What would make a person spend $20,000 on a week-long session with a pro-domme? Believe it or not, Mistress Emmanuelle, the Black Dominatrix who arrogantly charged the exorbitant fee, was booked solid for eight months in advance with her popularity growing by word of mouth alone. Charles Trenton was intrigued by the concept when he read about her on his favorite BDSM message board. The thread was started by someone who claimed to have been a client of this outrageously strict Ebony Domme whose activities were being touted as nothing less than illegal at best and deranged psychosis in the very worst-case scenario. There was a bit of controversy over the thread because someone claiming to be the head of a bank wrote the original post but it was written in disjointed and barely literate phonetics, raising all sorts of issues over the authenticity of the so-called "facts" presented. Adding insult to injury, the original poster seemed to have posted the same message on several message boards and never stuck around long enough to reply or defend his claims.
Curious, Charles Googled the name "Mistress Emmanuelle" to see if he could find out some more information. With over 500 results, he had his work cut out for him. He eliminated all the results that were for the Russian Domme by the same name and he was down to a little more than 100 links to check out. More than half of them were reposts of the same cryptic message he had already read and the majority of the others seemed to go to random white women claiming to be Dommes. Deciding to narrow down his search by using a few keywords from the original message, he hit pay dirt. One click and he was on this website.
It was a simple website, a single webpage really, outlining Mistress Emmanuelle's philosophy. It explained how, in so many instances, white subs claim they want to be enslaved to a Black woman, to be punished for their whiteness without comprehending how disrespectful and ignorant they are of what actual slaves had to endure. She claimed to have a 100-acre plantation that replicated the true slave experience and which had NOTHING to do with sexual subservience or fulfilling some sassy negro/mammy fantasy. She boldly proclaimed, "I make rich white men feel real pain and agony. I decide if and when they eat, sleep, drink, piss, and shit. I administer punishment randomly, indiscriminately, and I do so with extreme sadistic pleasure. If you come to my domain, I will break your spirit and crush it under my stiletto like a worthless bug. I beat and torture the arrogance out of my clients until they can no longer face their pale, pathetic reflections in the mirror."
Assured that he wasn't like the men being described on the webpage, Charles read every word over and over, knowing full well that he had no intention of forking over that sort of money. There was a number at the bottom of the page, however, that said that serious inquiries should call for further information. It was too tempting. Always protective of his identity and overly cautious, he got a disposable cell phone that couldn't be traced and called the 10 digits. Anticipating some sort of voice mail, he was shocked when a woman answered, identifying herself as Mistress Emmanuelle.
She was polite and articulate and she explained how she had inherited a rather large plantation off the coast of South Carolina originally owned by her paternal great, great, great grandfather who was a slave owner. Unaware that his favorite concubine was skilled in voodoo and black magic, he got a terrible fever and passed away in a fitful, painful episode, but not before changing his will to reflect that he was freeing all his slaves and leaving his land and money to the slave gal who bore his children. Charles listened intently as she said, "I'll inflict pain so excruciating, so piercing that you'll pray for the sweet release of death."
The silence on the telephone line was drowned out by the pounding of the blood that rang in his ears. Snapped out of his stupor, he heard the words, "... all I'll need is your social security number and 50% deposit and I can give you a date for your session."
He hung up the phone without saying a word. His identity, his privacy, was all that he held sacred. There was no way in hell he was going to give a stranger $20,000 AND the key to his security. Charles had an unnatural paranoia that he was going to be found out, that there were somehow mechanisms in place from on high that would bring the world to a crashing halt if anyone "regular" were to find out about his perversions. It was nothing more than inflated, white male ego. In as much as he wanted to deny his similarity to privileged, racist, submissives, at his core he was exactly the same. He wrote the whole thing off and decided never to think of it again. His resolution didn't last a half hour. He kept hearing her words over and over again. "I'll inflict pain so excruciating, so piercing that you'll pray for the sweet release of death." His mind reeled at what sort of punishment could be that extreme. He called her back and asked more questions.
She explained, "I'll replicate the slave experience in exacting detail. I'll tear you down only to recreate you as I wish. On day six, I'll let you experience release and on day seven, if you choose to leave you are free to do so."
What the hell did she mean, "If you choose to leave?" What kind of ridiculous thing was that to say? Surely she understood that he had a job, responsibilities, that he had a life in which he was very needed. Charles was amazed at how courteous and professional she was for someone who had just told him she was going to charge him an obscene amount of money to beat him to within inches of his life. He hung up and acknowledged to himself that he was going to have to weigh the pros and cons very seriously. She certainly presented a compelling opportunity and one that had his curiosity piqued.
It wasn't until his plane landed in South Carolina that he realized the magnitude of what he'd done. The hardest part of the entire process was the wait. Six months of mental anguish plagued him and he contemplated if he must have had some sort of lapse in judgment to make him go through with something so outrageous. There was something deep inside him, some perverse desire that resided in his DNA that compelled him to seek pain, punishment, to suffer at the hands of a Black Domme. As he stepped off the plane and into the sweltering heat and humidity of Charleston, sweat poured off his body but not from the climate.
A young woman stood with his name on a sign stood waiting by a limo. She was a Black woman dressed in a man's chauffer suit who looked stoic but beautiful. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I'm uhmmm... I think you are here to pick me up. Are you with... ?"
She opened the door and ushered him inside before he could finish. The windows were tinted and the divider was up so he couldn't see a thing. They drove for about a half hour when they stopped and she lowered the partition and said, "Stay!" When she opened her door the strong smell of the ocean was evident. Through the front windshield he could tell they were at a marina. The driver spoke to another woman, less stoic but equally as beautiful, onboard a mid-sized cabin cruiser. They laughed and chatted casually while he fidgeted in the car.
The driver opened the door and he understood he was to get out. He boarded the boat and extended his hand to the captain of the boat nervously, trying to gauge what his appropriate response was supposed to be. "I'll take your cell phone, your wallet, watch, and your keys, along with any other items that might be personal." Charles looked around like he was being punked but he went along with it in the spirit of cooperation. The captain opened a door of sorts in the floor and he again understood that he was to climb down the ladder. Just as he made his descent, he felt something crack down on his skull and he crashed to the floor in excruciating pain. The door slammed shut and he was lying on a wooden floor covered in a thick slime with a stench that made him want to vomit. There were no lights, he could barely see five inches in front of his face and the heat was unbearable in the small quarters, as he could feel the purr of the engine running nearby combined with the stifling temperatures.
Immediately, he was filled with rage. This wasn't what he signed up for. He yelled, "Let me out of here," but the engine roared and he could tell there were heading out to sea beyond where people could hear his pleas. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the pain in his head throbbed.
Waves lapped at the boat as he regained full consciousness and they were anchored somewhere. He wasn't sure how long he'd been in that hole but he was hungry and needed to use the bathroom. He hollered up through the floor. "I know what you're doing. This is supposed to be like a slave ship. You can't keep me here against my will. This is kidnapping. Let me out. I'll sue your ass." Yelling took entirely too much energy from him and the smell caused him to wretch as he felt himself dry heaving in nausea. He felt his head and he could feel a lump and dried blood. He couldn't tell if it was night or day or how far they had traveled.
His ignorance of what Africans endured during the Trans-Atlantic slave trade could fill volumes. His plight was minimal compared to those who survived the Long March only to be piled on top of each other, shackled in the hulls of ships for months, unable to move, kidnapped and stolen from their homes and families involuntarily. Charles was there of his own volition. It was his choice, his vacation. Being inflicted with pain was his sick and perverted preference and he was paying the price, sorely.
.... There is more of this story ...
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Reluctant / Coercion / Blackmail / Mind Control / Slavery / Heterosexual / BDSM / DomSub / FemaleDom / Spanking / Humiliation / Sadistic / Torture / Interracial / Black Female / White Male / Anal Sex / Sex Toys / Water Sports / Enema / Violent / Transformation /