“Yes, Mistress.” He unbuttoned his shirt and felt the first signs of arousal that he’d felt since leaving her office the day they were introduced. She circled his body; lightly brushing her fingers across the welts and bruises. Her touch was extremely gentle and Charles was falling victim to her manipulations. The only permanent mark that he’d received was the brand but the most painful torture he’d received was mental.
She unbuttoned his pants and inspected her mark. “Nice, it should heal really well. Remind me to get a picture of it before you leave.” She stroked his cock, producing an erection but Charles was determined to deny her the satisfaction of knowing he was mentally aroused. What she had done to him was in fact criminal and he only hoped to make it one more day so that he could call the police and have her arrested. He wanted his dignity back, his humanity back.
Mistress Emmanuelle started to undress in front of Charles. His jaw dropped as he saw her sexy body revealed and once again he was victim to his weak resolution. She stripped down to a leather corset, black, silk stockings, and patent leather high heels. She bent over to retrieve something and he was graced with a perfect view of her ass this time. Within a second he flashed back to the brazen display of power when she pissed in the mouth of that boy. His true nature of a sub emerged and he longed to place his mouth there and worship her, to taste her musky asshole, smell its rich fragrance, and clean her completely.
She turned to face him and she was wearing a strapon the dimensions of which seemed to compare to the horse. It was pitch black and over a foot in length and it appeared to be as thick as a beer can.
“Suck it.”
Her instructions were clear and concise and he was on his knees worshipping the dark phallus before he could rationalize if it was right or wrong. She pumped his mouth full of the silicone dick and his sluttish nature began to rise. He began trying to get the entire length in his mouth, spit drooled from the corners of his mouth and he was fully erect and throbbing. He hated himself for how quickly he betrayed his principles for his libido. She encouraged his behavior, taunting him, teasing him. “You dirty fucking whore. Look at you. I’ve reduced you to nothing and here you are, sucking this big black dick like a cheap tramp. Now you know why white men are truly inferior. Now you see the evidence. Your gross, pale body is pathetic, your cock is repulsive, you can’t do any work, and you wouldn’t survive a month if you had to be a real slave. And through it all, you’re still here sucking my big, black dick like the little bitch you really are.”
Charles hated that woman more than he hated anyone else in life at that very moment. If she wasn’t so right, if her words weren’t so true, it would have made his slutty actions that much less humiliating. She was right. He knew that if Blacks had enslaved whites, that whites would have never be able to endure the horrors that Blacks had done for centuries. The simple fact that he was still ruled by his sex drive, in the midst of complete psychological annihilation was evidence that he was demented and inferior. His revelations made him suck that much harder. He sucked that dick like he was paying homage to every Black man who had ever been whipped and emasculated, for every Black woman who had ever been raped and degraded. He was sucking that strapon to show his inferiority but not just sexually, he knew in his core that only someone pathetic and subhuman could find reason to be aroused by being degraded.
Before he knew what was happening, he heard himself begging to be used. “Rape me, beat me, use me. Do whatever you want to me. Fuck me please. Make me your bitch. Own me. PLEASE. Own me. Release me from my bondage of pretending to be the great, almighty white man. Torture me. Do anything you want.” His pleas were becoming more urgent, more insistent. “Fuck me like the dirty, filthy, white pig I am. I bow to you; I worship you. I love you.”
He was sobbing like a baby and terrified beyond measure. The room was spinning and he’s freely given up the last bit of self-respect he’d tried to grasp onto. His boypussy was throbbing to be violated and used in ways that made his week-long ordeal seem like playtime in the park.
Mistress Emmanuelle grabbed his throat and began to choke him. He struggled but it was only the remnants of a fight or flight instinct. His mind and soul wanted her to choke him; he wanted her to control his life and his breath. Just as he felt himself passing out, he remembered her words of how she was going to make him pray for the sweet release of death. In that split second, in that epiphanal moment, he gained knowledge and understanding of what it was to be a true slave, not just a sexual submissive.
His unconsciousness, the literal state at least, didn’t last very long. He awoke to find himself secured to the huge four-poster bed with his legs tied so that they were back over his head and his cock was aimed directly at his mouth. Emmanuelle climbed on the bed and straddled his body, giving him a perfect view of her pussy and ass from below. She placed the gigantic head of the strapon on his hole and began pushing it in. Not having a reason to be gentle, she stabbed and pumped the thick phallus deeply, causing the tender ring of muscle that protected his anus to give way to the marauding intruder.
“You fucking white bitch. I own you. I own your ass. I own you so completely I can do anything I want to you and you won’t say a word. That’s power. I’ve taken my true role as your superior. This is the way it’s supposed to have been, with me controlling you. You stupid, worthless, pathetic, disgusting, nasty, insignificant worm. Does that hurt? Does it?”
Charles didn’t have to answer, she knew it hurt him in a way he’d never felt with any pro Domme before. The physical pain was blinding but the psychological pain was debilitating. “Yes Mistress,” was his only response as he felt her plunge deeper and deeper into his guts and pierce his very soul with her cruelty.
He awoke on day seven in a down filled bed and new clothes for him to wear and his personal belongings by the bed. Breakfast was prepared for him and if anyone had taken a snapshot of that scene they would have thought that he had just awoken from a week of rest and relaxation at a spa. Charles knew differently. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to his normal life. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to a society that existed off the fallacy that he was superior. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat there for a second trying to steady himself. Walking to the balcony, he saw an electric golf cart pulling up, dragging a white man behind, screaming and yelling about how he was going to sue anyone who touched him. It was a hard choice for him to pack his bags but he did and he wanted to thank Mistress Emmanuelle for the experience but thanks weren’t appropriate. She’d destroyed his reality and his life would never be the same. He sat at the old-fashioned dressing table and wrote on the parchment stationary, “I will spread the word about the great works that you are doing here. Your humble slave, Charles.”