Random LGBT STORIES

Scott Clair hated his whiteness. He wasn't able to articulate it exactly in that way; he claimed to be coming to terms with his submissive nature and his overwhelming d.e.s.i.r.e to serve the Black race. Had he been a bit more self-aware, a bit more introspective, he could have accurately described his self-hatred as stemming from his inherent need to feel superior. Whiteness was his disease, magnified by a Napoleonic complex of huge proportions given his height of 5'1'. He suffered from narcissism extraordinaire. In his delusional mind, the universe owed him an apology for his height and he compensated for it by singing 'Woe is me,' every chance he got-- the 12' extended, remix, house music version. Lying was his first nature, he could construct a tale of deceit without so much as the blink of an eye, all to make himself seem more important or to perpetuate an image of his false sense of superiority. He treated people as objects to use and didn't give a damn who was hurt, used, or annoyed in the process. He felt he was the sun, the chosen son, around whom all the world had an obligation to rotate.

He began feeling uncomfortable with his identity, with his whiteness, with the advent of interracial p.o.r.n. Initially, he was outraged and angered by Black men and their enormous c.o.c.ks f.u.c.k.i.n.g white women. He would watch in disgust at the videos of men endowed with equipment that made his tiny p.e.n.i.s look infantile in comparison and seethe in anger, proclaiming how he hated Black men for being lazy, ignorant, criminal, and nothing more than savages. Of course, all that internal dialogue was drowned out while he was masturbating furiously for hours on end to image after image of white women screaming in p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e and pain while having the s.e.x of their lives with Black men. He would go to Black blogs and forums and protest that size didn't matter and Black men did not, in fact, have bigger c.o.c.ks, that it was all just a myth. He took p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e in his anonymous rants of degrading Black men for being bad fathers, for all being illiterate rappers, and he always seemed to find a way to espouse racist, hateful beliefs that made white men seem inherently and naturally superior. Immediately after taunting anyone and everyone who expressed even the slightest outrage, disbelief, or anger at his psychotic rants, he would log on to one of the numerous pay sites he subscribed to and download videos of white women being f.u.c.k.e.d by Black men in every orifice so he could jerk off.

In phase two of his awakening, he had a grand epiphany whereby he decided he was s.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e to the Black race. He became a self-proclaimed, liberal, reformed racist who insisted that he was atoning for the sins of all white men, past and present, and righting the wrongs of slavery by being submissive to Black women. His motives might have been pure except for the fact that he wasn't even capable of seeing Black women as human beings but merely things to satisfy his perversions. He watched BET, he listened to Black talk radio, and he rented every Black movie ever made so he could claim expertise on Blackness. In his submission, he would get off on the idea of black women using him, making fun of his small appendage, slapping him around, maybe even f.u.c.k.i.n.g him with a strapon and going home to his white world where he never interacted with another Black person. His s.e.x.u.a.lity was compartmentalized. For a few hours a month, if he was lucky, a few hours a week, he could take off his white privilege, leave it at the door, and role-play to his heart's content that he was a slave to a Black woman. When it was over, he could go home and feel absolved of his white guilt and assured that he was free of all inklings of white supremacy and racist beliefs.

In reality, he used Black women like life-like toys. He used the threat of giving them money to f.u.c.k with them. He would promise them large amounts of money and then, for no reason whatsoever, he would rescind the offer with the hopes that the women would be irate and that they would in turn then beg and plead for the money in order for him to feel powerful and in control of their lives. He would demand that they fulfill his fantasies, in exactly the way he saw fit; he thought nothing of calling on them at o.b.s.c.e.n.e hours of the day or night whenever he wanted to live out his submissive fantasies, stalking them, completely disrespecting their time and lives. The fact that he erroneously viewed his fetish as being submissive is what allowed him to believe that he was pardoned of his responsibility of being a total and complete asshole who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, without regard, respect, or reverence to anyone else.

His fascination with the Black female body was colored by his hatred of the Black male one. The more a woman looked like a man, the more he was obsessed with being the 'victim' of her abuse. If she was pumped up on steroids and bulging with muscles everywhere, if her facial features were masculine, if she wore her hair short and natural or if she was transgendered and sporting a big ole, juicy, fat c.o.c.k, he would make that woman the center of his l.u.s.t to the extent it would become a maniacal obsession. He would spend endless hours, furiously masturbating, thinking about being pulverized by these she-men, beaten to a bloody pulp, r.a.p.ed against his will, and had no reason to associate his d.e.s.i.r.es with his hatred of the Black male.

It was, in fact, his hatred of the Black male, his odious and undeniable jealousy at his strength, power, and unquestionable masculinity, all things Scott dangerously lacked, which motivated his fantasies. He wanted to destroy the Black man, to castrate him, but short of being able to do that, he could covet these women who were essentially men and feel secure in knowing that he was dominating them passively with his threats of giving and withholding money. In truth, he was worshipping the black male, just minus the p.e.n.i.s. Many a night, he would sit at his computer, n.i.p.p.l.e clamps in place, a black b.u.t.t plug firmly in place stretching his anus, stroking his small c.o.c.k with his thumb and forefinger, fantasizing about taking on Mike Tyson, Kimbo Slice, or some other black boxing champion and veritably kicking their a.s.s. He was too stupid to even acknowledge or realize that his fantasies were s.e.x.u.a.l in nature, that he was jerking off to these images because they aroused him; he could only focus on the adrenaline he felt when he imagined himself victorious over these bastions of Black masculinity. His warped, delusional mind could only comprehend that he viewed the Black male body, the muscular black male body, as his enemy.

Simultaneously, he dreamt of being a Black man. Being transformed to a Black male body, in his warped mind, would mean women, both white and black, would throw themselves at his feet, that he could f.u.c.k whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Never, not once did he consider that being a Black man carried more burdens and responsibilities than just standing around on the basketball court waiting for some white woman to get lost in the hood. In his mind, being a Black man was about athleticism, s.e.x.u.a.lity, and masculinity.

It was indeed a Black man who masterminded phase three of his evolution. Having 'graduated' from serving masculine Black women, and compelled by his deviant urges and conflicted emotions, Scott moved on to the worship of the mythical big black c.o.c.k. He became obsessed with it, all the power it represented and he CRAVED to be degraded and humiliated by Black men with nothing less than 8 inches or more of man meat. His need to be submissive to Black men became obsessive, traveling to a.d.u.l.t book stores, bath houses, and gay bars in search of the biggest, blackest c.o.c.k he could find. The men the c.o.c.ks were attached to were inconsequential; it was the p.e.n.i.s that was his object of d.e.s.i.r.e. He became the proverbial s.l.u.t for black c.o.c.k. That was, until he responded to a particular ad on craigslist.

The ad was simple enough. 'Professional Black male seeks same for LTR.' It outlined the specifics of who the guy was and what he was looking for: complexion, similar interests, education, height, and age-all the average things in a personal ad. The photo section included several pictures of a tall, very attractive, dark-skinned guy with a nice house, a nice car, and a package that was so big UPS would have refused to deliver it.

Had the ad not included the picture of the c.o.c.k, Scott probably would have moved on, cl.i.c.k.i.n.g on another ad to find someone who was looking for a quick, anonymous suck or f.u.c.k in the immediate future. It was the perfect c.o.c.k: uncut, heavily veined, thick, Black, and what had to be 10 inches . . . soft. Scott's mouth watered and his assp.u.s.s.y throbbed at the thought of feeling that huge monster invading him, pounding him, stretching him to beyond capacity, ripping him, filling him with load after load of scalding hot c.u.m. He had to have it.

He fired off a response, quickly detailing what a f.u.c.k s.l.u.t he was and how he had a hot, wet mouth perfect for s.u.c.k.i.n.g and a tight, hot, hole ideal for f.u.c.k.i.n.g. He attached a picture he found on the net of a beautiful young twink who could have been a perfect Calvin Klein model. It really didn't matter to him that he looked NOTHING like the picture, nothing mattered to him other than getting what he wanted. He waited for a response. And he waited. After two days, he figured he would send another response, this time being more explicit.

'Dear, Sir. I sent you an email the other day but it must have ended up in your spam folder or something. I'm a white, 30-something male,' he lied, 'who would love to drain your big c.o.c.k. I'm expert at s.u.c.k.i.n.g c.o.c.k, I have a hot white hole just ready for pounding all night long, and you can do whatever you want to me, treat me like shit, and I can take it all and then some. I especially enjoy race play and get off on being treated rough and you can even beat the crap out of me if you want. I'll kneel at your feet and worship your superior, Black c.o.c.k. Anxiously awaiting your response. Submissively, Scott.'

The response came quickly this time, within a few minutes. 'Thanks you for your interest. I'm not looking for a sub or anything of the sort, but rather I'm looking for a long-term relationship EXACTLY like I described in my ad.'

For most people, that would have been sufficient. Perhaps a few would have sent a response saying, 'Fine, you don't know what you're missing,' and left it at that. Scott, however, was not satisfied with that response. He became belligerent and typically arrogant. His response came in the form of an essay, describing how he was informed on Black issues, how liberal he was socially and how he supported Barack Obama. He wrote of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and the history of racism. He went on and on with statistics about Black men in the U.S. He ridiculed the man for his lack of knowledge of Black issues, not even knowing the man's position on anything. The whole objective of the correspondence was to piss this guy off. Scott was adept at being irritating, it was his weapon of choice and being rejected was not in his agenda.

Send.

No response.

He didn't even wait a full 24 hours for a response. He fired off another email, this time longer, this time more abrasive.

Outraged, Scott sat at his computer, looking at that picture of that gorgeous c.o.c.k, jerking off incessantly, and figuring out ways to get under this guy's skin. That's all he wanted at this point. He wanted to annoy him, anger him, to make him frustrated and pissed off. He got a thrill from the attention, the fact that he knew he was an irritant; that was almost more arousing to him than getting f.u.c.k.e.d.

Still no response, he constructed yet another email, this time, taunting him by reverting back to his tried and true nature of being racially belligerent, claiming that the picture of the c.o.c.k wasn't even real, that he probably had a tiny c.o.c.k and was trying to compensate for not being a 'real' black man. That would surely get a response.

And this time it did . . . instantaneously. Failure Notice. Remote host said: 554 delivery error. The mail recipient, [email protected] is not accepting emails from your account.

'How dare that black piece of shit ignore me,' Scott fumed. 'I'll fix him,' as he sent all three of his emails again, this time, each one from one of his many other email accounts. The drama was arousing to Scott and he fisted his tiny c.o.c.k in anticipation of a response. This time, he was sure to get some sort of rise out of this guy. It wasn't even about the s.e.x anymore; it was a game of power. Scott needed to prove that he could not and would not be dismissed. He needed to put this Black guy in his place and teach him a lesson. Scott's true racist nature had surfaced again, victim of his own delusions of supremacy.

He got a real response this time, simply stating, 'Okay, you win. If you want to be dominated, I'll do it. Be at my house, Friday evening, and be prepared to be pushed past your limits. In fact, you better not have any limits.' He gave an address and signed the email, 'Your Black Dom Daddy'.

Scott masturbated endlessly, for days on end, reading those few lines like they held the key to the universe. He fantasized about what it would be like to be the plaything of a strong, Black man who towered over his diminutive size. He didn't do as he was instructed of course. That would have been anti-climactic. He wasn't going to go through with it after everything he had written, he just wanted to get off on the idea of being a white f.u.c.k s.l.u.t with no limits being tortured and used by a strong, Black Daddy. So he placated himself by pulling and stroking his tiny p.e.n.i.s, imagining unspeakable, disgusting things.

Barely a week went by when Scott's curiosity got the best of him. He sent another email and not surprisingly, it was returned as blocked. He had no less than 25 email addressed created for just such a reason so he quickly resent it from another account and this time, he apologized profusely for his abhorrent behavior. He humbled himself, 'Dear, Sir, what can I do to have you forgive me? I've been arrogant and I realize that now. I'll never do it again, I promise. I want to be your boy. I want you to own me.' He didn't mean a word of what he said, it was all a part of his twisted pathology.

The response was more detailed this time. 'I knew your faggot a.s.s couldn't resist. The rules are simple. For an entire weekend I'll use you in ways that you've never thought of before. You'll be my complete bitch. Bring food and beverages to fix me breakfast, lunch, and dinner the entire time you're here. You'll be dressed in s.l.u.tty heels and lingerie all weekend. You'll keep your holes ready for me to use . . . in any way I see fit. If I bring my friends over, you'll service them any way they want. If I go out on a date, you'll suck my c.o.c.k clean when I come home. You'll serve as my maid and make sure my place is immaculate and you'll be my footstool, ashtray, toilet, and c.u.m dump. You'll be anything I tell you to be and you'll like it and beg for more.'

Anger boiled up within Scott's soul, anger and pure, una.d.u.l.terated l.u.s.t. He'd never really given up his fallacy of white supremacy, he'd never really reconciled his hatred for Black men and their larger endowments, he was just going through the motions in an effort to satiate his l.u.s.t for being degraded and abused. His d.e.s.i.r.es to be r.a.p.ed, used, and beaten until unrecognizable were symptoms of a greater evil. Scott wanted to use Black s.e.x.u.a.lity to satisfy his perverse d.e.s.i.r.es; he never had any intentions of being used to satisfy the d.e.s.i.r.es of a Black person.

His compulsion to be used outweighed reason as he drove around impatiently in his car for 7:00 pm exactly. Being nosey, he opened the mailbox and saw that the name on the Car and Driver Magazine was Todd Harcourt. At least he had a name to put with the description of the supposed mortgage broker, sports enthusiast, and openly gay black man he was about to meet. Scott had purchased enough food for a week, all frozen dinners and semi-prepared deli foods and the like; he wasn't a great cook and didn't want to piss this guy off by trying to be creative in the kitchen when he knew good and god damn well that anything he fixed himself would taste like crap. He wanted to leave, to turn around and go home, but he knew that if he did, he would regret it. He'd packed an overnight bag with all the lingerie and high heels he'd stolen from previous girlfriends. With such a big c.o.c.k pounding him, he knew there was going to be potential for issues so he'd given himself a series of intense and painful enemas to make sure his colon was free from any shit so there wouldn't be any accidents or mess. All lubed up with a b.u.t.t plug shoved in to stretch his hole, he knocked on the door.

'Yes, how can I help you?' The guy looked confused more than anything, like he wasn't expecting anyone to show up.

'I'm . . . from the internet . . . you know . . . your boy. You told me to be here for you to . . .' Scott paused mid sentence, afraid someone had played a joke on him. The guy standing before him was the guy from the pictures in the ad, but he wasn't sure exactly what was going on so he remained quiet, gripping his bags in his hands tighter and ready to make a run for it.

'Oh DAMN, I knew the picture you sent was fake but GOD DAMN. Could you have found a picture more opposite of what you look like? Shit! Oh well, get in here.' The guy looked like he wanted to throw up he was so disgusted. Scott stepped inside the foyer as the door closed behind him. It was his nature to be so arrogant, so pathological in his need to misrepresent himself, that he didn't care that he sent pictures that looked nothing like his 40 something, unattractive self.

One thing was for certain, the guy hadn't lied one bit in his ad. He wasn't a millimeter shy of 6'4', he had a muscular, athletic build, bald head, dark chocolate skin and he was VERY attractive. Scott could see the picture of his fantastic c.o.c.k in his mind and his tiny prick pulsed in anticipation. With the difference in height, Scott did in fact feel like a boy next to a strong Daddy. 'Take off your clothes,' were his only instructions.

Scott put his bags down and started to slowly undress. 'Hurry up, shithead,' the man bellowed and Scott began to pick up the pace. He took off his shoes and socks and pulled down his pants, standing there with nothing but a pair of tighty whities on and pitching a tent, a pup tent, but his erection was sticking out as far as possible.

'I thought I told you that you were to be dressed in women's lingerie the entire time you were in my presence, bitch.'

'Yeah, but I didn't know exactly what was expected of me so I figured I would . . .' His words were cut off by a backhand that sent him flying into the wall. Real tears formed in his eyes as he felt the sting of the slap radiating on his cheek. The taste of warm blood trickled in his mouth from his cheek and he swallowed. He tried to steady himself to stand but he was disoriented and scared.

'You will be humble in my presence at all times. You will answer only when spoken to and if your answer isn't preceded by Yes, Master, or Yes, Daddy, you can be sure I'm going to discipline you much worse than that little tap. I really don't give a damn what you think, I only expect you to conform to my d.e.s.i.r.es and that's it. Got it?'

A knot formed in Scott's throat. It felt like someone was choking him, no, stabbing him with a knife in his vocal chords. The words were stuck and he swallowed hard and responded, 'Yes, Daddy.'

Extending his hand in what seemed to be a gesture of kindness, this exquisite male specimen helped Scott to his feet. Scott's hands were small; his fingers were stubby and short. In contrast, Todd's hands were large, not too large, but with long, graceful fingers. With his hand placed inside the much larger one, he instinctively knew what it was to be a little boy with a strong, protective parent. With tears in his eyes, Scott removed his underpants and stood covering his small p.e.n.i.s, profoundly ashamed by its inferior size. 'Move your f.u.c.k.i.n.g hands, let me see what you've got' were his only instructions and he instinctively covered his n.i.p.p.l.es like a teenage girl whose top had been pulled down at the neighborhood swimming pool.

Loud, uproarious laughter reverberated in the tiny alcove and Scott's heart sank at the same ratio that his c.o.c.k rose. No matter how much he knew on a visceral level, no matter how much he intellectualized and articulated that his p.e.n.i.s was small, extraordinarily small in fact, when he heard others say it, especially Black men, he felt anger, shame, and arousal at the same time. He was aroused by the humiliation but he just couldn't let go of that nasty 'white male thing' that caused him to look at Black men with nothing but contempt and disgust. It was a part of his DNA, it was wired into his brain that he was inherently superior so while his rage bubbled beneath the surface, his l.u.s.t dictated his need to give up that false sense of superiority and become what he knew he was deep, deep inside: a perverse, disgusting, depraved white pain, c.u.m s.l.u.t. He needed to be set free of his imprisonment of lies to be released so he could experience his true nature as something lower than a human.

'Suck my c.o.c.k, bitch.' The pressure of the hand on Scott's shoulder forced him to his knees. He knelt submissively before the fully clothed man before him. His hands trembled as he reached out to undo his jeans and pull down the zipper. Placing his hand inside his pants, he felt for the first time what was possibly the biggest c.o.c.k he'd ever felt in his life. He could barely get his fingers around the girth. Fishing it out, he was struck with the strong aroma of unwashed masculinity. It was an intoxicating elixir of sweat, piss, and pure, manly funk. Scott inhaled the scent and it made him light headed; it made his c.o.c.k leak prec.u.m.

Peeling back the foreskin, Scott looked up into the deep, dark eyes of his new owner. A foul, raunchy-smelling layer of head cheese coated the enormous crown of the beautiful, brown c.o.c.k. 'You like? I made it just for you. Eat up.'

Rather than hesitating, Scott made a real show of cleaning that nasty smegma. He devoured it like he was starving, proud to show off his c.o.c.ks.u.c.k.i.n.g skills and the devotion he had for the monstrous piece of meat that was before him. The thick paste filled his taste buds and Scott worked first to clean it and then to worship it. Barely able to get his mouth around it, barely able to get even a third of its enormous length into his mouth, Scott licked and kissed it passionately. If a man could form a relationship with a c.o.c.k, this was the ideal mate for Scott. In his heart, he fell in love with that meat, feeling his c.h.e.s.t expand and tighten like a schoolboy with his first crush. He tried to make love to it with his mouth, planting soft and tender kisses along its length to show his reverence.

'What the f.u.c.k is this kissing shit? Bitch, I told you to suck my mother f.u.c.k.i.n.g c.o.c.k. NOW SUCK!' With that, he grabbed Scott's head and f.u.c.k.e.d his mouth savagely. Scott tried to push away, bracing himself against the firm, muscular t.h.i.g.hs of his tormentor, trying to catch his breath as that c.o.c.k ravaged his throat. He gagged and choked, feeling his esophagus being r.a.p.ed. He was being skull f.u.c.k.e.d; he was nothing more than a hole being abused. The steady pounding of that c.o.c.k, its full length wanted to make him cry out in pain but he couldn't; he could barely gasp for air. The rhythm was fast and furious, his jaw was numb, and his gag reflect was abating after what had to be more than 10 minutes of the most hard core blow job he'd ever given . . . sort of. There was no mistaking that he wasn't 'giving' anything, his throat was being f.u.c.k.e.d and it hurt in a way that couldn't be described. Hot, salty tears stained his cheeks as he prayed for the torture to end, and simultaneously, never to end.

The reward at the end of his torture would come soon enough. His master, tormentor, and dream lover shoved the full length of his hardness deep in Scott's throat. His nose deeply embedded in the thick patch of wiry pubic hairs, Scott felt the expansive c.o.c.k actually grow and lengthen in his mouth and could detect the peristaltic motion that brought the scalding white, hot, c.u.m from his nuts, through his impressive tube of manliness, out and down Scott's throat, without even getting the benefit of tasting the sc.u.mmy spunk he craved so desperately.

Scott collapsed to the floor, exhausted and broken, his face inches away from the feet of his skillful dominator. He wanted to cleave unto those feet, wrap his arms around those legs for protection and comfort and say, 'Daddy, I'm sorry I was a bad boy. Please, forgive me.' He couldn't say anything however because his throat was so sore he'd temporarily lost the ability to speak. It felt as if his vocal chords had been scr.a.p.ed with sandpaper.

'Before I forget, give me your keys and your wallet. I want some assurances you won't be leaving before I give you permission.' The last thing in the world Scott wanted was to leave. He wanted to stay forever. He wanted to give up his measly life and be the boi of this ominous stranger. His identity was sacred however and he had spent years protecting it, lying, deceiving, and hiding his real life from those whom he used s.e.x.u.a.lly. This time, he reluctantly handed over the requested items and felt a sense of relief. If he was going to be blackmailed, outed, and exposed to the world, now was the time, he'd let his perversions drive him too far. He wanted this man to know his true identity, to have control of his life and his destiny. It was his freedom.

'I expect you to change your clothes, fix me dinner and bring it to me in the den, and be prepared to service me in whatever way I d.e.s.i.r.e.' He pushed Scott away with his foot and went about his business like Scott wasn't even there.

Unsure of the layout of the house, Scott stumbled around until he found a powder room to change into his female attire. He was an ugly male to begin with which made him repulsive as a woman but he felt s.e.xy in his red see-through baby doll nightie, his high-heel, patent leather, stiletto, Payless Pumps and black b.u.t.t plug, framed perfectly by his crotchless p.a.n.t.i.e.s. His tiny p.e.n.i.s strained against the silky material and felt good. He rubbed it for as long as he thought he might be able to get away with it without being found out and emerged to fix dinner.

Cooking in someone else's house is a task. He struggled to find the right pots, the right plates, the tools he needed to pull off his linguine and shrimp, all pre-cooked of course. Salad was in a bag and all he had to do was find an opener for the beer. He wobbled and teetered in his heels that were giving him a blister but he ignored the pain in anticipation of more humiliation and degradation to come. That was his finish line, his raison d'etre. He overheard his new Master talking on the phone, conversing with a friend. 'Nah man, I ain't never done no shit like this before. I figure he'll be begging to leave after a few hours. I ain't even going to tell you the shit I have planned for him . . . Word. That's what I'm saying. Yeah man, I'll holla at you later, we'll hang out on Sunday morning or something. I'm out.'

Scott fumed. He felt cheated. He wanted someone experienced in BDSM to control him, not some f.u.c.k.i.n.g amateur. His arrogance button was flicked on and he had half a mind to call the whole thing off and leave. He brought the plates out to the den and placed them on the coffee table with silverware and paper towels for napkins. He went back to the kitchen and got two beers and returned, sitting on the other end of the sofa. 'I hope you like it, Sir. I can't take real credit . . .'

Before he knew what was happening, he felt a stinging kick to his side and he flew off the end of the sofa and landed flat on his a.s.s. 'Bitch, I told you I didn't want you speak to me unless spoken to. That's not a hard rule to follow, is it?'

Shaking his head, Scott mumbled, 'No, Master,' and apologized for being a dumbass.

'And while we're at it, who the f.u.c.k told you that you could eat with me?'

Before he could make the same mistake again, he fought the urge to give his opinion and state the obvious that he had to have some sort of sustenance to keep up his strength throughout the weekend.

'I'll take this beer and let me have that plate so I can fix it for you.' Holding his finger aside one nostril, Todd hacked up phlegm from deep in his c.h.e.s.t that sounded like he had walking pneumonia and blew it from his nose on Scott's plate of food. Repeating the procedure several times, there was a coating of green, brown, yellowish snot coating the Scampi. Scott's stomach turned and his c.o.c.k leapt. Placing the plate on the floor, Scott was told to eat without the benefit of utensils or hands and eat it all.

With his a.s.s high in the air, he lowered his face to the plate of food. 'Oh, and if you throw up anything I give you to eat, you can be sure I'll make you eat it again. Understand?' Those instructions were clear and Scott felt nauseated as he began to eat the mucous covered dinner. It wasn't as bad as he imagined it was going to be after he got down the first few bites with thick, salty boogers, and before he knew it, he was proud to show that he could be such a nasty pig, eating snot like a pig eats slop from a trough.

Before he was done, his Master said, 'Thirsty, bitch? Come here.' Scott crawled between his Master's dark, brown t.h.i.g.hs and looked up lovingly. 'Drink my piss, and don't you dare spill a drop.'

Scott had known all along that this was coming. It was the right of every Black Dominant to use his white submissive as a urinal and Scott wanted the opportunity to prove his rightful place as piss pig. He placed the mammoth c.o.c.k in his mouth and knew to wait for his drink. It came hard and fast; it was rank, hot, yellow and thick, not at all like the watered down beer piss he was expecting but coming from the Black Master of his dreams, Scott swallowed like it was the sweetest wine he'd ever had.

'Oh f.u.c.k yeah, bitch, drink my rank, hot piss you f.u.c.k.i.n.g nasty toilet whore. F.u.c.k.i.n.g white sc.u.m bag.' Those words were music to Scott's ears. 'Don't swallow it all, I want to see your mouth full of my piss. Hold some in your faggot mouth.'

Before the stream stopped, Scott did as he was told and he held a huge mouthful of urine in his mouth. He sat back and opened his mouth with pride to show what a good job he'd done. He beamed with pride. A few drops escaped the corners of his mouth but surely that was to be forgiven because he had such a huge amount of piss and had shown his talent for being a toilet.

'Good boy. Nice job.' With that, his Master tussled his hair and Scott felt an overwhelming sensation of love that made tears well up in his eyes. His Daddy was proud of him. That was all he ever wanted, for his Daddy to say, 'Good job, son.' But that's not exactly what he said. He completed his compliment by saying, 'Lay down on the floor, under my feet, and hold that piss in your mouth and don't you dare f.u.c.k.i.n.g swallow it until I tell you to. If you swallow it, spill it, or throw up, I PROMISE you'll regret it.'

Steeled with determination, Scott maneuvered himself to lie between the sofa and the coffee table with his open mouth of golden nectar. He stared at the ceiling and decided to get into a space where he was going to breath through his nostrils and ignore the overwhelming pain of his jaw. In a zone, he smelled the evidence of smoke and momentarily panicked. It was cigar smoke, and his owner had lit up to enjoy a night of watching TV and a good smoke.

The sound of the ashes being extinguished in the piss he held so lovingly in his mouth made Scott angered and alarmed all over again. He'd never anticipated this, and a foot was brought down on his c.h.e.s.t to prevent him from moving. He wanted to scream but he couldn't, he thought he was going to drown for a second, and the taste of the ashes, magnified by the piss, made his body involuntarily heave.

'Easy there boy, I told you that anything I give you that you throw up, I'm going to make you eat again. And if you spill any piss or ashes on my carpet, I'm going to beat your a.s.s so bad you won't sit for a week.'

A Buddhist monk didn't have more mind control than Scott did in that moment. Tears streamed steadily down his face but he remained focused on a small, imaginary spot on the ceiling. For the next 20 minutes, he was a receptacle for ashes as he held the now cold piss in his mouth. Piss overflowed his mouth as the ashes displaced the pee and he smelled like the men's room at The Port Authority bus station.

'Swallow!' Those were Todd's only instructions. 'Swallow, it all, NOW!'

Scott rationalized for a moment and turned his head and spit out the foul contents of his mouth all over his Master's cream carpet. That's what this game was all about, punishment and reward. He wanted some more punishment. He wanted to get to the fun part where he got f.u.c.k.e.d and spanked and f.u.c.k.e.d some more. Over and over, he spit out the nasty remnants of cigar ashes and pee until he could only taste a hint of the disgusting mixture and waited for the slap, the punch, or the severe verbal tongue-lashing.

The pause seemed like an eternity, the silence, deafening. 'Okay, okay.' 'If you don't want to play by my rules, get out. Get your shit and get out.' Standing, he stepped over Scott and went to his laundry room to get supplies to clean his carpet.

Scott was outdone. He didn't want to go, he wanted to stay and get f.u.c.k.e.d. He wanted to stay and be humiliated some more. The man returned with a bucket of water and cleaning supplies, threw Scott's keys and wallet on the floor at his feet, and ignored him as he went about scrubbing the stains on the carpet.

Scott had never felt more defeated. His arrogance had maneuvered him out of his dream situation AGAIN. He'd f.u.c.k.e.d up big time and there was nothing he could say. Apologies would be empty because he obviously did what he did on purpose. He hated himself for getting himself into this situation, he wanted to say something but the image of this beautiful Black man, on his knees, cleaning the mess that he'd made, silenced him.

'Here, let me clean it. I'm sorry.' The words sounded empty even to himself and he waited for some sort of acknowledgement.

'Get out.' The command was soft-spoken, without emotion.

Scott started sobbing uncontrollably. He had disappointed his Daddy. He had been a very bad boy. He had disrespected the man whom he wanted to own his very being. As experienced as Scott was in the lifestyle, this novice, this guy who had never dominated anyone else in his life, was controlling him in ways he'd never imagined. Scott became hysterical: crying, pleading, and throwing a temper tantrum the likes of which couldn't be paralleled by even the most monstrous two-year-old. He wasn't even making sense, he was just babbling about not wanting to leave and about how sorry he was. He got on his knees and tried to suck Todd's c.o.c.k again. He offered him money, $1000 in fact, if he could be allowed to stay. S.e.x and power were all Scott understood so he was offering all he knew how. The fact that he was being ignored caused him greater pain than he'd ever felt before.

'Stop crying bitch. Damn, shut the f.u.c.k up. I told you to get out. You obviously don't want to play by my rules. You obviously think you can dictate and control some shit up in my mother-f.u.c.k.i.n.g house so it's time for your a.s.s to go. I will not be manipulated by some moronic little asswipe like you. Get the f.u.c.k out.'

Scott's body was trembling. He wanted to do what he had been told, to follow orders and leave, but he wanted to stay more. He was having a mental breakdown. Before he knew what was going on, he had been pulled down across Todd's l.a.p and he was getting spanked soundly. Actually, spanked seems like such a benign term. He was being beaten. Blow after torturous blow rained down on his pale, flat a.s.s, t.h.i.g.hs, and even back. His Master seemed to be in some sort of trance of his own. 'You f.u.c.k.i.n.g white boys are all the same. Thinking you can control shit. I'll f.u.c.k.i.n.g show you. Dumb a.s.s. You want me to be your Daddy, I'll f.u.c.k.i.n.g make you wish you were never born.' The pain was excruciating but comforting at the same time.

With his hard c.o.c.k sandwiched between those strong t.h.i.g.hs and his a.s.s being abused, Scott was screaming and crying like a little bitch. He was incoherent. 'Yes, Daddy, beat me for being white. I'm so sorry, Daddy, I've been such a bad boy. I'm just a stupid, little-c.o.c.ked, white boi who deserves to be punished. Take out your frustrations on me, Master. I promise I'll do anything you say.'

Those words would prove to be the wrong thing to say.

Grabbing Scott forcefully by the arm, practically dislocating his shoulder from the socket, this overwhelming Dominant pillar of masculinity pulled him towards the Master Bedroom. Scott felt a ray of hope. Things were about to get down to business. Scampering along, practically on tiptoe, scurrying to keep up with the long strides of his Master, Scott was flung to the floor. He looked up to see a look of pure, una.d.u.l.terated hatred on Todd's face. This look wasn't one of l.u.s.t; his eyes were distant and glassy, filled with rage, reminding Scott of a rebel slave who had staged an insurrection against an evil slaveholder and who was about to behead the person who had taken his life, liberty, and manhood from him.

Scott watched as his Master undressed completely, muttering under his breath something incoherent and disjointed. Scott was genuinely scared. He thought maybe this guy was having some sort of slavery flashback, some sort of psychotic homicidal break and would go too far. Just that thought alone aroused Scott's sick libido. This was it. His fantasy come true. For all of his posturing, for all his arrogance and bravado, Scott knew he was about to feel the true wrath of the mighty Black man. This was an entirely different situation than pissing off Black women. Black women would get angry, they would threaten blackmail and revenge, they would curse him out and try to make him pay with their strapons but they were ultimately just victims of Scott's manipulative ploys, not capable of pulverizing Scott to within inches of his life. This man could crush Scott's skull without breaking a sweat. Clearly, he'd pushed too far; clearly, he'd underestimated his ability to piss this man off. He cowered in terror, unable to run, held fast to the bedroom floor as he furiously jerked his c.o.c.k and waited for the savage beating of his perverted dreams.

Before Scott could say, 'Treat me like the filthy, white s.l.u.t I am,' he was being tossed face down on the massive California King sized bed. As his h.i.p.s were pulled up, he grabbed the pillow and buried his face in it. The b.u.t.t plug was pulled unceremoniously from his a.s.s and he was instructed to suck it. Lubricant and a.s.s slime coated the foul toy and Scott turned his head in defiance.

'Oh, you want to play f.u.c.k.i.n.g games, bitch? You better suck that f.u.c.k.i.n.g b.u.t.t plug or . . .' There was no reason to finish the ultimatum because within a fraction of a second, Scott was grabbed so hard by the back of his neck he saw stars. The plug was forced in his mouth and he s.u.c.k.e.d it like a perverse black pacifier. Scott couldn't decide which tasted worse; the smegma, the ashes, or the funky a.s.s mixture but he was sure that being forced to perform such l.e.w.d acts was liberating, freedom from enslavement to his false sense of manhood.

While Scott was wildly aroused, Todd was not. He didn't find Scott attractive or the situation stimulating. He looked at Scott with utter contempt and disgust. This whole thing had gone past role-playing to something sick and twisted. He grabbed his d.i.c.k and stroked it, willing it to hardness. He grabbed the remote and flicked on a vid that was in his DVD player. With his flat screen filled with images of hot, sweaty black men, he was able to get hard enough for the task at hand.

Fully erect, Todd was at least twelve inches. This wasn't exaggerated, Internet inches, when guys claim they are a foot long and they are really only about two inches over average. This was the real deal. Scott felt like he was in the presence of a true god for surely anyone endowed with such a huge c.o.c.k was more than a mere man. A flash of fear came over Scott as he realized he'd never had anything quite that large in his a.s.s before. He was a small guy and his mind raced with images of where all that meat would actually go forced in his colon. Fear and pain were aphrodisiacs for Scott, so with his tiny c.o.c.k leaking a steady stream of prec.u.m, he dove for that humongous piece of meat with his mouth again, with the hopes that he could get it wet enough to compensate for a lack of lube.

This time, the blowjob he gave was sloppy and wet and dripping with spit. He used his hands to work the copious saliva up and down the shaft. When he felt himself heaving, rather than hold back, he let go with disgusting amounts of slimy fluids from somewhere deep within him.

If that weren't degrading enough, his tormentor and master was punctuating the scene with a serenade of degrading taunts. 'Yeah you f.u.c.k.i.n.g white piece of trash. That's is, suck that big f.u.c.k.i.n.g black d.i.c.k! You love that, don't you? Fagging out on my big, black knob. Take it you sissy f.u.c.k.i.n.g bitch. You know I'm going to ram that big f.u.c.ker so deep in you that you are going to shit my c.u.m for a week.' In the background, Scott could hear the sounds of primal f.u.c.k.i.n.g on the DVD which aroused him even more. The only thing he could see was the muscled abdomen of his master and the wiry pubic hairs that framed the glorious c.o.c.k that was deep in his throat.

Scott was crying, literally streaming tears of joy down his face. Before he knew what was happening, he was flipped over on his stomach and his a.s.s was pulled in the air. His crotchless, red p.a.n.t.i.e.s and his flimsy, red nightie were ripped from his body and tossed on the floor. Without a whole lot of ceremony, Scott felt the head of that gigantic d.i.c.k being pushed in his boycunt. He grimaced a little and took it with relative ease as he felt his prostate being massaged. He started m.o.a.ning like a cheap whore; his own tiny c.o.c.k producing a steady stream of d.i.c.k snot that flowed freely. He worked his a.s.s like the true faggot bitch he was and luxuriated in the sensations of the strong, masculine hands that held his h.i.p.s and the gigantic d.i.c.k embedded in his a.s.s making him feel like something sick and perverted and feminine all at the same time.

While it seemed like an eternity, it was really only a few minutes before Scott was filled to capacity. He reached back to feel about four, incredibly thick inches of c.o.c.k that hadn't been able to fully penetrate him. He pumped his a.s.s like the white women he had seen in p.o.r.nos and he tightened his a.s.s muscles like he'd been taught by his experiences with men. While Scott was satisfied with that, proud of himself for being able to take a full 8 inches like the insatiable a.s.s s.l.u.t he was, his Black Dom Daddy was not.

'You think that's all you're going to take? Oh, hell no. Bitch, you are going to take every f.u.c.k.i.n.g millimeter of my d.i.c.k and you are going to love it, do you hear me?' With that, he pushed further and Scott tried to scramble away. He moved up higher on the bed and tried to resume wiggling his a.s.s, f.u.c.k.i.n.g back on that c.o.c.k, confident that he was giving his Black Daddy p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e.

Not satisfied, Todd grabbed Scott by the shoulders and pushed harder, forcing at least another two inches incredibly thick c.o.c.k deeper in Scott than he'd ever had before. Scott screamed out in pain. He did his best to pull away, fighting and struggling, but his efforts were nothing compared to the strength of the man f.u.c.k.i.n.g him. The pain permeated every fiber of his being, racing from his asshole to his nuts that were pulled tightly against his body to his hardened n.i.p.p.l.es and then all the way to the back of his eyes. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he whimpered, 'Please, I can't take anymore. It hurts.' Surely, his pleas would be understood. He was only 5'1'. There was only so much space for all that meat to go. It wasn't because of lack of d.e.s.i.r.e; it was logistics. He fought back, trying to save himself from serious internal damage.

'Oh is that so? It hurts, huh? You want me to stop? Do you? Do you want me to stop? Answer me, bitch! I'll stop, all you have to do is say the word. DO YOU WANT ME TO STOP?' None of this was new to Todd. He'd met lots of guys who couldn't take his entire d.i.c.k before. But the power, the control, the domination was making him high. His became relentless, slapping Scott's a.s.s, spanking him, causing him further pain that only registered as p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e for both of them.

All Scott had to do was say yes. All he had to do was respond that he wanted things to stop. He didn't want to be r.a.p.ed; he wanted to be dominated, that was entirely different. He fantasized about being r.a.p.ed but the reality of it was something different. He reached back to feel the last two inches of d.i.c.k that remained outside his body. They felt like two feet, the heat from that d.i.c.k seemingly scorching his hand. He didn't answer. He let his silence speak for itself. He wanted the pain. He wanted to be f.u.c.k.e.d unconscious and if he ended up in the hospital in the process, then so be it. He lowered his face to the pillow, braced his arms against the headboard, and waited.

On thing Scott had failed to realize, even after all this time, was that he wasn't in control of things. He was grabbed by the back of the neck and pulled up like a rag doll. Instantly, he felt that d.i.c.k being pulled completely out of his asshole and he cried out, only this time the pain was emotional. He felt empty and alone and worthless.

'You dirty c.u.n.t, clean my prick.' The instructions were not at all ambiguous. A.s.s f.u.c.k.i.n.g was meant to be primal and dirty, so he knew that his responsibility was to taste the a.s.s slime that coated his master's d.i.c.k. Not surprisingly, brown streaks coated the d.i.c.k. It could have been a lot worse had he not prepared himself but the evidence of shit was still apparent. He deeply inhaled the scent, making his d.i.c.k leak more and his taste buds filled with the musky flavors of his a.s.s as he licked and s.u.c.k.e.d it clean. It wasn't enough to make him sick but he reeled at all the disgusting things he'd ingested over the past few hours: d.i.c.k cheese, snot, piss, and now b.u.t.t sludge. Just the mere thought of that alone almost made him shoot his load. The only thing that kept him from c.u.m.m.i.n.g was the depraved thought that he might be pushed to do even more disgusting things and he wanted to be totally horned up for that possibility.

'Ride my d.i.c.k bitch,' as the pair repositioned themselves so that his Daddy was on his back, reclining in relaxation, as Scott prepared to mount him and f.u.c.k himself silly. Again, as before, the first eight inches went in with relative ease. His asslips s.u.c.k.e.d and nursed at the huge c.o.c.k in him as she bounced up and down. Ashamed and aroused, he farted as the air was pushed up in his a.s.s and he rode that c.o.c.k for all he was worth. Still, he couldn't get that entire d.i.c.k up his a.s.s. He squirmed his a.s.s down harder, trying his best to take more but he couldn't. Frustrated, his Daddy grabbed him around his h.i.p.s and pulled Scott down even further. This time, as before, Scott screamed out in pain, but this time, he loved it. Pain was his pacifier. Scott was warped, twisted, and distorted, and he knew that only a disgusting white worm like himself could be aroused by pain, humiliation, and degradation.

Being tired of the cat and mouse games, Todd flipped Scott on his back and pushed his t.h.i.g.hs back to his c.h.e.s.t. He gripped the base of his d.i.c.k and aimed it up with Scott's hole. He pushed forward, hearing Scott's cries in a distant fog. Encountering resistance, he pushed harder, working up a sweat. Determined, he pushed deeper, driving every inch of his d.i.c.k deep in Scott's bowels. Giving him a full minute, he waited until he saw a look of acknowledgement on Scott's face and he began pumping, pounding, pushing and f.u.c.k.i.n.g. 'Take that, bitch. Take all my big f.u.c.k.i.n.g Daddy d.i.c.k you little twat. You white f.u.c.k.i.n.g faggot, I own you. I own your body and your soul.' As if in a trance, he hammered his d.i.c.k deeper and harder than he'd ever done before, grunting like an animal and turned on by the idea of using a white boy so completely. 'I'm going breed your faggot p.u.s.s.y with a gallon of my c.u.m. Do you want my baby, bitch? You want to be pregnant with your Black Daddy's baby? Say it!'

Scott couldn't form words. As the last of that massive d.i.c.k invaded his intestines, he could only m.o.a.n and scream in ecstasy. The sweat from his master's body dripped into Scott's mouth and eyes, the smell of man f.u.c.k.i.n.g permeated the air. He grabbed his c.o.c.k and stroked it in time with the d.i.c.k that punished his butthole. Glancing down, he could actually see the outline of that gigantic d.i.c.k pushing against his stomach and he shot his load all over his stomach.

In p.o.r.nos, that would be the signal for his lover to c.u.m also, to finish in a blaze of glory in unison. In reality, Scott's Dominant Black Daddy was nowhere near the finish line. He kept pumping Scott's hole raw. Scott's legs were cramped, pushed uncomfortably back and his insides felt like they were being dragged out with each extraction of that black stick that f.u.c.k.e.d him. The pain was excruciating but it was comforting in a way. He felt absolved of his guilt, his arrogance, of his pretense of being bigger and better, at last he was absolved of the wretched stigma of being white. In that moment, he was a filthy f.u.c.k pig to be used and abused. He relished in the sensation of his asshole being pumped full of scalding, white, hot c.u.m.

He passed out. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he awoke to being f.u.c.k.e.d and used time and time again. Night turned to day and he found himself being f.u.c.k.e.d in various ways, of serving his Black Master in unspeakable ways. Before he knew what was happening, it was Sunday night and he was packing to leave. He sobbed and bawled uncontrollably. Falling to the floor, he begged and pleaded with Todd to retain control of him.

From that day on, Scott Clair lived for the weekends. Mondays through Fridays were lived in a state of suspended animation for him, nothing seemed real; everything sort of floated by in grainy images of black and white. Friday evenings were when life was lived in full HD Technicolor. It was on the weekends when he could assume his true role and shed the pretenses of his average existence. Every weekend, Scott Clair became the possession, toy, and s.e.x.u.a.l playing of a Black Dom Daddy who inflicted the most horrendous and sadistic tortures on his pale, white flesh. For slightly more than 48 hours, Scott willingly put himself in a position to be degraded, humiliated, and used beyond most people's comprehension and he'd never been happier or more satisfied in his life.