to be dominated, that was entirely different. He fantasized about being raped but the reality of it was something different. He reached back to feel the last two inches of dick that remained outside his body. They felt like two feet, the heat from that dick seemingly scorching his hand. He didn’t answer. He let his silence speak for itself. He wanted the pain. He wanted to be fucked unconscious and if he ended up in the hospital in the process, then so be it. He lowered his face to the pillow, braced his arms against the headboard, and waited.

On thing Scott had failed to realize, even after all this time, was that he wasn’t in control of things. He was grabbed by the back of the neck and pulled up like a rag doll. Instantly, he felt that dick being pulled completely out of his asshole and he cried out, only this time the pain was emotional. He felt empty and alone and worthless.

“You dirty cunt, clean my prick.” The instructions were not at all ambiguous. Ass fucking was meant to be primal and dirty, so he knew that his responsibility was to taste the ass slime that coated his master’s dick. Not surprisingly, brown streaks coated the dick. It could have been a lot worse had he not prepared himself but the evidence of shit was still apparent. He deeply inhaled the scent, making his dick leak more and his taste buds filled with the musky flavors of his ass as he licked and sucked it clean. It wasn’t enough to make him sick but he reeled at all the disgusting things he’d ingested over the past few hours: dick cheese, snot, piss, and now butt sludge. Just the mere thought of that alone almost made him shoot his load. The only thing that kept him from cumming was the depraved thought that he might be pushed to do even more disgusting things and he wanted to be totally horned up for that possibility.

“Ride my dick bitch,” as the pair repositioned themselves so that his Daddy was on his back, reclining in relaxation, as Scott prepared to mount him and fuck himself silly. Again, as before, the first eight inches went in with relative ease. His asslips sucked and nursed at the huge cock in him as she bounced up and down. Ashamed and aroused, he farted as the air was pushed up in his ass and he rode that cock for all he was worth. Still, he couldn’t get that entire dick up his ass. He squirmed his ass down harder, trying his best to take more but he couldn’t. Frustrated, his Daddy grabbed him around his hips and pulled Scott down even further. This time, as before, Scott screamed out in pain, but this time, he loved it. Pain was his pacifier. Scott was warped, twisted, and distorted, and he knew that only a disgusting white worm like himself could be aroused by pain, humiliation, and degradation.




Being tired of the cat and mouse games, Todd flipped Scott on his back and pushed his thighs back to his chest. He gripped the base of his dick and aimed it up with Scott’s hole. He pushed forward, hearing Scott’s cries in a distant fog. Encountering resistance, he pushed harder, working up a sweat. Determined, he pushed deeper, driving every inch of his dick deep in Scott’s bowels. Giving him a full minute, he waited until he saw a look of acknowledgement on Scott’s face and he began pumping, pounding, pushing and fucking. “Take that, bitch. Take all my big fucking Daddy dick you little twat. You white fucking faggot, I own you. I own your body and your soul.” As if in a trance, he hammered his dick deeper and harder than he’d ever done before, grunting like an animal and turned on by the idea of using a white boy so completely. “I’m going breed your faggot pussy with a gallon of my cum. Do you want my baby, bitch? You want to be pregnant with your Black Daddy’s baby? Say it!”

Scott couldn’t form words. As the last of that massive dick invaded his intestines, he could only moan and scream in ecstasy. The sweat from his master’s body dripped into Scott’s mouth and eyes, the smell of man fucking permeated the air. He grabbed his cock and stroked it in time with the dick that punished his butthole. Glancing down, he could actually see the outline of that gigantic dick pushing against his stomach and he shot his load all over his stomach.

In pornos, that would be the signal for his lover to cum also, to finish in a blaze of glory in unison. In reality, Scott’s Dominant Black Daddy was nowhere near the finish line. He kept pumping Scott’s hole raw. Scott’s legs were cramped, pushed uncomfortably back and his insides felt like they were being dragged out with each extraction of that black stick that fucked him. The pain was excruciating but it was comforting in a way. He felt absolved of his guilt, his arrogance, of his pretense of being bigger and better, at last he was absolved of the wretched stigma of being white. In that moment, he was a filthy fuck pig to be used and abused. He relished in the sensation of his asshole being pumped full of scalding, white, hot cum.

He passed out. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he awoke to being fucked and used time and time again. Night turned to day and he found himself being fucked in various ways, of serving his Black Master in unspeakable ways. Before he knew what was happening, it was Sunday night and he was packing to leave. He sobbed and bawled uncontrollably. Falling to the floor, he begged and pleaded with Todd to retain control of him.

From that day on, Scott Clair lived for the weekends. Mondays through Fridays were lived in a state of suspended animation for him, nothing seemed real; everything sort of floated by in grainy images of black and white. Friday evenings were when life was lived in full HD Technicolor. It was on the weekends when he could assume his true role and shed the pretenses of his average existence. Every weekend, Scott Clair became the possession, toy, and sexual playing of a Black Dom Daddy who inflicted the most horrendous and sadistic tortures on his pale, white flesh. For slightly more than 48 hours, Scott willingly put himself in a position to be degraded, humiliated, and used beyond most people’s comprehension and he’d never been happier or more satisfied in his life.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Friday, August 29, 2008

In the Sunshine

My childhood is peppered with memories, both good and bad, that are not unlike many people of color but also so vastly atypical and unique as to be extraordinary by any measure. I was born to a single mother in the sixties when being a single mother was still shameful. I was raised by my grandparents who were civil rights activists and intellectuals who never once subscribed to stereotypes or adhered to the narrowly defined pigeonhole to which Blacks were assigned. They were exceptional in that they adored each other and expressed that love for each other in word and in deed every day. There were never instances of people coming over to play cards or listen to music rather people stopped by when they needed help because they were facing discrimination and racism and needed a place to turn for solace. My middle class grandparents were never concerned with cars, clothes, or expensive belongings but with knowledge and justice. I was challenged to expand my mind, to treat people fairly, and to live with INTEGRITY. When I moved in with my mother, she made great efforts to expose me to the world and a myriad of experiences that would not limit me to those things to which only little Black girls were relegated. I didn't play double dutch or the dozens, I learned sign language and wrote reports on Black history. So while I was born in a tiny town in Maryland with two stop lights, reared on the border of white suburbia and rural isolation, and became a woman on the streets of New York City, I am an amalgamation of various people, places and events that color the canvas that is my life.



My sexuality, for the first 15 years of my sexual adulthood, was shaped by limiting, patriarchal, misogynist dysfunction. My sexuality was shaped largely by reading my mother's vast and extensive collection of pornography. I suspect my mother was more interested in collecting the erotica of the day in order to appear progressive and make men fall in love with her rather than her own sexual liberation. My identity was shaped by trying to distance myself from my dysfunctional mother who dated every married man she could get her hands on in order for her to never have to deal with betrayal and hurt again like she experienced from my biological father. My sexuality was shaped by an overwhelming sensation that I was inherently unlovable because my father never wanted to lay his eyes on me. My sexuality was formed by being a physically and emotionally abused child who thought she had to apologize to the world and who thought she had no right to express displeasure or demand that my boundaries be respected. When I was raped, I never thought to press charges because I had been conditioned to expect a life of pain and disappointment. When I was rejected by men who discarded me like trash, I would beat myself up and try to prove to them that I was worthy, that I was a great lover and partner and anything that they could ask for. While my grandparents showed me this fantastic, unconditional, all-encompassing love, they taught me that my sexuality was dirty and unmentionable. Everything I learned from those early life experiences I had to unlearn as I've grown in consciousness.



I attended an all white elementary school, junior high, and high school. I was ridiculed by the few Black students as not being Black enough because I got all A's and B's. I was an exceptional student who wasn't nurtured and encouraged by white teachers because there were uncomfortable with my Blackness. My Blackness didn't fit in their definition. I was not ghetto but I also wasn't willing to deny my unique history and the history of my ancestors. I attended an undergraduate program in textile technology because, while I wanted desperately to be in the fashion industry, I didn't want to be average or superficial. I wanted to have knowledge that the average person on the street wouldn't dream of knowing. I dedicated myself to mastering subjects like organic chemistry and weft knitting only to graduate and only get recognition and acknowledgement in the work force for my creativity. Nearly a decade later, I decided to pursue a Master's degree in African and African American Studies with a concentration in psychology. I had been growing and evolving personally and I needed a change. I needed to push myself, again, to learn things that the average person walking down the street wouldn't know. I chose to attend an HBCU, to surround myself with what I thought would be progressive, forward thinking Blacks who were equally as committed to dismantling the mindsets learned in slavery that keep up oppressed. I was faced with a reality that my fellow students didn't give a damn about the things I was concerned with and I felt even more isolated than when I was the sole Black student in a classroom of 30. Earning a 4.0, I accomplished that mission and did my very best to understand how African Americans came to think and behave in such detrimental, dysfunctional ways and how to go about healing those pathologies and exactly what a healthy model of behavior for descendents of slaves should look like.



My mission in life is to create social change, to educate and enlighten, to lift the consciousness of Africans born in America, and to break the chains of mental slavery. I use sex as a means to accomplish my mission, specifically, I write Black and interracial erotica in an attempt to discuss the issues that plague us, to dismantle the beliefs that keep us limited, and to paint a new picture of us as healthy individuals. Erotica is not the only tool I use but it certainly is an effective one. My personal sexuality has been influenced by my mission in that, in trying to live my life in a way that is congruent with my mission, I've alienated myself from a great number of men who only want to fuck me because of my big booty or because I have pretty feet or because they just want a piece of ass. I've redefined my sexuality because it can no longer fit into the narrow box that made me think that sex was, at best, recreation, and at the very least, something reminiscent of a porno.



Simply stated, I define erotic as a culmination of sights, sounds, scents, tastes, and sensations that arouse the body. AfroerotiK is intimacy; it is an intimacy that is so deep and abiding that you can be your authentic self with your partner without fear or hesitation. AfroerotiK is spiritual; it's a connection to a larger scheme whereby an individual can understand that their sexuality can't be defined by oppressive, rigid, and puritanical beliefs created by white men to keep people oppressed but that is a divine expression of pleasure and connection. AfroerotiK is displaying pride, dignity, and strength of character by releasing the debilitating and harmful mindsets inherited in slavery/colonialism and embracing a holistic perspective where sex is not about power or money or some tool to dull your senses but about communication, about honoring oneself, about the decadent and hedonistic abandon that can be experienced in the throes of passion.



When I sit down to create a story, I draw upon an ideal vision I see in my head of a future world where gender roles aren't so rigid. I dream a world where people embrace newer, more evolved ways to address sexuality and completely divorce themselves of the behaviors that lead them to lie, cheat, and manipulate in order to have sex. Every time I create a story, I close my eyes and envision a world where couples are more open, expressive, and honest with one another. I'm inspired to expose white people's inherent, core racist beliefs, no matter how much they deny their existence, each and every time I write a tale of interracial lust. My goal is to show Black people, complex and healthy, as role models who just happen to have passionate, intense, uninhibited sex.



My gender preference in a lover has been exclusively male for the past decade. Moreover, my most intense, emotional attraction is to men of color. The qualities I most appreciate and respect in a man are those that are rare in most African American men today, thus making my search for a partner extremely difficult. The trait most essential for me in a partner is introspection. I desire a partner who has been able to examine the events and influences in his life that shaped him, shaped his consciousness, identified those things that were detrimental to his development, and who is constantly working on redefining himself anew. I desire a partner who understands his emotional triggers and is cognizant enough to understand how those things are injurious to forming a healthy relationship and is working on healing those wounds. My ideal partner is a man of integrity, who understands the concept of honesty and embraces it, who practices a spiritual system other than Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. The perfect man for me is also a man who identifies himself as openly bisexual, having rid himself of absurd notions of manhood and who relates to me as a human being and a woman without expecting me to adhere to patriarchal, oppressive roles. To finish off my grocery list of things I desire in a partner, I would add extremely intelligent, creative, and capable of being monogamous.



My sex life has been severely stunted in the past 10 years, so much so that I find it difficult to remember what sex is like, let alone great sex. I vaguely remember having sex, with certain people, at certain times, but my memories are distorted. I don't have a "most memorable orgasm" experience. The experiences that are most memorable for me are the ones where I felt most loved. I don't remember the physical things we did so much as I remember the emotion of the experience. Even then, I'm still fuzzy on the pictures in my head because I'm so divorced from my sexuality now that everything sort of seems a blur. I do remember faking a hell of a lot of orgasm with men to appease their egos, or at least my motivation was to make them feel manly. I remember being used for sex a lot. I think the thing I've learned about my sexuality in the past is that my greatest sex is yet to come, with a partner who loves me, where I can experience completely uninhibited, unbridled, passionate, romantic, sensual, AfroerotiK sex.



There are too many vital, important, pressing issues of sexuality today to just limit it to one. HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, is rampant and deadly and is being spread amidst a cacophony of lies and denial. Rape, molestation, and sexual abuse are happening behind every door and leaving a trail of damaged, broken people in its wake. The objectification of women is sooooo pervasive, so accepted that it's hard to even address the issue because people have accepted the hypersexualization of women as being normal and expected. Sex in exchange for money distorts, warps, and damages the delicate equilibrium of intimacy that sex should be about and makes it about power and control. Everything about sexuality is fucked up. There isn't one thing that is more important than another; all the issues are interconnected and seriously in need of fixing.



Right now in my life I'm trying to become comfortable with the fact that I just may never find love. I'm trying to become comfortable with the fact that the rest of my life just might be lived with a series of short term relationships that are meant to teach me about life and nothing more significant than that. It's been brought to my attention recently that I send mixed messages to the individuals to whom I'm attracted, coming on strong when I feel an attraction and then doing a complete 180 in the opposite direction at the first sign of what I experience as rejection. I'm going to make it my goal to speak from a place of clarity without trying to play the martyr or victim but also tone down my intensity when I meet someone. I've decided to focus on getting my book published, on building and growing AfroerotiK to what I dream it can be and not focus on my sexuality for the time being. I don't think shutting off my sexuality is healthy; I think there needs to be balance in everything. But I'm also aware that I have to play the cards I've been dealt. So while love and intimacy and sex are the things I desire the most, they have also remained elusive for a reason. The only way I know how to cope with that is to stay clear about what I want, not compromise just to fill a void, and live with integrity to my goals.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

I’m Losing my Mind

I’m Losing my Mind

There is something very unnatural about going without human contact for as long as I do. I haven’t had sex in almost 10 months and it’s making me go crazy. I’m not even horny as much as I am lonely. I want to be held, I want to be touched, I want to be made love to. I want to kiss. I would give anything to fall asleep in a man’s arms, to wake up and feel his hard erection pressing into my butt. I want to know that a man wants me, all of me, not just my body, not just my pussy but ME, Scottie. I wish I could say that this is the longest I’ve ever gone without sex but sadly, for the last 14 or 15 years of my life, I’ve made a habit of going years without sex. No one should ever have to do that; especially not repeatedly.

I feel handicapped, disabled, I feel like a friggin’ alien because I have no outlet for my sexuality, I have no opportunity for intimacy in my life. I’m convinced human beings shouldn’t go so long without having sex. There are those that tell me my standards are too high, that I should lower my standards in order to just have sex. I don’t want just sex, I want a man who wants me. Besides the fact that I have no desire to be pathetically average and have sex with just anyone, I demand a partner who meets my standards in order for me to be aroused. If I wanted someone’s husband, or someone who just wants to use me for sex who has no concern for me as a person, I could go outside, throw a stick, and hit 10 men who would fuck me. I want more than that.

There are those who insist that I’m attracting the wrong sorts of men because of some inherent flaw I have. Unfortunately, that ignores the fact that Black men are emotionally immature and, in many instances, unable to form healthy relationships with women because they devalue women as objects, they’ve not dealt with their own issues, that they are patriarchal, misogynist, sexist, and still holding on to diseased mindsets inherited from slavery. The constant need to blame women for not being healed enough to “attract” the right type of man does nothing but allow emotionally immature men to remain stagnant. Because Black men are unable to recognize my inherent beauty as a partner, as a human being, as more than something to fuck or control, I remain alone. Is that the only reason I’m alone, certainly not. I’m intimidating, I realize that. The pool of men I consider attractive is very small; this is not news to me. I am suggesting, however, that the pool of men who would be potential partners would be much larger if there weren’t such an inherent need of people to blame women for attracting the wrong sorts of men and not raising the bar for men to become better partners.

Insanity is not cute. I find myself crying at the most odd times, for the most bizarre reasons because I feel so empty inside. My body has forgotten what it is to feel penetration, to have a dick massage my pussy walls and make me feel pleasure. My nipples don’t remember what it is to be gently sucked and licked until I’m so wet I’m dripping. I can’t even masturbate anymore. I can’t even get wet; I’m divorced from my sexuality in a way that is unhealthy.

I’m 42 years old and I’m sexually handicapped. I don’t know how to be in a sexual situation with a man without playing all sorts of tapes in my head about what it is to be sexually liberated versus being a slut. I don’t know how to be confident and secure with expressing my sexuality without fear of being used or feeling like I’m going to burst into tears. That’s not right for a woman my age. I should be able to find a partner. I’m not saying I want a husband but it shouldn’t be so damned hard for me to find a companion. As sex positive as I try to be, I’m retarded in my own sexual expression because I am going out of my mind from loneliness.

Saturday, July 05, 2008

Fellas, You Gotta Tighten up your Game

I've been on the net over 10 years now. For several of those years, I unofficially reigned as the queen of NEW Black erotica. In all of my internet travels, of the thousands upon thousands of people I've met on this vast and virtual wide web we call the world, not once have I ever initiated contact with, had chemistry with, or been sexually aroused by a man who has a picture of his penis on his profile.


I don't have a penis, I don't really understand the workings of people who do, but I would think that after some time on the Internet, men would understand that most women are not aroused by dick pics. I am not attracted to dicks, I'm not superficial so men with bigger dicks don't earn extra points with me, and in fact, if a man has a picture of his dick on his profile, I usually find it repulsive and I'm inclined to not engage in any sort of in depth conversation with him. Men who want to depict and portray themselves to the world as their dick are not the sorts of men I'm inclined to want to get to know. I would think that I'm far from being the only woman who feels this way YET day after day, I'm amazed at the number of men who feel that their dick pic is going to hypnotize and entice me to engage in conversation.


Gentlemen, your penis, while it may be infinitely arousing, magical, and mystical to you, while it may hold your attention exclusively for hours upon hours, is no different, more arousing, or charismatic than the 100 million other penises that are shoved in my face on a daily basis. If a man chooses to display a picture of his dick as what he wants the world to see and identify him wotj, I immediately think he's immature and shallow, and in many cases, depending on his screen name, offensive and repulsive. No, I don't want to see your cam, no I'm not aroused by watching you masturbate, and seeing you ejaculate holds no great thrill for me. I'm not driven to laugh at, taunt, or humiliate men with little white ones as I'm equally as disinterested in marveling over big black ones that are posed in contrast to your remote control, soda can, or ones that can tell time with your watch on it.


What will it take for men to understand that women who are aroused by pictures of penises are actually in the minority? I've been more aroused by men with NO pictures on their profiles who don't ever show me a picture than I have been by men with Heavy D and the Boyz on display. And if your screen name has,"69", "XXX", "inches4u", or some phonetic spelling of the N word incorporated into it, I'm not only going to be repulsed, but I'm going to ignore your IM's, emails, and comments.


In 2008, fellas, if you are so full of shame that you can't display your face on your profile for fear that someone will recognize you and know that you are . . . God forbid . . . a sexual being, then that's problematic and an indication that you aren't sexually mature. If you are thinking that women around the globe are going to see your penis and get instantly wet and BEG you to have casual and uninhibited sex, that somehow, your penis is going to be more captivating and different than the other 67 cajillion pictures of penises that are being forced, figuratively, down our throats, you are sadly mistaken.


I'm attracted to men, not their dicks. I'm attracted to the depth in a man's eyes. I'm attracted to his smile. I'm TURNED ON by his substance and warmth, his intellect and his ability to identify himself as more than the few inches of meat that hang between his legs. Moreover, men who show off their penises and think that is supposed to be arousing, interesting, or captivating for me as a woman are not arousing to me to say the very least.


Fellas, please keep these general rules of thumb at hand when traversing the internet.


If I want to see your penis, I will ask.


“Hey ma, u luk gud,” does NOT motivate me to call you on the telephone.


Copy and paste messages, where you think you are being unique and sending out blanket compliments like, “I just ran across your profile and it is very interesting. I wanted to say I had to write you. I love your smile and you look like a woman I want to get to know better. I can’t wait to hear from you,” are lame, tired, and not at all original.


And most importantly, your penis is not so gorgeous, captivating, or unique that it’s going to move women of substance to want to get to know you better.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Healing Piss

I had a white gentleman tell me a story once that I found fascinating. He told me, admittedly, that he used to be racist but had a transformative experience. He went on to say that he had procured the services of a professional dominatrix. She blindfolded him and went about her business of degrading him, humiliating him, whathaveyou. Unbeknownst to this man, the white pro domme had in fact switched with a Black domme who was responsible for giving him what he felt was the most intense experience of his life. This black domme apparently had urinated on him. Well, once the blindfold was removed, voila', his racism was gone. Healed by the magical piss of the Black woman. I suggested to him that racism isn't just washed away with a little Shug Avery pee (he didn't get it) and that in order for him to truly rid himself of racist behaviors that he would really need to challenge his beliefs. At that point, he called me a racist nigger bitch.

Time and time again, I have white men tell me that they aren't racist because they are attracted to black women, because they want to submit to Black women. But, in the same breath, they are afraid to meet me in public in a place where people that know them might see them. Or they tell me that black women are superior because they are so naturally dominant, never giving credence to the totality of us as women. Uhmm, isn't that racist?

I've had white men tell me that they want to be with a black woman to see if our pussies taste different. Number one, I'm not a scratch and sniff experiment; I'm a human being. There is absolutely nothing different about my physical make up other than the presence of melanin. My blood is the same, my tears are the same, my piss is the same, and my pussy is the same. If there’s a difference in my taste it’s because I’m an individual and EVERYONE is going to have a different taste. If a person thinks a Black woman's pussy tastes different just because of the color of their skin, uhmm, isn't that racist? .

I had a white man tell me the other day that his wife had a black lover and he would be forced to pay the black man to service him orally and how he felt that was the ultimate humiliation. He professed that he wasn't racist and how he thought that Blacks were superior. When asked how he thought Blacks were superior, he listed physical characteristics. Check it, if he thought blacks were truly superior, he would not feel it was humiliating to give a Black man money. I asked him some of the Black people that he thought were intellectually superior and he said Condoleezza Rice and me. First and foremost, there should NEVER be an occasion where Condi Rice and I are compared on the same scale. She is the anti-Christ and I denounce her as a black woman. Second, it's obvious he had no clue about my intellect; he was enamored with my physicality.

I can't tell you how many times I've had white men tell me, "Oh, I wish I was a black man." When asked why, the number one reason, "They have such big cocks." Okay dumbass, you think being a black man is all about fucking white women with your 11-inch dick? You don't see the correlation between black men and the prison population, Driving While Black, the inordinately high Black on Black crime. No, you don't want to be a Black man; you want to have white privilege, a big dick AND have white women throwing themselves at you. White men that say that stupid shit inevitable say, "I don't have a racist bone in my body. Not since I started watching interracial porn (or fill in the blank with a similar sexual experience, as if orgasm while looking at a black person have sex cures diseased perceptions)." What the fuck? Say it with me . . . Uhmm, isn't that racist?

My favorite? White man approaches me and tells me how submissive he is to black women. I tell him I’m not interested in a submissive at this time, white, black, or other. They tell me that they can (fill in the blank with a degrading and humiliating act) and refuses to accept that I’m not interested in him. Next thing out of his mouth . . . NIGGER BITCH.

Let's make a list, shall we?

Saying they aren't racist and then saying that white women should be "bred black" because black men are not good fathers.

Saying they aren't racist, then saying that Jews overcame the Holocaust, as if Jews are inherently superior, and Blacks choose to be lazy.

Saying they aren't racist and then saying how much they respect Oprah, Colin Powell and Michael Jordan and when I ask them what's the last black book they've read they look at me like I'm crazy for suggesting that they would ever read a black book.

Saying they aren't racist and then denigrating Spike Lee, Jesse Jackson, and Al Sharpton in the next breath and having the unmitigated nerve to say that there are no Black leaders. I guess white leadership is so stellar that they have room to critique.

Saying that they aren't racist and then in the next breath calling me a racist because I suggest that there are abundant examples of racism that they don't see because they won't allow themselves to go outside their comfort zone and imagine a life different than their's.

Since when did racists get to identify when they aren't racist anymore? Who is defining racism? Is racism just an overt hatred of black people and wearing a white sheet or is it white men looking at me in amazement when I tell them I'm pursuing my PhD and them telling me that I'm a credit to my race? Like for my next trick, I'm going to pull a rabbit out of my hat. Where is the white sub that has read one book about slavery, Black history, Black culture, or one that tried to delve into the reasons for oppression and bigotry? No, he was in a heightened state of arousal and figured out that Black women could be as sexually arousing as white women. Big shit! That doesn't mean he's going to fight for Black children to get a fair education, that he's going to battle discrimination in housing and employment whenever he sees it. He's not even going to tell his buddies at the office that he's attracted to Black women. That's racist.

It’s more than obvious that Black people aren’t capable of determining what’s racist or not because we are the ones that think the N word is a term of affection, that think it’s cute to refer to ourselves as bitches, freaks, thugs, and pimps. Those who don’t use that terminology turn a blind eye and a deaf ear when it’s used. There are far too many black men that think it’s a compliment to be called a bull and to try to impregnate white women for fun. That's sick. FAR, FAR, FAR too many black women think that our beauty is in our behinds, fingernails, or length or our hair and give no credence to developing what’s inside us.

"Whiteness" is a disease of privilege that has been created by a society founded in racism. I didn't say white people are inherently racist because of genetics. I said that because white people have seen black people and people of color as inferior for so many centuries, because it has been so conditioned in their minds, because it has gone unquestioned in their psyches that they are superior, that SOME white people (I would dare to say the vast and overwhelming majority) perpetuate a lack of compassion for anyone's else's experience other than their own, they diminish the complaints of people of color because it doesn't match their experience and it’s certainly not washed away with a little Black piss.

AfroerotiK




Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Black "Maled"

This was, yet again, a very difficult story for me to write. My writing process is unique in that I see pictures in my head and I use words to describe what I see and the plot of the story evolves and unwinds, literally, at my fingertips. In my head, I didn't see Kamal having sex with either Ron or Tricia. I thought he was going to control a gangbang, direct it, quite possibly a gangbang of men who were NOT Black, just to torture Ron. I wanted him to be above having sex with them, to not only be physically superior but morally superior as well. I wanted him to maybe even stay faithful to a girlfriend or dominate the couple with his girlfriend.

Obviously, the story turned out much differently than I expected and as the images came to me, I realized that Kamal was human and that making him asexual or "too good" to have sex with Ron or Tricia would be to make him a myth, so as the pictures came to me, he was able to fuck Tricia well, deliver his message, and still be able to masterfully control the situation.

For me, Ron's description was key because white people assume that when I say that I write interracial erotic stories that show Black people in a positive light, that automatically assumes that I HAVE TO show white people in a positive light as well. It's not my job to show white people in a positive light, but to expose their core racist beliefs and hold them up to the light so that they might be able to see Black people more holistically. Ron Waterman exists in every city, hamlet, town, village, and province across these United States. He might not be AS rich, but his mindset is identical. Ron and Tricia are more real than Kamal. While there are brothas like Kamal who do exist, who are conscious, intelligent, and not swayed by the lure of white pussy, they are few and far between. Ron and Tricia, on the other hand, are so typical, they almost seem cliché. Go outside, close your eyes, throw a stick, and you'll accidentally hit 10 white men who are obsessed with masturbation and who objectify Black men.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Blackmailed



Ronald Waterman had the perfect life. He was an annuities manager at an investment firm on Wall Street making more money than most people could ever dream of making. He’d made a few sound investments and done some trading that wasn’t really above board but he didn’t get caught and he made a bundle in the process so debt wasn’t a huge issue. He and his wife were empty nesters; their two boys were in college and staying relatively out of trouble, at least not the sort of trouble that would get them expelled. Considering they were spoiled rich kids who grew up on Long Island and didn’t know the meaning of the word restraint, Ron was pleased that he wasn’t paying for them to fail every class. One son was on a full scholarship for Lacrosse so his coach arranged to keep his grades up and the other son had been lucky enough in freshman year to find a girlfriend who didn’t mind writing all of his papers. That left he and his wife Tricia all alone in their 5200 sq. ft. custom built home.

They weren’t a particularly loving couple, it’s not like they fought excessively or argued, they got along pretty well in fact, but they weren’t particularly demonstrative towards one another either. Their friends and family would swear up and down that the couple loved each other, and in fact, they did, it was just a pseudo/sterile love that was based more on function than affection. Tricia was still “hot” according to Ron’s coworkers and friends. She stayed in the gym, had standing, weekly appointments in the salon to make sure her dark roots never showed, and her Barney’s credit card never went more than a few days without some activity. At the annual Christmas Party and cookout, she would wear something juuuuuust revealing enough to show off her salines but she was far from the only desperate housewife in attendance who had fake knockers. Ron and Tricia were taking advantage of their freedom and they had some friends with whom they would swap and swing and have hedonistic parties where they would all get high on X and screw until the wee morning hours. Ahhh, life in the burbs was good.

If there was ever a man who was the master of his own domain, it was Ron. He had money, power, freedom, and a wife most men would kill to have. So of course, he was miserable. He hated every second of his life and was consumed with thoughts of extremes. Ronald craved more. He wanted more money, more power, and more sex. Well, he didn’t want MORE sex; he wanted dirtier sex, perverse sex that bordered on the obscene. He was a sex addict, addicted to stimulation from any source: gay, straight, transgendered, alien, animal, vegetable, or mineral. At work, he would look at hardcore porn on his laptop all day long. He got a thrill from having his office door open and pretending to work while he was looking at porn. Of course, there were times when he would close the door and take off his clothes and stroke his cock to completion because he was just so desperate to cum. One of his favorite lunchtime activities was to go to the bathroom on other floors of his office building and “leave his mark” on the stall walls. There were a few bathrooms that had glory holes and if he timed it just right, he could suck off a few cocks and have a “three cum martini” lunch with no one the wiser. Butt plugs and frilly lace and satin lingerie completed his wardrobe under his conservative suits almost every day without exception. On the train ride home he would pull out his cock and stroke it furiously beneath a book, hoping to get caught but terrified that he would. If anyone had paid attention, they would have wondered why he’d been reading The DaVinci Code for five years straight.

In his car, Ronald would drive by apartment buildings, hospitals, shopping centers and even schools so he could take out his cock and pull it with the hopes that someone would see him and get aroused. When he got bold, he would expose himself to some poor woman and when she screamed in horror, he would race off and swear to never do it again, until the next time the urge hit him. If there was ever a case of someone being a pervert, Ron was a textbook example.

Ron’s wife was totally fucking clueless to her husband’s dark side. Years ago, when Ronald told Tricia that he needed time to wind down after a stressful day at work and that he was NOT to be disturbed for at least an hour, she didn’t question him nor did she care what he did during that time. She never went in his “man room” downstairs and while she figured he had some porn down there to watch on his 52-inch flat screen, it didn’t really bother her one way or the other. As long as she could buy whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, Tricia really didn’t care if he had a Cambodian sex slave chained up down there.

Ron was meticulous in taking off his lingerie and putting it in the secret closet he had built. He had more stilettos than his wife and his wardrobe was probably just as big as hers but certainly more trampy. Mini skirts, wigs, rubber and fetish gear, every sort of fetish attire lined the walls of his covert dressing area. The fact that he had enough sex toys in there to open a small sex store would be impressive to most but it was never enough for him. He wanted to own every sex aid known to man and almost monthly he’d spend several thousand dollars buying toys off the Internet. There was a full-length mirror in the closet so when he got completely naked and pulled out his butt plug, he could see his gaping, red, swollen hole. He liked looking at himself lick and suck that filthy butt plug straight from his asshole, first smelling it and getting turned on by the scent of his ass and then making a show of licking the brown streaks and tasting the bitter remnants that made him crazed with lust. The filthy, raunchy nature of his actions would make him desperate to ride a huge dildo while he reveled in his disgusting pleasures. When he finally emerged from his play area, showered and dressed conservatively in his khakis and polo shirt, he would kiss his wife on the mouth and get aroused all over again with the knowledge that she had no clue what he had just done.

Dinners were always mundane. The food was excellent but the conversation was always a bore. It seemed the only things they could discuss were the boys, their plans for vacationing in Hyannis Port, and if the landscapers killed off the azaleas. They were superficial people with superficial lives and content to stay that way.

On a typical day, The Waterman’s would retire to the family room, share a cognac, and watch a little TV. With a few hours of the formalities of married life out the way, they would each go they own separate ways, Tricia to scrapbook or gossip with the neighbors or something, Ronald to indulge in his fetishes. Safely secluded in his private domain again, it was then that he could really let his hair down so to speak and spend several hours indulging in whatever his twisted mind could conceive. When it was time for bed, three or four times a week, they would “have sex”. Most nights, sex would consist of Ron going down on Tricia and eating her pussy. Penetration was a rare occasion for the pair because his cock wasn’t big enough to satisfy her even when he could pop a full boner. He much preferred to stroke his cock and imagine different scenarios being played out in his head.

One would think that because he and his wife were relatively distant, that he would never fantasize about her. In actuality, Tricia was the primary focus of his sexual imagination. Ron dreamt of seeing his outwardly conservative Junior League, Daughter of the American Revolution, PTA wife in the most degrading, undignified, shameful scenarios. In fact, on the rare occasion he could get completely hard, it was always to fantasies of her being savagely fucked by a group of black men with enormous cocks that treated her like less than trash.

It never failed that when they were coming home from visiting her parents in NJ, Ron would “get lost” in Harlem, driving up and down streets, secretly hoping to get carjacked. In all of his travels, the worst thing that ever happened was somebody offered to give him directions to the L.I.E. Tricia would heighten his arousal by bitching and complaining the entire time, fueling his desires with her paranoid, racist rants. “JEEZ Ron, can’t you ever fucking get anything right? I swear, it’s bad enough that you insist on driving the Jag every time we go to my parents but you ALWAYS get lost up here ‘in the hood’. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me to get raped by a bunch of those filthy, black guys.”

It probably wouldn’t have made any difference to Ron to know that his wife was secretly craving the exact thing she was complaining about. He didn’t hear her anyway, he was too lost in his own fantasies of seeing her abused, degraded, humiliated and used in ways that would make most people’s stomachs turn. In his mind, it wasn’t about her desires anyway; his arousal came from the fact that Black men with big dicks would take what was his and use it practically to the point beyond recognition. He got off on the idea of filthy, dirty black men making his pristine property something untouchable. Yeah, he wanted to see his wife writhing around in pleasure, to see her coming in an endless string of orgasms that left her weeping and shaking but it was the idea of Black men defiling her that got him off. His cock wouldn’t even get a tingle at the thought of his wife being gangbanged by Asian guys or Latino men. He’d seen his wife pleasured by a group of white men before and, while it certainly was hot to see Tricia being passed around like rag doll, he needed to see the contrast, he was desperate for Black dudes to fuck her because to him, Black men were like animals, barely human savages bred for fucking white women.

Ronald saw the opportunity to make all of his dreams come true when he got careless at work. As usual, he was pulling his cock and looking at one of his favorite websites where white wives were getting gangbanged by Black guys. He was on the verge of cumming when he heard someone clear their throat. He slammed his laptop closed and looked up, cock in hand, and saw the new guy from the mailroom. “What the fuck is your problem? Don’t you know to leave my mail on my assistant’s desk? Get out you dumb . . .” He desperately wanted to call him a nigger, inspired by the way the Black men were throwing it around in the video he was watching, but he got scared at the last second and refrained. “What are you looking at? Get OUT!” He shoved his cock back in his pants and felt his face change to crimson red but his sense of superiority and arrogance outweighed what should have been his shame.

Calmly, the young man placed the mail on his desk, stared Ron in the eye, and said, “I’ll be sure to leave your mail on your secretary’s desk in the future. For the rest of the day, Ron waited for the backlash. He was sure within an hour, everyone would know what happened and he was busy constructing lies and figuring out a way to get that guy fired. By the late afternoon, no one even seemed to look his direction and by the next morning, everything seemed normal. He saw the guy walk past his door and deliver the mail without even looking in his direction. He casually walked out to his administrative assistant’s desk and said, “Is that a new mail guy? I’ve never seen him before.”

Lourdes, his sassy Puerto Rican assistant said, “Yeah, that’s Kamal, he just started this week.” Ron saw her lick her lips and stare at his ass that couldn’t be hidden in his baggy khakis. Her admiration only lasted a second and she went right back to the overwhelming amount of work she had on her desk, having to shoulder most of the work that Ron was supposed to do that he put off on her. While he was able to see the lust in her eyes, what he didn’t detect was any indication that she knew what had had happened yesterday. He walked back in his office, afraid to engage in his usual routine of looking at porn, and sat in a daze for several hours.

By lunchtime, his curiosity got the best of him. He went out looking for Kamal to find out what his deal was. Any normal person would have blabbed to everyone and then some. As luck would have it, he saw Kamal enter the men’s room at the far end of the 18th floor. Looking around to see if anyone else was around, he entered a few seconds later.

Standing alone at the urinals, Ron could see the broad shoulders and muscular back of the mail boy. At 6’ even and maybe 230 pounds of hard flesh, Kamal turned his head slightly when he heard the door open and then went right back to his business. Ron walked to the urinal next to him and pulled out his cock. He glanced down to see Kamal’s dick. The strong yellow stream of piss hit the back of the urinal and Ron could see what had to be nearly 8 inches of soft dick extending from Kamal’s fly. Pee shy, he willed himself to urinate and said, “Listen, about what happened—you know, yesterday. What do we have to do to make sure that none of that gets out?”

Putting his dick back in his pants, Kamal said, “Yeah, don’t sweat it,” turned to wash his hands and left without saying another word.

That didn’t register with Ronald. In his white world, everything boiled down to money or sex or some combination of both. There was no way he was going to let some punk 25 year old get away with having anything over his head so he followed him to the lunch room. Sitting down at the table next to him, he quietly said, “Look, I’ll give you $25,000 bucks, no questions asked, but you have to sign a paper saying that you won’t say anything.” There, that should fix him, that was more money than that kid would make in a year and it was barely a drop in the bucket to Ron, nothing a few strategically misplaced zeroes on a balance sheet wouldn’t take care of. He glanced down at Kamal’s lunch and made a mental note that he found it odd that someone with such obvious muscle definition was eating nothing but a salad and fruit.

This time, more assertively, Kamal said, “I told you, don’t sweat it.”

Ron felt like a reprimanded child. His anger raged and he wouldn’t be held hostage by some fucking high school dropout who couldn’t get a better job than dropping off mail. Unfortunately, his perversion got the better of him and he started calculating in his head how he could use the situation to his advantage. He inched his chair closer, his leg touching Kamal’s under the table. Leaning in, he whispered, “Okay, I was just doing what all us guys do, you know. And—look, it’s no big deal but I just don’t want everyone knowing my business and I have an offer for you. I think I have something that you might want that’s better than money. I’ll make a deal with you. You come out to my house this weekend, bring some friends why don’t you, as many as you want, and I’ll make sure you have the time of your life. You can split the money with your homies any way you want. In exchange, we can make sure my little secret is kept and it’s all good, right bro?” He smiled and put out his fist like he wanted a pound.

Kamal pushed his chair over several inches and said, “Look, I don’t want whatever it is you are offering and I told you twice already that it’s no big deal. If you want to jerk your little dick off at work, I don’t really give a damn. You white boys are all crazy any damn way.”

The fucking nerve of this kid was outrageous. Ron was pissed. How dare he refuse to negotiate like a man. Forget the fact that he hadn’t even heard that Kamal was willing to put the entire thing behind them; all he heard was “little white dick”, “white boy”, and “crazy”. Who the hell did he think he was? Ron couldn’t comprehend that a black guy was pulling the strings so he blurted out, almost loud enough for others to hear, “You can have my wife, you can do anything you want to her, she’s yours, in exchange for your silence.”

There, that would solve everything. What black guy wouldn’t JUMP at the opportunity to fuck a hot white wife? Ron learned that it wasn’t the proverbial carrot he thought he was going to tempt Kamal with when the young man wiped his mouth with his napkin, threw it on his remaining food in disgust and pushed his chair back. He walked away without saying a word.

For the next three months, they played the same game. Kamal would ignore Ron and Ron would, in turn, obsessively try to figure out what motivated this strange person. He learned that Kamal had been born in Trinidad and graduated with a 4.0 from community college because he couldn’t afford to finish his four-year studies in engineering. He belonged to something called The Ausar Auset Society but Ron didn’t have the intellect or patience to figure out what that was so he just wrote it off as some sort of Black cult. He overheard some of the temps talking about him and learned that he had broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago but still wasn’t dating. Nothing computed for Ron. How could this guy end up in the mailroom? From what he could tell, he was intelligent, articulate, and all the women thought he was good-looking, even the white women. If someone had told Ron that the reason Kamal couldn’t find a better job was because he was competing against boys like his sons who cheated and lied their way through college and who had jobs lined up on graduation because of nepotism and racial preference, Ron would have SCREAMED from the highest mountaintop that was an outrageous and sinful lie to discredit the white man. Too bad it was true.

It was in his nature to be manipulative, so Ron decided he was going to get what he wanted and he was going to do whatever he had to do in order to make it happen. He’d been tortured for months, fantasizing about Kamal fucking his wife. He called in sick one day at work and told his assistant that he needed several important documents on his desk delivered to his home. He specifically told her that Kamal was to deliver the documents, no one else, by noon and not a minute later. He put a note on the front door that Kamal was to come around back to the pool where he would be waiting for him.

Prompt, Kamal arrived at 12:00 exactly and read the note. He walked around the side of the house towards the back, cautiously, expecting some sort of set up. Sure enough, Ron was in the back by the pool, naked, with his wife, and she was on a lounge chair with nothing on but a pair of high heels with her legs high in the air and her husband’s tongue in her pussy. She screamed a blood-curdling yell and tried to grab her cover-up but Ron forcefully pinned her legs back to her chest so she couldn’t move. She was visibly shaken and Kamal froze, expecting the police to jump out any minute and arrest him for rape. He placed his bag on the ground and slowly opened the flap and extended the package to his employer. “Look, I don’t’ want any trouble, I’m just following your orders to bring these documents out to you and hand deliver them.” He placed the documents on the table and began to back away.

Ron smiled, “Here, don’t you want some of this hot pussy?” Tricia couldn’t believe her ears. Her husband was offering her up like a piece of meat without her consent or consideration.

Brazen and bold, Ron stroked his cock in front of Kamal. “Come here, boy. You know you want this. You know you want some of this white pussy. I’m offering it to you. No strings. Do anything you want to it and I mean anything. Fuck her mouth, her pussy, fuck her asshole. Make her choke and gag on your big black cock till she pukes all over it and make her keep sucking you off. Fist her slack cunt, piss on her, hell, piss up her, make her lick your filthy bunghole. Do anything you want to her. Dude, I really want you to fill her up with your black sperm. Yeah, fill up her white cunt with your darkie baby juice and get her knocked up.” He really wanted to use the N word but he wanted to wait until Kamal used it first to get the go ahead. He knew some Black guys were sensitive about that sort of thing and he didn’t want to get his head bashed in by jumping the gun.

Kamal held back his disgust and spoke calmly. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you want me to do those things to your wife?”

Ron masturbated proudly as he just knew he was about to realize his dreams. Yeah, he was four or five guys shy of the gangbang he wanted to witness but this was as close as he’d ever gotten to his ultimate fantasy. “Man, come on, you know. Black guys are so hung and they—you know. God, why don’t you get it? Having a black guy fuck my wife is really nasty, thinking about her being bred black ‘n all.”

Ron had moved out of the way and Tricia was still laying there, holding her legs up by grasping the backs of her knees, her breathing calmed down now that she realized that Kamal wasn’t a total stranger but someone her husband knew. Her pussy was swollen and throbbing and wet with desire. She wanted all the things her husband had described and she was ready for the action to begin, no introductions necessary.

“You sick, twisted fuck,” Kamal replied. “First of all, I’m not some monkey stud to service your wife and second, impregnation is not a sexual fetish, it’s a right and a privilege you obviously don’t deserve.” For a brief second, the couple thought he was going to leave but he started to unbutton his shirt. Kamal spelled out everything. “You want me to fuck your wife because I saw you masturbating in your office that day? Is that right?” Ron nodded profusely. “You’re telling me that if I fuck your wife, if I degrade her, that I don’t have to worry about you harassing me at work anymore, that we can put this behind us once and for all and go on with our lives.” He continued, “And, I’m to understand that you want me to do anything filthy and nasty I can think of to your wife with your permission.”

Ronald could barely answer. He was crazed with lust. “Slap her, choke her, squeeze her tits until they are bruised, tie her up, anything man, do anything.” Tricia was fingering her pussy and moaning her non-verbal consent.

Kamal pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the ground. He kept on his white wife-beater and it contrasted rather ironically yet dramatically against his bronze colored skin. He steadied himself on the chair as he pulled off his pants and left his boots in place. He pulled off his boxers and it was Ronald’s turn to lick his lips in jealousy, envy, and lust.

Kamal’s muscular thighs were a masterpiece in ebony sculpture. His arms, his chest, his shoulders were formed to perfection. With a six-pack of abs that would make any personal trainer proud, Ron couldn’t imagine a more perfect specimen to use his wife. It was the meat hanging between his legs’s that made Kamal the ideal stud for Ron’s demented fantasy. At just over 8 inches, it was clearly double the length of his own tiny cock and the thickness didn’t have a scale to compare. It looked as thick as a can of beer and he wasn’t even hard. In fact, it looked like it weighed several pounds in and of itself and Tricia was fingering her pussy in anticipation.

“Here, get it wet.” Tricia moved to suck his dick but Kamal stopped her. “No, not you-- him.” He pointed to Ron and without hesitation, Ron was on his knees, kneeling before the young man, worshipping his big, black cock, trying to get it hard with his mouth.

Tricia had never seen her husband suck a cock before and there was something very thrilling about seeing him fag out over a beautiful, black one. “Oh yeah, honey, get that big monster wet so he can slide it in my tight, white pussy. Is that what you want to see? You want to see him pounding his big hard black cock in my cunt, stretching it, ripping it open? Yeah, get it nice and wet so he can ram it in my sweet, white holes.”

Grabbing Ron’s head, Kamal throat fucked him without care or concern for his breath or comfort. Thrusting his hips and shoving every single inch down his throat, it was Ron himself who was gagging and choking on that gorgeous prick, not his wife. He didn’t care. To Ron, it was worth it so he could see his wife being fucked like a $2.00 crack whore. He sucked that cock better than he’d ever sucked any other cock in his life. By the time Kamal had pushed him away, his dick was fully erect, hard, throbbing, and dripping with spit. Grabbing a handful of bleached blonde hair, Kamal roughly pulled Tricia to her knees in front of him and said, “Let’s see who’s better at sucking my dick. Come on bitch, get to work.”

Ron was better. He’d had more experience sucking a variety of cocks. He had better technique without a doubt. That only made Kamal treat Tricia rougher, being unforgiving when she didn’t do it the way he wanted. He shoved his cock down her throat and she tried desperately to pull away, unable to breathe or move. She was gagging on the meat shoved in her throat and she her eyes were tearing. It was the stuff dreams are made of for Ron; his wife was being suffocated by a dick that was stretching her mouth to beyond capacity. He stroked his cock furiously with two fingers while his wife struggled to get her hand around the black cock that filled her slutty mouth. Her diamond wedding band shone in the sunshine and that image made Ron’s cock leak.

Pushing her away, Kamal commanded her to get on the lounger again and spread her legs. Anxious to move things along, she said, “Oh yeah, eat my pussy you sexy stud.”

Kamal laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Without any other explanation or commentary, he gripped the backs of her thighs tightly and rammed his dick in her pussy in one thrust, to the balls. Tricia screamed out in real pain. She’d never had a dick that big in her before, not even in college when she’d had a threesome with her roommate and some black guy from the football team.

“Easy stud,” she panted, half wanting him to take it easy on her and half enjoying the pain.

“Easy? What for? That’s what you want isn’t it? You think I’m some savage stud that can’t control my lust for you, right? You think I live to fuck white women, that I’m a barely literate thug who only gets hard for white trash suburban whores like you.” His comments stung Tricia but they turned her on at the same time. He was right so, yeah, she could go along with the game.

“Yeah, you big, black Mandingo, screw this white pussy good. Make it hurt. Show my husband how pathetic his little cock is. Make me never want his little thing again. Turn me into a slut for Black cock.”

“Do you even know what a Mandingo is you stupid cunt?” Kamal pounded harder and deeper.

Tricia was confused. What the hell kind of question was that to be asking her. She decided to go along with the game anyway. “You are. You’re my black daddy Mandingo and I’m your filthy white slut.” Her response seemed to anger Kamal and he became more brutal in his fucking. She tried to push him away but she wasn’t strong enough. She looked to her husband to see if he could control things a bit more but he was in a zone, fingering his asshole and stroking his tiny cock, insane with arousal. Things were just beginning to heat up in his mind, just the way he wanted. He wanted Kamal to use his wife and it didn’t matter to him if she enjoyed it or not.

Kamal grabbed a handful of Mrs. Waterman’s hair again and flipped her over on her knees. She was grateful for the reprieve on her pussy and was expecting things to go a little more smoothly doggy style. Before she knew what was happening, she felt the sting of Kamal’s hand on her pale, flat ass. “OWWWW,” she cried out, the heat and sting of the slap radiating through her body. Her body liked the rough treatment but her mind knew something was wrong. “What are you trying to do you black bastard, taking our your revenge for slavery on me? I didn’t own any slaves.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “I’m not exacting revenge for hundreds of years of slavery on you, you dumb bitch, I’m exacting revenge for being treated like an ignorant buck incapable of anything other than lusting for white women, weed, and cheap wine from a paper bag.” He grabbed her hair like the reins on a filly and pulled hard. He shoved his cock in her again, with more force, stabbing her womb with his weapon of flesh. Ronald inched closer. He wanted a front row seat to the show, to smell the scent of their fucking, to taste their nasty mixture of juices. He knelt behind Kamal and watched his muscular ass flex as he pumped his wife. The scent from his nuts was intoxicating and he marveled at the way Kamal’s smooth brown skin shone in the sun, damp with perspiration.

Tricia was in the place between pain and pleasure. She had never been fucked so savagely before in her life and she was going to pay the price for it tomorrow, but today, it was heaven. She liked being treated so roughly, even if she didn’t understand all the things he was saying. It was all part of the game, race play had to involve . . . some stuff about race or it would defeat the purpose, right? That was part of the fantasy, the hot suburban wife getting nailed by the ghetto thug. It wasn’t hot unless they were playing up the differences, exploiting the stereotypes. About the only thing she could contribute to the fantasy was her constant chants of, “Fuck me with your big black cock. Fuck this white pussy. Pump your black seed in my fertile white cunt. Harder, harder, treat my like a filthy slut for black cock.”

Kamal’s dialogue was a bit more explicit. “You fucking stupid white whore. You are too dumb to know that your man is sucking every dick he can get his hands on. The two of you think you are so superior, so much better than me, that fucking me is ‘slumming it.’ I’m better than you in every way you dirty slut. I’m going to use you, your pussy, your ass, and your dumb ass husband and you’ll regret the day you ever dreamt of having some Black buck fuck you to fulfill your ghetto fantasies.”

Those words registered with Ron as, “I love white pussy.” Wanting to rush things, Ron pleaded, “Fuck her in the ass. Shove your big black cock in her dirty asshole.” That was, after all, the nastiest form of sex. To have a Black man fucking his wife in the shitter was the ultimate degradation. He didn’t view Black men as men, or even human beings for that matter, so having his wife getting fucked in the ass by a black guy was symbolic of the most degrading thing she could endure.

Kamal pulled out and Ron dove for his dick again, tasting the elixir that was made up of the juices of his wife and his subordinate. Tricia wanted to feel that hard cock in her ass as well. She’d moved beyond the pain and felt nothing but sublime pleasure, filth, and raunch at the hands of her black stud.

Kamal backslapped Ron and sent him reeling backwards on the hard tile pavement. It wasn’t part of Ron’s fantasy but he could go along with it, again, because anything was worth seeing his wife being used like a piece of trash. He couldn’t touch his cock for fear it was going to explode. He was jealous of his wife, envious that she was going to have her anus stretched to beyond belief. He knew he could take Kamal’s dick, having ridden many huge black dildos in his time, but he doubted Tricia had had anything bigger than his little cock in her ass.

Kamal would have loved nothing more than to ram his dick balls deep in Tricia’s ass but he couldn’t. It just didn’t fit. He pushed and she cried out in pain. The more he pushed, the louder her cries became. She rubbed her clit furiously and shoved four fingers in her pussy, creating less room for Kamal to work his dick in her asshole. “Here, get it wet again.” He grabbed Ron by the hair and pulled him on his dick again. Ron used his tongue like magic and took everything Kamal had to give him and then some. He tasted the fresh ass juice from his wife’s rectum and savored the flavor. It tasted better than it had ever tasted before, mixed with the salty sweet precum of a gigantic black cock. He spit on his wife’s ass and pulled her cheeks open, encouraging Kamal once again. “Fuck her dirty asshole. Ram your thick, huge Black cock in her white butt.”

Without mercy or consideration, Kamal did just that. He shoved his cock in, pushed, shoved and rammed until every inch was embedded deep in Tricia’s ass. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he started fucking her, concentrating on making sure he drove every millimeter of his dick deep in her and withdrew it all the way to the head before he rammed it in deeper and harder than before. The only thing that made him stop was to take it all the way out so her husband could lick and suck his dick clean. He fucked her so hard he sort of felt sorry for her except she kept saying, “Oh god, please don’t stop, it feels so good.”

Kamal fucked her asshole for twenty minutes straight. Her ass was red from being spanked and her hole gaped open like the Midtown Tunnel. It was so loose and sloppy, he could barely feel any friction. “You, shithead, get over here and take her place.” He pushed Tricia out of the way and motioned for Ron to assume the position. He scrambled to get on his knees without a second’s hesitation at his wife seeing him accept a black dick but Kamal stopped him. “I want you to see my face.” Yeah, that would work for Ron, he could get off on that. He liked the idea of showing off his own little cock while he got a huge black one rammed in his manpussy. Mmmm, that thought was delicious. It was no longer about his wife, this was about the fulfillment of his sissy slut fantasies where he would become the whore for black cock, he would be degraded and used.

Kamal placed his hand over Ron’s mouth. If he was going to cum, he couldn’t listen to that insane “big black buck” drivel. He felt no mercy for Mr. Waterman so he fucked him like he was trying to kill him with his dick. His rage boiled up and he thrust deep and hard until he felt the first shot of cum go deep within his boss’s ass. He fell back, exhausted, and watched as Tricia dove for her husband’s dirty creampie without any instructions.

Both still aroused, the pair then collectively dove for Kamal’s cock, cleaning his cock of their collective juices. Kamal let them lick him from front to back before he aimed his soft cock in their faces and emptied his bladder. He dove in the pool and seemed to be cleaning himself of the stench and filth of the white couple. Dried and dressed, he left without so much as a goodbye.

Ron had never been more pleased with himself. He dove for Tricia’s pussy and asshole and ate her out for the rest of the evening, never putting on clothes, never more than a few minutes from trying to see if he could taste the evidence of her hot black fuck. The next day, he casually strolled into the office and saw a manila envelope on his desk. He opened it and found a DVD. His heart dropped. He opened it and placed the disc in his laptop. The camera had been hidden in the mailbag. He shut the laptop and called Lourdes on the intercom. “I want to see about getting a new intern. See if that guy from the mailroom might be interested.”

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Question

The book that I've been trying to get published for the past three years is still nothing more than a bunch of word documents on my computer. IMHO, it's some of the very best writing I've ever done. I've been pretty stubborn about the fact that I MUST include the chapters that show gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered sex in the same book as the straight stories because I want ALL people of color to feel validation, to see themselves in a postive sexual light. Would you buy a book of erotic stories and photography if it included 10 chapters of images you found arousing and one or two chapters that you weren't aroused by? I'd love to know your opinion.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Seeking Vibrational Balance


I’m looking for connection with men who are my equals: mentally, spiritually, intellectually, physically, emotionally, socially, and sexually.

Mentally – You despise the N word, carry yourself with integrity, character, and grace, actively seek to continually free yourself from the mental chains of slavery. You accept that you still have healing to do, hate commercial radio, TV, and movies, be voluntarily simplistic, environmentally conscious, have an abhorrence of corporate America, non-materialistic, extremely liberal political position, non-conformist, down-to-earth, family-centric, creative, artistic

Spiritually – You practice something other than Christianity, Islam, or Judaism, You practice metaphysical, Kemetic, or African based spirituality, meditate daily, seek harmony and balance with the universe, and are prayerful.

Intellectually – You are able to grasp complex intellectual concepts, logical, methodical, linear yet abstract, cerebral, able to see things from multiple perspectives, have a high IQ, are a seeker of knowledge, able to teach concepts to the masses in an easily digestible manner.
Physically – You are tall, active, fit, attractive, live off a plant-based diet, and respect holistic, natural cures over Western medicine

Emotionally – You have faced your inner demons, dealt with the issues that have hurt you, are introspective, emotionally mature, slow to anger, at peace, centered, calm, serene, rational, compassionate, considerate of other’s feelings, selfless, able to articulate your feelings, respectful of other’s feelings, and you are completely capable of giving and receiving unconditional love in a healthy manner.

Socially – You are a leader, enjoy jazz, live music, art, cultural events, appreciate good food and socializing with a variety of friends. Respect Black art, don’t watch much TV, concerned about lifting the consciousness of the Black community.

Sexually – You are openly bisexual and proud of it, capable of monogamy in a relationship, sex-positive and tolerant of everyone’s sexual preferences, sensual, romantic, tactile, and AfroerotiK.
If that sounds like you, I’d love to just converse.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Who's got Jungle Fever?

This was perhaps, the most difficult story I’ve ever written. No, this was, by far, without a doubt, the hardest story I’ve ever written. It challenged me in ways that no other story has even come close to doing.

I got the idea to write a story about a black man and a white woman because my repertoire is dangerously light on that theme. I have a ton of stories about white men with Black women, mostly driven by the fact that white men request interracial stories, NOT because that’s a preference of mine. In each of those stories, whether it be romantic or about domination, I make sure I show Black women in a healthy, positive, empowered light. They are never ghetto whores, or blinded by the mystical allure of interracial lust, they are in charge, intelligent, articulate women of color who are autonomous and, in some cases, dangerously efficient at manipulating the desires of white men. In most cases, people aren’t even aware enough to notice the social commentary; they just fast forward to the sex or they only absorb the story on a very superficial level.

Because I don’t have many stories about black men and white women, I decided to tackle it head on. My first inclination was to make it a romantic story and I almost wish I had. That would have been easier for me I’m sure. I could have written a story where the characters would just happen to be different colors and I could have made their choice to date interracially not one driven by stereotypes and racist beliefs but of two people with common interests who felt an attraction for one another. What do they say, always go with your first instinct?

When I sat down to write this particular story, I was overwhelmed with the need to address the large portion of Black men who date interracially and address some of the reasons they do so. They are the least culturally conscious so they are the last group of people to understand their motivations or be able to articulate them. They are also the demographic least likely to read a story of mine. So starting off, I was writing a story about a segment of the population who wasn’t even going to read it. That’s difficult for me because of the customized nature of my work. My goal in writing usually is to arouse the reader of my story and I knew from the beginning that if Black men who did date and fuck white women were to read the story, the things I wrote about in the story would offend them.

Then, I had to take into consideration that the demographic who WAS going to be reading the story the most was white men. They seek out erotic stories about Black men and white women more than any other audience. The vast majority of white men are oblivious to any reality other than their own so I had to choose every single word carefully. I had to put myself in the mindset of a white man who was going to be reading the story and try my best to educate them but also remember that most of what I was saying was going to go WAY over their heads. They weren’t going to be reading the story and taking away from it the more important messages of how dysfunctional most interracial sex really is. All they were going to be doing would be masturbating to the story, more than likely just skipping ahead to the sex parts. Still, I wanted to write a story that would give the few that were cognizant enough to pick up on the underlying themes something to think about.

Black people in general, unfortunately, in many instances, don’t look deeper than the superficial when reading my stories. So again, I’m faced with trying to educate people who were only going to take away from the story the concept that a Black man was saying he hated Black women, and that he was only attracted to white women, and not get the how’s and why’s of how that mindset was really formed in a lot of Black men. More importantly, I knew the vast majority of Black readers were going to see that behavior as merely self-hatred, not a manifestation of slave mentality that has gone un-addressed and unchecked for generations. For all of our flaws and shortcomings, being a victim to mindsets we learned in slavery that have been passed down for generations is not our fault. That doesn’t mean they are acceptable or excusable, it just means they need to be examined and healed.

This very well could be a true story. The characters were not atypical or unique in the fact that they did anything extraordinary; they were average. If you go into a racially mixed club in any town in America, you could see the characters of this story in real life. The things they said were things that have been repeated time and time again by real people, in similar situations. The numbers of Black men who date and/or fuck white women exclusively continues to grow by leaps and bounds, fueled by white America’s lust for the black male body (including the perpetuation of the Mandingo myth), a social climate where any discussion of race other than, “Color doesn’t matter,” is silenced, and racism that eats at the self-esteem of Black men whereby they feel as Darren felt.

Jenny wasn’t bright. One can only assume her attractiveness was the kind that can be found in any Hooter’s restaurant or a Girls Gone Wild video. Her commentary on race was cliché. Her need to be degraded and treated like a slut is symptomatic of a society that has raised a generation of girls to believe that their attractiveness is their only value in life.

Darren’s perceptions on race were formed by racism. For a child, being in an environment where your peers aren’t sensitive to race, where there is no racial tolerance, where Black children are in the minority, and being raised by parents who are trying to instill in them to deny their blackness, it becomes easy to see how self hatred could fester and grow in the mind of a young child. We live in a society that doesn’t show Black women as attractive and then we expect Black men to see them as such when ALL they’ve been shown are images of white women and told how beautiful they are. Black boys see countless images of white women. The first sexual images they see are more than likely going to be in Playboy or Penthouse and be of white women, so logically, their arousal is going to be tied to white women. Yes, Darren was self-hating, but I tried my best to show how he came to be. Well, I did the best I could in a story that was supposed to be erotic.

The entire first half of the story was dedicated to the examination of race in this society. Then, I transition by saying, “An intelligent person might want to contemplate what made this privileged, twenty-something white girl, who had never had a responsibility in her life, crave being used like a fucking rag doll by black men while spewing the most vile racist epithets . . . but who has time for such cerebral musings?” That creates the shift. Then the story becomes hardcore. The sex is visceral and raw, abusive even. It speaks to the way racist white men want to see white women treated by black men and, I can only assume, the ways in which interracial couples who are driven by racist fantasies might interact sexually. I had difficulty writing the sex portion, which is usually the easiest part for me, so I took the sex from another story and just changed the names. I was literally drained by writing the first half of the story to the point where constructing the sex scene was beyond my capabilities.

I’m proud of the finished product in a way that I’d love to see the story examined in a college class on race or debated and discussed in an academic setting. For now, I’ll have to be satisfied knowing that somewhere, someone might read it and walk away with a better understanding of the intricacies of race and sexuality.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Catering to a Man’s Ego



I was asked to be a participant in a group chat the other evening. The participants included four women and one man. They were talking about, and all in agreement with, how there are certain instances when a woman has to cater to a man’s ego. In fact, they said that if a woman didn’t cater to a man’s ego, that made her a bad woman. When I spoke up in dissention, they got offended, saying that I wasn’t being supportive of Black men and insisting that men were fragile and needed their egos stroked in order to function properly. Catering to a man’s ego and being supportive are two different things.

Catering to a man’s ego is to allow him to continue to hold on to dysfunctional beliefs and practices in order to make him feel good. Being supportive is helping him grow, mature, and being there to be a shoulder to cry on in his hour of need. Being loving is showing affection and nurturing him because you care about him, his happiness, and his well-being as a person. To cater to a man’s ego is to feed his insecurities, to foster dysfunction in your relationship, and to perpetuate unhealthy ideologies.

The example was given that if a man lost his job, that before they go out to dinner the woman should give him the money to hold in order to allow him to pay for the meal in public. How absurd. If a man loses his job, and he can’t deal with a woman paying for dinner, then he’s emotionally immature. Moreover, in order for a woman to be supportive and loving, rather than catering to his male ego, she would be better off helping him work on his resume, emailing him job opportunities that match his needs, or taking that money and having his suit dry cleaned or doing administrative work to help him start his own business.

We live in a society where the male ego has gone rampant and unchecked. It needs to be reigned in. It needs to be harnessed and controlled in order to move the emotional maturity of Black men ahead. We, as Black women, MUST stop catering to a man’s ego. Black men are egotistical, expecting women to cower at their whim, jump through hoops in order to satisfy their needs, and blaming Black women for all sorts of things without taking responsibility for their own wrongdoings and misperceptions. The fact that we, as a society, equate a woman’s worth with her ability to appease a man’s ego speaks volumes about how diseased we are.