I will be the first to admit I’m not sure how people form healthy relationships. I don’t know what happens behind closed doors, perhaps what I see as a healthy relationship from the outside is really just dysfunction masquerading as two people who love one another so much that they work out their differences, however slight I might imagine them to be, and they work together to form a singular unit of love. I’ve seen love. My grandparents loved one another. I know healthy relationships have to exist, I couldn’t imagine one if they didn’t. I just don’t know how to form one.
I seem to draw men to me whom I love more than they love me. I would like to give myself credit for getting closer and closer to my ideal relationship with each love I share. I would love to be able to see each failed relationship as not only a testament to my ability to love and be loved, but as a lesson learned. Depending upon how far away I am from each respective relationship, the perception of how wonderful the men I’ve loved have been and how valuable the lesson learned changes. Each and every time I’ve fallen in love, which has been five times now, I’ve given my love unconditionally. Only once was has it been returned equally. (How tragically sad is it that I was nineteen years old at the time!) Suffice it to say, all of my relationships have failed and I’m middle-aged, facing the possibility that I might be that crazy, single relative at the family reunion who is slightly off and everyone feels pity for.
I’m plagued with asking myself if it isn’t something inherent in me that attracts men who can’t love me the way I want to be loved. As many people love to tell me, I’m a horrible wretch of a person who is unlovable and undeserving of love. That can’t be true. Everyone is deserving of love. I mean, I haven’t done anything terrible, I have committed no crime for which my sentence was to die alone and unloved. I’m sure I’m deserving of love, of this I’m positive, I’m just not sure I know why a happy, healthy relationship has remained so elusive for me. As I’m sure every single woman has asked herself, what are the things in a man that are deal breakers and what are the things that are nothing more than differences that can be overcome? Whatever that balance is, I haven’t found it yet. I give men the benefit of the doubt when I shouldn’t.
I ask myself, how much does chemistry, compatibility, and connection play in forming a relationship? I have loved a man with whom he and I shared no absolutely similar belief systems and I forgave his shortcomings because the chemistry was electric. I loved a man who shared an inherent connection of like spirits but intellectually we were … not equals. I loved a man who was 100% compatible, we had chemistry off the charts, but ethically his true self was polar opposite to my every sensibility. He was working on his issues and for that I gave him credit. Too much credit it seems as he was emotionally deceptive with me, telling me he cared for me much more than he actually did. In retrospect, I can see that he was never good enough for me. He was never going to be as honest as I wanted him to be, he was never going to have as much integrity as I needed him to have; he never possessed the emotional maturity of a man who was deserving of my love. I settled for his potential, what he and I could have become. I don’t think I was wrong for that but my brain finds it hard to process the dissolution of yet another relationship because loving is something I crave in my life, it is such an integral part of my identity.
I give credit to anyone who has found someone with whom to share their lives. I am awed by the commitment it takes to form a relationship where you share values, morals, interests, and goals. I want that. I’m not sure I’ll ever achieve it. Perhaps it is my life lesson to go without that which I seek most.
I’m not really sure how I got to be so different, see things so differently than the rest of the world, than the rest of my family even. I mean, I didn’t have particularly radical parents who raised me to buck the system and question the status quo. I had a dysfunctional, conformist mother who strived for mediocrity and lived to justify her belief systems with a circle of friends who thought just like her. My grandparents were activists, radical for their time, but they were the definition of mainstream. I have to sit back and ask myself, how is it that I came to see the ills of society and have a need, a compelling drive to correct the wrongs that color the very fabric of our existence. I mean, how is it even possible that in a family of Christian, conservative deacons, deaconesses, trustees, and ushers who have never once thought to question the religion the slave master gave them, that I stand alone as the symbol of religious tolerance? You see, I see don’t see Jesus as the one way to Heaven. I think Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Yoruba, and a host of other religions are all equally valid. I don’t think any of them is completely true, nor do I think they need to be. I think that religion is supposed to give people is a sense of grounding and peace, not intended to be the divisive tool that its used as to perpetuate war and hate. People assume that because I don’t identify as Christian any longer that I’m some amoral atheist. Nothing could be further from the truth. I believe in a Divine, universal, scientific Creator that masterfully, intentionally, lovingly crafted the most complex, beautiful system of organisms that ALL operates to glorify them. How did I come to such an understanding? Hell if I know.
How did I come to embrace all forms of sexuality as acceptable? Look around you and ask yourself how many people do you know who can see a transgendered person as unique, valid, and deserving of every single solitary right as every other human being on the planet. Sadly, not many. I was raised in a family were there was no tolerance for anything other than heterosexuality. I see a host of reasons that contribute to a person’s sexual preferences and I don’t necessarily place any more value on nature or nurture, as long as a person chooses to love whom they love, they have a right to do so in freedom without my or anyone else’s judgment. Sexuality, as far as I’m concerned, is such an irrelevant issue, such a minimal facet of a person’s entire being that I place absolutely no importance on some societal need to condemn anyone for whom they are attracted to. How is it that I’ve known since I was a child that loving someone had absolutely nothing to do with what genitals were between their legs? When I look at the people who surround me at family dinners, do I see anyone who mirrors my opinions? Nope.
I wear my hair short and nappy with pride. I’m among a very small (but thankfully growing) population of Black women who embrace our natural, God-given hair texture. I’m not even sure how I could have come to such a revelation because among my peers and family, I’m almost singular in that view. I have more integrity, less fear, and am singularly the most introspective person I know. I can totally see how I learned to fight racism; I was raised in a family where civil rights were as important as religion and education. What I’m not so sure about is where I became so comfortable embracing my identity as a descendant of slaves and as an African. Most Black people see slavery as something shameful and something to be denied and wouldn’t identify with anything African if you paid them. I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of understanding how the collective African American consciousness came to be and restoring it to a place of wholeness. I can assure you, not many people think like me.
Perhaps, most significantly, I write erotica. Not only do I write erotica, but I write erotica with an agenda. I use sex as a tool to teach Black people how to love and white people how not to be so fucked up. Certainly, one would assume that I was raised in a family where sex was openly discussed and where I was taught to see sex as healthy. Yeah … not so much. Sex was dirty, not talked about, and something only for married people. Where did I find this voice? Where did I get the confidence to express myself in an unapologetic, explicit voice and not feel the need to censor my thoughts or curb my language in order to get my thoughts out to people? I don’t understand how I or why I’m so different. Why am I so willing to step outside the box, to think so differently? It makes no sense to me. I wasn’t raised in an environment that nurtured my individuality; I was raised to conform. I feel as if I’ve taken the red pill, or the blue pill, whatever color pill makes you wake up from the matrix. But I didn’t ask to take a pill. For all intents and purposes, I should be a corporate climbing, Christian, cog in the machine. Being different isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s an isolated existence where I’m constantly being challenged to defend my beliefs and countered with irrational logic. I’m not sure how I got to where I am today, all I know is that I can’t go back. I can’t close my eyes to the truth, I can’t unlearn it, I can’t be “normal” at the risk of part of my soul dying. It’s a very lonely path I’m traveling.
I was in deep reflection today, thinking about making love to you. For some reason, thoughts, metaphors and analogies kept floating around in my head like lyrics to a song. I couldn’t stop thinking about how when you are deep inside me, and our bodies are moving together, we are like an instrument. A guitar perhaps; your fingers gently strum my taut and tense places which elicits a sounds that serenade the angels. Perhaps; I you are my harp, cradled gently between my legs as I play your body with artistic flair. More than an instrument, we are like magical music together. The staccato rhythm and pounding beat of our bodies making that hot sweaty passionate love is a concert to the senses. Your taste is the melody, your scent the rhyme, your moans of pleasure are a sensual harmony and the feel of you deep inside me keeps time. You are Marcus Miller laying the baseline for my Miles and miles of orgasmic bliss.
Damn, what have you done to me? I can’t stop thinking about how you make me feel. I can’t decide which sensation I like the most. Your tongue is magical; licking me, literally, from head to toe. Your arms envelope me and make me feel like I’ve found home. Your hands grab my hips and let me know you are steering this ship of pleasure and I’m a passenger on the Lust Boat.
What do you say to the idea that we not let all this passion I have for you go to waste? I have a taste for you and it’s not going to be satisfied by anything else. I want to hear you moan and tell me how good I make you feel. And if you are a good boy, there might be some other little surprises in store for you as well. I think I owe you a night of selfish pleasure for all the times you’ve given me such immense ecstasy. Can you imagine me bringing you to the very verge of orgasm and stopping until you are more desperate to be inside me than you’ve ever been? The offer is on the table. What say you, maestro?
The feel of the cool cement floor against his face allowed John Anderson to be revived momentarily. Drool pooled beneath his cheek, seeping uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth. A single, uncovered red light bulb hung precariously from an extension cord that had been duct-taped to the ceiling in the middle of the basement, providing the only source of illumination in the make-shift dungeon that had been his coven for the past three days. He was still disoriented from the pain, pain that permeated every cell, muscle, and sinew in his body. With his arms still securely tied behind his back, it was actually the pain of hunger that roused him from his unconscious state.
Tempted to call out, to ask for help, to request nourishment, John knew better than to do anything that might stir the wrath of his Mistress. His throat was sore, his voice weak from having his mouth savagely fucked by both dildos and cocks, all relentless in their efforts to leave his throat and jaw aching. Load after load of hot cum had been deposited inside him from both ends. Salvation came in the form of the click of his Mistress’ heels against the exposed floor. John was too weak to lift his head to greet her properly. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained from his experience. Oddly enough, even after days of humiliation, perversion, and inexorable punishment masterminded by this brutal woman, he felt satisfied. He was content, blissful in fact that he had finally found the mentally sadistic Black bitch of his dreams, the one individual who divested him of his arrogance, his false sense of superiority, of his white male attitude.
A mere 72 hours previously, he could have said no such thing. Three days earlier, John was clueless as to the potential his long weekend would hold. He’d flown into New York City for business actually but he’d arranged to arrive a few days early for some hardcore playtime as well. He’d been corresponding with a certain Dominatrix who called herself Mother Africa. Everyone lies on the Internet and everyone exaggerates so he assumed her claims of psychological domination expertise and race play were blown out of proportion. He’d been sufficiently aroused by their initial interaction so he thought it would be interesting to say the least to see where it could lead.
Mother Africa was a soft-spoken, pleasant woman. They’d communicated on the phone several times as well as chatted online. Not once did she come off as irrational or overly demanding. In fact, her demeanor could have been described as sweet. She said she dabbled in BDSM when the notion hit her and she was extremely selective of the subs with whom she chose to play. She never brought up the subject of money and she wasn’t even particularly interested in cam shows or making John perform tasks to show his sincerity or submissiveness. She did ask a lot of questions: blunt, straightforward, embarrassing questions. “Do you have a small cock? Have you ever eaten shit? How many times have you been fucked in the ass? Do you get off on being dressed like a sissy?” All those questions and more rolled off her tongue as easily as if she was casually asking about the weather. To make matters worse, she didn’t allow any stalling or beating around the bush when it came to answering the questions. She demanded direct, explicit answers with exacting details and made it clear that her time was precious and she had no tolerance for coy or elusive answers. John was outrageously aroused by her demeanor, by the fact that she could be so open and unambiguous about what she wanted. It was that aloof sense of superiority that cemented the deal, that set the stage for their meeting. Thinking he was paying her a compliment, he mistakenly said, “Of all the profiles of Black Dommes I’ve read online, yours is the most amazing I’ve ever come across. You’re different. Your analysis of race is humbling to say the least and you are obviously very intelligent. I can’t believe you understand the mind of submissive white men so well.”
She replied by saying, “Are you suggesting that most Black Dommes are stupid and that white men are so incredibly complex so as to render them indecipherable?”
John backtracked, apologizing and trying to clarify. “Ohhhh, noooo. I was just saying that it’s clear that you are very well educated. I was … I was paying you a compliment, believe me. It’s rare to come across someone as articulate as you are.”
“Well, let me see if I understand,” she said. “Based on what you’ve repeatedly told me, you believe that women are superior to men. Additionally, you’ve said numerous times that you find Black women specifically to be the ultimate archetype, that we are, in fact, Goddesses, ‘supreme beings’ to you— your words not mine. Yet it seems like you’re saying that you’re shocked that I’m not some illiterate welfare queen who can barely form a coherent sentence, that you can’t believe that I’m as intelligent as say … a white person. To my untrained ear, it sounds as if you’re saying that understanding the mind of a submissive white man requires super human/magical powers because a normal Black woman simply isn’t capable of understanding your uncomplicated albeit warped desires. Does that about summarize what you’re trying to say? Because what I hear you saying is that you’re practically dumbfounded that you found a Black Domme who is as intelligent as … you are. I can assure you that I am outrageously offended by the notion that you would even consider yourself qualified to judge my intellect, let alone compliment me for it. Moreover, white men are transparent and simple in their desires and it hardly takes a superior intellect to dissect your rather uncomplicated motives. Additionally, the fact that you seem to espouse such love for Black women and then make underhanded, disparaging comments about us is quite troublesome. It leads me to believe that you don’t actually think we’re truly superior but nothing more than sexual fetishes for your depraved fantasies.”
He couldn’t even form words. He was speechless. His cock was rock hard and dripping precum and his mind was reeling from arousal. He mumbled another insufficient apology. “I’m so sorry Mother Africa. That’s not at all what I meant. I’m just a stupid white boi. Please forgive me. Is there something I can do to make it up to you?” He almost couldn’t hear her response he was jerking off so frantically just from her verbal reprimand. John loved being put in his place. He loved being knocked down from his self-defined pedestal of superiority. The sensation of being told off, of being made to feel stupid was almost like having electricity sent from his nipples, to his cock, all the way to his asshole.
They made arrangements to meet in October and his assignment over the course of the preceding month, his prerequisite for play as it were, was to read Nile Valley Contributions to Civilization by Anthony Browder and The Black Holocaust for Beginners by S.E. Anderson and write a literature review for each of them. Never in his life had John even heard of someone requiring homework for a domination session so he didn’t take his task too seriously. He googled the books and found them on Amazon and printed out their reviews. They seemed like interesting reading from what he gathered but he didn’t even bother to buy the books.
Twenty minutes late, he rushed into the lobby of the Hyatt authentically upset for being tardy; slipping the bellboy $50 to take the rest of his luggage to his room. He’d wanted to be there early to make a good first impression but midtown traffic wasn’t so kind. As arrogant as he tended to be, he did understand the rules of D/s play and was fully aware that leaving a Domme waiting was a big no-no. She was already there, seated at the table of the restaurant, looking just as one would think a woman who called herself Mother Africa would look. She wore her hair in a big Afro like a character from a 70s Blaxplotation flick. Without any makeup at all, her brown complexion was glowing and radiant. She wore a t-shirt with some sort of graphic design of an African mask on it that accentuated her rather large breasts and a long denim skirt that reached the floor. Her Timberland boots were so small they looked like a child’s size. She wore an arm-full of wooden bracelets on her right arm and an arm-full of copper bangles on her left arm that made noise every time she punctuated her sentences with arm movements. One thing for sure, she was far more attractive in person than she was in her photos and she didn’t seem at all like John expected. She looked like she could have been a graduate student waiting to have lunch with her professor rather than a Dominatrix ready to use and abuse a white boi.
Mother Africa stood to greet him and turned her face to indicate that he should kiss her cheek as a sign of respect. She graciously accepted his apology for being late, seemingly very understanding of the unavoidable traffic from JFK. They sat and ordered lunch and had a very pleasant chat, not at all strained or awkward, without even the slightest hint of strain. Erotic tension was in the air. She teased and tormented him effortlessly and with skill and everything was going great, up until the moment she asked to see the summaries of the books he was assigned to read.
John got away with anything and everything in life with his good looks, money, and arrogance. In that moment, as he fumbled in his carry-on bag for the wrinkled papers, he felt ashamed he hadn’t even attempted the assignment he’d been given. This was a real woman, a real-life flesh and blood woman whose dominance and superiority were evident in her very aura, not some picture on the Internet, and he was about to let her down. He realized he’d fucked up by not following her orders. He wasn’t about to let it show on his face however, and he handed the papers over and began what he thought was a fairly decent but superficial discussion of what he’d read from the printouts.
“What is this?” Mother Africa didn’t even bother to pick up the papers; she had a look of disgust on her face.
“It’s the reviews you asked for,” John said, trying to appear confident.
Crossing her arms in front of her, she didn’t say a word, her face not showing any signs of emotion.
John’s heart was pounding. This was the stuff of submissive dreams. He could either choose to be defiant and willful, arousing her ire and wrath and eliciting what would surely be a severe session in discipline or he could choose to be apologetic and remorseful, showing the respect that every true sub longs to display in the presence of one to whom he truly feels inferior. It wasn’t a decision he had to contemplate for too long as his cell phone rang and he held his finger up to excuse himself and answered the call. For a good three minutes, he talked business, never taking his eyes off the lovely woman who sat inches from him, hoping the length of the phone call would distract her from his blunder.
Leaning in, Mother Africa whispered to him, “I see you are here to waste my fucking time.” With that, she took his cell phone from him, summarily closed it, and dropped it in his water glass.
John stood up, knocking over his chair, causing quite a scene. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you crazy? First of all, that was an important call. Second, that phone was expensive. Every contact I have is in that phone. WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with you?”
Mother Africa stood and walked away, leaving John there trying to dry his cell phone with his linen napkin, looking like an idiot screaming and cursing in front of the other lunch patrons. John knew in that moment that he’d pushed too far. He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want things to end before they had even started and he ran after her. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing her arm before she entered the revolving doors of the hotel.
She turned, looking at his white hand on the brown flesh of her arm and then looking directly in his eyes. Her eyes burned a hole in his soul. If looks could kill, John knew that he would die a slow, painful death. She didn’t say a word. She communicated everything she wanted to say with her eyes. She didn’t even have to move them; it was if she was telepathically giving him commands. There in the middle of the very public lobby of the Hyatt Regency in New York City, John Anderson, knelt on one knee and kissed the hand of Mother Africa and said, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.” To the average person, it might have looked like he was popping the big question. He looked up for approval and it was apparent his actions weren’t enough. His face was burning from embarrassment and he heart felt as if it might actually explode. His cock was straining against his pants and he felt like he might faint. Looking around quickly, he knew that if he were to truly seek the forgiveness of this divine woman, he would have to assume a truly inferior position. The shame of it all was intoxicating and she still hadn’t said a word. On his hands and knees, he lowered his head to her foot and placed his lips on her boot and kissed it. “Please, forgive me Mistress. I beg you for the opportunity to make it up to you,” he said, loud enough for anyone nosey enough to want to hear.
“Follow me,” she commanded as she walked outside into the beautiful Fall afternoon. John panicked. He stood up and looked around at all the people who were trying to be discrete but staring at his blatant display of submissiveness. He ran back to the table, threw some money on the table for the food that they hadn’t even eaten, grabbed his bag, and ran after her, praying that she would still be outside.
The bell captain called out to him. “Sir … the young lady … the one who … well sir, she told me to put you in a cab and have it take you to an address but I’m not supposed to tell you where.” John looked around again, sure that everyone in the world could read his every deviant desire. He was humiliated but more aroused than he’d ever been. Slipping the bell captain a hundred dollar bill, he got in the cab and it set out for an unknown destination. What was less than a half hour ride seemed like it took an eternity. As the taxi weaved its way in and out of traffic to a quiet, tree-lined street in Queens, John was tempted to whip out his cock and masturbate right then and there.
They arrived at an unassuming looking house and he paid the cabbie, tipping him well also, and clutched his bag so hard his knuckles were white. He made his way to the front door and knocked, terrified that he was being set up but never more determined to experience additional discipline from this amazing woman.
Mother Africa opened the door. “Go around to the back,” and she shut the door in his face.
Making his way to the backyard, John knocked again. This time, a Black man answered the door. Wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots, he clearly resembled Mother Africa in his attire but John had no idea what to say to him. He didn’t have to say anything as the man said, “Get downstairs, boy,” and moved aside. John’s feet were frozen in place. He didn’t even have a cell phone to call for a cab or call 911 if he wanted. Every bit of common sense told him to run and not look back. His knees shook as he descended the stairs to the basement that had clearly been altered to accommodate some serious kinky play. The walls were padded and there was a drainage hole in the middle of the floor. Restraints and BDSM equipment were everywhere. While John was trying to get his bearings, trying to figure out exactly what he’d gotten himself into, Mother Africa came downstairs wearing the same t-shirt but tight, black leather pants that hugged her every curve and black high heeled leather boots.
“Undress.” Her command was simple and to the point. John wanted more. He wanted an explanation of what was going to happen. He wanted a detailed discussion of rules and limits and more head games. He was too terrified to ask any questions. Somehow, instinctively, he knew that he didn’t have a choice that he was supposed to go along for the ride or forever regret this once in a lifetime opportunity to experience something he’d only ever dreamed of.
John slowly unbuttoned his shirt as the Black couple looked on, talking with each other in hushed tones he couldn’t understand. The man sat casually in a chair, with one leg over the arm of it and his hand squeezing an impressive length of dick that snaked down the leg of his jeans. If he wasn’t aroused by the white boi taking off his clothes in front of him he was certainly aroused by the sexy dance that Mother Africa was doing for him. John tried to concentrate on his surroundings should he decide to make a run for it but the scene of these two people in such an intimate display proved to be too distracting. They were kissing and caressing each other as they watched and laughed at John standing before them naked, his cock hard and completely out of his element, unsure of what to do next.
“Oh, where are my manners? I forgot to introduce the two of you. Worm, this is my lover, Eric. He’s my partner in crime shall we say,” she laughed as she applied nipple clamps to John and made him wince with pain. “For the weekend, you will call him Daddy, got it? And you’ll call me Mommy, understand?”
John nodded, whispering, “Yes, Mommy,” in accordance with her desires, tingling with the sound of the word coming from his lips.
Without warning, she slapped him hard in the face. John was stunned but the hurt registered as pleasure. She ran her hands over his body, gently caressing his chest, down his abdomen over his hard cock to his balls. Without even a second’s hesitation, she squeezed his nuts so hard John fell to the floor, blinded by the pain, crying out. Curled in the fetal position, he tried to pull himself together, to get back in the game. His competitive nature wouldn’t allow him to lie there like a little wounded animal; he had to prove that he was in it to win it.
The point of her black leather boot making full contact with his side divested him of any notion of competition and he lay on the floor, the wind knocked out of him.
“I gave you one small assignment and you didn’t even have the common fucking courtesy to pretend to do it. You think you’re so smart,” she kicked him again, “I’ll have to show you who’s the boss around here.” She spat directly in his face, her saliva dripping down his cheek. She put the sole of her boot over his mouth and commanded that he lick it, all the while, taunting him. “Look you little asswipe, I’m in charge here and what I say goes. For the next three days, you belong to me. You are my property. You are my possession, my plaything. I can do anything and everything I want to you and you won’t have a say. I don’t care if you enjoy it or hate it. It doesn’t matter to me what you experience. I intend to use you for my entertainment and my pleasure any fucking way I see fit.”
As if perfectly timed, the doorbell rang and Eric got up to answer the door. “We have company. I’ve invited a few friends over and I expect you to do whatever they want. Understand?”
John managed to get to his knees and remain upright as the first guest came downstairs. The guy looked almost as nervous as he was. “Are you guys sure about this? I can do whatever I want to him, no questions asked? This isn’t a joke is it? I mean, I’m not going to pull out my dick and the cops are gonna jump out and arrest me or anything, right?” After he was reasonably assured that it wasn’t a set up, he pulled out his dick and rubbed it on John’s face. The smooth skin felt erotic and sensuous, the raunchy stench of man smell aroused him: the sweat, the piss, and the stink of an unwashed, uncut black cock was driving him mad.
John’s mouth watered; he opened his lips, desperate to be fed some real stiff meat. He didn’t have to wait long. There was no need for prolonged foreplay or anything of the sort; the guy was there to get his dick sucked by a white guy. All the initial trepidation gone, John sucked. He got his face fucked and fucked well. He tried to look over to see if his Mistress was pleased but couldn’t see. His nose was deeply embedded in the wiry pubic hairs of the man who was using his mouth like a pussy. The stranger grabbed his ears and started pounding, causing John to gag and almost puke. That didn’t stop either of them. John kept sucking that gorgeous black cock and the guy kept fucking his throat. Tears formed in his eyes and he gasped for air. Spit ran from the corners of his mouth and he sucked that cock like a porn star. Like a true slut, he licked the smelly balls of the guy he was sucking and tried to work his tongue lower. The guy caught on quickly and turned around and bent over, grabbing the back of John’s head and shoving it between his magnificent ass cheeks. “Yeah, bitch, lick my dirty asshole. I kept it dirty just for you, just in case you wanted to taste a Black man’s raunchy turds. Suck that dried shit out of my ass.” He farted a rancid, wet, fart right in John’s mouth, which only made him ravenous for more.
Without any more inhibitions, the guy turned around and shoved his dick in John’s mouth again, this time with every indication that he was going to shoot his load. The dick swelled to mammoth proportions, he could feel the veins engorged with his tongue. The man was grunting like an animal and thrusting the head of his dick deep in his throat. “Come on white boy, eat my fucking black dick. Oh shit, take this nut. I’m going to give you a pint of my ball juice. Swallow it. Suck that thick scum right down your sissy throat. Dumb white cunt.” Just as John felt the first spurt of hot cum in his mouth, he felt the mind-numbing sting of a whip against the flesh of his ass. He tried to scream out but he couldn’t. He thought he was going to choke, to suffocate. The persistent pounding in this mouth was accented by the rhythm of being whipped. His brain misfired. He loved the feeling of being a cum dump, nothing more than a receptacle for sperm for a Black man, he loved having that hard, black cock being shoved in his oral cavity, but he hated the pain being delivered by Mother Africa as she beat his ass like he was a renegade outlaw.
John fell to the floor, drained and broken. He had little reprieve as the doorbell rang again. Before the first guy was even dressed, a second Black man was being escorted down the stairs. A wave of shame coursed through his body as he realized that these weren’t actually friends as he had first thought but total strangers that Mother Africa had found on the Internet and who had been invited over to abuse a random white guy. Eric insisted that the first man stay and use him some more, to enjoy the show, and to think of other ways he could be used.
For the next few hours, as more and more strangers were invited to join the party, John was used over and over again, each time more brutally and savagely than before. Just when he thought his face couldn’t get fucked any harder, he was forced to suck two dicks. Each asshole was dirtier than the previous one, making him crave more filth. Mother Africa taunted him. “Work your nasty tongue up in that black asshole. Get in there deep. You feel it don’t you? You taste that hot, nasty chocolate in there? You want to eat it, don’t you? You want to be fed like a shit-eating whore, don’t you? You want to suck that log like it’s a shit cock, lick all that slimy ass juice out of the crevices. I know you do. You’re nothing but a filthy pig that craves being used. You live to worship Black men, to prove to them how nasty you are. Worship him. Worship his nasty shit as your holy sacrament. Show him how much of a filthy white worm you are. Tell him. Tell him he’s your God. Tell him that you dedicate your life to serving him.”
John was high with lust. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted. “Give me everything. Give me your shit, your piss, your cum, your snot, and your puke. I’ll eat it all and beg for more. I’m nothing. I’m a filthy, white bitch that needs to be used by Black men. Fuck my hole raw. Make me your bitch, sir. I love black cock. I’m nothing but a faggot slut for Black dicks fucking me any way they want.” John was breathless and in heaven. It was as if he was revealing his true nature to everyone and proud of it. He was telling them the things he’d felt and dreamt and believed and voicing the truth for the very first time in his life. He was liberated and free. The abuse continued for hours. Every time one of the men would cum in his mouth, he would be beaten. He began to crave the sensation of the whip as much as he craved the taste of their creamy, thick, hot jizz.
Mother Africa whispered in his ear, “You ready to get fucked, boy? Are you ready to have that pussy of yours used like a cheap tramp? Do you want that cum in you? How about a filthy, hot piss enema? All these guys could probably pump a couple of gallons of urine in your colon. This is going to be fun. Watching you get turned out. Making you the slut for black cock that you have longed to be.” In all the hours of being used, he’d yet to be fucked. That was what he wanted more than anything, to be fucked and used like a dirty slut; he needed to be a white gangbang whore with an insatiable asscunt. “Well, I have a little surprise. We’ve got one more special guest for you.”
John’s mind reeled. He had visions of a savage Mandingo warrior with a gigantic dick fucking his asshole, making it his own. His own cock surged in anticipation. His asshole throbbed as he looked around the room, all the Black men he’d sucked off were idly stroking their hard dicks waiting for the final act of the show. Eric ushered the last person down the stairs but John’s eyes were filled with terror. It was a fat, sloppy, dim-witted white guy.
“Please, no, please, Mommy? Daddy! Nooo, I’ll be a good boi. Anything but that. Don’t make me do that. I can’t. It’s disgusting.” Tears flowed down his cheeks as the white guy pulled down his khakis and dingy yellowed underwear to his ankles and waddled around the room giving high fives to everyone, totally oblivious to the fact that they were all laughing at him. It was the ultimate humiliation for John. Sucking black dick was an honor and a privilege. To be forced to suck a white cock was unthinkable; it was nasty and horrible and seemed an unfair punishment. He crawled on his hands and knees, pleading one more time for reprieve. “Mommy, please, let me show you what a good boi I can be. Anything, ANYTHING you can think of, I’ll do. Just, please, don’t make me do that. I’ll be a bitch for your dog; he can knot with me. I’ll be your toilet, you can piss and shit in my mouth and I’ll eat it down and beg for more. Daddy, you can be the first to fuck me, rip my ass open, make it hurt, use me anyway you want. Fist fuck me. I’m begging you, please don’t make me do this.” John was pleading for his life.
It was then that Mother Africa worked her magic. She leaned in close to his ear and he could feel her hot breath on his neck. “You little fucking bitch,” she whispered. “Don’t you get it? You are the same as Tony here. You are equally as repulsive, equally as nasty, you are white, JUST LIKE HIM. You are going to suck him off alright and you better make him cum with your cocksucking mouth like you did all our other guests, ya’ hear me? Eric’s going to fuck you in your whore asscunt while you suck his pathetic cock.”
Time stood still for John. Tony’s cock was little more than folds of pink foreskin over a two-inch nub. His stomach lurched at the thought of putting that thing in his mouth. He looked around the room at all the beautiful black men of all shapes, sizes, and shades with their dicks hard and waiting to fuck him and then he looked down at his own cock. He looked up at the white guy and then to Mother Africa. This time, he used his eyes to communicate with her. He pleaded and begged for her to not make him do this. She slapped him again and forced his mouth open and forced it onto Tony’s flaccid penis.
The feeling of that thing in his mouth made him want to puke. It wouldn’t get hard and it felt soft and mushy. The room filled with laughter as everyone found the sight amusing. He tried his best to suck hard to get this unbearable task over and done with. Tony pumped but his fat stomach kept getting in the way. The smell of his sweat wasn’t arousing to John; it was sickening. As hard as it could get, there was no way it could fuck his throat, it was like sucking a little, deformed finger. This was humiliation beyond his wildest imagination. And again, just when he thought he was at his limit, just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore, he felt the head of Eric’s dick at his ass.
John got on his hands and knees and spread his ass waiting to get fucked. He forgot all about the white cock he was supposed to be sucking. The sting of the whip on his back reminded him of his task. “Come on bitch, suck that white cock while you get fucked by a real man,” someone in the room yelled. “Take that dick up your faggot asshole,” they chanted. Tony had to get on his knees to work his prick back in John’s mouth but he didn’t seem to mind. It was probably the only time he’d ever had anyone suck his cock and he didn’t have to pay for it. He was enjoying the attention; he didn’t care that it was negative.
John could see his Divine Mistress Africa stalking him, walking around him, surveying her prize. She’d masterminded the entire thing. She kissed her partner and ran her hands over his naked chest, saying, “Baby, I want you to fuck him HARD, make him scream. Do it for me, baby. Use him. Ram every inch of your beautiful dick in his rectum and make him pay for being an insolent, disrespectful little bitch.”
Feeling the head of that enormous cock rubbing on his asshole felt amazing. It was the searing hot pain that blinded him as it pushed in his anus and made it’s way deep in his bowels that almost made him pass out from pain. He knew not to say stop and the riding crop across his back reminded him of the other part of his assignment. He put his mouth on the cock in front of his face and started sucking. His mind was playing tricks on him. He loved the feeling of pain in his ass, he loved the sensation of being fucked like a rag doll, he hated the feeling of being forced to fellate the man that reminded him of his inherent inferiority.
“FUCK HIM! FUCK HIM!” Everyone in the room was cheering and applauding. John grabbed his own cock and started stroking it frantically. Mother Africa kicked him soundly in the side, reminding him that this was not about his pleasure but about hers.
The room smelled of sex. Pheromones and sweat and lust and pure man-fucking overwhelmed his senses. A half a dozen Black men were lined up, waiting for their turns to get a piece of white tail; all he had to do was make the two men fucking him cum. Degraded and dejected, John worked his finger up Tony’s flat, flabby ass and wiggled it around, coaxing him to cum. It worked and Tony fell, collapsed on the floor, his little cock jerking and leaking what little cum his inferior testicles could produce.
John had accomplished the first part of his mission and it was on to the best part. “Oh God. Daddy. PLEEEASE fuck me harder. Ram your cock in me. Make me your bitch. Use my fuckhole, Daddy. Fuck the shit out of me. More, I want more black cock. I’m a slut for black cock. Give it to me. POUND ME. MORE. I need a cock in my mouth. Feed me more superior black cum. Give me everything.”
It was the lone female in the room that would fulfill his desires. The only one who hadn’t gotten any satisfaction thus far, she stepped up with a very formidable ebony strapon attached to her hips. It was longer, harder, and thicker than all the other cocks he had sucked that day but he was in the zone. He was in that sub space where everything was arousing; nothing was too extreme.
“You belong to me, cunt, you know that right? You’re my little white bitch.” She reached down and started pulling his nipple clamps, twisting them, when things started to black out for John. Everything he was feeling was pleasure. From the 12 inches of hard black plastic that was ravaging his throat to the 10 inches of magnificent black cock that was breeding his twat, to the pain he experienced in his nipples and the searing hot flesh where he’d been beaten, he was experiencing everything as pleasure.
John couldn’t use words anymore. This is what he’d prayed to experience all of his adult, submissive life. All he could do was grunt and groan like a feral, wild animal and hope that everyone understood his primal sounds to mean, “FUCK ME HARDER. FUCK ME!!!!”
Over the course of the next three days, John experienced more mental and physical torture than he’d ever hoped to imagine. He knew his Mommy had come to release him, to send him back out into the real world. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay there forever. He wanted to live in that basement and be used 24/7 as a white cum dump. He’d never felt more whole, satisfied, or authentic as he did being tortured and abuse by such beautiful and vicious individuals. His spirit and his body had been broken. With his last bit of energy, he was prepared to negotiate a way to stay with his Nubian Dominatrix Extraordinaire and her lover to be their pet, plaything and sub.
Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved
Who would have thought that after a year of sitting at home alone, I would be on a date? Not only a date, but a date with a great guy. I’d been standing in the grocery store, minding my business, when the gentleman in front of me turned around and said, “Can you watch my daughter for two seconds, I just need to run and get some Pampers, right there.” He pointed to the aisle directly behind us and then his toddler. She was wearing the cutest little t-shirt with Kente embroidery on it and the brightest smile you’d ever want to see.
“Sure, go ahead.” No sooner than her father walked away, the little girl stood up in the cart and made a lunge for the candy, trying to leap like she was the star acrobat in the UniverSoul Circus. I grabbed her just in time before she took a big spill on the floor. “Slow down there little lady.” Rather than her being scared by a stranger, she fit in my arms perfectly and started playing with my earrings and talking to me quite fluently in little girl baby talk.
By the time her father came back, he was apologizing. “I’m so sorry. Let me guess, she made a dive for the candy. I don’t let her have sugar and her mother does so we go through a period of withdrawal every time it’s my time for custody.” She was smiling at me with this little innocent, angelic, brown face and all I could do was come to her defense.
“Nooooo, she … it wasn’t like that. She was just , , , “ I wasn’t very good at lying and I just stopped in mid sentence. “What’s your name, Princess?”
She told me her name quite promptly. I didn’t understand what the heck she said but at that point, she was focused on my necklace and jabbering away about something I’m sure only another two year old or a parent could understand. “Her name is Shakhari, and she is indeed my little princess. I’ll take her back now, thanks.” Shakhari was having none of that and she grabbed my neck and laid her sweet little head on my shoulder. “I share joint custody with her mother and when she lives with me, my brother, and his two sons; she’s the only woman in the house. She has a need for female bonding that defies logical thinking. That estrogen is some powerful stuff, right?”
“It’s okay, I’ll hold her, go ahead, it looks like you could use an extra hand.” While Daddy was unpacking the cart, getting his super savings card swiped, and paying, I was checking him out; he was actually very cute. He had a full beard and a delicious looking chocolate complexion and a shopping cart full of health food. I whispered in Shakhari’s ear, “You know, your Daddy is pretty handsome.”
That must have been the magic phrase because almost immediately Shakhari wanted to go back to Daddy and she reached out to him. He scooped her up and kept loading his cart with the bags like he was the featured juggler with UniverSoul. Right before they were ready to leave, he said, “Say goodbye to the pretty lady, Shakhari.” She blew me a big kiss and I could hear her saying bye-bye over and over until they were well beyond the automatic doors.
I paid for my groceries and made my way to the parking lot. I was putting my groceries in the back seat and still thinking about Dad and that sexy smile when I heard someone say, “Excuse me.” I looked up and it was him. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Vernon; I wanted to thank you for taking care of my little lady. I was wondering if … Do you think it would be okay if I gave you my number and you could give me a call … that is if you aren’t married or seeing someone or anything. Sorry, I’m not very good at this. I haven’t dated in a long while so I’m a little out of practice. I’m sorry.”
I extended my hand, “I’m Deborah, nice to meet you. There’s no need to apologize.” He handed me his business card with his home and cell phone numbers written on the back. A week later I was on a date with him, sitting at a table staring into the dreamiest eyes possible and pinching myself that he was so amazing.
The chemistry was just there, it wasn’t forced or anything, we just seemed to connect. He told me that he’d moved to the area two years ago, a little before Shakhari was born, and his pregnant girlfriend at the time had no intention of moving away from her family, and they had no plans to get married. “I got a chance to really make a difference,” he explained, “so when my brother told me they were opening an Office of Minority Affairs in the county, and were looking for someone to head it up, and he could get me an interview, I jumped at the chance. Janet is a massage therapist on a cruise ship for 3 or 4 months at a time so it works our perfectly that I can take Shakhari, my brother and his two teenage sons are the perfect babysitters whenever I need them. When she is with her Mom, I feel like my entire life is on hold.” He explained to me that he’d largely gotten caught up in his ex’s looks and while he could have made better choices in a partner, and used a lot more precaution, i.e. protection, he was making the best of the situation and being the best father he knew how to be.
The more we talked, the more attracted I was. Sure, we’d talked on the phone, gotten to know each other a little bit before the date, but there was something about being in his presence, smelling his cologne, seeing those shoulders, just being in the company of a man that was intoxicating. I told him my sad story, of how I’d let myself love a man who didn’t love me and how it had fucked with my self esteem so I’d been alone for a while, just trying to work on myself. Isolated was a better term for it. I’d sort of shut myself off from the rest of the world to figure things out and make sense of it all. Usually, when you admit flaws to a man, they run 100 yards in the opposite direction but Vernon was hanging right in there with me, it didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. I could tell from his actions and his words that he was really interested in finding a woman of substance, which is rare. Most men are looking for a woman of beauty, who won’t question them or demand anything of them. He explained that after Shakhari was born, he was intent on finding a great role model for his daughter and a great partner with whom he could build a life together. Boy was I glad the recipe I was using called for shallots that night and I had to run to the store.
After dinner, we walked hand in hand by the bay, looking out over the water and up at the stars. We sat on a bench for a while and watched the other couples walk by, kissing and hugging, feeling each other up as if no one could see what they were doing. I got a little chilly and he gave me his jacket and put his arms around my shoulders. It was getting late but I was in no rush to end the date so I asked him if he wanted to come back to my place for a drink.
I had no plans on having sex with him; I just wanted to appreciate his company a little more. Vernon was picking out music in the living room while I was in the kitchen getting out the glasses and opening the wine. All of a sudden it hit me that I had made a huge mistake. Wine, music, alone in my apartment. Duh, that meant SEX! Hot, buck naked, sweaty sex. My hands started shaking and I couldn’t even hold the bottle opener steady. I was trying to figure out a way to put a stop to the whole thing, call it off, ask him to leave, when Vernon came in the kitchen and said, “Deborah, is everything alright? Here, let me help you with that.”
He intentionally stood behind me, pressing his body against mine, and wrapped his arms around me, placing his hands on top of mine, and opened the bottle. My heart was racing out of my chest. I could feel the fullness of my ass against him, his chest against my back, his arms were strong but his hands were gentle. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against his chest for a moment and just stood there. He started massaging my shoulders, and he said, “This is nice, thank you for inviting me over.” I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ear and in that moment, I felt like a woman. I am a woman of course, but when you spend so much time alone you don’t get a chance to FEEL like a woman. I leaned back into him fully, subconsciously rubbing my ass on him, and I could detect the slightest movement in his pants.
That’s when panic hit me. What the hell was I doing? I wiggled out from between the counter and his body and decided that I was going to gain full control of the situation. I was going to fake a headache and call it a night but Vernon beat me to it. “Whoa, look at the time,” he said! “My nephew has rugby playoffs tomorrow and I have to get home to uhmmm … take care of things, to get ready. I mean I need to get up early to get the kids ready and … well, I better get going.” He was trying to discretely reposition hi erection and scramble for his jacket to put in front of him.
I walked him to the door and we said our goodbyes. I guess neither one of us knew what was the appropriate thing to do. The date was awesome, there was chemistry out of this world, but we were both out of practice in the romance department. We stood at my doorway and saying what a great time we both had and how we should do it again soon. I knew good and damn well that I wanted a kiss. I could tell he wanted a kiss too. He stood there stalling for another minute until finally I just put my arms around his neck, leaned in close and closed my eyes.
The next thing I felt were his lips pressed softly against mine, his tongue softly exploring my mouth. He pulled my body tightly to his and I cupped his face in my hands. His hands explored my back and the further down they went, the more I moaned into his mouth. We went from 0 to 60 in five seconds flat. One kiss turned into deep soul kissing and there was no turning back. He sucked my tongue gently in his mouth and I got dizzy. His mouth tasted slightly sweet, like he’d eaten a mint in anticipation of kissing me while I wasn’t looking. Our lips parted and he started kissing my neck. His technique was out of this world, gently sucking my hot spot and nibbling on my flesh while his hands were pulling me closer, rubbing me all over. There was no way I was going to let him leave so I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the living room. We both fell on the sofa and started making out like two teenagers in high school.
There is something transcendent about being in the arms of a Black man. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure can testify to that. Being in the arms of a beautiful Black man, after months of being alone, is like finding an oasis in the desert after crawling on the hot sands. When I’m in that moment, feeling his muscles, the power of his grasp, if feels like it’s the reason I was created, it’s like climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro and reaching the Apex. Pressing his full body weight into mine, he took my breath away. I tried to pull him closer, to become one with him, to somehow feel his breath inside of me. He put his leg between mine and I started humping on him. My skirt was sliding up and I kept trying to subconsciously pull it back down. My mind was so used to putting me off when they made advances; it was hard to turn off that record that allowed me to be fully sensual and expressive with a man.
Truth is, I was scared. I was scared of letting down my guard. I was unsure of how to be sexual with a man anymore. I wasn’t sure what healthy boundaries were. I was playing all sorts of old tapes in my head about being a slut for sleeping with a man on the first date. I’m 30 years old and I was feeling like a teenager on the couch with my mom upstairs, ready to scold me for being fast.
Vernon must have been having the same apprehensions, well, at least comparable ones. He sat up and moved to the far end of the sofa. I was still lying there, with my legs spread, breathing heavy, and a look of tortured lust on my face. I could clearly see the outline of his dick tenting his pants and he made no efforts to hide it.
“Is everything okay,” I asked, sitting up and trying to gain some composure.
“Sure, I’m cool. It’s just that I’m not really sure that we should be doing this. I can’t lie; I want to be with you. You CAN’T imagine how much I want to be with you right now. It’s just that I don’t want my judgment clouded because it’s been so long since I … you know. I’m into you for a lot of reasons but I don’t want to just get caught up in the moment because I’m trying to fill the void, feel me? I’m not sure if I’m thinking with the right head.”
I think we both needed that minute to catch our breath and regroup. To be honest, the fact that he wanted to slow things down made me want him that much more. Not completely because you always want what you think you can’t have, but I’m sure that had a little to do with it, but mostly because he was actually thinking about the consequences of us getting too carried away. That was a first. Every other man I’d been with, once we’d gotten to the dry humping, spit swapping, simulating sex stage, there was nothing short of a natural disaster that could get them to think about anything other than fucking.
He pulled my skirt hem down to my knees, rather reluctantly I could tell, and then he pulled me onto his lap. We talked for a few minutes but neither of us made a move to end the evening. I tried to move to sit next to him, expressing that I was fearful that I was hurting him, and he sucked his teeth and gave me a look like, “Gurl, pleeease, don’t even think that you could hurt me.” I TOTALLY felt like a woman in the moment.
It was only then that all the work I’d done on myself, redefining and healing, kicked in. I was a vibrant, vital, woman with a lot to offer and sexual needs, the need for human contact. I was deserving of pleasure and sensual release. Yes, I wanted a relationship but more than that I wanted a man to appreciate me for more than being just a piece of ass. I was reasonably confident that Vernon didn’t just want a one night stand. But the real kicker was in coming to terms with the fact that, even if he did, even if having a sex on the first date wasn’t what I’d been conditioned to think a virtuous woman did, I was empowered and responsible for my happiness. I could choose to see the situation as one of opportunity and take ownership of my emotions afterwards, whatever the outcome.
I straddled Vernon’s lap and faced him. I undid the buttons on my blouse, verrrry slowly. He didn’t say a word; he just sat there and watched me. I pulled my blouse off and dropped it to the floor. I took his hands and placed them on my breasts and he started massaging them. I undid the snaps of my bra and let if find a home on the floor on top of my shirt. Instinctively, his mouth found my nipples and started sucking them. I held them up for him, feeding him, throwing my head back and enjoying the sensation of his tongue, moving from one titty to the other, licking my hardened nipples, sucking them, biting them gently, driving me absolutely fucking crazy.
I started grinding on him, undoing the buttons on his shirt. He said, “Wait, shouldn’t we …” I didn’t let him finish his sentence. I kissed him again, this time even more passionately than before, if that was at all possible, and silenced him.
“Vernon, do you want to …” I didn’t know what words to use, have sex, make love, so I just said what I was really feeling in that moment. “Vernon, do you want to fuck me?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Deborah, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t see straight.” He buried his face between the soft flesh of my breasts and pushed both nipples together and sucked them at the same time.
I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward my bedroom so we could stretch out and be more comfortable. He kept asking me if I was sure about this. I turned on my mackadocious music, the music I played when I wanted to get in the mood to fuck myself, and I started dancing for him, taking off the rest of my clothes. I slid out of my skirt and he just sat on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable. Leaving my red lace panties on, I knelt between his legs and undid his belt buckle. He was looking down at me like he was having an out of body experience. I undid the button and lowered the zipper on his pants. I reached in his boxers and felt the heat of his dick. I pulled it from the opening and looked up at him, licked my lips, and licked the head. I saw his eyes roll back in his head and I knew that was my go ahead. I swirled my tongue around the head and started licking his shaft. I slipped my lips sensually up and down the length and took his entire dick in my mouth deeply. He was bucking his hips and I was matching his thrusts. He grabbed my by my shoulders and pushed me away. “Stop,” he said breathing heavily, “I need you to slow down.”
I stood up and turned around. I slid my panties down over my full hips and stepped out of them. By the time I had turned back around, Vernon was naked and laying on the bed looking like a chocolate vision of beauty. “My turn,” he said, “and he stuck out his tongue. “I want to taste you.” I climbed on the bed and tried to lie next to him. He wasn’t having that and he told me that he wanted me to ride his face. For a woman who was out of practice at having sex, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable being that assertive. I stopped myself before I got too caught up in old tapes in my head and accepted his invitation.
I grabbed the headboard and threw my leg across his shoulder. He stuck his tongue out and said, “Come on, baby, let me lick that sweet pussy.” I lowered myself slowly, letting the lips of my pussy gently caress his lips. He started kissing my pussy, frenching them like he’d done to me earlier. I was biting my lip, trying to stifle my moans of appreciation but there was no use. I felt fucking fantastic. I started rubbing my pussy on his soft lips, sliding back and forth, feeling his tongue in my hole and his lips sucking at my clit. The sensations were out of the world. Before long, I was bouncing a little harder on his mouth, riding his tongue. Grabbing my ass, he pulled me forward and started licking me from my clit to my asshole. I’ll be a black son of a bitch if I could hold back my sounds of appreciation at that point. I was moaning and talking dirty, telling him how much I loved it.
“Ohhhh, yessss, sexy mother fucker. Let me ride that tongue, shove it in me. Oh shit, that feels so good.” He grabbed thighs and pulled me tighter. Poor little thing, I could have suffocated him I was bouncing up and down on his face so hard. I could feel the tremors, they were building and there was no turning back.
I rolled over on the bed, exhausted, but energized at the same time. Vernon rolled over on me and kissed me and I could taste my juices on his tongue. “Do you need some time to recuperate,” he whispered?
I reached between his legs and felt for his dick and rubbed it on the slit of my pussy. “Fuck me, NOW,” was all I needed to say.
“Oh shit,” he said, “Hold on there sweetness.” He reached for his pants on the side of the bed and pulled out some condoms, opened the package with his teeth, and slid it on his dick. I was so happy he’d taken the initiative to be responsible because I would have kicked myself a thousand times in the morning for not insisting that we use protection.
Locked and fully loaded, he placed my legs on his shoulders. He looked down at me and rubbed the head of his dick on my slit. I was sweating, trying to get him to penetrate me. I was still soaking wet from cumming before but I hadn’t felt a real dick in my in so long, I couldn’t wait any longer. Vernon made me wait. He teased me, excruciatingly painful teasing. He pushed the head in and I gripped the sheets. I was tighter than usual I guess, from not having sex in so long, so he had to work hard to get it all in. We were both sweating and grunting and he was going deeper and deeper. Finally, I could feel his balls on my ass and the head of his dick was deep inside me.
Gripping my thighs, he started fucking me. When I say he was fucking me, he would withdraw all the way to the head and then push every millimeter inside me, rhythmically, methodically, sensually. I was twisting and turning, playing with his nipples, playing with my own, rubbing my clit, just adding to the sensations. I grabbed his ass and started trying to get him to fuck me harder. We were grunting and groaning, he was fucking me senseless. He let my legs go and I wrapped them around his back. He fell on top of me and we began kissing passionately. Our sweaty bodies were slipping and sliding together.
“Oh shit, I’m going to cum.”
He fell on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not saying a word. I pulled the covers over us and drifted off to sleep snuggled up next to him. I awoke to the sounds of him getting dressed, glanced at the clock, and it said 5:30.
“Listen, Shakhari has never woken up with me not there so I need to run,” he whispered. “I left the address of where my nephew is going to be playing. Meet us there when you get a chance. I can’t wait to see you later.” He kissed my forehead. “Go back to sleep and get some rest and we can pick up where we left off tonight.”
I was relieved. While I was prepared for the big blow off, I was pleased that it looked like things were going to move ahead. Where things were going to go was entirely up to us but I was pretty assured that he hadn’t just taken advantage of me and I was confident that I had truly made the empowered choice that signaled a sensual rite of passage for me as a woman.
(And just so you know, he nephew’s team won the regional title.)
Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK
Scott Clair 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.
Everyone watches porn. Porn has become a staple in most people’s daily lives in fact. Not too long ago, porn was only something for “dirty old men” and perverts. In the not too distant past, you had to go to a store to rent a video, buy a magazine and hide it in your closet, or go to a seedy theater with sticky seats to view erotic images. Today, most people, male and female, have porn websites bookmarked on their computers and they check in daily for some sort of stimulation, whether it be pictures, videos, stories, chatting with other people, or a host of other options available. You can have porn downloaded on your phone and be a member of a virtual porn world; you can have access to porn 24 hours a day if you are so inclined. Porn has become so commonplace, so much a part of our daily lives that we don’t even realize how much the constant access to it has changed us and our perceptions about sex and sexuality.
Porn has evolved since its early days. While still very much geared towards and created for men, there are very few women who don’t get aroused by porn today. It wasn’t all that long ago that FREE porn on the internet was a rarity; most porn sites were pay sites and most free sites were just teasers to direct you to a pay site. Today, one needn’t pay anything to access full length videos, webcams, and communities with other people who have the same preferences and fetishes you share. Women are seeking out porn as a viable career, they are producing and directing it, they are complicit in the objectification of the female image.
What hasn’t evolved is our collective sexual maturity. People still aren’t comfortable with their sexuality. Our sexuality is still steeped in shame, lies, and self-deception. Women are still lying about the number of partners and experience they have; men are still in denial about their practices and preferences. We are still ruled by Victorian mores and conservative guidelines that are unnatural. Sex is, or it should be at least, a tool for communication, a meditation, an expression of love. Sex should be about two people coming together and exploring their passion for one another. Sex has become about the power exchange that makes women into nothing more than objects for men’s arousal, frustration, and release.
There can be little question about the fact that the daily consumption of porn desensitizes people. Whereas we once were aroused by just the act of two people having sex, scintillated at what can only be considered tame, now, we need to see people doing more extreme and deviant things in order to maintain our same level of arousal. Whereas we could once could get off on seeing a solitary image, now, we need to see hundreds of images, in search of that illusive image that will get us off; we need to see hours upon hours of porn to get a nut.
Today, without question, porn is largely about degrading women. Exploited, abused, punished, brutal, disgraced, humiliated, tortured, gagged, and forced are very common tags for porn, so much so that we don’t get offended or even blink an eye when we see them. Even rape is eroticized in porn. If a clip isn’t promoted as particularly brutal, it’s nothing to see a woman being slapped, spanked, spit on, gagged, and roughly fucked in almost every scene. Women are routinely subjected to being called a bitch, slut, and a whore during sex, shown doing things that no self-respecting man would ever do if the situation were reversed.
What effect does seeing these types of images do to a sexually immature nation? First and foremost, we accept this sort of treatment as normal, we never question it being sexist or misogynist, and we become aroused by seeing it. Men, who learn everything they know about sex from a computer screen, NEVER see images of seduction, intimacy, tenderness, or love-making. They assume all women want to be treated like a slut, called names, abused, and pounded like a nail during sex. Women want to emulate the images they see, they want to be considered sexy so they adopt the persona of the video slut, begging for more abuse, aroused by being treated like shit, without regard for or even awareness of their own desires. Sex has become about the degradation of women and no one seems to care. Everyone is too concerned about pretending that they don’t watch porn, that they are sexually frigid and intolerant of any sort of sexual expression. We are on a high-speed, runaway train careening towards sexual dysfunction and porn that degrades women is the fuel.
As one of the only unapologetic, card-carrying, dyed-in-the-wool, true feminists left, (and as a woman who consumes a fair share of adult material) I have made some shocking and uncomfortable discoveries about my own tastes and preferences in porn. I have always been a staunch advocate for, and creator of erotica for couples. I write stories that appeal to both men and women; I will not objectify or degrade Black women in any of my work. I have never in my life dominated a woman because I can’t bring myself to oppress, even under the auspices of sexual roleplay, the already oppressed. All of that being said, I too, have become victim to the plague of porn desensitization. I have watched, sought out, and been aroused by images of women being degraded. I am aroused by women (and men as well, but for this conversation we will focus on women) who are proud of their depravity, who revel in it, who are unapologetically ravenous in their need to be degraded.
While I can say that I’ve never been victim of the unknown force that entices women to want to be degraded or humiliated during sex, admittedly, there are times when seeing a woman dominated sexually pushes all my buttons. I have to admit that because most of the images of women doing obscene and perverse things are of white women, my “fetish” if you will is limited to women who look nothing like me. Seeing white women degraded is arousing because I can completely distance myself from the act, I can objectify them as “other” because it becomes arousing to know that they would so readily display themselves doing any manner of unspeakable acts for pleasure. I can get off on white women doing things that relegate them to nothing more than filthy whores who will do anything, no matter how depraved, and enjoying it. Do I think my preferences are healthy? No. Am I okay with them for the time being? Yes. Most people won’t even acknowledge what gets them off in the privacy of their homes in front of their computer screens. The simple fact is that I’m willing to discuss it publicly and that I’m at least aware that my fascination isn’t the most healthy expression of sexuality. I feel comfortable in knowing that I am aware of the issue, addressing, and working on it. That is more than most people can say.
Where does that leave the rest of America, the ones who aren’t as self-aware as I am nor are they cognizant of their own misogynist behaviors? Well, men are now socialized to think that seduction and romance are unnecessary, that women are only deserving of being treated like objects. Women have never been socialized to have a voice to ask for anything other than being spanked and/or abused. Behind closed doors, in the glow of the computer monitor, the degradation of women is being eroticized day in and day out, and it has become the norm. It is my strong belief that the degradation of women is symbolic of the destruction of our society. If women can’t be seen as equals, as objects worthy of adoration and exaltation, the very foundation upon which relationships are formed is shaky.
Copyright 2011 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved