The Dark Side

by

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Reluctant, BiSexual, Fiction, BDSM, DomSub, FemaleDom, Spanking, Rough, Light Bond, Sadistic, Torture, Interracial, Black Female, Black Male, White Male, First, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Sex Toys, .

Desc: BDSM Sex Story: A strict Ebony Domme breaks the will of an arrogant whiteboi

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.

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