Broken

by AfroerotiK

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult, Reluctant, Mind Control, BiSexual, Heterosexual, BDSM, DomSub, FemaleDom, Spanking, Rough, Light Bond, Humiliation, Torture, Gang Bang, Interracial, Black Couple, Black Female, Black Male, White Male, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Water Sports, Cream Pie, .

Desc: BDSM Sex Story: His body, mind, and pathetic spirit are broken

The feel of the cool cement floor against his face allowed John Anderson to be revived momentarily. Drool pooled beneath his cheek, seeping uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth. A single, uncovered red light bulb hung precariously from an extension cord that had been duct-taped to the ceiling in the middle of the basement, providing the only source of illumination in the make-shift dungeon that had been his coven for the past three days. He was still disoriented from the pain, pain that permeated every cell, muscle, and sinew in his body. With his arms still securely tied behind his back, it was actually the pain of hunger that roused him from his unconscious state.

Tempted to call out, to ask for help, to request nourishment, John knew better than to do anything that might stir the wrath of his Mistress. His throat was sore, his voice weak from having his mouth savagely fucked by both dildos and cocks, all relentless in their efforts to leave his throat and jaw aching. Load after load of hot cum had been deposited inside him from both ends. Salvation came in the form of the click of his Mistress' heels against the exposed floor. John was too weak to lift his head to greet her properly. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained from his experience. Oddly enough, even after days of humiliation, perversion, and inexorable punishment masterminded by this brutal woman, he felt satisfied. He was content, blissful in fact that he had finally found the mentally sadistic Black bitch of his dreams, the one individual who divested him of his arrogance, his false sense of superiority, of his white male attitude.

A mere 72 hours previously, he could have said no such thing. Three days earlier, John was clueless as to the potential his long weekend would hold. He'd flown into New York City for business actually but he'd arranged to arrive a few days early for some hardcore playtime as well. He'd been corresponding with a certain Dominatrix who called herself Mother Africa. Everyone lies on the Internet and everyone exaggerates so he assumed her claims of psychological domination expertise and race play were blown out of proportion. He'd been sufficiently aroused by their initial interaction so he thought it would be interesting to say the least to see where it could lead.

Mother Africa was a soft-spoken, pleasant woman. They'd communicated on the phone several times as well as chatted online. Not once did she come off as irrational or overly demanding. In fact, her demeanor could have been described as sweet. She said she dabbled in BDSM when the notion hit her and she was extremely selective of the subs with whom she chose to play. She never brought up the subject of money and she wasn't even particularly interested in cam shows or making John perform tasks to show his sincerity or submissiveness. She did ask a lot of questions: blunt, straightforward, embarrassing questions. "Do you have a small cock? Have you ever eaten shit? How many times have you been fucked in the ass? Do you get off on being dressed like a sissy?" All those questions and more rolled off her tongue as easily as if she was casually asking about the weather. To make matters worse, she didn't allow any stalling or beating around the bush when it came to answering the questions. She demanded direct, explicit answers with exacting details and made it clear that her time was precious and she had no tolerance for coy or elusive answers. John was outrageously aroused by her demeanor, by the fact that she could be so open and unambiguous about what she wanted. It was that aloof sense of superiority that cemented the deal, that set the stage for their meeting. Thinking he was paying her a compliment, he mistakenly said, "Of all the profiles of Black Dommes I've read online, yours is the most amazing I've ever come across. You're different. Your analysis of race is humbling to say the least and you are obviously very intelligent. I can't believe you understand the mind of submissive white men so well."

She replied by saying, "Are you suggesting that most Black Dommes are stupid and that white men are so incredibly complex so as to render them indecipherable?"

John backtracked, apologizing and trying to clarify. "Ohhhh, noooo. I was just saying that it's clear that you are very well educated. I was ... I was paying you a compliment, believe me. It's rare to come across someone as articulate as you are."

"Well, let me see if I understand," she said. "Based on what you've repeatedly told me, you believe that women are superior to men. Additionally, you've said numerous times that you find Black women specifically to be the ultimate archetype, that we are, in fact, Goddesses, 'supreme beings' to you-- your words not mine. Yet it seems like you're saying that you're shocked that I'm not some illiterate welfare queen who can barely form a coherent sentence, that you can't believe that I'm as intelligent as say ... a white person. To my untrained ear, it sounds as if you're saying that understanding the mind of a submissive white man requires super human/magical powers because a normal Black woman simply isn't capable of understanding your uncomplicated albeit warped desires. Does that about summarize what you're trying to say? Because what I hear you saying is that you're practically dumbfounded that you found a Black Domme who is as intelligent as ... you are. I can assure you that I am outrageously offended by the notion that you would even consider yourself qualified to judge my intellect, let alone compliment me for it. Moreover, white men are transparent and simple in their desires and it hardly takes a superior intellect to dissect your rather uncomplicated motives. Additionally, the fact that you seem to espouse such love for Black women and then make underhanded, disparaging comments about us is quite troublesome. It leads me to believe that you don't actually think we're truly superior but nothing more than sexual fetishes for your depraved fantasies."

He couldn't even form words. He was speechless. His cock was rock hard and dripping precum and his mind was reeling from arousal. He mumbled another insufficient apology. "I'm so sorry Mother Africa. That's not at all what I meant. I'm just a stupid white boi. Please forgive me. Is there something I can do to make it up to you?" He almost couldn't hear her response he was jerking off so frantically just from her verbal reprimand. John loved being put in his place. He loved being knocked down from his self-defined pedestal of superiority. The sensation of being told off, of being made to feel stupid was almost like having electricity sent from his nipples, to his cock, all the way to his asshole.

They made arrangements to meet in October and his assignment over the course of the preceding month, his prerequisite for play as it were, was to read Nile Valley Contributions to Civilization by Anthony Browder and The Black Holocaust for Beginners by S.E. Anderson and write a literature review for each of them. Never in his life had John even heard of someone requiring homework for a domination session so he didn't take his task too seriously. He googled the books and found them on Amazon and printed out their reviews. They seemed like interesting reading from what he gathered but he didn't even bother to buy the books.

Twenty minutes late, he rushed into the lobby of the Hyatt authentically upset for being tardy; slipping the bellboy $50 to take the rest of his luggage to his room. He'd wanted to be there early to make a good first impression but midtown traffic wasn't so kind. As arrogant as he tended to be, he did understand the rules of D/s play and was fully aware that leaving a Domme waiting was a big no-no. She was already there, seated at the table of the restaurant, looking just as one would think a woman who called herself Mother Africa would look. She wore her hair in a big Afro like a character from a 70s Blaxplotation flick. Without any makeup at all, her brown complexion was glowing and radiant. She wore a t-shirt with some sort of graphic design of an African mask on it that accentuated her rather large breasts and a long denim skirt that reached the floor. Her Timberland boots were so small they looked like a child's size. She wore an arm-full of wooden bracelets on her right arm and an arm-full of copper bangles on her left arm that made noise every time she punctuated her sentences with arm movements. One thing for sure, she was far more attractive in person than she was in her photos and she didn't seem at all like John expected. She looked like she could have been a graduate student waiting to have lunch with her professor rather than a Dominatrix ready to use and abuse a white boi.

Mother Africa stood to greet him and turned her face to indicate that he should kiss her cheek as a sign of respect. She graciously accepted his apology for being late, seemingly very understanding of the unavoidable traffic from JFK. They sat and ordered lunch and had a very pleasant chat, not at all strained or awkward, without even the slightest hint of strain. Erotic tension was in the air. She teased and tormented him effortlessly and with skill and everything was going great, up until the moment she asked to see the summaries of the books he was assigned to read.

John got away with anything and everything in life with his good looks, money, and arrogance. In that moment, as he fumbled in his carry-on bag for the wrinkled papers, he felt ashamed he hadn't even attempted the assignment he'd been given. This was a real woman, a real-life flesh and blood woman whose dominance and superiority were evident in her very aura, not some picture on the Internet, and he was about to let her down. He realized he'd fucked up by not following her orders. He wasn't about to let it show on his face however, and he handed the papers over and began what he thought was a fairly decent but superficial discussion of what he'd read from the printouts.

"What is this?" Mother Africa didn't even bother to pick up the papers; she had a look of disgust on her face.

"It's the reviews you asked for," John said, trying to appear confident.

Crossing her arms in front of her, she didn't say a word, her face not showing any signs of emotion.

John's heart was pounding. This was the stuff of submissive dreams. He could either choose to be defiant and willful, arousing her ire and wrath and eliciting what would surely be a severe session in discipline or he could choose to be apologetic and remorseful, showing the respect that every true sub longs to display in the presence of one to whom he truly feels inferior. It wasn't a decision he had to contemplate for too long as his cell phone rang and he held his finger up to excuse himself and answered the call. For a good three minutes, he talked business, never taking his eyes off the lovely woman who sat inches from him, hoping the length of the phone call would distract her from his blunder.

Leaning in, Mother Africa whispered to him, "I see you are here to waste my fucking time." With that, she took his cell phone from him, summarily closed it, and dropped it in his water glass.

John stood up, knocking over his chair, causing quite a scene. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you crazy? First of all, that was an important call. Second, that phone was expensive. Every contact I have is in that phone. WHAT THE FUCK is wrong with you?"

Mother Africa stood and walked away, leaving John there trying to dry his cell phone with his linen napkin, looking like an idiot screaming and cursing in front of the other lunch patrons. John knew in that moment that he'd pushed too far. He didn't want her to leave. He didn't want things to end before they had even started and he ran after her. "Wait, I'm sorry," he said, grabbing her arm before she entered the revolving doors of the hotel.

She turned, looking at his white hand on the brown flesh of her arm and then looking directly in his eyes. Her eyes burned a hole in his soul. If looks could kill, John knew that he would die a slow, painful death. She didn't say a word. She communicated everything she wanted to say with her eyes. She didn't even have to move them; it was if she was telepathically giving him commands. There in the middle of the very public lobby of the Hyatt Regency in New York City, John Anderson, knelt on one knee and kissed the hand of Mother Africa and said, "I'm sorry, please forgive me." To the average person, it might have looked like he was popping the big question. He looked up for approval and it was apparent his actions weren't enough. His face was burning from embarrassment and he heart felt as if it might actually explode. His cock was straining against his pants and he felt like he might faint. Looking around quickly, he knew that if he were to truly seek the forgiveness of this divine woman, he would have to assume a truly inferior position. The shame of it all was intoxicating and she still hadn't said a word. On his hands and knees, he lowered his head to her foot and placed his lips on her boot and kissed it. "Please, forgive me Mistress. I beg you for the opportunity to make it up to you," he said, loud enough for anyone nosey enough to want to hear.

"Follow me," she commanded as she walked outside into the beautiful Fall afternoon. John panicked. He stood up and looked around at all the people who were trying to be discrete but staring at his blatant display of submissiveness. He ran back to the table, threw some money on the table for the food that they hadn't even eaten, grabbed his bag, and ran after her, praying that she would still be outside.

She wasn't.

The bell captain called out to him. "Sir ... the young lady ... the one who ... well sir, she told me to put you in a cab and have it take you to an address but I'm not supposed to tell you where." John looked around again, sure that everyone in the world could read his every deviant desire. He was humiliated but more aroused than he'd ever been. Slipping the bell captain a hundred dollar bill, he got in the cab and it set out for an unknown destination. What was less than a half hour ride seemed like it took an eternity. As the taxi weaved its way in and out of traffic to a quiet, tree-lined street in Queens, John was tempted to whip out his cock and masturbate right then and there.

They arrived at an unassuming looking house and he paid the cabbie, tipping him well also, and clutched his bag so hard his knuckles were white. He made his way to the front door and knocked, terrified that he was being set up but never more determined to experience additional discipline from this amazing woman.

Mother Africa opened the door. "Go around to the back," and she shut the door in his face.

Making his way to the backyard, John knocked again. This time, a Black man answered the door. Wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots, he clearly resembled Mother Africa in his attire but John had no idea what to say to him. He didn't have to say anything as the man said, "Get downstairs, boy," and moved aside. John's feet were frozen in place. He didn't even have a cell phone to call for a cab or call 911 if he wanted. Every bit of common sense told him to run and not look back. His knees shook as he descended the stairs to the basement that had clearly been altered to accommodate some serious kinky play. The walls were padded and there was a drainage hole in the middle of the floor. Restraints and BDSM equipment were everywhere. While John was trying to get his bearings, trying to figure out exactly what he'd gotten himself into, Mother Africa came downstairs wearing the same t-shirt but tight, black leather pants that hugged her every curve and black high heeled leather boots.

"Undress." Her command was simple and to the point. John wanted more. He wanted an explanation of what was going to happen. He wanted a detailed discussion of rules and limits and more head games. He was too terrified to ask any questions. Somehow, instinctively, he knew that he didn't have a choice that he was supposed to go along for the ride or forever regret this once in a lifetime opportunity to experience something he'd only ever dreamed of.

John slowly unbuttoned his shirt as the Black couple looked on, talking with each other in hushed tones he couldn't understand. The man sat casually in a chair, with one leg over the arm of it and his hand squeezing an impressive length of dick that snaked down the leg of his jeans. If he wasn't aroused by the white boi taking off his clothes in front of him he was certainly aroused by the sexy dance that Mother Africa was doing for him. John tried to concentrate on his surroundings should he decide to make a run for it but the scene of these two people in such an intimate display proved to be too distracting. They were kissing and caressing each other as they watched and laughed at John standing before them naked, his cock hard and completely out of his element, unsure of what to do next.

"Oh, where are my manners? I forgot to introduce the two of you. Worm, this is my lover, Eric. He's my partner in crime shall we say," she laughed as she applied nipple clamps to John and made him wince with pain. "For the weekend, you will call him Daddy, got it? And you'll call me Mommy, understand?"

John nodded, whispering, "Yes, Mommy," in accordance with her desires, tingling with the sound of the word coming from his lips.

Without warning, she slapped him hard in the face. John was stunned but the hurt registered as pleasure. She ran her hands over his body, gently caressing his chest, down his abdomen over his hard cock to his balls. Without even a second's hesitation, she squeezed his nuts so hard John fell to the floor, blinded by the pain, crying out. Curled in the fetal position, he tried to pull himself together, to get back in the game. His competitive nature wouldn't allow him to lie there like a little wounded animal; he had to prove that he was in it to win it.

The point of her black leather boot making full contact with his side divested him of any notion of competition and he lay on the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

"I gave you one small assignment and you didn't even have the common fucking courtesy to pretend to do it. You think you're so smart," she kicked him again, "I'll have to show you who's the boss around here." She spat directly in his face, her saliva dripping down his cheek. She put the sole of her boot over his mouth and commanded that he lick it, all the while, taunting him. "Look you little asswipe, I'm in charge here and what I say goes. For the next three days, you belong to me. You are my property. You are my possession, my plaything. I can do anything and everything I want to you and you won't have a say. I don't care if you enjoy it or hate it. It doesn't matter to me what you experience. I intend to use you for my entertainment and my pleasure any fucking way I see fit."

As if perfectly timed, the doorbell rang and Eric got up to answer the door. "We have company. I've invited a few friends over and I expect you to do whatever they want. Understand?"

John managed to get to his knees and remain upright as the first guest came downstairs. The guy looked almost as nervous as he was. "Are you guys sure about this? I can do whatever I want to him, no questions asked? This isn't a joke is it? I mean, I'm not going to pull out my dick and the cops are gonna jump out and arrest me or anything, right?" After he was reasonably assured that it wasn't a set up, he pulled out his dick and rubbed it on John's face. The smooth skin felt erotic and sensuous, the raunchy stench of man smell aroused him: the sweat, the piss, and the stink of an unwashed, uncut black cock was driving him mad.

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