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.

Friday, December 26, 2008

Acting “White”

If a Black person looks to better themselves with an education, he or she is accused of acting white. The Black community loves to throw that saying around like it’s an insult. What exactly does that mean? If you speak well, if you embrace education, if you don’t identify yourself as ghetto, that means you are acting white. It is our way of embracing ignorance, claiming that we have some inherent birthright, based on our color, to poverty and stupidity. Moreover, white people LOVE to feign insight into the Black community by denouncing those who don’t want to “act white” and embrace African Americans who are anxious to divorce themselves from the Black community and identify themselves as colorless. There is no such thing as being colorless in this society and intellect, articulation, and excellence are not exclusive to white people. If we are ever to evolve as a people, we must stop this absurd notion that white people are equivalent to excellence and that being black means we are dumb.

Pick up a book, go back to college, take a night class, use the internet to learn out our history instead of just wasting your life away.

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Monday, December 22, 2008

The New and Improved, "I'm not Racist."

I've noticed a recent trend. Any time a white person says something racist, insensitive, or just plain uninformed and I correct them, they immediately respond with, "Hey, I voted for Obama." It doesn't even matter what the topic is. Their immediate, knee jerk response is to say, "I voted for Obama." It's the new, "I'm not racist."

I have to wonder how many of these people are lying. Not every white person voted for Obama. Many didn't vote for him because he is Black. It seems white people have an instant out now by claiming that they voted for Obama and that is supposed to absolve them of any of their misdeeds.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Mr. AfroerotiK Application

Mr. AfroerotiK Application

I’ve given up on finding love. It’s just not going to happen for me. I’ve learned my lesson and I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life alone. I’m not saying that there aren’t any good men out there; I’m saying that the men that I attract are not emotionally mature nor are they capable of vibrating on the same level as I am.

That being said, I’ve created a fool-proof method to get rid of any potential bothersome men who might try to distract me and convince me that true love might in fact be possible for me. I have the quintessential disqualifier of sorts. I’ve composed a series of application questions that I’m going to give to any suitors who may catch me when my guard is down and give me a glimmer of hope that companionship and intimacy might be an actual possibility for me.

The following is a list of questions that any man who is interested in me must complete in full. Those who are unwilling to even attempt the questions are automatically seen for the insincere boys that they really are. Those who complete some of the questions and not all of the questions will prove themselves to only be capable of handling the good situations in life and not the rough or difficult situations. Those who complete all the questions but their answers reveal some hidden misogyny, insecurity, immaturity, or personality flaw will be politely dismissed and summarily discarded with a quickness. That combination of disqualifiers will ensure that no Black man will ever earn the title of “Mr. AfroerotiK.” I demand a man who is introspective, who has examined his life, who can be honest even when the answers are painful.

It’s not too much to ask for a man to answer these questions. If I am to give you my heart, my body, my love, then it certainly should be a privilege for a man to take the time and answer these questions because what he gets in return will be a woman who is loving, nurturing, supportive, challenging, and who will love the dirty socks off him. We as women, myself included, are too quick to allow a man access to our hearts when he hasn’t proven himself worthy. I refuse to get hoodwinked by evil, manipulative, pathological liars and cheaters who know how to say what they think I want to hear but really feel another way. The questions are constructed to weed out the brothas who think they don’t have to do a damn thing to be in a relationship, the game players, the boys, and the emotionally immature.

  1. What did you do wrong in your last serious relationship to cause its demise?
  2. What does it take to make you happy?
  3. What are you going to be doing 10 years from now?
  4. What can you say to reassure me that you will never cheat on me?
  5. What would you do if you discovered that your wife was cheating on you?
  6. Who are your heroes?
  7. You are writing our own wedding vows. What would yours be? (roughly)
  8. What mistakes did your parents make in raising you?
  9. What are you better at than anyone else in the world?
  10. If we were in love, how would you SHOW me that you loved me?
  11. What is the worst thing your ex’s could say about you?
  12. What do you consider your responsibilities in a relationship?
  13. Describe in detail your religious, spiritual, philosophical outlook.
  14. Why do you think most marriages fail?
  15. How would you make our relationship last if one of us were to have to relocate to a distant location?
  16. What causes infidelity in relationships?
  17. What traditional roles, if any, do you expect your mate to fill in a relationship?
  18. What traditional roles, if any, will you be willing to fill in a relationship?
  19. What is the sexiest thing a woman has ever done for you?
  20. What’s the sexist thing a woman could ever do for you?
  21. What do you think is the most important issue facing our country today?
  22. What do you think is the most important issue facing the Black community today?
  23. Describe the events in your life that made you grow up the most.
  24. Describe your position on the following topics: abortion, welfare, homelessness, unemployment, reparations, the war in Iraq, legalizing marijuana,
  25. Whom is the person you hate most?
  26. Where would you go on your ideal vacation? Describe what you would do.
  27. Describe your perfect wedding, honeymoon, and dream home.
  28. What’s the biggest regret you have had in your life?
  29. What is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done in your life?
  30. What’s the smartest thing you’ve ever done in your life?
  31. What aspects of your personality would you change if you could?
  32. What will they say about you at your funeral?
  33. How do you feel about going to counseling?
  34. What is the biggest improvement you need to make in your life?
  35. How many women have you had unprotected sex with?
  36. When will you know when you have found Ms. Right?
  37. What makes you think you are ready for a long term relationship?
  38. Why do you like me?
  39. What is the most important thing you want to teach your children?
  40. What is the most important thing that your parents taught you?

Any man who can answer those questions will have proven that he has done the work on himself that is deserving of a chance to be my man.

Pregnant with Desire

video

Pregnancy can be erotic. Explore the sensual side of being full with child in this selection of images and audio that celebrate the beauty of the ultimate gift of womanhood.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Do openly bisexual Black men really exist?

I'm only interested in openly bisexual Black men as partners. I'm not attracted to bi men who are DL, the ones who can't admit that they are physically or emotionally attracted to other men. I'm not looking for a super freaky threesome either. The last reason I'm looking for a bisexual man is sexual. I'm interested in openly bisexual Black men for many reasons, primarily because I'm attracted to men who have let go of absurd notions of gender and sexuality. I’m interested in bisexual men who can acknowledge that their manhood and masculinity aren't defined by how they experience pleasure. I'm only attracted to men who can distance themselves from the misogynist, patriarchal, sexist, oppressive notions of what it is to be man and how society tells men to relate to women. Men who have redefined their notions of top and bottom and see themselves as sexual beings without labels arouse me. I'm attracted to bisexual men for a host of socio-political reasons but I can't seem to find a bisexual man who is interested in forming a relationship with me. They either prefer men or they find some excuse to display knee jerk homophobia in front of other people. I desire an openly bisexual man. That doesn't mean that he has to wear a t-shirt in public saying "I like Dick," but he at least has to speak up when people say antiquated, homophobic comments. He can't pretend to be straight around people and then only admit his sexual attraction to men behind closed doors. We are so distorted and warped as a people; our sexuality is so unhealthy and dysfunctional that I'm beginning to think that openly bisexual men don't exist.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Healthy Black Sexuality Part 2

I don't even think we can get to a discussion of making love vs. having sex (or God forbid vs. fucking) if we can't even mention sex without the morality police stepping up and deeming that sex can't be discussed, mentioned, or debated.

Black Enterprise Magazine approached me, approached ME, about doing an article on my work as a Black female entrepreneur. I was excited as I was about to get the national exposure I have so long been seeking to combat that wretched Zane and her horribly offensive and degrading crap she calls erotica. Finally, I was going to get a national platform to talk about healthy Black sexuality. They told me that I would be getting a list of interview questions in an email and that I was to fill them out and send them back. I waited for that email, and waited, and waited. Finally, I contacted the young lady again and I told her that I hadn't received the interview questions and that I was anxious to get them. She then told me that Black Enterprise readers weren't interested in "my topic" and that they had a much more conservative readership. At which point I asked her if Black Enterprise readers had sex and she promptly hung up on me.

There is a knee jerk reaction in the Black middle class community that kicks in every time there is mention of sex. We can't even have academic discussions of sex without someone deeming that "those sorts of conversations aren't appropriate for this forum." The more we compartmentalize our sex, the more we allow our sexuality to be defined as dirty. Sure, not every conversation is appropriate for every venue but not every one is inappropriate either. The very same people who are sooooo quick to try to silence me at the mere mention of the word erotic are the very same people masturbating to images of pornography that degrade, demean, and objectify us as a people because they refuse to allow any other avenue of sexual expression to be acceptable.

People ask me all the time why I started writing erotica. My response is and has always been, that I am a single, highly-educated, African-centered, Black woman who is not aroused by dogs, thugs, pimps, drug dealers, basketball players, or rappers and I'm not a ghetto hoochie, ghetto whore, nor am I a ghetto big booty freak. Where do I turn for sexual arousal? I started writing erotica because there was nothing that spoke to me. I started writing erotica because I don't find interracial images of black men fucking white women to be arousing and I'm not represented by Black women with weaves, fake nails, and stripper shoes who have no clue what it is to be sensual, only sexual. I'm a 42 year old woman who hasn't been in a relationship in so long that it boggles the mind and I'm tired of men approaching me and thinking that just because I have a big booty and they have a big SUV, that I'm going to have sex with them. That's why I started writing erotica. I wanted to have something that spoke to men, that represented the types of relationships that I was looking for, that get me wet, that allowed me to masturbate to something that represented my view of Black life. I can't be the only woman, the only Black person, who wants or needs to find a sexual outlet that isn't sanitized and sterile but that isn't degrading and cliche either.

There is always this "what you are doing is corrupting children" backlash that I get. I had sex when I was 16 years old. I was far from the first girl of my peers to have sex, in fact, losing one's virginity at around that age was pretty average among my very middle class, suburban peers. That was LONG before BET made Black women out to be freaks, bitches, and ho's. That was long before Zane's books, portraying Black women as nymphomaniac adulterous gold digging, superficial whores, were passed around like a virus. That was LONG before children had access to the internet where every vile, disgusting, perverse sexual act is available to view for free with the click of a mouse. To assert that children, young teens, are going to be warped by my discussions of sexuality is laughable. I'm the only voice that is speaking out and saying that sex should be about love, intimacy, openness, communication, freedom, and responsibility. If anything, young teens need to be exposed to my brand of erotica in order to counter the negative images they see at every turn and to combat the oblivious parents who think that if they don't talk about sex, that their children will somehow escape being exposed to it.

Of course, there's always the, "Blacks aren't the only one's who are victims of the same behavior" argument. My concern is not other communities. My concern is the fact that 7 out of 10 Black children are being born out of wedlock. My concern is that a Black woman in her mid 30s is more likely to be struck by lightning than to get married. My concern is that African Americans are dying of AIDS at a disproportionate rate than any other race. So while other races, creeds, and whathaveyou may very well be steeped in sexual dysfunction, it is affecting US more detrimentally. There are scores of Black men who are impregnating white women to feed the sexual fetish of white couples to have their wives "bred black." There are scores of Black men going into white couples bedrooms every night of the week to feed white couple's racist Nigger Buck Mandingo fantasies. There are young Black women who have never had sex unless it involves some sort of exchange of money or services. Those things are the perils that will destroy our race if we continue to censor our conversations about sex and let some absurd religious/pious sanctimony dictate that sex can't be discussed.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

What is Healthy Black Sexuality?

For all too long Black sexuality has been defined by extremes. We have been defined as hypersexual, untamed savages who are ruled by our lust and far too many of us have embraced that misrepresentation without the presence of a healthier alterative example to model. Others of us have adopted a role of sexual conservatism in order to conform to a standard that tells us that the only sex that isn’t dirty . . . is boring. Somewhere between the freak and the frigid lies AfroerotiK sexuality.

Where do intelligent, middle class Black people turn to find sexual expression? What outlets do we have to be aroused without offensive, degrading, vulgar pornographic images? My work is providing such an outlet yet I'm continually and repeatedly told that my work is offensive. What's offensive is a nation of Black people who can't form healthy relationships because they don't know how to be open and honest with their partners about their needs, desires, and fantasies. What's offensive is that as an educated successful Black woman, I'm told that I'm a freak if I even make reference to sex, however academic the discussion. If my work glorified sex in exchange for money, cheating, or manipulation, that would be a perversion of sex. My work glorifies couples being intimate, communicating, sharing their secrets with one another and validating that adults, and young adults should be having sex based on LOVE first and foremost.

The African American community is diseased in our perceptions of sexuality. The middle class can't even have a conversation about sex; we can't even have a discussion about the subject of sex before someone is trying to censor it. The rest of us are out having unprotected, irresponsible sex like it's recreation. There's a vast difference between saying, "I'm a big booty ho looking to swallow seven loads of cum," and "I long to feel the sensation of your tongue licking me until I explode in your mouth." Until we as a people can discern the difference, until we as a people can stop relegating anything to do with sex as being dirty and unmentionable, we are doomed to be dysfunctional and sexually immature. We should be able to have discussions about sex in all forums, with relative boundaries in mind, and not be so quick to feign false indignation as if sex is dirty and unmentionable.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

How can we create change if we choose to be complacent?

I'm sickened by white people's racism and yet I'm even more saddened by Black people's inability to define, identify, and call out racist behaviors. No matter what white people say, as long as they finish it with, "I'm not racist," all is forgiven. A TEACHER yelled at his students that the new national anthem was going to be Movin' on Up, that the new flag was going to be the KFC flag, and his only reprimand . . . being suspended for discouraging the election glee of his students. Students of color no less. I've seen more Black people making excuses for their excitement in the last week, more blogs of how black people have chosen to remain silent at work in the post election depression of white people. How can we create change if we choose to be complacent in their racism? We must speak out, we must call them out, we must hold the news media responsible for their perpetuation of racism.

Monday, November 03, 2008

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UNDECIDED: YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS AND YOU KNOW IT

by Tim Wise

November 2, 2008, 10:21 am

To Whom It May Concern,

With so little time remaining before election day, and with so many things running through my mind--things that I'm hoping might, if presented correctly, somehow influence your vote--I hardly know where to begin. I guess I could speak to you about one or another public policy issue--perhaps health care, or education--and try to convince you that Barack Obama is the better choice. But I'm not going to do that. Not because I doubt that it's true, but because there's something more important to think about. It's about you, and who you are, and what you want to stand for and associate with come election day.

I won't try and change your mind about issues. My own ideological commitments are decidedly to the left, far more so than Barack Obama by the way (which is why I actually find it funny when folks suggest he's some far-out radical or socialist). I actually wish Obama were more bold in his progressivism, but many years ago I learned that when it came to presidential elections, I'd likely have to settle for voting for the candidate who I felt was better, even if they were far from my own ideal. I could spend the other 364 days fighting for what I believed in, without apology or compromise. Election day, for me, has always come to be about harm reduction: a political equivalent of the hippocratic oath. And that's OK.

I'm asking you now to make that same leap: to relinquish the need to be totally behind the person you vote for, and instead to make the best out of a situation that you may see as less than ideal, but which nonetheless posits a very serious choice in terms of which direction this nation travels, less so in terms of policy than in terms of tone, demeanor, and its overall political culture.

Because this election isn't just about taxes, or the war in Iraq, or energy policy, though it is all of those things. Honest and decent people can disagree about those subjects, as with any political issue. But this election is about the public face of the United States of America in the early twenty-first century. And when it comes to such a matter as this, the difference between an Obama and McCain vote couldn't be clearer.

If you don't believe me, I implore you to take a look at the numerous video clips of McCain and Palin's hardcore supporters (links embedded at the end of this letter) as they scream words of anger and hatred at Obama supporters who are merely standing with signs announcing their preference outside one or another McCain rally. These mobs, and that is what they are, are not merely people who disagree about issues with Senator Obama--which would be fine--but rather, they are persons who seem incapable of even seeing the humanity of their opponent, or his supporters. They are people whose vitriol and venom know few if any bounds. They are people who call him names that are only thinly-veiled racial slurs, who threaten him with violence, and who suggest that he is a "baby killer" whose election would destroy America. These are dangerous people, and what's important here, is that they are not like you.

If you agreed with this kind of rhetoric, I suspect you wouldn't be undecided, or perhaps merely leaning towards McCain. You would be a full-blown acolyte. That you are not suggests that you are trying to avoid the trap of overblown emotionalism. For that, I thank you. And for that reason I am asking you to consider that if you vote for McCain, you will not merely be voting for policies that you may prefer, but you will also be empowering some of these very forces visible in the videos. You will be casting your lot with them, making common cause with persons whose anger and rage threatens to tear the country apart at a time when we desperately need to come together to solve common problems. These forces, if victorious, would think their triumph a signal event, one that would give them a green light to ramp up the volume of their hatred even louder.

Although most McCain supporters are not like the thugs attending these rallies, surely it must give you pause to think that you could vote as they vote, that you might contribute to the election of a man whose base includes such persons as these. People who have verbally abused Obama campaigners canvassing door-to-door or on the phone, who suggest that we should "Bomb Obama," and who have spread vicious rumors about the candidate with no basis in fact. And through it all, Obama himself has sucked it up, smiled through it and tried to take the higher ground.

And so we return to that notion of the public face of our nation, which is on the line in two days. Do you want this nation to elect a man whose victory would be dependent on the kind of persons as you can see in these videos? People whose sole commodity is fear, contrasted with Obama supporters whose mantra of hope--however simplistic you may think it, and however vague it may indeed be--at least appeals to the better angels of our natures, and to the positive, constructive impulses that have animated the nation's people in their better moments.

Perhaps you think it unfair to link John McCain to the yahoos attending many of his events. Perhaps you feel that his status (self-proclaimed at least) as a maverick, would mean that, if elected, he would clearly distance himself from fringe wingnuts such as these. But you know what a real maverick would have done by now? A real maverick would already have distanced himself, clearly and repeatedly, from these folks. And John McCain has not. These videos have been bouncing around for weeks, and with the exception of one tepid comment about how both sides need to tone down the hostile rhetoric--which seemed to imply an equivalence between Obama supporters and the folks on those tapes that simply doesn't exist--McCain and Palin have said nothing. Rather, McCain said he was "proud" of the people at his rallies, including, apparently the kinds of people we can all witness spewing their bigotry for the world to see.

A real maverick would have said the following: "My friends, I want your vote, and I sincerely believe that I am the best man for this job. But if you are supporting me because you are afraid of having a black president, or because you believe my opponent to be a terrorist, or a Muslim (and you believe Muslims are evil and unqualified to hold office), or because you believe the long-since discredited rumors about him that have been bouncing around the internet, or if you wish him harm, either now or in the future, I am asking you not to vote for me. More than that, I am telling you not to. I am asking you to stay home on election day, because I don't want the support of people like you. If the only way I can win the presidency is on the backs of bigots, I'd rather not win."

Now THAT would have been a maverick move. It would have been a bold move, one filled with courage and honor and character. It would have cemented McCain's place in history as a man of principle. But he never said this, or anything remotely like it. He knows he can't win without the support of two groups: the crazies, and the undecideds. The first of these he feels confident he can hold. The second of these? Well, that's for you to decide. But for my money, I think you are not only smarter, but fundamentally more decent than that. On election day, please show the nation and the world that my faith in you was not misplaced.

Sincerely,

Tim Wise

LINKS TO McCAIN RALLIES:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vL20TdHjX2s
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fbpZXivv-M
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLuI1NHpQnc&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjxzmaXAg9E&feature=related

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Vote Flipping

What is being done about the vote flipping on these machines? Are we going to sit with our thumbs up our collective rear ends until McCain wins by fraudulent tallying and then cry, "Woe is me." like we did with Al Gore and John Kerry? Where is the MASSIVE legal attack on these machines NOW? We know the GOP has rigged the machines and yet we are sitting in silence. Time and time again, we are hearing voters say they voted for Obama and the machine flipped their vote to another candidate. Are we going to pretend that is merely coincidence? That smacks of throwing the election to me. What have we done all this work to get out the vote when the vote is being flipped before our eyes and no one is taking the Republicans to task. God forbid the machines were flipping votes to Obama from McCain, they would invalidate every vote and demand that the election be held again. Where are the legal motions filed by the DNC, and the Obama campaign to stop have paper ballots?

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Can you help me protect the vote?

The Obama campaign is launching an unprecedented Voter Protection Program that will fight to promote and defend the voting rights of every American.

They're looking for attorneys, law students, and those with legal expertise to help with this crucial effort.

I just signed up to be a part of the Voter Protection Program. Will you join me?

http://my.barackobama.com/counselforchange

Thanks

Scottie

Friday, October 17, 2008

Stop McCain NOW

Dear Friend,

John McCain and Sarah Palin have stopped talking about the issues, and have instead launched a strategy relying on fear-mongering, racial divisions, and hate. The result is McCain/Palin supporters saying "kill him!" "terrorist!" "traitor," and more, at rallies, with the McCain campaign playing dumb in response.It's outrageous and it must stop.

Together, we can show that Americans of all races won't stand for this.

I've signed onto ColorofChange's open-letter calling out McCain and Palin. ColorOfChange.org will publish it this week, and as they've shown in the past, when enough of us stand together, we can force the mainstream media to amplify our message. Will you join us?

http://www.colorofchange.org/united/?id=1594-290773

McCain-Palin rallies have started to look more like mob scenes than political events. The candidates keep asking "who is the real Barack Obama?" (a question that also kicks off almost every McCain television ad).In response, supporters have yelled "terrorist!" and "traitor!" And the venom goes beyond Obama--one McCain/Palin supporter shouted a racial epithet at a Black member of a news crew, saying "sit down, boy."

McCain and Palin are going down a dangerous path. Watching some of their supporters being interviewed shows the kind of fear their campaign is stoking and exploiting.McCain and Palin are clearly in the driver's seat. They've personally made it a point to use "terrorist" and "Obama" in the same sentence; they have surrogates repeatedly refer to him by his middle-name;and they keep pushing the discredited guilt-by-association smears that have long been debunked.

All of it plays on the much more sinister rumors in anonymous smear emails which claim Obama is Muslim (a myth designed to tap into anti-Muslim bigotry), anti-American, and is somehow connected with terrorists. This strategy is powerful because Obama is Black, and it's designed to make Obama's race a disadvantage without appearing overtly racist.

As Americans of all stripes, we've seen how Barack Obama's historic candidacy has moved our friends and family to have a more honest conversation about race in this country. It's inspired a lot of people to step out of their comfort zone and confront racism in their own communities, with their friends, neighbors and families.

In the final days of this campaign, we can't let a desperate John McCain and Sarah Palin drag us down. If enough of us act, we can create a powerful story in the media about Black people and our allies of all races standing together against race-baiting and fear-mongering coming from the McCain/Palin campaign. But it will take a lot of us speaking in unison.

Will you sign an open letter to McCain and Palin, telling them who you are and why you won't let them move our country backward? ColorofChange.org will publish the letter and make sure John McCain is forced to respond.

http://www.colorofchange.org/united/?id=1594-290773

Thanks.

Monday, October 13, 2008

A Twist of Fate

It’s funny how, in an instant, one’s entire programming can be shifted. Given the right circumstances, everything that you’ve ever believed, everything that you’ve fought, feared, and resisted can be twisted and morphed into the thing you crave the most. Such was the case with Taja Crawford, who took a frightening journey that would leave her breathless, satisfied in ways she didn’t know existed, and craving much more.

It all started innocently enough, when Taja arrived home late one night from shopping. She dragged her bags through the front door and dropped them at her feet as she reached around to hit the light switch. She’d been out shopping as usual. It had become her hobby of late in an ongoing effort to make herself feel valuable and beautiful. As soon as the door closed behind her, she knew something was wrong. It was pitch black! She remembered pulling into the subdivision and none of the other houses were dark so she figured that there must be a blown fuse somewhere. Her husband had been working around the house for a few days so she thought that he might have accidentally knocked something out.

“Phillip, are you here?” She called out to her husband again and there was no answer. “It just figures that dumb ass wouldn’t be here to fix the mess he made,” she mumbled half under her breath and half aloud. Taja’s anger at her husband was typical, even if he hadn’t done anything specifically wrong; she was going to find a way to blame him for something. Philip was a model husband but Taja’s irrational standards were impossible to meet. She took pleasure in degrading him every chance she got and knowing full well that he would take it. She thought it was nothing less than an honor and a privilege for any man to be with her, that men had an obligation to take anything that she dished out and not say a word. The more she could degrade him, the better she would feel about herself.

Disoriented by the darkness Taja fumbled to find her purse to get her cell phone. Just her luck, the battery had died. That just made her angrier and curse Phillip more, even though he clearly had nothing to do with her phone. Luckily for her, she’d just purchased some brand new candles so all she had to do was let her eyes adjust for a second and find the lighter, which was right on top of the fireplace in the living room.

Before she even had a chance to get her bearings . . . the unimaginable happened. It was every woman’s worst nightmare and it was happening in her own home. She felt the hands, the pressure, the pain, the fear overcome her body in a split second. Taja was grabbed and immobilized, her arms pulled around behind her as she cried out, “Nooooooooo. STOP,” but her cries were muffled by a black leather gloved hand over her mouth. She was pushed against the front door and she felt the air being forced out of her lungs. She fought, struggling with her assailant, trying to resist him but she was quickly overpowered. Her mind was racing, she was praying, she was planning a strategy for escape all at the same time. She was in a panic. Her fear was soon displaced by rage as she hated this person for invading her home and was filled with the desire to exact revenge, even in her current helpless state. She fought with all her might but she was overpowered as her limbs began to fatigue. She was no match for her assailant.

In a matter of seconds, she had calmed down enough to know that she was going to have to use her wits to get out of this situation. With his hand still firmly against her mouth, she tried to get some image of what this person looked like. Could it be someone that she knew? Was it a total stranger? Fear coursed through every vein in her body as she imagined it was one of her cyber lovers. She’d spent many late nights cheating online, chatting with men in explicit sexual language in an attempt to add some spice to her life, to taunt Phillip and prove to him that she could have any man she wanted. She’d been careless, sharing exaggerated, intimate details about her life in order to make herself seem more affluent than she really was. Maybe one of those men had come to do unspeakable sexual acts on her. Tears were burning in her eyes and a lump formed in her throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow. The adrenaline pumping in her body was causing her to sweat and her legs felt like gelatin.

Her attacker leaned in close and whispered, “Shhhhhhh,” and Taja nodded very calmly to indicate that she understood. As soon as he removed his hand, something was stuffed in her mouth and then a handkerchief or scarf of some sort was tied in place. Her first reaction was to try to scream to get a gauge of how much sound she could make through the material but she held off. She didn’t know if this person had a gun or a knife and what his intentions were so she played it cool until she could devise a plan. He placed a silk blindfold over her eyes and she was struck by his gentle touch. She noticed how he gently lifted her hair to secure the blindfold and the soft lingering touches he gave to her face. She felt the cold metal of a pair of handcuffs being put on her wrists. She needed to know what he wanted to do so she would have to gain his confidence enough to let her speak so she played the part of a scared victim but she was actually using her skills as an actress to make him think that she was incapable of escape.

The strange attacker led Taja down the hall to the spare bedroom and closed the door and locked it behind them. Her heart dropped when she thought about what had happened to her husband. Phillip wasn’t just your average good guy; he was a great guy. He owned his own handyman repair business, not glamorous but it paid the bills. He bought Taja her dream house and he didn’t even complain when he had no say in picking out anything, nothing, not one single thing for the house. He bent over backwards to be nice to Taja’s meddling sisters and her mother. Phillip went to church every Sunday even when Taja felt like she had more important things to do, like shop. He cooked, he cleaned, he even volunteered with disadvantaged youth, he would never cheat and he worked hard to provide for his wife. His only flaw, to Taja, was not being edgy enough. She saw the good qualities in Phillip but she wanted flash, she wanted a bad boy. Certainly, Phillip would never allow anything to happen to her, she knew he loved her with all his heart. She pushed the horrendous thought out of her mind about how her husband and the intruder might have struggled and fought, Phillip losing only to a bullet or knife wound, fighting to protect his wife. She didn’t hate Phillip, she didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, she just wanted him not to take her shit all the time; she wanted to be the wife of someone dangerous. It really wasn’t his fault that he was average.

The adrenaline was pumping in Taja’s veins and she was acutely aware of everything going on around her. Whatever happened, whatever was to happen, Taja maintained her senses and waited for her opportunity to escape.

The spare bedroom wasn’t even a room that she and Phillip usually used. It was for guests when they came to spend the night; the only time it was ever really used was when Phillip slept there once in a while to keep from angering Taja with his presence. The stranger led Taja to the middle of the room, and in a split second, Taja’s arms were hoisted above her head and attached to some sort of cable that was secured to the ceiling. It was the most unbelievably painful and uncomfortable sensation she had ever experienced. Taja was barely standing on her tiptoes and her arms were stretched to the point of excruciating pain. She was trying to balance herself and she felt herself flailing about like a rag doll. Her fight or flight instinct took over and she began crying uncontrollably. She felt her tears stream down her cheeks only to be absorbed by the handkerchief around her mouth. She tried to “feel” his presence in the room. He had moved back and was just listening to her muffled cries. She thought for a second that the end was near and everything would be over shortly. In her mind, she said her goodbyes and repented for her sins and waited for her untimely demise. What could have been seconds, what was probably minutes, but felt more like hours passed. The pain in her arms was unbearable; her legs ached from trying to relieve the pressure but her feet could barely reach the floor. Maybe he was going to leave her there to die, she thought; the victim of starvation, dehydration and torture.

Unexpectedly, he released the cable that suspended her from the floor and let her stand. Her arms were still above her head but the tension had been lessoned to the point where she could move them slightly. Taja was grateful to him for sparing her such pain and she realized that he had won one battle; he had made her appreciative of his small act of kindness.

He moved around in front of her and she could feel his body heat close to her. She felt his hands on her sides and run down to her full hips. He began caressing her breasts and sheer terror shot through her. Without notice, he ripped her blouse open, tearing it like it was nothing. Her breathing was heavy, knowing he was probably standing before her, aroused, but she was helpless to do anything about it. The telltale sign of the cold steel blade of a knife was pressed against her breasts as she froze. He cut away her bra and the remaining portions of her blouse until she stood topless. Having removed his gloves, he began caressing her neck, planting gentle, tender kisses on the nape of her neck and her collarbone. He licked gently, he kissed softly; from her ears to her shoulders and not missing a spot in between. His soft tongue licked up to her ear and he began blowing softly. His fingers stroked her flesh as he sucked the tender spot that always made Taja wet.

Rage coursed through Taja’s body. The unspeakable was about to happen. He was going to violate her, take from her something he had no right to take. For years, she had fantasized about being “raped”. Without regard for what the word actually meant, she fantasized that violent aggressive sex, that a man “taking” her, actually symbolized that she was more desirable than other women. The reality was vastly different.

Her mind was spinning, trying to reconcile the unadulterated fear coursing through her body and her arousal. She was searching for some way to make sense of the fact that while she was angered and scared she was actually enjoying this man kissing her sweet spot. He was making love to her neck with his mouth, licking and kissing and caressing her passionately. She shook her head to shake the thought that here she was, standing bare breasted and restrained by a total stranger, and on some level she was enjoying it. She was actually enjoying the sensation, it was giving her pleasure and it served to distract her from the pain in her arms that were still secured above her head and the anger of being assaulted. She was desperate to move her arms; her restraint was painful, both physically and psychologically.

In an act of kindness, her assailant unfastened the handkerchief around her face and removed the gag from her mouth. Taja immediately began pleading for her life, trying to talk rationally with the man. He didn’t say a word; he gently placed his fingers to her lips to indicate to her that he wanted her to be quiet. Taja froze, and bargained. “I’ll be quiet if you let my arms down a little, they hurt so badly. Please.”

He ignored her pleas as his fingertips began to gently trace her nipples, softly circling her breasts. Her erect nipples stood out from her body, proudly almost, betraying the fact that she actually enjoyed the stimulation. When he lowered his mouth to her tits, a small groan could be heard emanating from her throat. He filled his hands with her breasts and he held them to his mouth. Taja was outdone and began slightly thrusting back and forth, showing barely detectable signs of sexual arousal. She was enjoying his ministrations a little too much for her comfort. He began sucking a little harder and Taja bit her lip to keep from moaning. He started biting her nipples and it was as if it was sending shots of electricity directly to her clit. Her brain was misfiring, somehow causing her to experience the sensation as pleasure. She could feel moisture developing between her legs, the throb of arousal in her pussy. Taja was confused and determined to control her own desire. She was always in control and she was going to do whatever she had to do to keep her pussy from getting wet.

Even the best laid plans need room for variables. As Taja was trying to control her arousal, and the man before her was licking, sucking and biting her hard nipples, she experienced a sensation that would send her mind and body reeling. Her arms were beginning to numb, a dull ache had set in, and she was almost able to tune out the pain when she was jolted by a pain that transformed her focus. Nipple clamps were applied to her aroused nipples as her captor began to pull a chain attached to them. He was toying with her, alternating between softly caressing her breasts and roughly pulling the chain that was attached to the clamps. Taja wasn’t able to hide her arousal, she was moaning in pleasure and in pain. He took what felt like to be a riding crop and began gently slapping her tits. Taja was undone; she felt every sting as pleasure.

Without notice, he stopped, causing Taja’s mind to spin out of control with questions. “What is he thinking, what is he planning, what was he doing?” As soon as he stopped the assault on her breasts, she was reminded of the pain in her arms, still suspended from the ceiling. Within seconds, the cable that held her arms in the air was released enough to let her arms fall completely. He massaged them for a few minutes, taking the opportunity to massage and lick her breasts as well. This time, without the gag, it was impossible for Taja to hide the fact that she was aroused; her moans were audible and guttural. Her arms were burning and sore and his massage felt delicious.

He pushed her to her knees and circled her like a lion stalking its prey. Still unable to see anything, there was no mistaking the sounds of his zipper being lowered. Taja waited, anxious to be thrown into the next phase of arousal and stimulation. She couldn’t deny to herself that she was experiencing pleasure in ways that she had never imagined possible. The restraint, the pain, the fact that it was a total stranger controlling her fate . . . all turned Taja on and she was craving more sensation. When it was all over, when she would tell the tale later, she would deny her arousal, now; she was going to bathe in the nasty and sensual feelings that had been awakened in her.

She felt the tip of his dick against her lips. He held it there, neither one of them making a move to initiate any action. Ever so detectably, he began rubbing it on her lips. The salty, semi-sweet precum that had formed on the head of his dick painted her lips and her first instinct was to lick the fluid away but she remained like a statue, not wanting to scare her captor or cause him to get antsy. He began to stroke his hard dick and she could hear him moaning. He put his thumb in her mouth and continued stroking his dick. Taja was confused. He could easily have shoved his dick in her mouth and there wasn’t much she could do about it. She swallowed the saliva that had collected in her mouth and realized that it simulated a sucking action. He groaned loudly.

He took his thumb out of her mouth and he grabbed a hand full of her hair. Taja let out a yelp and he pulled her hair even tighter in his grip. His breathing was getting more labored and he had now begun to push the head of his dick between her lips. For the first time, Taja wanted to please her home invader. She wanted him to be pleased with her oral skills, to consider her sexy and to want her. Being objectified was her drug of choice and she was high and addicted to the sensation.

The man with his dick in her mouth wasn’t interested in her thoughts and reflections, he was going to fuck her mouth and she wasn’t going to have much say in the matter. He pushed his dick in to her mouth and he stood perfectly still. Taja imagined that he was equally as afraid of losing an appendage as she was afraid of what he might do if she accidentally bit him. Taja wanted to control the action, she wanted to give him a blowjob the way she wanted to do it but that was not to be. He knew what he wanted and he communicated it to her without saying a word. He controlled the pace; he controlled the action. When he wanted her to lick, he pulled her head back, when he wanted her to suck, he shoved his dick in her mouth to the base. He grabbed the back of her head and used her mouth for his pleasure. She could feel every vein, every ridge against her tongue as he face-fucked her. She gagged and choked as he forced the head of his erection down her throat and it seemed to turn them both on.

Taja was enjoying the rough treatment. She was aroused by the way this man was using her and she was stimulated by the fact that he didn’t really let her control the action. She got into the blowjob and started trying to give him pleasure like she’d never done to anyone in the past. It was important for her self-esteem to think of herself as an object of desire and she got into sucking and licking like never before. It was the sloppiest, wettest, loudest blowjob she had ever given and even found herself moaning and enjoying it. It was as if she didn’t have to pretend to be reserved anymore, like she had been conditioned to be; she could be a wanton, sexual slut, and that thought sent chills up her normally judgmental and conservative spine. She rationalized that he was forcing her to behave in this whorish manner and she let go of whatever beliefs that told her she was being a bad girl, she wanted to be naughty and, dare she admit it, submissive.

She felt the head of his dick pounding her throat and she didn’t tense up, she went with the sensation. He got thicker and harder in her mouth as he fucked her mouth more. Taja’s hands were rubbing her pussy through her pants and her attacker was making noises like a wounded animal. He grabbed her by the throat and restricted her air. The rougher he treated her, the more moisture soaked her panties. She was being held captive by a man she didn’t know and she was more trusting of him than she had been with all of her previous lovers.

“Shit,” he cried out, the first word he had uttered all night, and he backed away.
Taja was dazed and caught off guard. In the frenzy of her arousal, she had almost forgotten that he was a real individual. Why had he stopped? Had she done something wrong? She hated herself for wanting him not to stop. Had he shot his load on and not wanted to do it in her mouth? Visions of his dick, shooting cum on the floor as he stood over her, stroking it, enraged her. “Damn you, you son of a bitch. Let me go, RIGHT NOW! You’ll be sorry for this.” She really wanted to beg for his cum in her mouth but she knew not to say another word. She was on fire and it was impossible to deny at that point. She began to plead with him again to let her go but in the back of her mind she wanted to experience just a little bit more erotic torture.

He pulled her to her feet and removed her pants. With painstaking slowness, he pulled them down over her full hips and tossed them to the side. Taja stood motionless, afraid to move, not sure of the reasons why. Her attacker led her to the bed and secured the handcuffs to the headboard. She was laying face down and he made her get on her knees. Taja was embarrassed to be so exposed, so vulnerable yet so aroused. Again, he left her there for a few minutes in silence and in darkness.

She felt the bed shift as he climbed on with her. His hands began caressing her back gently, massaging her sore arm muscles again. Everything he did, he did with such tenderness and care, and it was at that moment that she first thought that her attacker could actually be her husband.

“Phillip, is that you? Let me go. Stop this, this isn’t funny.”

If it was her husband, if it was Phillip, he would surely let her go, he knew she was really in control, he knew that whatever she said was the final word. That belief was shattered when she felt the sting of a sharp slap on her ass. The pain rattled her sense of reality and traveled up and down her spine. Phillip would never defy a direct order from her let alone be so aggressive. She began to panic again. Had she underestimated this perpetrator? Reality sunk in and she began to sob uncontrollably. “Please, please let me go,” she cried.

“Count,” he said.

While Taja was wondering what he intended for her to count, she felt the sharp sting of another blow on her ass. It took of few seconds for her brain to comprehend and she was able to eek out, “One,” not sure if that was the correct response or not, just going with her gut. He followed the slap to her ass with soft kisses to her disciplined flesh. His hands massaged her breasts, rubbed her clit and soothed her sexy round bottom. She felt decidedly masculine hands caress the tender flesh of her ass. His hands were kneading her body and gently stroking her thighs and back. His fingers separated her butt cheeks and he ran them lightly over her asshole. Taja froze in terror. The man responsible for her restraint then slid his fingers down to her soaking wet pussy and rubbed her swollen clit. Taja was pissed, embarrassed, and annoyed at herself for being aroused. She wanted and needed to regain control so she began talking again, trying to hide her true feelings, begging to be let go.

The next blow came without warning and she cried out “Owwwww,” as tears formed in her eyes. She remembered to say “Two,” and lay her head on the pillow as an act of exhaustion, both physical and mental. What followed was more caressing and more spanking, more fingering and more counting, more tender touches and searing pain combined. She felt his hands caressing the tender and heated flesh of her ass. The more he caressed, the wetter her pussy became. He would rub her sore nipples and spank her butt and thighs. It was torture; erotic, sensual, heavenly torture. Her head was reeling; it wasn’t supposed to feel pleasurable. She wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this. The stinging was registering in her brain as bliss and she was tormented by the fact that each slap was followed by him gently rubbing her clit to near orgasm. She began to look forward to each slap, to him bringing her closer and closer to fierce explosion every time. By the time she got to twenty, she was experiencing each slap as pleasure, each sting was ecstasy. Her pussy was dripping and her clit was throbbing and she was desperate to cum.

Without warning, she felt the softness of a tongue licking her soaking wet pussy. “Noooo, she cried out, not sure why she was saying it; she truly didn’t want him to stop. She was trying to stop him from having more control over her and the fact that he was teasing her with such expertise. She was pulling against her restraints, and trying to fight her own orgasm as he licked her from front to back.

There was no stopping him; he was going to make her cum and cum hard. She fought it with her mind but her body was betraying her intentions. She had been so aroused for so long, she was at the brink of sensual release. Ecstasy washed over her body and his lips gently sucked her clit as his tongue fucked her hole. He lapped and licked, nibbled and sucked and made her grind her pussy on his face. She moaned in the pillow and begged him not to stop.

She felt the head of his dick rubbing her pussy. She was beyond the point of rational thought. Like a light switch going off in her head, she realized that the life of control and rules she had lived by were mere illusions. She wanted to be fucked, fucked good, fucked hard, and fucked long. She needed to be fucked. She heard the words coming out of her mouth but they sounded like they were coming from someone else. They sounded like they were coming from a wounded animal. “Fuuuuuck meeeee pleeeeease.”

Time froze. In an instant, the handcuffs were released and a small nightlight was turned on. She could tell her captor got off the bed and stood back, waiting for her to make a move. She kept her head in the pillow with her ass in the air, not moving an inch. She knew she should get up and run but she couldn’t. She wanted to turn around and see the face of her captor. She remained frozen. She said it again, this time aware that she could no longer claim to being forced to do anything. “Fuck me.”

The ringing in her ears and the desperation in her wet pussy drove her to say the words that she wouldn’t have thought possible two hours earlier. She felt the head rub from her clit to her asshole and she arched backwards, trying to get him to penetrate her. She was desperate to feel that sensation of him hitting bottom deep inside her. She needed to feel full with his hardness, the ecstasy that a woman can only feel when a big hard dick is filling her, stretching her, pounding her. It was a strange twist of fate that had her craving the very sensation that she had fought all her life to deny. She wanted to be submissive, to let go of all the stereotypes and standards that told her that she had to be a strong black woman that didn’t put up with anything, that called all the shots. She realized that her freedom was in letting go, was in letting someone else have the reins of control and it had nothing to do with her being weak, it was simply a shift in power. She was tired of pretending that she had to be everything to everyone, she was tired of needing to feel like a bitch. In that moment she wanted to surrender to sensations that she had no control over and she craved that release.

“Say it again,” he said again calmly.

In a surreal declaration, she said the words that released her from her invisible bonds. “Now! Please! Fuck me!”

With those words, he took the head of his dick and placed it at the head of her asshole. Anal sex was something she’d done before but it had been a long time ago, with boyfriends that insisted she had to do it to prove that she loved them. It’d been many years since she even thought about doing it and fear paralyzed her body. She wasn’t even sure she could take it. There was no doubt in her mind that it was going to hurt. Why then, was her body screaming out for this stranger to do it? She wanted to feel like she was giving him the ultimate symbol of her submission to him.

Exquisitely slow and with exhausting skill, her captor managed to get the head inserted with no pain at all. Taja was sweating and her musky scent was reminiscent of a wild animal but it was sexy and primal. The fact that just the head of his dick was inside her was driving her out of her mind. She started pushing back and driving more meat inside her backdoor. The sensation of being filled like that was causing her to grunt and moan. It was as if she couldn’t breath and every millimeter shoved inside her felt like miles of orgasmic pleasure. Teeth marks were embedded in the pillowcase and her hands gripped the sheets tightly. Through it all, he wouldn’t move and inch; he let her control the penetration. It was only when she reached between her legs to rub her clit that she realized that he was completely buried inside her. She’d past her threshold of pleasure and it was time for some fast and furious fucking.

Taja had to grab the headboard to keep her head from being rammed. In an instant, he was fucking her senseless. She pushed back; he pumped harder. Every inch of his dick was driven deep inside her and she adored the sensation. Rockets went off inside her head and she was outside herself. Taja was now another person, another woman who had no fears, no inhibitions. She needed to get fucked and she wasn’t afraid to ask for it all night long. He grabbed her hips; she rubbed her clit. He was moaning, she was groaning. She came without him missing a beat and he kept fucking her through her orgasm. Sweat formed on both of them and they grunted and groaned like wild animals. They fucked into the night until Taja passed out from pleasure and exhaustion.

The morning came and sunlight filtered through the blinds. Taja awoke, her arms and legs and ass were sore. The smells of eggs and coffee were coming up the stairs. Phillip entered the room and held out her robe. “Breakfast is ready.”

She stood on shaky feet, still weak from the incredible fuck she had gotten and the restraint her body had endured. “We need to talk . . ." Her words were cut off with the familiar finger that has silenced her the night before.

Phillip had no words to explain his behavior or his actions. He, too, had been struggling with his perceived role as doormat versus being a “man” and he had devised this plan to show his wife who was the boss. While he had done it for her he had come to some personal revelations of his own. If being the boss meant that he had to be someone that was unnatural to him, he wanted no parts of that. He stood his ground as he waited for her verbal assault, quite sure she was going to go back to full bitch mode.

Never having had a previous occasion to be humble, Taja was rendered speechless. Her journey to self-discovery started with a paralyzing fear and ended with a frightening revelation. She let Phillip help her on with her robe. She rested her head on his shoulder and he put his arms around her. She’d lost a piece of herself and found it in losing control. There was no turning back, only relinquishing old beliefs in a strange twist of fate.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

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