Date: Fri, 22 Apr 2016 04:26:08 +0000 (UTC)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Love is the Boss

Love is the Boss,

by Skorpio



MAKE A GENEROUS CONTRIBUTION TO SUPPORT NIFTY STORIES. IF YOU ARE A TRUE
SUBMISSIVE, MAKE THIS HAPPEN. GIVE UP THAT CASH AS QUICKLY AS YOU SURRENDER
YOUR MOUTH AND ASS.



Part One: Chiaroscuro


The curtains and blinds were drawn. The room was dark except for the
glimmer of half a dozen tall black candles. The aroma of Egyptian musk
spiced the air. From a stereo behind cabinet doors played a sultry jazz
saxophone solo, Harlem Nocturne by Illinois Jacquet. The music was
haunting, compelling.

Like pharaoh on his throne, a young brother of medium height and bantam
weight sat in a large, upholstered armchair. His back was straight, legs
apart, and his palms rested on his knees. He was shirtless, wearing only
loose-fitting cargo shorts and size ten Timberlands. His taut, ripped
physique had not an unnecessary ounce of body fat. Nipples like Hershey's
Kisses adorned his broad chest.  Below rippled six-pack abs.

Soft shadows flickered on the brother's flawless flesh, the color of
molasses. Feline eyes glittered in the candle light. A smile flickered on
his generous lips, revealing large and perfect teeth. Any psychic or
clairvoyant would have been dazzled by the golden aura which radiated
outward like a force which cannot be suppressed. Malcolm Rush was
twenty-three years old.

Before him kneeled an older white man, naked save for a leopard-pattern
loincloth tied to his waist with a narrow band of rawhide. Stuart
Witherspoon was thirty-five, built like a quarterback with broad shoulders
and a beefy, hirsute chest. Crew cut, thick eyebrows, big blue eyes, snub
nose, and square jaw.

Encircling his thick throat was a leather collar. As if that alone were not
enough to mark him as an owned slave, there were words in capital black
letters tattooed across his upper back that left no doubt: "MALCOLM'S WISH
IS MY COMMAND."

"You know what to do," Malcolm commanded. His voice was deep and rich like
molasses. A voice that took obedience for granted. The clear and
unmistakable voice of a Master who knows what it is to own and dominate an
inferior. One gives the orders, the other does what he is told.

Stuart tugged off his Master's boots and set them to the side. He gazed
with abject, desperate longing at the young man's bare feet for a moment
before planting moist, worshipful kisses upon each dark brown
instep. Malcolm smirked with total satisfaction. Closing his eyes as
Stuart's tongue did its work, Malcom thought back to how it all began...



Part Two: Past is Prologue


One year ago to the day, Malcolm and Stuart met at a bar called the Salt
and Pepper Club.  Malcolm was already on his second Tanqueray and tonic
when Stuart walked through the door. Their eyes locked, and for a
spellbound moment time seemed to stand still. It had to be love at first
sight. They danced for hours under the glittering disco sphere, beguiled
like long-lost lovers reunited against all odds.

After the bar closed at two a.m., known as "hotel/motel time," they
strolled through the labyrinthine city streets, talking and sharing,
lingering in the shadows to kiss. A romantic night neither would ever
forget. A few days later, Stuart took Malcolm to dinner at a five-star
seafood restaurant, afterwards a movie. Later, they made love in Stuart's
bed, a fusion of body and soul. Amorous words were exchanged and impulsive
vows were sworn without thought or hesitation.

The two men fell asleep in an embrace as if they had done so a thousand
times before.  The next morning they made love once again. They could not
bear to be apart. Within a few passionate weeks, Malcolm moved into
Stuart's apartment.

Malcolm was a junior at the local state college, majoring in political
science with a minor in criminal justice. Academic expenses were covered by
a scholarship so he pulled nights as a security guard at a factory to make
ends meet.

The young brother had a sexual fantasy. When Malcolm hit puberty, he became
enthralled by the old Bomba the Jungle Boy flicks which came on TV every
Saturday morning. There was something about a muscular, half-naked white
boy living in the jungle that fascinated him no end. Malcolm longed to be
best friends with a brawny whiteboy like Bomba. They would be faithful
companions, sharing adventures, fighting evil doers, and sleeping side by
side under the stars.

It was not long before Malcolm started fucking girls, but whenever he was
home in bed, feeling horning, he jerked off to thoughts of his fierce white
Jungle boy. He fantasized about rolling the muscular lad on his stomach,
lifting his loin cloth to reveal plump, ivory cheeks, and taking him like a
woman. More than once Malcolm woke from a recurring wet dream in which
Bomba kneeled before him, lips parted, gazing at his crotch.

When Malcolm was seventeen, he was approached in the men's room at the mall
by a balding, bearded, middle-aged caucasian who came right out and offered
to give him head. When Malcolm balked, the fellow offered him a hundred
dollars. No way could Malcom turn down that! And the incredible blowjob
which ensued was like nothing he had ever before experienced.

Malcolm decided if all cocksuckers were that skilled, not to mention
generous with the benjamins, then to hell with chicks. He returned to that
restroom again and again, night after night. There was no end of white men,
from every walk of life, from bankers to brick-layers, lurking about,
willing to pay for a taste of his black dick.

That action was great, and the cash was better. But there was something
missing. Malcolm wanted more from a man than to be treated like a
prostitute, no matter how profitable. He was still very much interested in
the opposite sex, and could not imagine not getting married someday,
fathering sons and daughters. At the same time, deep in his loins, he knew
a longing to be with a submissive white man as soul-mates, as life-force
partners. One who ruled and fucked, the other who obeyed and received.

As for Stuart Witherspoon, he too was somewhat reticent to acknowledge his
sexuality.  Growing up, he idolized girls and got along with them
surprisingly well, better than he got along with most guys. At twenty-one,
Stuart married his college sweetheart, a girl of mixed heritage named
Tamara. Her mother was white, father Black.

Long story short, their honeymoon and marriage went unconsummated. Six
months later after a fairly amicable divorce, Tamara informed Stuart that
he should seriously consider the possibility he might be gay. This set
Stuart to wondering. He loved girls, the way they dressed, the way they
talked, but he did not desire them. The idea of making love to a woman
seemed like a beautiful notion, but the physicality, the act of taking a
woman, appealed to him not in the least.

Despite all that, Stuart resisted identifying as queer. He could not see
himself that way. Homos were sissies. Effeminate. Stuart considered himself
a man's man. He played football in high school and college, worked out, and
enjoyed sports of all kinds, including hunting and fishing. No way could he
be gay.

One night Stuart found himself drowning his sorrows in a seedy bar across
from the train station. He was quite drunk when a black man about his age,
sitting to his right, struck a conversation. They talked and drank. Before
long, Stuart was inside a cab with this stranger, which took them to a
motel room where what transpired was an experience that Stuart, inebriated
as he was, would never forget.

That night, he sucked cock and took it up the ass for the first time. He
gave in to all his desires. That's the magic of alcohol. When daylight
dawned Stuart woke to find himself face down on the bed, alone, naked, with
a hangover. His jaw and rectum were extremely sore. Sitting up, he saw a
half-full fifth of bourbon on the dresser beside a handwritten note that
read: "Thanks for showing me a good time, chump! Left you cab fare."

That's when Stuart found his wallet on the floor and discovered all that
remained of two hundred dollars was a twenty dollar bill. It must have been
a set up from the beginning, which meant Stuart was indeed a chump. He got
played by a black man with a big cock because he could not help himself.

What was the Black man's name? Charles? Carl? Carlton? Stuart could not
remember. No more than he could recall the Black man's features. However,
if asked to describe the stranger's genitals, Stuart could have painted
with word a precise picture. But not the Black Man's face. That was a blur.

It was humiliating at first, and yet deep down Stuart was thrilled by the
thought of being used and robbed. From that day on whenever Stuart saw a
Black man of a certain height and build with a vaguely familiar aspect he
wondered if that was the man who took his virginity.

Over time, Stuart had many raw encounters, mostly one night stands with
masculine men of color, often homeless brothers who fell (or saw through)
his offer of booze and weed.  Sometimes he left his wallet out deliberately
before falling asleep (or passing out) as an irresistible temptation. More
often than not his pickups took the bait. He came to enjoy being used and
treated like a hole, hustled, and kicked to the curb. But as the years wore
on, the white slut longed for something more, something deeper and more
lasting.




Part Three: Terms of Endearment


>From the outset of their relationship, Stuart deferred to all of Malcolm's
wishes, wants, and whims.  Desperate not to lose this catch, he spoiled the
stunningly handsome, virile young black man with gifts. Recognizing his
younger lover was in many ways more practical than he, more mature and
certainly more decisive, Stuart often turned to Malcolm for advice.

Malcolm, who was aggressive and self-confident by nature, took charge, and
Stuart went along. It was Stuart's responsibility to perform the cooking,
cleaning, laundry, and shopping, while Malcolm focused on his studies. Some
lovers become rivals, letting envy and competition erode their physical and
emotional bond. Not Malcolm and Stuart. They fit together like two pieces
of a jigsaw puzzle.

When it came to sex, Malcolm determined when and how often they made love,
and when Stuart was simply required to get him off.  The young black man's
testosterone levels were commensurate with his youth and racial heritage,
making his libido the more demanding of the two. He was always in the mood
to fuck, at least once a day if not twice.

While watching porn together and reading erotic stories on the internet,
Malcolm and Stuart discovered a mutual interest in authoritarian themes,
particularly bondage.  It was Stuart who asked Malcolm how he felt about
fucking him with wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts.

"Or you could my hands behind my wrists when I suck your cock. You always
say I use my hands too much, that I need to work on using just my mouth."

"I'm down with that!" nodded Malcolm with a smile that masked an even
deeper satisfaction. The mental image of his white bodybuilder boyfriend
physically restrained, at his mercy, sent blood coursing to his dick.

Malcolm went on: "There are times when I feel like spanking you. Really
hard on that plump ass you got, so you feel it. Like punishment, I guess. I
don't want to hurt you, but... I want to treat you like a slut, sometimes."

"Maybe I do need to be punished," suggested Stuart, unable to relinquish
that scenario. Punished for being a slut. It made him feel dizzy and weak.

"Are you down with that?" said Malcolm. "You know how much I love you, but
punishing you does turn me on, I gotta be honest. When I get really horny,
I want to say things, I want to talk nasty to you. I want to treat you like
a slut. Tnat's what you are to me. Can you handle that?"

"Baby, you should know by now. I'm YOUR slut. I want to please you. Serve
you! Call me any name in the book. I deserve it! Whatever turns you on,
turns me on. I know that you love me, now I need you to use me. Don't you
know I'm begging to be used?"

"Mmmm, then kiss me, you fucking slut," Malcolm growled. He gripped
Stuart's head in place with both hands as their lips met. Contact was
electric, like energy flowing from Stuart into Malcolm.

Malcolm pulled down Stuart's dress pants and bent him over his knees like a
child. He ran his large palms across the firm white fleshy ass, like
pewter, so cool to the touch. This was going to be good. He liked the way
the muscular white man's exposed ass quivered like jelly.

Stuart's mind flashed back to when his Sicilian step-father disciplined him
in this fashion. Stuart was thirteen years old when he received his first
bare-ass spanking. He got it for daring to talk back. So brutal was that
beating that Stuart could not sit down for several days.

"I'm gonna teach you to respect me, boy!" Mario raged. "I'm the fucking MAN
in this house! I'm your father now! I'm not gonna coddle you.  You will
learn to obey me."

Stuart never again talked back to his step-father, still it seemed he could
not do anything right. Rarely did a week go by without Stuart getting
spanked, sometimes with Mario's leather belt which stung even more than the
palm. To add insult to injury, Mario insisted that Stuart thank him after
every beating. This went on for years.

When Stuart was seventeen, full grown with hair on his pubes and pits, a
few curls sprouting on his chest, being placed across his step-father's
knees for a raw, bare-ass spanking was unbearably humiliating.

In high school Stuart avoided getting undressed in the locker room or
showering with other guys lest they see the bruises on his buttocks. No one
could ever know what transpired at home on a routine basis. This was
Stuart's deepest, darkest secret and a source of everlasting shame, leaving
emotional scars that would never heal. He loved being spanked.

"I'm not gonna be gentle," Malcolm warned, his voice stirring Stuart from
his submissive fantasies. "Are you sure you're ready?"

With a shudder of excitement, Stuart replied: "I'm always ready." His soft
white ass cheeks tensed with anticipation.

"Relax that booty, bitch!" Malcolm demanded, drawling that last word into
two syllables, before bringing down his hand upon Stuart's buttocks with a
resounding whack. Then, again and again. He spanked that white booty ass
twenty times until it glowed scarlet and Stuart begged him to stop.

"Had enough?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir!" Stuart pleaded.

"I don't think so," said Malcolm.

Twenty more whacks ensued, each one harder than the last.

"Unnnhh, ohhh, unh-unhhh, noo-ooo, ohhhhhhh, yessss, ohhhhhh, unhhhh,"
Stuart bawled incoherently, convulsing with each strike.

He was an adolescent once again, at the mercy of his step-father's
brutality, consumed by shame. He needed to be punished, but the searing
pain was more than he could take.

"No more, please, please" he pleaded. "Thank you, thank you, Sir. Please, I
can't take no more."

"I think you can," said Malcolm, coldly.

"Nooooo....," Stuart moaned.

"I don't wanna hear that! Tell me you want more!"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir," Stuart sobbed. "I need to be punished. I'm
sorry. Spank me harder! Hurt me! Beat me!"

Twenty more swift blows followed. Malcolm was enjoying this immensely. He
liked inflicting pain. It made everything real. No games. No bullshit. He
needed to see how much Stuart could handle before breaking into pieces.

"Thank me, bitch!"

"Ohhhhhh, yes, yes, thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir," babbled the thirty-two
year old reduced to seventeen again, reliving the torment he suffered at
the abusive hands of his step-father's.

Malcolm ordered Stuart face down on the floor. Spreading Stuart's glowing
cheeks, Malcolm drove his huge, dark brown dick between them, forcing his
tool without mercy, pushing inside, making Stuart groan with exquisite
pleasure.

"You feeling me? Feel my dick inside you? I'm gonna fuck you like a whore!
I'm gonna fuck you rough and hard because I love you, bitch. I wish that I
could rape yo' ass because I know you want that. They say you can't rape
the willing, but by the time I get done, you gonna feel raped."

Malcolm thrust his wrought-iron black pole into the white muscle slut's
tight, hungry pussy, moving slowly at first, in and out, inch by inch,
before accelerating his thrusts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder.

Stuart groaned loudly, unable to distinguish incredible pain from
pleasure. It felt so good having this big black cock inside him, pummeling
his guts, the incredible fullness of its length and girth, the relentless,
driving, jackhammer rhythm, the wild, hard, constant pounding.

"Oh, yahhhh, yahhh, your pussy feels so good!" Malcolm cried.

"Fuck me, fuck me!" begged Stuart like a bitch in heat.

"Take it, slut! Work yo' cunt. Work it!"

Stuart was totally under his young Master's control. He needed this. He
needed to be fucked.

"Take it, take it!" growled Malcolm. His nuts churned. He worked his big
dick, thrusting harder and harder with a vengeance. He did not skeet until
Stuart was in tears.




Part Four: Proposal


Malcolm and Stuart's interests advanced to BDSM, leather hoods, handcuffs,
ball-gags, chastity belts, and nipple clamps. What they shared transcended
sex. There was more to this dynamic than being top and bottom, dom and
sub. It was a big black dick and a tight white hole in perfect harmony.

"We've come a long way, boo," said Malcolm after dinner one night. He
remained at the table while Stuart stood at the sink, washing dishes. "I'm
getting into this bondage and discipline stuff," Malcolm went on. "It's
really hot, and I know you can't get enough."

"That's an understatement."

"Yeah, I know, right? Let me ax you something. How do you feel about taking
this to the next level? I mean, it's not really about sex anymore, it's
about us."

"What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is, I don't just want to be a dom in the bedroom. I want
to be your dom all the time, in every way."

"Isn't it like that, already?"

Stuart wiped his hands on a dish towel. He filled two stemmed glasses with
Cabernet and joined his handsome, muscular lover.

"It is like that. Already," Malcolm nodded.  "Maybe I just want to make it
official, know what I'm saying?"

"Then, it's official," Stuart confirmed.

"Kiss me, bitch."

Lips met, tongues touched as Malcolm slipped a large brown hand beneath the
white man's short-sleeved shirt to tweak a rubbery nipple. Stuart moaned,
surrendering. Two things got Stuart instantaneously aroused. One was coarse
sex talk. The other was having his big nipples pinched and twisted.

"Ohhhhhh, unhhhhh, ohhh God, please don't stop," Stuart winced in ecstasy.

"I will get back to your tits, bitch," said Malcolm, letting go. "Right
now, I got something else for you."

Malcolm set a ribboned cardboard box on the table.

"For me?"

"For you. Open it."

Inside was a black, leather collar with a silver buckle.

"This is my way of proposing, baby," said Malcolm. "If you were a female,
it might be an engagement ring. I thought this would be more appropriate."

"I don't need a ring," said Stuart. "That's for breeders. You don't know
how long I've waited for this moment."

"I want to own you, boo. I want you to be mine. Will you wear this collar?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"You understand what this means?" asked Malcolm.

"Yes, Sir. It means I belong to you."

A grin illuminated Malcolm's face. This was the very first time Stuart
addressed him as Sir. He liked the sound of it.

"That's one way of putting it," he allowed. "But you don't just `belong' to
me. Snap, we `belonged' to each other since the day we met, am I right? But
this is different. This is the next step. This is what we both want. I own
you now. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Sir." Stuart hung his head, looking at the floor.

"Do you really?" Malcolm lifted Stuart's square chin with a finger so that
their eyes met. "If you're not comfortable with this, we don't have to take
it any further. I just want to make you happy."

"Yes, Sir. That IS what I want. I want to serve you. I love you so much. I
would do anything for you. I want to give you everything."

"And you will," said Malcolm. "I love you too. That's never gonna
change. From now you're mine, aiiight? I used to worry we might break up
someday. Everybody does, sooner or later. But not us. Not with me in
charge. I will never set you free. You gonna love me until the day you
die. That's our destiny, baby."

"Thank you, Sir."

Hot tears of joy welled in Stuart's big blue eyes.

"I like it when you call me Sir," said Malcolm. "That shows respect. You
can call me Master, too, since I am the Master of the house."

"Yes, Sir," said Stuart. "I mean, yes, Master."

"Beautiful. Now let's set some ground rules. If you got any objections, let
me know. I'll hear them out. It's not like you don't got a voice. Of
course, I will always make the final decision. Are you OK with that?"

"Yes, Master Malcolm."

"You are too perfect, baby," murmured Malcolm, leaning forward to kiss his
lover on the mouth. "I'm the head of this relationship, but you're the
heart."

`Yes, Sir," Stuart agreed. "That's so true!"

"Rule Number One," said Malcolm. "You don't make any decisions without
coming to me first. You've been doing that for a while now, but I want to
make it official. I am in control now. I tell you what to do. Are we
clear?"

"Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir."

A weight was lifted from Stuart's broad shoulders, relieved to rely on his
dominant, self-assured Black lover.

"Rule Number Two," Malcolm went on. "I want you to continue looking after
all the household chores like you been doing, but I expect you to work
harder at it. You've done a good job so far, but I know you can do better."

"I can do that," Stuart eagerly complied.

"Rule Number Three: you're in great shape, but you been slacking. I want
you working out for an hour every night after you wash the dishes and scrub
the bathroom. You're not getting any younger, you know. You've got to keep
that body in perfect condition for me. Work on those abs and glutes."

"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!" Stuart gushed. "I've been wanting to get back
in shape. This is the motivation I've been needing!"

"Don't think of it as motivation," Malcolm frowned. "Think of it as doing
what you're told!"

"Your wish is my command."

"That's more better! That should be your mantra! Say it again. Say:
Malcolm's wish is my command!"

"Malcolm's wish is my command!"

"Once more. Louder!"

"MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND!" Stuart shouted.

"Rule Number Four," decided Malcolm on the spot. "Every morning when you
get up, and every night before you go to bed, that's what you're gonna say:
Malcolm's wish is my command! I want that to be your fucking mantra.

"MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND!" Stuart cried.

"Good boy," said Malcolm, patting the white man's head he would a faithful
hound. "Now, let's go over your sexual duties. Basically, you're going to
continue doing what you've been doing, only better and more often. I want
your cunt-hole ready at all times. But if I snap my fingers, that means
drop to your knees and suck my dick! Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir, I understand. I won't let you down."

"That's my boo!" Malcolm grinned. "There's one more thing we have to talk
about. It's crucial to our life together."

"What is that?"

"From time to time I'm gonna discipline you. I don't expect you to be
perfect 24/7. There are bound to be times when you mess up. When that does
happen, I don't want to hear no excuses. You will be punished."

"If I disappoint you, I want to be punished."

"I know you do," said Malcolm. "That's just one of the things I love about
you. That's why I'm gonna discipline you just for the hell of it. Because I
am the Boss!"

"You can punish me right now, if you want to."

"I've got a better idea."

Malcolm snapped his fingers.

Stuart collapsed to his knees and sucked Malcolm's dick for almost an hour
until hot sperm flooded his throat.



Part Five: Epilogue


Malcolm assumed the role of Stuart's King, Pharaoh, and God. His white
boyfriend needed to serve and suffer. Malcolm liked being worshipped, also
free to pursue his dreams while Stuart worked to support them both, the way
a whiteboy should for his Nubian Master. On their first anniversary Stuart
got his broad back tattooed with the words: MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND.

Malcolm never shared Stuart with another brother, although plenty were
interested in tapping that whiteboy's booty. Stuart never desired any other
dick but Malcolm's, never remotely felt curious about any other Black
Man. That is how much in love they were. They took to heart a song sung by
Diana Ross: Love taught them both WHO WAS THE BOSS!



THE END