Date: Tue, 21 Oct 2014 00:04:27 +0000 (UTC)
From: AfroErotiK <paradigmatic_shift@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Dark Side

The Dark Side

Everyone thinks that what they believe is right.  It's the mind's
self-preservation response.  Most people aren't self-aware enough to know
what they believe or how they came to believe what they do or if their
beliefs are based in truth or not, however, so they fight, argue, and
debate things without considering that their core beliefs might be flawed
or wrong.  People's beliefs about religion, sex, politics, and race are so
deeply entrenched, so inherent to a person's identity; they just
automatically assume that anyone who doesn't believe the same things they
do is wrong.  Tapping into that core belief, fucking with it, challenging
it is what the very best psychological Dommes do.  They can ascertain a
person's core beliefs and manipulate that person's mind until they are
putty: broken and disoriented.  That is exactly what happened to David
Osterhaus when he encountered a Dominatrix who shattered his world and
challenged everything he knew to be true.

On the outside, David didn't quite have it all but he had enough to be
respected by his peers.  On the inside, his entire life was a sham.  Not a
nerd, not a stud, Dave was somewhere in the middle.  Standing 5'10", 180
pounds, hair that was golden blond and curly for the first 6 years of his
life was now mousey brown with lots of gray.  Any given stranger could
stand toe to toe with him and not remember anything particularly remarkable
about him ten minutes later.  He was 15 years into a 30 year mortgage that
he was on track to pay off in 20 on a house that was soon to be an entirely
too large empty nest.  His wife of 20 some odd years was nothing great to
look at; she wouldn't make anyone break their neck trying to take a second
look.  Some people might even say she was boring but she was a helluva
scrap-booker and she could make a crispy rice treat like no one's business.
Donna was nice enough and well-thought-of in the church and community,
meaning, she served her purpose and that was to be a good wife and mother
and complete the image of what life was supposed to be like for
middle-class suburbanites.

David's youngest was off to college in a few months, meaning all three
children would be in college at the same time, and the thought of paying
yet another tuition for the next four or five years almost made him want to
get in his car and start driving and never come back.  He didn't hate his
job but he didn't love it either.  It was a source of income and little
more than that.  It more than paid the bills but he had enough debt that he
couldn't retire with no worries either. He had some savings, a retirement
account, a few decent investments, a boat, and a classic muscle car he was
restoring that gave him what little bit of joy he experienced in his day to
day, mundane, routine, incredibly average life.

Almost every day, certainly, every other day, David would head to his
neighborhood bar to have a few drinks.  It was a Cheers sort of place where
everybody knew everybody else's name and they all wore their Redskin
jerseys on game nights.  They all sat around and complained that Obama was
the worst president in history, why we need to bomb those towel heads off
the Earth, and burning faggots at the stake was a popular rallying cry
among the patrons.  Well, okay, not literally burning people but that was
the gist of their sentiments.  Most conversations these days were about
immigration reform.  It wasn't quite articulated that way.  It was more
like how those damn illegal wetbacks were taking all the jobs and getting
services that Americans, hard-working, tax-paying, English-speaking, real
Americans couldn't get.

If complaining was a sport, the regular patrons of Hadley's Sports Bar and
Grille could form their own team, sponsored by the local hardware store,
with uniforms and even a promotional calendar.  They complained about
almost everything but mostly, how America was under attack by evil forces,
and by evil forces, they meant anyone who wasn't white, male, heterosexual,
Christian, Republican, and born in the good, ole' U.S. of A.  White women
got a pass as long as they weren't talking about things like equal pay and
reproductive rights and rape and stuff like that AND as long as they
weren't fucking black guys.  These weren't Redneck, ne'er-do-wells who
drove pickup trucks and who were missing their bicuspids and incisors.
Most of Dave's "crew" were college educated, married, gainfully employed,
and average.  Sickeningly average.

When a sporting event wasn't on, Fox News was always on the TV and very few
people of color ever frequented the place so no one there would be offended
if a racial epithet or two . . . or three . . . slipped into the
conversation once in a while.  The sound system at the bar played a
constant stream of urban music and it was not uncommon for everyone to know
all the words to the latest R&B and Hip-Hop songs, N word and all.  Far
from the most outspoken lush at the bar, David certainly wasn't the meekest
customer either.  He made sure everyone knew that he thought just like
everyone else: Trayvon Martin got what he deserved, Donald Sterling didn't,
and basically anything that any Black person stood for, he was firmly on
the other side of the argument, regardless of whether it was clearly the
wrong moral side or not.

It wasn't until he left the bar at night that his demons started to haunt
him.  Mild mannered, unassuming, and painfully mediocre David sought out
the extreme when it came to sex.  Fifteen years ago, he was content to have
a weekly, predictable, lackluster three minutes of awkward humping in the
hay with his wife.  Today, he was someone who needed more and more perverse
stimulation.  With the advent of the internet, Viagra, and some
recreational drugs now and then, David had become a slave to his desires.
It was a symptom of a much larger disease, having access to more than
sufficient disposable income and a false sense of superiority and
entitlement that told him that whatever he did was justified.  His mind
could rationalize that anything he did was just fine even though he would
rant and rave how those exact same behaviors were fucked up when other
people did them.

Intoxicated and horny, that drive home to his run-of-the-mill life
inevitably always seemed to take a detour.  Rather than going straight
home, he would somehow end up on the other side of town.  It wasn't the
ghetto by any stretch of the imagination, it just wasn't the manicured and
homogenous suburbs either.

Pulling in to the parking lot of The Rock Hard Cafe, better known as Rock's
with trademark infringement being what it was and all, always gave Dave a
thrill.  Would he get lucky tonight?  Would he go home more frustrated and
horny than when he arrived?  There was always a chance that he wouldn't be
able to find the thrill that he sought but he was driven like an addict to
see if he could.  He didn't want to be seen in such a place, he didn't want
to run into anyone he knew but that added to the danger and the thrill.  It
was a small town relatively speaking.  It wasn't so small that everyone
knew each other but it wasn't a major metropolis where he could be
reasonably assured of anonymity either.  If he was thinking with his big
head he would only go out on the hunt in the city which was an hour away.
If he was being level-headed, he would have only indulged in his lusts
where the likelihood of being caught was minimized.  David, however, didn't
have that much control over his desires.

Rock's was a one stop shop.  Immediately inside the front door, there was a
sex shop with toys, DVDs, lingerie, and sex aides galore.  If you followed
the hallway to the right you'd find a strip club (if two poles, four sticky
sofas, and a rotation of skinny women with C-section scars, platinum blond
hair, dark roots, and butterfly tattoos could be considered an actual club)
and to the left were video booths, equipped with glory holes for darker
pleasures.  And darker pleasures were exactly what Dave always sought.

With his $20 inserted, Dave scrolled the video menu for his favorite
selections.  You see, Dave wanted to see interracial gay action.  He got
off on seeing white boys used by Black men with enormous black cocks.  They
offered a few titles from the "It's Gonna Hurt" series that he had seen
time and time again.  Castro was the star of the videos and he had five
pounds of dick that he used to eviscerate white men's asses.  His mouth
watered every time he saw Castro's huge cock on the screen.  He wanted a
jet black version of one that big to be pushed through his hole for him to
suck.  Dave wished there were more hardcore videos offered, something more
extreme like he watched at home on the internet.  He loved to see white
throats pounded and sissy asses sodomized and the look of pain and pleasure
on their faces, preferably more pain than pleasure.

Dave LOVED sucking cock.  He loved the tang of a raunchy, big black cock;
he loved the feel of it swelling in his mouth and the smell of their rank,
sweaty balls.  Most of all he craved the taste of sticky, thick, salty cum
in his mouth.  He loved giving so much pleasure to men that they had no
choice but to erupt in his throat.  He loved being a cock-sucking whore,
taking on cock after hard cock in his slutty mouth, swallowing that hot
seed, craving more.  He never wanted any reciprocation, never needed any
stimulation of his own.  He loved getting fucked as much as the next
closeted white guy who was addicted to big, black cocks but something about
knowing that his oral skills, his mouth and tongue could give a real man so
much pleasure that they pumped hot cum out their balls into his hungry
mouth made him aroused in a way that couldn't compare.

There was no real action at Rock's that night.  A few other white guys were
there, strolling around to see if they could watch some action, but no one
was really doing anything which was pretty typical for a Wednesday.  One
white guy with a decent sized cock stuck it through the hole in Dave's
booth but he was less than interested.  He had sucked a few white guys off
in his early days of bi-curiosity but ever since he'd been faced fucked by
his first Black cock, ever since the first time he had that black meat in
his throat, choking him, cutting off his air, and that Black man calling
him names and slapping his face, abusing him, he knew, deep in his soul he
knew that he would never be satisfied with sucking white cock again.
Something about sucking off Black men felt natural to him.  He never
thought about what it meant, he never contemplated the larger implications.
He just knew that black cock turned him on something fierce.  He was born
to be a white cocksucker for big, really big, black cock.

Dave stayed at Rock's for about an hour but he figured he could get more
satisfaction at home on his computer.  The amateur stuff was always more
hardcore than the commercial stuff and he had his favorite websites
bookmarked for easy access.  Walking out into the cool night air, Dave felt
the sting of reality.  Walking to his car he noticed a flyer affixed to all
the windshields.  Snatching it from under his wiper, safely inside his own
car, he examined it more closely.  It was an advertisement for The Dark
Side, a BDSM dungeon that was home to several female Black Dommes.  They
had cliché names like Mistress Ebony and Dominatrix Noire and there was
even a Goddess Nefertiti; all wearing leather, latex, and mean scowls on
their faces.  David scoffed at the flyer, offended at the very concept,
disgusted by the idea of Black women thinking they were superior to anyone.
He tossed the flyer in the seat next to him and put his car in reverse to
back out of the parking space.

As he glanced in the rear view mirror, he noticed the reflection of someone
walking around behind him.  It was the person putting the flyers on the car
windshields.  As Dave pulled out of the parking lot, his headlights flashed
the person, blinding them temporarily and almost making Dave wreck his car.
It was Bryan Manetti, a guy he had gone to high school with.  Their sons
played on the varsity tennis team two years ago and they would see each
other and speak at matches.  His wife Rebecca volunteered at the homeless
shelter on Thanksgivings with Donna.  He knew Bryan well enough to know
that he had a good job and didn't need whatever money he was getting paid
to distribute flyers, especially for a disgraceful place like that one.  So
distracted, so afraid that Bryan had seen him, David almost drove out into
traffic in the street.  Wanting to distance himself as far as he could from
that place and from Bryan, he sped away, not stopping at stop signs or
doing anywhere near the speed limit.

By the time he got home, the adrenaline rush of almost being discovered, of
almost being caught by someone he knew hit him and he was super horny.  He
went inside, closed his office door and stripped naked to jerk his cock.
It didn't work, his cock that is.  It barely got hard and it would take an
act of God for him to cum.  But none of that stopped him from pulling it
excessively.  To David, anything that made sex bad and dirty and wrong was
a turn on for him.  And the fantasy of being busted with a big, hard, black
cock in his mouth by someone he knew was the ultimate in humiliation.  And
that turned him on.

He spent the entire next day at work on craigslist and several different
websites trying to find a cock to suck after work but he had no luck.  The
drive home was long.  No longer than usual but he kept flashing back to
seeing Bryan in the parking lot putting those flyers on cars.  Stopped at a
light, he fished around the floor on the passenger side of his car to find
the flyer.  He examined it again and dropped it in his lap when the horns
from the cars behind him started blowing, signaling him that the light had
changed.  It felt like lead in his lap.  He pulled his car over and
examined it more closely.  The address was on the other side of the city,
in the opposite direction of his job.  It wasn't a bad neighborhood at all.
In fact, it was in the trendy and upcoming part of the city where all the
new condos and bars and even a Whole Foods were located.  He expected it to
be in "da hood" where the rest of the ghetto trash was because he was
convinced that these black bitches were nothing more than welfare queens
with free phones from Obama, food stamps, and 14 kids he was paying for
with his hard-earned taxes.

Completely forgetting the fact that he was addicted to hardcore interracial
gay action and would suck any Black cock that was put in front of his face,
David berated Bryan for his sexual proclivities.  "Seriously?  Who the hell
would let some dumb, fucking Black chick beat on him with a whip or some
crazy shit?  How fucking lame do you have to be to get off on some fucked
up shit like that?"  He was alone in his car so no one could hear him but
if he was at the bar, with all his friends, and saying the exact same thing
there would be a resounding chorus of, "Yeah, that's totally fucked up,"
from everyone there, in stereo.  The part of his brain that hated Black
people was totally disconnected from the part of his libido that loved
Black men.  Correction.  It would be a stretch to say that he even liked
Black men; he really only lusted after what was between their legs, the
bigger the better.  The human beings attached to them were nothing more
than low-life degenerates.  It didn't matter about their income, education,
or status, they were all beneath him.

Fridays at work David did even less work than he did during the rest of the
week.  He probably only really "worked" about 10 hours a week.  The rest of
the time he surfed the internet looking at porn, took long lunches where he
hooked up with guys to suck off in their cars or in the bathroom of gay
bars, he flirted with any woman who was in a subordinate position to him,
and complained about how hard he had to work.  Just for shits and giggles,
to break up the monotony of looking for a cock to suck, he would troll
Black websites and social media, calling Black people racists, and telling
them that they didn't know anything about the real history of slavery and
repeating things he heard on conservative radio as if they were facts.  He
felt obligated to put Black people in their place.  He felt like it was his
responsibility, even if he had to make up fake profiles and pretend to be a
Black person to do it.  That was really ingenious in his mind.

With his office door closed and his cock out, and as that 5:00 hour drew
closer, Dave was on the hunt for some hardcore action.  Stroking and
surfing, Dave clicked on a fetish social website that he hadn't been on for
a while.  Logging on, he saw that he had 12 messages waiting for him in his
inbox.  It was like taking candy from a baby, all he had to so now was sort
through them and find someone who wanted to be serviced before he made his
commute back to Boringville.  The first message he opened was from a guy he
had sucked off before and who had two . . .  Dave froze.  An adertisement
for The Dark Side flashed in the margins.  The "white" part of his brain
cursed, "What the fuck is this bullshit?  Who the fuck wants to see this
crap?"  The part of his brain that had him jerking off at his job where
anyone could walk in was . . . curious to say the least.

Black women were non-existent to David.  The few who worked for his company
were not anyone he would even have a conversation with let alone willingly
interact with.  He didn't have any Black friends so he didn't know any
Black wives vicariously.  He didn't look at porn with Black women because
. . . DUH, why would he?  He didn't want to see their big butts and big
lips and ugly faces.  Even the ugliest white woman was prettier than a
Black woman Dave thought.

Nonetheless, he clicked on the website.  He was just doing it to find out
why Bryan would be passing out flyers for them, not because he was
interested or anything.  He just knew there would be some sort of
explanation, like maybe he was an investor and he was taking a 70/30 cut of
the profits from those dumb bitches.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I'm over 18.  Let me in already.  Jeez," he mumbled,
frustrated as if he didn't have to go through the same thing on every adult
website.  The first thing he did was click on the sample videos.  "I'll be
god damned!  Son of a bitch."  There, for all the horny, perverted world to
see, was his friend Bryan being flogged and beaten and sucking a big, black
strapon cock.  Well, he had his face covered by a mask but he remembered
very clearly that Bryan had a port wine stain birthmark that was shaped
like the state of Idaho on his left shoulder. It was so odd and so
pronounced that he had taken a lot of teasing in the gym locker room in
high school because of it.  It was Bryan; Dave was sure of it.  He watched
intently.  He clicked on all the sample videos and there were only white
men being abused.  There was nothing mentioning the clients exclusively
being white men on the website.  All the women, six in all, merely talked
about how they were powerful Black bitches who could break any man, leave
him crying in the corner and then begging for more.  Maybe, he thought, it
was a coincidence that there were only white men pictured.

Indeed, there were pictures, stories, and even a message board on the
website but everything directed you to the menu to set up an appointment
with the Mistresses of the House.  Dave created a profile with no picture
of course, and proceeded to ridicule every white man on the website who had
the audacity to sing the praises of the Black women.  He was more abrasive
and offensive to the Black women on the message board, most of whom weren't
professionals Dommes at the club but who identified themselves as lifestyle
Dommes.  Over the next week, he posted on almost every topic: movies,
music, politics, especially politics, even art, he insisted that he knew
more than everyone.  Trolling the website became his addiction.  He
couldn't wait to get to work or get home to log on to the site and degrade
the people who had grown frustrated with him.  His profile was blocked in
less than a week's time but he had multiple email addresses set up already
just for the purpose of creating fake profiles.  This wasn't his first
rodeo.  Pissing people off on the internet was like a hobby to Dave.

One profile seemed to catch his attention.  She identified herself as
Mistress Desire but her profile said her name was Desiree' and didn't mind
being referred to as that.  She was a moderator for the site and she was
one of the professionals employed at the dungeon.  In fact, she was the
woman in the video with his friend Bryan.  She wrote an awful lot on her
personal blogs about race and politics and everything she said pissed David
off and annoyed him.  He was, however, intrigued by her.  He would check
her profile every time he logged on multiple times a day to see if she had
added anything new.  He looked at all her pictures and blogs and
contemplated for a hot minute what it would be like to suck a dick in front
of her.  He hated her, hated everything she stood for, but there was
something about her that made him addicted to her more than any other
person on the site.

Feeling full of himself, he sent her a message, a rude one in fact, saying
he disagreed with everything she said and she wasn't as smart as she
thought she was, but he wanted to have a conversation with her.  She
responded politely and succinctly, saying, "No, thank you."

She might as well have said, "Fuck you, fuck your filthy, stinking mother,
fuck your entire pathetic, useless life," because that's what any sign of
rejection sounded like to David.  Who the fuck did this uppity bitch think
she was?  HOW DARE SHE reject him, regardless of the fact that his message
had insulted her and she truly wasn't interested in anything he had to say!
David was used to everyone catering to him, whatever he wanted he got and
when he didn't, he threw a tantrum.  He fired off another message, this
time, telling her what he really thought of her.  "You're fucked up.  You
don't know what you are talking about.  You weren't a slave so get over it
you dumb bitch."  It went on and on for a few more paragraphs with all the
standard clichés white people throw around when they are trying to
belittle a Black person: The Irish were enslaved and they overcame it, the
Jews had the Holocaust and they overcame it, and the ever-popular, Africans
sold each other into slavery.  You have to give white people credit.  In
their efforts to prove that slavery wasn't that bad and that Black people
truly are inherently inferior, they all say the same things, regardless of
the lack of merit of their lame arguments.

Her response came quickly.  "Let me break you.  I've encountered lots of
white boys like you.  Schedule an appointment with me.  It will be my great
pleasure to take your money and divest you of your racism."

"I'm not racist! YOU'RE the racist," he pounded out in response, adding
that Blacks were the reason racism persisted, not whites and that he didn't
see color.  David could almost type it in his sleep.  He had typed it
hundreds of times before, maybe thousands over the years.  He was racist,
the very definition of racist in fact, but as long as he said, "I'm not
racist, you're the racist," he was assured that he was beyond reproach and
as holy and sanctified as if he was sitting at the right hand of God
himself.

Her response was succinct.  "I see."

That was it.  She didn't say anything else.  "I see?  What the fuck could
she possibly see?  What the hell sort of response was that," he shouted out
loud at his tablet.  How was he supposed to respond to that?  He was
expecting her to be angry and defensive and she wasn't.  He wanted to put
her in her place and have the last word but she didn't give him the
opportunity.  That fucking bitch!

He created another profile for no other reason than to stalk Mistress
Desire.  He became obsessed.  He commented on every word she wrote, every
picture she posted.  He made up several other fake profiles, thinking he
was really cleaver in doing so, all with the sole purpose of stalking her.
She never responded, or when she did, it summarily destroyed whatever empty
argument he was trying to make.  Finally, with no other recourse, he
responded to her email.  Two weeks after getting her message, two weeks to
the day in fact, he responded by saying, "You don't see anything, bitch.
You are just blinded by your racism and your stupidity."  There, that would
put her in her place.

New Message: "I had a cancellation and I have an appointment available on
the 16th at 9 pm.  If you'd like me to reserve it for you, just let me
know."

"YOU STUPID FUCKING CUNT BLACK BITCH!!!!! I WOULD NEVER PAY YOU TO DOMINATE
ME. YOU CAN'T DOMINATE ME YOU DUMB WHORE!!!!!!  GET THAT THROUGH YOUR THICK
FUCKING RETARDED BRAIN."  The minute he hit send, he regretted his
response.  Damn, she had gotten under his skin a little.  Oh well, no big
deal.

The cost for a session with Mistress Desire was $1000 for two hours.  She
was the most expensive Domme on the site.  Everyone else charged in the
neighborhood of $300 an hour, which was $280 too expensive for David.  And
Mistress Desire only worked two weekends a month unlike the other women who
seemed to have full-time employment at The Dark Side.  David spent almost
$1000 on recreational diversions in a week.  Alcohol, drugs, paying guys to
let him suck them off, toys, website subscriptions, and live webcam shows
. . . it added up quickly.  The amount of the money wasn't the issue, it
was the fact that he would be giving money to some ghetto chick to get her
nails done or buy a gaudy knock-off designer bag, or whatever it was that
ghetto women did with their money.  His money was too good to give to a
black chick, they weren't deserving of his money and certainly not that
amount.

The entire exchange had David on the rail and he called Donna and told her
he had to work late that evening.  She didn't question him, she was quite
used to it.  He grabbed something to eat at a drive through and headed
directly to Rock's to get there early.  Every time he went back to Rock's
he would look for Bryan.  The arrogant part of him wanted to spit on Bryan;
he wanted to show his obvious disgust and anger.  Was it even a little bit
ironic to Dave that he wanted the exact same thing that was shown on the
website from Black men yet he was repulsed by a white man wanting that from
a Black woman?  It never even crossed his mind.  That's how fragmented his
brain was; that's how deep the compartmentalization of his sexuality was.

Friday nights at Rocks were always sure to be busy and he was almost
guaranteed to find some action.  Straight Black men, married ones mostly
who wanted to get their dicks sucked but didn't want to deal with the
messiness of white women and all the emotional drama that they brought to
the table, would come to Rocks to get sucked off by white guys.  No muss,
no fuss, no reciprocation.  David would stay on his knees, just waiting for
a black cock to be shoved in his mouth.  He didn't care who it belonged to,
he sort of thought about diseases but usually only when he was surrounded
by his friends and he was complaining how Black men were so promiscuous and
irresponsible.  OK, so he wasn't the most self-aware person, sue him.

Jackpot!  As David walked through the dark and sticky corridor he saw the
dick of his dreams.  Enormous, black, and hard, the guy who owned it was
sitting in a booth, the door wide open, stroking his meat and daring anyone
who thought they could take it on to blow him.  Arrogant enough to assume
he could handle a cock that big, he pushed his way through the crowd of
white admirers and got down on his knees, ready to worship the perfection
before him.

"Come on, faggot, get to work.  I need to pump out a week's worth of cum."

David was almost light-headed at the concept.  Momentarily, he had visions
of his mouth being filled to capacity and over-flowing with cum, causing
his eyes to almost roll back in his head.  Immediately, he went to work.
He could barely get his mouth around the whole thing.  He wasn't as great a
cocksucker as be believed himself to be, he was, very much like the rest of
his existence, just average.  The gentleman being sucked grew tired of the
half-assed attempt Dave was making and decided to literally take things
into his own hands.  He grabbed the sides of David's head and started
skull-fucking him to within an inch of his life.  He was ramming David's
head up and down, entirely too fast, making him choke and gag and
practically suffocate.  Spit was flying everywhere.  David tried to push
himself away, to stop to get some air, and that seemed to annoy his host.
What had been a brutal face-fucking before became even more relentless.  He
was going to pass out.  He couldn't get air.  He was going to hurl.  He
felt the contents of his stomach rumbling and tears streamed from his eyes.
The entire time, the guy was hurling insults at him, calling him names.

"Fucking sissy bitch, suck my dick you white cocksucker.  That's right,
bitch, eat it, eat my fucking big slab of black meat.  Work for that cum.
That's what you want, isn't it?"

Dave would have nodded if he had control of his head.  He could barely hear
the words because his ears were covered and he was being slapped really
hard.  The sting of the pain was excruciating but it only got worse when
some vile form of stomach fluids came gushing out of his mouth and nose and
covered the guy's cock and balls.  He could hear people behind him, gasping
in shock and horror and arousal.  He was the star.  In his mind, people
were standing around watching him perform, not the black man with the huge
cock who was pounding it deep in his throat and providing the perfect dirty
soundtrack.  Nope, he never even questioned that everyone was standing
around jerking off admiring his cock-sucking skills.  His own cock was rock
hard even without the assistance of his little blue pills.  This is the
sort of thing David lived for.  He wanted his sex to be dirty and shameful
and taboo.  He tried to reach for his zipper to undo his pants and stroke
his little cock but he couldn't even do that he was being face-fucked so
forcefully.  All he could really do was try to breath and not suffocate.

An experienced cocksucker if nothing else, he could tell the moment of
reckoning was close.  He couldn't really do anything as he was no longer in
control so he held on for dear life.  The first spurt of cum landed on his
tongue, but all the rest were deposited deep in his throat.  He wanted to
taste the cum but it was not to be.  He counted seven, maybe eight
pulsations verifying that he would indeed had his mouth overflowing with
cum had he been given the opportunity.  Just as his head was released, he
fell backwards, landing on his flat ass and still a bit disoriented.

He looked around.  Some guys were still stroking themselves, others had
clearly cum and were cleaning up, and a few others were just there to
observe.  He got up and thanked the guy and brushed himself off a little
and tried to regain his bearings.  He couldn't really high-five anyone or
talk about it so he just sort of stood around and tried to figure out what
to do next.  His first instinct was to go home and furiously jerk off but
he wanted to stay and see if he could get another cock to suck.

"Good job."  The voice came from behind him.  He turned to see Bryan less
than three feet away.  He was busted!

Unable to deny his participation in the lewd and lascivious act he had just
committed, he immediately went into defensive mode.  "Don't judge me!  So
what?  If you say anything to anyone I'll tell them all about you and what
you do. I saw you on that website and I will tell everyone about what you
do."  Humility was a skill he had to work on.

Bryan smirked.  "Relax man.  I was just trying to acknowledge that you took
on a serious challenge and you survived.  I've seen you here before.
Plenty of times.  I guess you were busy so you didn't see me.  I'm not
trying to start any trouble.  It's just that I've seen lots of guys who
couldn't take Derrick all the way down or last until he came and I was
giving you a sincere compliment."

The look of confusion on David's face was apparent.  "Derrick?  You know
that guy?"

"Yes, we've belonged to him for almost 10 years.  Well, actually to him and
his wife, Desiree'."  Bryan spoke confidently, with no shame or remorse.
He spoke as if it was perfectly natural for a white man to say he belonged
to a Black couple.  There was no doubt that the Desiree' he spoke of was
the woman he had verbally assaulted on the website.  Bryan continued, "The
first time I sucked Derrick off, I practically passed out as well.  Now, I
can take him with no problems. OK, I just wanted to say hello.  See you
around man. Oh, and don't worry.  Your secret's safe with me."  With that,
Bryan walked off in the direction of the open door, undressed completely,
and positioned himself in front of Derrick, his cock still slippery with
spit and gunk, and began what was to be round two with only a few minutes
of recovery time after his first nut.

David looked at the pairing like a scene out of a science fiction movie.
His brain was misfiring.  Had he heard him correctly?  Did he say WE?
There's no way he could have meant his wife Rebecca so who the hell was he
referring to?  Rebecca was . . . well, she wasn't the sort of white woman
that "fucked Black".  Dave stumbled to his car, disoriented.  He couldn't
wait to get home.  He was so turned on, so confused, so out of control he
whipped out his cock and started jerking off in his car, in the parking
lot, not giving a fuck if anyone saw him or not.  Recalling how he was
used, abused, the sheer humiliation of it all was such a fucking turn on.
Fuck!  He was stroking his cock furiously.  He wanted more.  He lived for
that sort of treatment.

He came on his shirt and needed to clean up with a stash of napkins from
various fast food joints he had accumulated.  As he opened the glove
compartment, the flyer from The Dark Side fell out.  He must have put it in
there weeks ago.  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the
glossy cardstock immediately.

"Hello?  Yes, I uhmmmm, I would like to well, make an appointment."

A soft, sexy voice on the other end of the phone greeted him and asked if
this was his first appointment.  He nodded, forgetting for a moment that
she couldn't see him, the words stuck in his throat.  Experienced with
callers who were uncomfortable, the voice at the other end of the call
asked if he had a preference for who he wanted to see.

"Oh, yeah.  Mistress Desiree' . . . Desire . . . whatever the fuck her name
is."  He caught himself.  He knew when he was being an asshole, he was just
so used to doing it he never felt a need to control it.  He knew this was
the time for a little bit of decorum.  "Sorry, yes, Mistress Desire," he
said a teeny bit more meekly this time.

"I'm terribly sorry, she's booked for the next six months.  Would you like
to set up an appointment for someone else sooner or would you rather wait
for her specifically?"

"No, no, no!  She told me today that she would fit me in on the 16th.  She
told me that she wanted to . . ."  He cleared his throat.  He couldn't say
the words.  He was frustrated.  He couldn't wait six months.  He was
entitled and privileged.  Everything was a blur of confusion in that
moment.  His thoughts were coming in fits and spurts.

The young lady on the phone spoke calmly.  She explained that she would
talk to Mistress Desire when she was finished her session and get back to
him in the morning.  She asked lots of questions about what he liked, what
he wanted, his boundaries and hard limits and things like that, all clearly
formed so he could give a simple affirmative or negative response.  She
explained all sorts of rules, most of whom he didn't listen to because he
was stroking his little cock again.  He couldn't cum again if you paid him
but he was still so horny that he was going to pull it until it was raw.
He heard something about "no sex" but he figured that was just for legal
purposes.  If he was going to pay a grand, he was going to get some pussy
for sure even though he really wasn't motivated by straight sex that much.
"May I have your name and telephone number so that I may call you back
tomorrow and let you know what she says?"

If he had been on a land line, Dave would have slammed down the phone in
outrage.  He hung up.  This time, the drive home was slow and purposed.  He
didn't want to go home.  What was he thinking?  What did Bryan mean, we?
What would it be like to be dominated by a Black woman?  Could he go
through with it?  Could she even do it?  He wasn't a pushover.  His mind
had more questions than he could answer and he knew he had fucked up.  In
that moment, he wanted to be dominated by a Black woman and he wanted it
bad.

The next morning he got a private message on the website from Mistress
Desire saying, "I saved the spot on the 16th just in case.  It's yours. All
you have to do is call back and confirm."

The 16th couldn't come fast enough.  Six more days.  Every day felt like an
eternity.  In many ways, it was the first time in a long time David had
experienced the sensation of humility.  He wasn't the biggest loser, he was
no worse or no better than any of his friends, colleagues, or associates.
They were all assholes.  All of them had a fallacious sense of superiority
and enough arrogance to think that they deserved to control and dictate
anyone and anything because they were white and male.  It was their
birthright.  So for David to contemplate someone controlling him,
manipulating him even, it was almost impossible to wrap his head around the
concept.  Sure, he wanted Black guys to degrade him, it got him off; that's
what turned him on.  But what if she forced him to do something that didn't
turn him on?

David couldn't comprehend being in a situation like that but that's all he
could imagine happening.  This bitch was going to make him mop the floor
naked and whip him like a slave or something, or even worse, make him wear
some pink, frilly, panties while doing it.  He didn't want to do that.  No,
sir!  He wasn't going to do it.  There was nothing about that concept that
was even remotely arousing to him. OK, clarification.  He loved prancing
around in panties for Black men but having a woman see him do it?  No way,
Jose.  If he was paying a grand he was going to set the rules.  He would
gladly suck Derrick's cock again; he was down for that.  He would even get
fucked by Derrick.  It's not like he hadn't fantasized about that almost
constantly since their last encounter.  He wasn't keen on the idea of this
woman watching him and even the thought of some Black chick fucking him
with a strapon wasn't too arousing for Dave.  He didn't want a woman, any
woman, especially not a Black woman seeing him enjoying something like
that.  He made up his mind that if she did that, if she fucked him with a
strapon, he wasn't going to let her see him enjoying it.  He was going to
pretend that it hurt and that he was a virgin.

Parking a few blocks away in an attended lot on the big night was a
decision David regretted while taking the walk to the street that housed
the Dungeon.  The Dark Side was located on a tree-lined street, bars and
restaurants and a few eclectic shops littered one side of the street and an
oddly-distinct brownstone discretely sandwiched between a record store and
an art gallery that had been converted from a brownstone on the other.
There was no sign, nothing to indicate what was going on inside.  He was
assured it was the right place however, as he had driven by it almost
daily, at all hours of the night and day in the last six days.

The only people he ever saw entering the front door were white men.  He
figured there must be another entrance in the back where the women came and
went.  He had a game plan.  He was going to get a drink at the bar across
the street and decide if he could go through with it.  With a little liquid
courage, he would approach the brownstone, ring the bell and pretend he was
talking to his friend on the cell phone if anyone passed by.  None of that
was necessary.  He climbed the stairs, rang the bell, and a buzzer granted
him immediate access.

An African American woman greeted him, seated at a credenza in a sitting
room that looked like it was straight out of a 1940s London brothel,
complete with floral, Victorian settees and a sterling silver tea set and
bone china teacups atop a mother-of-pearl inlayed console table.  "Welcome
to The Dark Side.  How can we be of assistance to you this evening?"

David Osterhaus had never been to a BDSM dungeon before.  It was his first
time and he had no idea what to expect.  He was out of his element to be
sure.  He wasn't even submissive, or at least he had never identified
himself as such.  Sure, he loved sucking off Black men and he enjoyed it
when they choked him, spit on him, and called him names but that wasn't
really considered submissive in his mind.  That was just . . . being kinky.
He wasn't sure what had drawn him to make the appointment with a Black
Dominatrix.  He was reasonably assured it was going to be a huge waste of
time and money.  All he really knew was he had to be there, he had to see
what this Mistress Desire was all about.

David stood frozen in the vestibule, afraid to move.  Normally, he would
have walked in like he owned the place but he was out of his element and
this was not at ALL what he was expecting.  It was so . . . sophisticated,
so posh, so . . . so European.  He'd never been in a crack house before but
he was half expecting it to be something like that: dark, dirty, except
with whips and chains on the walls.  This place looked like a scene from an
F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

"Sir?  How may we help you?"

Dave cleared his throat and said, "Uhmmm, I have an appointment. Uhmmm, my
name is Bob Johnson," having rehearsed what he was going to say a dozen
times on the drive there.

"Why yes, Mr. Johnson, I see you have a session with Mistress Desire.  She
is one of our best.  I'm sure you are going to enjoy your experience."
David glanced around more.  There was a huge male bodyguard who was seated
at a table directly behind the hostess.  He looked pretty intimidating but
didn't really fear Black men, he had been on his knees in front of them too
many times for him to have a paranoid fear of them.  But, he was
intimidated and wondered what would happen if he pissed off the wrong
person.

There were tons of papers to fill out, forms to sign.  The hostess, a
pretty brown-skinned women who seemed very congenial and articulate, read
special highlighted sections and asked him to initial certain disclaimers
and rules.  "Now, we're almost finished.  All we have to do is clear up the
matter of payment and I'll need your fingerprints."

"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot," David mumbled.  He reached in his pocket and
pulled out an envelope with cash and slid it across the desk.  He glanced
nervously around.  He had intentionally only put $300 in the envelope
knowing full well the cost for the evening was $1000.  Consumed with
arrogance and an unarticulated disdain for Black women, David was offended
at having to pay that much money, even though he had it and some to spare.
Sitting there, he felt like an idiot.  His plan had some flaws.  He had
planned on making some excuse and bartering for a lower price.  He assumed
that because it was only Black women, that they would take whatever he gave
them and be happy.  Surely, $300 would cover their rent in the housing
projects.  He had never been to a housing project nor did he know what the
rent was for an apartment in one but he just assumed that the $1000 fee was
inordinately high and wasn't going to give his hard-earned, well,
easy-earned money to some welfare queen.  Sitting there however, seeing the
surroundings, seeing the location and the whole set up, he didn't think
that any of the women had ever seen or been to a housing project either.

"Mr. Johnson," she said, clearing her throat, "there seems to be a
problem."  With that, the bodyguard stood up and moved uncomfortably close
to David.  "We like to respect our client's privacy so we offer them the
opportunity to pay in cash.  It's an amenity we provide at great risk to
ourselves but we expect the trust we have in our clients to be rewarded
with their loyalty and respect.  Now, the cost for a session with Mistress
Desire is $1000.  This seems to be short quite a bit.  Now, we can have you
see one of our other very capable Dommes or, if you'd like, you are more
than welcome to pay the balance and we can get you settled in within a
matter of minutes for your session.

David felt like a tool.  He wanted to grab the money and leave and never
look back but something held him to the spot where he sat.  The man
towering over him didn't look upset or agitated but he was ready to squash
any issues that might arise with physical force for sure.  He pulled out
his wallet and swallowed hard.  He hadn't brought any extra cash, lest he
was jumped and robbed, they were Black people after all.  He had wanted to
avoid using a credit card to protect his identity but in that moment he
couldn't think of anything else to do.  If he left to go to a cash machine
and get more money, he might chicken out and not come back so he opted to
just hand over the plastic.

The woman took his card, looked at the name on it and then at him.  David
had written "Ask for ID" on the back of his card and he swallowed hard and
handed it over without her needing to ask.  She and swiped the card and
asked for a signature on her tablet.  "Your credit card statement will
reflect a payment to Jenkins Emporium, LLC.  Would you like a receipt,
Mr. Johnson," she queried, without the tiniest bit of pause knowing full
well that wasn't his real name?  She handed him the tablet and asked him to
place his thumb and forefinger on the indicated areas.  David didn't have a
record and he had never been arrested or fingerprinted by any branch of law
enforcement so he was relatively comfortable with that step of the process
and not overly paranoid about it coming back to haunt him which was pretty
rare for him.  The bodyguard went back to his chair and continued flipping
through the pages of a magazine.

Seemingly, out of nowhere, another attractive young woman entered the room
and said, "Follow me."

David was escorted up two flights of stairs.  The young lady pressed a code
on a keypad and the door clicked.  It was all very high-tech and looked
like something out of a science fiction movie and was a stark contrast to
the décor of the parlor.  She held the door open and said, "Mistress
Desire will be with you momentarily.  Please, make yourself comfortable."
David walked past her, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air
between them, and entered the room.  He wished he had some X to drop but he
did pay attention enough to the woman downstairs when she said absolutely
no drugs and he didn't want to take any more chances with fucking up after
his first little incident.

The very first thing that he noticed was that the room had obviously been
renovated from its original layout, with walls taken out and some
contemporary updates.  The room was sparse, well much more so than the
other parts of the house that seemed overly ornate and accessorized.  The
walls were covered in heavy velvet curtains and there was an armoire full
of antique torture devices on full display.  The furniture, if you could
call it that, was all some variation of custom restraint and torture
devices, stockades and the like.  A chill went up David's spine.  "Oh my
God!  This bitch is going to try to take out all her frustrations for
slavery on me," he thought.  In that instant, he wished he had read the
fine print on all the forms he had signed.  "What the hell was I thinking?
I'm not even into this shit! Fuck this!"  He was ready to grab his
proverbial hat and leave.  Forget the money it; would just be a very
expensive lesson learned.  Just as he was about to make a run for it, the
door opened and Mistress Desire walked in.

She was not at all what David had expected.  First and foremost, she was
wearing a coral colored dress, off the shoulder and diaphanous.  It was
flowing and soft and looked like it could have been seen in the pages of a
fashion magazine editorial layout.  She had expensive tortoise shell
glasses on that were perched half way down her brown, button nose.  Her
hair was short, and she didn't look like she was wearing a lot of makeup
but David was no expert in that sort of thing so he didn't really know.
His wife only wore makeup to weddings and the office Christmas party and it
really only consisted of pink lipstick on her incredibly thin lips.

In her hands was a tablet and she read whatever was on it quite thoroughly
before speaking further.  "Let's get the formalities out of the way first,
shall we?  My name is Desiree'.  You can call me Mistress Desire if you'd
like.  You can call me Desiree'.  Before the night is over I'm sure you are
going to call me bitch a few times, maybe even cunt if that's in your
regular lexicon.  You can call me Goddess, Mommy, whatever makes you
comfortable, I don't' really care.  What you absolutely can't call me is
nigger, or any variation thereof.  If you do, there will be consequences
beyond anything that your little imagination can comprehend. Understand?"
She continued, "I'm going to be your guide this evening.  Your safe word
for this and every session you have with me going forward will be Quantum.
If you want me to stop, say the word `quantum' and I will immediately cease
everything and you will be free to go.  Do you understand?"

David laughed.  It was nervous laughter rather than the condescending "Of
course I understand, whatta you think, I'm stupid, you dumb bitch?" comment
he was biting his tongue to hold back from saying.  She gave him a stern
look and made it known that his non-verbal communication skills were not
sufficient.  He was able to squeak out a, "Got it," as he sucked his teeth
in defiance.  He was quite convinced that most of the clients she saw were
doormats and pushovers and total losers who let her do anything she wanted
and who would beg for more.  He was going to show her.  He was going to be
the one she would never forget.  He was just doing this for the experience.
He just wanted to see what had made his friend Bryan so . . . weird.  If he
could get a nut out of it, all the better.

"OK," she said, "Let's get started, shall we?"  She put down her tablet on
a dresser and went to the closet.  She opened the door and stepped into the
walk-in closet but left the door open more than enough for David to see her
unzipping her dress and stepping out of it.  She was wearing a black lace
bra and panty set and David was shocked that her body was curvy but not at
all out of proportion with a big, ghetto booty like he assumed it would be.
She was fit and toned and her skin was the color of milk chocolate that
seemed inordinately, freakishly inviting in the softly illuminated room.
She took a black latex dress off a hanger and stepped into it.  After some
maneuvering, she was able to pull it into place.  Black latex gloves and
patent leather boots finished the outfit.  She hung up her daytime dress
and closed the door.  David's mouth was open the entire time.

"I know, I know.  It's a bit cliché but it really is the only option."
Before his eyes she had transformed herself.  Her breasts were pushed up
and spilling out of the low-cut neckline of the dress.  Her hourglass
figure was accentuated and she looked like what one would imagine a
Dominatrix looking like. "Now, I won't ruin my clothes with any messy
bodily fluids.  Don't you just hate when you stain your Yves St. Laurent
with blood? I hate that."  With that, she scrunched up her nose and made a
silly little face and laughed.

David did not see the humor in what she said.  Whose blood did she think
was going to come in contact with?  Certainly not his.  He didn't sign up
for that.

 "Gourmet!"

Desiree looked at him with a very confused look on her face.  "I beg your
pardon."

"I said, gourmet.  I don't want this.  I change my mind.  I'm saying the
safe word.  Gourmet.  I quit."

"Your safe word is Quantum, not gourmet."  After a very pregnant, awkward
pause, she replied, "It was a pleasure meeting you and do get home safely."
She turned to open the closet door again.

David panicked.  He had come too far to go back now.  He had to know what
made Bryan so . . . so . . . comfortable in his own skin, so unafraid.  He
had to know what this woman had that was so mesmerizing and captivating.
"Ha, ha, ha.  I was . . . you know, just kidding."  He was scrambling and
trying to think on his feet.  "I know it's quantum.  Yeah, quantum, I got
it.  I was just playing.  I just wanted to make sure you were going to keep
your word.  It was a test . . . yeah . . . like a test."

"I don't like playing games.  Now, if you want to stay, take off your
clothes and wait for instructions.  If you want to leave, as I said before,
get home safely.

David really wanted to leave.  He wanted to go back to Boringville and go
to Rock's and suck off a big black cock and then go home to his boring life
and boring wife.  But SOMETHING made him stay firmly planted where he
stood.  He couldn't even explain it to himself.  This was certifiably
crazy, even for him.

He pulled his shirt over his head, sort of like a gesture to say, "OK, I'll
play along."  He stood there, motionless, waiting for the show to begin.
Surely, he thought, she was going to yell and scream at him for defying her
orders.  That, he could get into.  That was his area of expertise, pissing
people off.  He didn't work out but he was in good shape relatively for his
age so he wasn't afraid of her.  Then, he remembered the bodyguard from
downstairs and rethought and misguided ideas he had of any sort of physical
altercation with this woman.

Desiree circled him, the click of her high heels on the parquet floors was
staccato yet seemed to be muffled by the thick textiles covering the
walls. "I'm not a typical Domme," she explained.  "I'm not going to yell
and scream, I'm not going to demand that you do silly things to earn my
approval, I'm certainly not going to tire myself out beating you to within
an inch of your life.  I'm a psychological Domme.  I'm going to get in your
head, I'm going to break you.  I told you that.  So, we can stand here for
your entire session if you'd like.  It won't hurt my feelings at all.  As
long as you're out of here by 11:30, I'm perfectly fine with whatever you'd
like.  I have a regular client coming in at midnight and my relationship
with them goes back to 2004 and I will NOT have you interfere with that
session."

David's ears perked up.  Bryan said that he had belonged to Mistress Desire
for a decade.  Is that who would be coming in after him?  What the hell
could she possible do that would make him so devoted to her for so long?
He had to stay.  He had to experience what Bryan did.  He wanted a bigger
nut, he wanted something new and more exciting.  Stripping completely
naked, David stood there, bare, exposed, and vulnerable, erect in both the
literal and figurative senses of the word, awaiting further instruction.

Mistress Desire circled David like a lioness stalks her prey: quietly
observing and calculating her attack before she went in for the kill.
Desiree' examined David like a farmer would inspect his livestock.

Along with the standard BDSM paraphernalia of floggers and paddles and
restraints, Desiree' had an arsenal of medieval torture devices at her
fingertips that she could use to inflict crippling pain on David like he
was a serf who had stolen a jewel from the King's crown if she wanted.  In
actuality, they weren't from medieval times at all but the very same
torture devices used on slaves in the antebellum land of Dixie.  That's one
of the many reasons a session with her was so much more expensive than the
other Dommes; she had an attention to detail that couldn't compare and a
knack for irony that rivaled any metallurgist's.  While she was a
psychological Domme at heart, and while her techniques and practices
centered on getting into a person's mind and rewiring their thought
patterns, she wasn't oblivious to the fact that pain, coupled with the
right doses of pleasure and reward, were integral components in breaking a
sub.

"Would you mind?"  She handed him a pair of handcuffs and indicated that
she would indeed like him to put them on himself.  He clicked on the left
and then the right one, leaving them loose enough for him to slip out of.
Desiree' smiled.  She tightened both cuffs until they couldn't be tightened
any more.

"Hey!  That's too tight!"  David was incensed and he began bargaining.
"OK, look, I get that I had them on too loose but can't we find a happy
medium?"  He was struggling against the restraints, pulling at them as if
that was going to make them hurt less.

Desire smiled.  "Yes, I can only imagine that they do hurt, quite
significantly in fact.  But, I can promise you that you will experience a
great deal more discomfort before the evening is over."  If only her tone
wasn't so calming and reassuring, if her voice wasn't so soft and
seductive.  If it matched the discomfort he was feeling, he could wrap his
head around the entire situation.  This was strange, unfamiliar territory,
uncharted waters as it were.  She grabbed a pole and used it to pull a hook
down from the ceiling.  Before David even had a chance to object, she had
placed the connecting links of the handcuffs to the hook and released it
and it immediately pulled his arms above his head tautly.  David dangled
like some sort of kinky, naked piñata, his toes barely touching the
floor.

One minute suspended like that felt like an eternity.  David screamed.  He
didn't yell, he wasn't speaking in a raised, angry voice, he screamed out
like he was afraid for his life.  It's not a sensation many people ever
experience and it was one that David had never even imagined he was capable
of experiencing.  He was more terrified of the unknown than the actual
sensation of pain, although, the pain was quite intense.  The more he
struggled, the more he panicked and the more he panicked the more he cried
like a baby.  Desiree wasn't the least bit phased by his antics.  The room
was completely soundproofed and the night was oh so young.


"Let me go, bitch!  Let me down!"  David flailed and kicked, missing any
contact with this cruel woman by more than a foot because he had no
leverage, no balance.  His arms ached, burned.  Desiree' remedied the
situation by putting legs irons on him that left his legs immobilized about
three feet apart.

"Your name is now Dayo.  It's a West African name, it's actually a girl's
name but you won't mind, will you?"

"You fucking bitch, my God damn name isn't Die yo.  It's Bob . . . it's
. . . fuck it, it's David," he said, relinquishing the need for fake names,
breathless and crying now.  All he wanted in that moment, all he needed was
relief from the excruciating burning in his wrists, arms, and shoulders.

"Now, now, Dayo!  Calm down.  Take a deep breath.  She took off her glove
and began caressing his naked flesh.  It did calm him.  His brain
registered her touch as soothing and healing.  She kept instructing him to
take deep breaths as she stroked his reddened flesh.  His arms were now
numb and the pain was dull as she softly ran her fingertips up and down his
skin, stroking his rising cock.  He didn't want to get hard, he didn't
think it was possible under the circumstances but damn it all, he was.  He
hated himself for being aroused in that moment.

"I would love to let you down but I'm afraid I can't.  You see.  I need to
beat you, torture you until such time as you relinquish your name.  You not
only have to accept your new name, you have to hate your birth name.  I am
terribly sorry but I must inflict so much pain that you embrace your new
name with gratitude.  That's what my ancestors endured, the ones kidnapped
and brought 1000s of miles from their homes to be enslaved like livestock.
They weren't allowed to keep their names.  They were beaten, raped, and
tortured until they gave up their real African names for new European
names.  And, they weren't as lucky as you to experience sexual arousal,
their experience wasn't for a couple of hours, it was for a lifetime.  So,
Dayo, that is your new name and you are going to like it."

She lowered the hook enough that his feet were touching the floor but just
barely.  His legs were so wide apart that it wasn't at all the reprieve he
was expecting.  David felt relief in that second, however fleeting and
minimal, and he was grateful for it.  Next, Desiree' produced a device that
looked like nothing David had ever seen before.  It was an iron contraption
that went around his throat and was locked in place with a padlock but it
had some sort of cage that went around his head.  His air was restricted
and that damn thing was heavy and as uncomfortable as hell.  The cuffs were
digging into his flesh, surely going to leave physical evidence that would
need to be hidden from his family, friends, and coworkers to avoid
questions about how he got the marks.

"You get it, now, don't you?  These are the actual devices used to break
the spirit and bodies of real slaves.  I went to great lengths to purchase
them from an old plantation in Mississippi.  The owner had the audacity to
try to charge me $20,000 for all the artifacts."  She went on, detailing
the specifics of the transaction but David didn't hear anything.  He felt
burning, hot pain in his arms and legs and he was light-headed and faint.
The rusty iron from the thing around his throat was suffocating him and he
would have feared tetanus if taking a breath wasn't his first concern in
that moment.

Without warning, she kicked him hard in the ballsack, jarring him back into
full consciousness and making him yell out in pain.  "Silly Dayo, I can't
have you blacking out.  My goodness, you've only been restrained 17
minutes.  But, don't you just love the fact that a real person, an actual
human being, one you would just as soon spit on for the color of their
skin, was tortured by these EXACT devices.  Doesn't that just turn you on?
I know it turns me on."  With that, she raised the hem of her dress and
pulled her black, latex panties down and slid her fingers between her wet
pussy lips.  She was masturbating in front of David, quite feverishly in
fact.  He wanted to look away but he couldn't.  He didn't want his cock to
jerk and throb, but it did.

"Now, she said," tell me how slavery wasn't that bad.  Tell me how my
ancestors were lucky to be kidnapped from that ole heathen Africa.  Come
on, bitch.  Tell me how the Irish had it worse than Africans who were
enslaved."

David sobbed.  He wanted to curse her out.  He wanted to kill her, but all
he could do was pray for relief.  It was not to come.  Mistress Desire
produced a wooden switch and began whipping David all over his body,
raising welts immediately.  The sound of the switch slicing through the air
sent terror through David.  The pain on contact was excruciating.  For her
to be a psychological Domme, she certainly was using an extraordinary
amount of physical pain to get her point across.  David was not used to or
expecting any of this.  His demeanor had softened.  He wasn't the
obnoxious, arrogant prick he was when he walked in.  He was simply trying
to make the pain less and he was ready to say or do anything in order to
make that happen.

"Please, let me down. Please."  His voice was soft and meek, mainly because
the iron contraption around his head was restricting his air.

"Let you down?  Dear, sweet Dayo.  Do you think slave masters let my
ancestors down when they were in pain and begging for mercy?  Is that what
you think happened during slavery?"  She caressed his body gently, across
his nipples and down his stomach.  "I don't guess you've ever really
contemplated what slaves went through, have you?  You've never considered
what hell they had to endure, for more than . . . (glancing at the clock)
34 minutes, have you?  All you've ever really thought about is how those
dumb slaves got what they deserved, isn't it?  All you've ever really
thought about is how Blacks are stupid and inferior and they don't matter,
isn't it?  You've never thought about a mother having her child sold out
from her arms, have you?  You've never contemplated the pain of that.
You've never thought about what it would be like to see your wife raped in
front of you?  Well, tonight, that's going to change."

Every single one of David's senses were heightened.  The stench of his body
odor choked him, his sweat smelled of pure fear and adrenaline.  His tears
tasted like seawater as they fell down his age-defined cheeks and onto his
lips and viscous mucous hung from his nose like a disgusting ode to Jabba
the Hut.  More significantly, his cock protruded laughably.  It was
painfully hard and the head was wet with precum.  He wished it wasn't hard.
Intellectually, there was nothing arousing about being restrained, his arms
aching to the point of numbness, his head and neck enclosed in an antique
torture device that felt like it weighed every bit of 50 pounds at the
moment, his legs forced apart and restrained, and having his naked body
exposed to whippings from a bitch who obviously took some sort of perverse
pleasure in seeing him in this predicament.  On a much deeper level
however, in the perverse recesses of his fucked up brain, the entire scene
was as erotic as fuck.  He didn't understand or make a conscious connection
to the utter humiliation and his arousal but the evidence was there, all
four and a half proud, hard inches, desperate for release.

This was, unquestionably, the most fucked up situation he had ever been in.
He had no control over the circumstances, he couldn't pull any strings,
literally and figuratively.  He knew the safe word but the thought of using
it never even crossed his mind.  This was the stuff of erotic dreams come
true.

His body was alive with electricity.  His nipples were hard, sensitive, and
every time Desiree even grazed them lightly with her fingertips, he
whimpered uncontrollably and his body would convulse with waves of ecstasy.
She did more than merely graze them, however, she focused on them.  She
pinched them until he cried out, pulled them until his body contorted.  She
twisted them like they were knobs on a transistor radio and she was trying
to find the public owned radio station at the end of the dial.  And in
between all of that, she softly, sensually, rubbed them causing David to
sob uncontrollably from the heightened pleasure he experienced in every
cell of his body.

The entire time she was playing with his nipples, Desiree whispered in his
ear.  Her soft, sexy voice serenaded him, the warmth of her body
dangerously close, her soft, full mounds of breast flesh pressed against
his back.  "Pleasure and pain are blurred to you now."  As soon as the
words left her mouth, she released the hook that suspended his arms above
his head and he came crashing down.  He crumpled to the floor, he head
banging the iron bars rendering him nearly unconscious and his arms burning
with pins and needles from the blood flow.  His soul cried out, "Thank you,
goddess," from a place of sincerity and pure gratitude but no words escaped
his lips.  He was disoriented.  He didn't know how long he had been
suspended but he was almost sure his time had to be up.

He was not to be so lucky.  Producing a skeleton key, Desiree' unlocked the
padlock on the thing surrounding his head.  Being free from that thing was
a sense of liberation like he'd never known before.  She undid the
handcuffs and the leg restraints as well and he curled up into the fetal
position, ostensibly licking his emotional wounds.

David was not to have reprieve however.  Extending her gloved hand to him,
she led him to a stockade device.  It appeared to be authentic as well.
With a mere nod of her head, Desiree indicated that she wanted him to place
his head and arms in the contraption.  He bent over table before him and
positioned himself with his head in the opening, followed by his arms, and
awaited the suffocating lumber to be lowered down, securing him in place.
Desiree' struggled.  It was not at all light and it was cumbersome and
heavy to move.  Once slammed into place, another padlock was used to lock
it in place.


"You know," she said, "that's real slavery.  I removed all your restraints,
you were free to run, to get away, but you stayed.  I own you now.  You're
my bitch, Dayo. You belong to me."  She was smiling, smug and arrogant
almost but not in the same way as David usually was.  It was contentment,
satisfaction beamed from inside her.

David was not so pleased with himself.  He rejected the notion that he had
been broken so easily.  He wanted to curse her out, he wanted to call her
names and spit on her.

He didn't.

If one thing was evident, the stockade was designed so that David's ass and
cock were exposed and easily accessible.  David was helpless.  His arms and
head were secured in a stockade and he was bent over a table the left him
vulnerable in ways only a man could comprehend.  He heard movement behind
him but rather than speaking up and asking what was going on, he remained
silent.  He wasn't in control and it wasn't a sensation that he was even
used to.

Without warning, Mistress Desire shoved her gloved and now lubed fingers in
his asshole.  "Let's see what we are working with here."  She twisted her
hand and caused him to moan out loud.  He wasn't quite sure what he was
feeling, pleasure or pain.  Everything was turned upside down and he tried
his best to push back on her fingers, wanting her to hit his spot.  She was
in control and she abruptly pulled her fingers out, leaving him feeling
empty in both the literal and figurative sense of the word.

The next sensation he felt was pain, intense, searing, blinding pain.  The
sound he made was distorted, like an animal trapped, willing to chew his
own leg off for freedom.

"Such histrionics, Dayo!  Be quiet!  It's not like you haven't been fucked
plenty of times before. It's not like I'm fucking you with a broken bottle,
like my ancestors endured.  It's not a hot branding iron, you know, like
real slaves endured.  It's a dildo.  Granted," she mused, "it's wider than
my forearm and I'm not going to stop until every inch of it is buried deep
inside you but it could be much worse."

Everything she said was true.  "If you mention what your fucking ancestors
endured one more time," David murmured under his breath, half hoping she
heard him, half hoping she wouldn't punish him for expressing such
insolence.  He knew not to finish his thoughts to test how far she could
go.  In that moment, he was fighting back tears and the mounting sensations
of pleasure.  That fake dick was hitting his spot.  It was not unlike the
very first time he got fucked when he felt searing hot pain only to be
followed by a pleasure unlike anything he's ever known.  If he had been
able to turn his head, to see what he was being fucked with, he would have
seen that it was only an 8-inch dildo, he'd taken much bigger, both real
and fake.  But he wasn't in control so it felt scarier.  The more she
stroked, the better it felt.

And boy was she stroking.  Long, hard, steady, and deep.  She was fucking
him, increasing her pace, brutally increasing her force.  The entire time,
she wouldn't keep her fucking mouth shut.  She kept going on and on and on,
saying some shit about slavery, shit David had never even thought about
once in his life.  She fucked him.  "Whites denied Blacks education for
centuries, of course that is going to have long-term effects."  She fucked
him.  "Only the most depraved, evil people could feel justified to own,
sell, torture, and rape human beings like it meant nothing."  She fucked
him even harder still.  "You're terrified that if the playing field were
actually level that Blacks would revolt and enslave whites and that's why
you want us to remain uneducated and poor."  She gripped his hips and
slammed her dildo balls deep in his ass without mercy and taunted him,
"Who's superior now, bitch?  Answer me! Who's superior now?"

Normally, Dave was the silent type during sex.  All that panting and
moaning and talking was for chicks in pornos.  David had had sex where he
didn't even exchange names with the person, let alone make a sound; he
wouldn't even breathe heavy.  Being restrained in that stockade,
uncomfortable as hell, out of control, in pain, and in the throes of
pleasure like he had never known before, David was crying, moaning,
screaming and panting like a rabid dog.  He wanted to say, "You are!
You're superior, Goddess! You are."  He couldn't form words so he grunted
with each ferocious thrust he received.  He'd been in sub-space before,
that mental place when he was transformed to nothing more than a mass of
sexual desire.  This was a different place.  He was terrified and pissed
and ashamed and aroused.  He was vulnerable and . . . enslaved.  He
couldn't move physically but more than loss of mobility, he was a prisoner
to his perverted lusts and the sensations that were liberating and
terrifying at the same time.

His brain misfired as his body betrayed him.  He surrendered.  He relaxed
all his muscles but he gave up emotionally to the fact that he was being
fucked senseless: psychologically and physically.  Tears flowed down his
cheeks.  Desiree' owned him.  He pulled vigorously against his restraints,
desperate for release.  In that instant of realization, he came.  He
erupted in pleasure as cum poured from his cock, as he orgasmed in every
cell in his body.

David was revived from a temporary loss of consciousness.  His limbs ached,
his ass felt empty.  He lay defeated and crumpled on the floor.  As he
opened his eyes, he saw Desiree' moving about the room, superficially
straightening things and looking as fresh as a daisy.  In shame, he
scrambled to find his clothing and cover his nudity.  Even dressed, he felt
naked, exposed.  His arrogance was gone.  He didn't feel the need to put
her in her place, to ridicule her, to demean her.  He wanted nothing more
than to lay in her arms and be comforted and nurtured.  He wanted to nurse
from her breast like a newborn in his African mother's arms.  He wanted her
approval and validation but he was not to get it.

"Time's up, Dayo.  I don't have another opening for six months so be sure
to make an appointment before you leave."  Her confidence that he was going
to see her again was not at all arrogant.  David would pay triple her fee
to be able to see her again and see her soon.  In that moment he would have
left his wife and family if Desiree would simply allow him to lay at the
foot of her bed.  His soul craved more degradation like only she could
deliver.

As Desiree' opened the door, not at all subtly ushering him out, Rebecca
Manetti strolled past her, like she had been there 100 times before but not
before stopping to give Mistress Desire a kiss that rivaled any late-night,
soft-core lesbian Cinetime porno ever made.  In less than a few seconds
time, what he thought was his lifeless genitalia, twitched to full, hard
attention.  He was embarrassed and ashamed that she had seen him but his
overwhelming desire was to stay, to watch.  Lowering his eyes to the
ground, he slinked away but he knew that he would return again.

Copyright 2014 AfroerotiK