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.

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