This happened long, long ago, in a place far, far away called California.

Back then, I called myself Jeffery Banks. I was a single dad of three teens, and for the first time in months, they were with their mother. It was supposed to be a weekend of freedom. The only thing I had planned was a trip to the park with a bag of breadcrumbs for the ducks. Being a single father had chased women away, or it made them desperate for a ring. None of the lovelies were interested in playing my games.

I strolled through the park with my mind on a dominant woman and my head in the clouds. That’s when I spotted her—a tall Afro-American goddess in a black, flat, brimmed, equally flat, crowned Stetson and two-toned riding pants. Her tight, pullover Victorian man’s shirt clung to the firmest pair of breasts I had ever seen. She wore point-toed cowboy boots with five-inch spiked heels and clutched a riding crop.

Her dark skin was rich and stunning against the green of the grass. Honestly, I couldn’t help but ogle her every inch as my eyes worked their way up from those impossibly sexy boots. She smacked the crop into her gloved right hand and snapped at me.

“What are you looking at, maggot?”

“Nothing, ma’am, I’m sorry,” I stuttered. Even as my cock twitched and I came close to embarrassing myself.

She changed position, planting the toe of her left boot into the ground and tapping it repeatedly, digging a hole under the toe. All the while, she scowled at me like I was a freak or a pervert. I wanted her, but at forty-five and out of practice, I didn’t stand a chance with someone like that. I slinked away, barely holding it together.

The further I got from her, the more my chest pounded. My cock was still straining, and my heart still beat fast. What did a pathetic loser like me think I could do with a woman like her? Even if she was interested, what did I imagine would happen right here in public? I felt myself squirm as I continued toward the pond.

I sat on a bench, opened the bag of breadcrumbs, and several ducks swam in my direction. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She was young, beautiful, and commanding. I tossed some bread into the water, wondering how many husbands or boyfriends she might have.

“Fucking pathetic,” I muttered to myself. Pitiful me wanted to talk to her, but I couldn’t bring myself to take the chance. Then I saw her standing by the edge of the pond, beautiful and frighteningly dangerous. I didn’t dare look at her. Maybe if I ignored her, she’d forget how pathetic I was and walk away. I sat frozen, but she remained there. She probably had a stable full of willing slaves.

I kept tossing breadcrumbs and heard the click of her heels on the stone pathway.

Once I convinced myself she wasn’t going to push me into the pond and drown me, I heard a sonorous, sensual voice.

“What’s with you?” she asked.

“What do you mean, miss?” I managed to studder out.

“I mean, you look fit. You’re middle-aged, yet alone and lonely. I could see it in your eyes,” she replied.

“Are you that certain?” I asked, trying to sound as if she were wrong.

“I can spot a pathetic loser from a mile away,” she said, placing her hand on my shoulder. She squeezed hard.

“Loser, that’s a harsh word. But I’ve been divorced for six months, have custody of my three daughters, and haven’t gotten my feet under me on the whole dating thing,” I said as she continued, squeezing my shoulder with a brutal clutch that drove her fingernails in.

“You lost her because you were passive, and she wanted a man. A real one. Don’t worry, sweetums, I specialize in losers.” There that word was again, boring to my mind, nerves, and sending a single to all the way to balls and prick. Bending down so that her lips nearly brushed my ear, she whispered, “Now, if you’ve finished feeding the ducks, come with me,” then released my shoulder.

I have a real thing for black women. Especially strong, tall, muscled black women. I watch them in tennis, women’s basketball, gymnastics, and track and field. I imagine them in my fantasies, slapping my face, jerking me from here to there, and doing every nasty thing possible to me. And this woman frightened and thrilled me, my favorite combination. After all, as a wealthy, privileged, white man, I owe it to the black race to let their women take out any and all frustrations on me. If only I had the nerve to do so.

I kept tossing breadcrumbs. Unable to think or breathe as my mind spun in a hundred different directions. Was she real? Was she actually speaking to me? Was she going to make my dreams come true?

Was she going to humiliate me and crush my wretched soul? I wanted her so much that it hurt. I wanted everything she could give me, and at the same time, it was impossible. The breadcrumb bag crinkled in my sweaty hands. The ducks swarmed to the edge of the pond. I heard the clack of her heels as she started to walk away.

“Well, your loss,” she said.

I stood, dumped the remaining breadcrumbs onto the ground, turned, and ran a few steps before following her at a measured pace, careful not to get too close. I watched her beautiful, tight ass sway as she walked. No, not walked, strutted. Her head turned slightly as she gave me a side-eye smirk.

I was scared to death.

Maybe this was a cruel joke. Possibly, she’d leave me high and dry and feeling even more inadequate than ever. But I’d wanted to be a slave for so long. No one else could give me what I craved. I followed Zarina out of the park.

“I’m Mistress Zarina, a professional dominatrix, and you are?” she asked.

“A bit disappointed I have to pay, but still a willing submissive,” I replied.

“Are the kiddies at home?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

I followed her, noticing that she preferred several feet between us until she eventually led me to a black Lamborghini. Once inside, she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Jeffery,” I responded.

“Well, Jeffy, you pissant, buckle up,” she said, firing up the engine as the tires squealed and we sped away at breakneck pace. Pissant, what a glorious insult to hurl my direction.

While driving, we stopped at a traffic light. Zarina cast a sideways glance at me, her expression mixed with irritation and disapproval as she shook her head before focusing on the road again.

Suddenly, she took her hand off the gear shifter and delivered a swift backhand strike to my erect penis and testicles, the impact of her hand resounding sharply; I clenched my jewels and groaned in pain.

“Did I give you permission to pitch a tent?” she asked sharply.

“No,” I managed to reply as a tear escaped and tricked down my cheek.

“Baby,” she said, not as a term of endearment, but another slap to my manhood, my adulthood. As the light shifted to green, we sped off. The houses and businesses rushed by at an almost dizzying velocity. I glanced at a speed sight, 45, and then to the speedometer, 45 ... It only felt as though she was speeding.

In a short time, she turned into a driveway and slid inside a garage, and we came to an abrupt halt. The sound of an overhead door grinding shut filled the air, and darkness briefly fell inside the car until the headlights flicked on and the engine sputtered to a stop.

“Get the fuck out and open my fucking door,” Zarina commanded briskly, clearly annoyed by my hesitation.

I scrambled to the door and opened it for her; she extended her hand, which I grasped as she stepped out and towered over me. Without warning, she delivered a brutal backhand to my left cheek, nearly sending me sprawling. After slamming the car door, she led me inside a dimly lit mud room. To my right, a flight of stairs descended into a basement, which Zarina pointed toward.

“You first.”

“Shouldn’t my beautiful and cruel Mistress lead me?”

“Not when I command you to lead,” Zarina said.

I so wanted her to slap me again or punch my still-engorged prick. But I’d not irk her further to receive my punishment as a reward. I stepped into the tight opening and down one step. As I cautiously descended, apprehension built that she might push me further. Upon entering the basement, I discovered it was outfitted like a dungeon for play, hinting at the explicit and filthy acts Zarina might perform.

The bread of life for a man like me.

“Strip,” she ordered, and I obediently complied. Once I had freed myself of my clothing, I turned to her, and her face shifted to a stern glower.

“You’re fucking hard. Did I give you permission? Did you even ask before you allowed this to happen?” she scolded.

“No, Ma’am, I’m so sorry for causing you distress,” I replied.

She clutched my prick and weighed, or so it seemed.

“Don’t bad for insipid worm,” Zarina said. Her fingers slid to my balls, and she cupped them, weighing them as well. “Good sat nads.” She twisted them and leered down at me, letting them loose. “Bend over and grab your ankles, feet apart.”

Smacking the crop into her gloved hand a threat to do what she said, or else. I complied, and she moved behind me. She delivered a smack on my right ass cheek, relatively light at first. Then on the left, repeated a bit harder. Followed by eight more brutal blows, and then nothing. My cheeks had a grand burn, and I was certain whelps.

I held the position. Far too afraid even to look at my Mistress. Waiting tens of seconds as her gloves eventually fell to the floor before my face. Her booted feet moved in front of me as she walked away. I watched her ass sway and the material of her pants swish with each stride as she strutted to a table like a model on a catwalk.

She picked something up with her hands and turned back toward me. Quickly, I cast my eyes downward to avoid angering her further. She stood behind me, placed one hand on my face, and dug two fingers into my mouth. Bending over me more, she clutched my cock with her other hand and jacked me off roughly, forcefully, almost violently.

I tried to count the seconds to block out the incredible sensations as I reached 378, and I came.

My arms and legs shook as I moaned like a slut and exploded with more force than I ever had in my life. I lay face down on the floor with cum splattered on my stomach. She glared at me, face filled with disgust. She delivered a sharp kick to my side and ordered me to clean the floor with my tongue. To lap up the cum from my hands and knees.

I ate the cum as she looked down at me.

“You’re one filthy fuck, aren’t you? Is this what you want, to be degraded and punished?”

“Yes,” I replied, already beginning to wonder if I had any limits at all.

“Why,” she asked.

“Because I’m white and must pay for the sins of my race against your people.”

“You’re wretched,” she said, disappearing up the stairs.

As I ate the cum, she disappeared. Once I finished, I stayed on the floor, squirming in exquisite and helpless frustration.

Zarina reappeared, still wearing her black Victorian man’s shirt but without the riding pants—she still wore the boots, though. Sitting on an oversized couch, she pointed at her boots.

“Clean them, wasp.”

I moved to her, dropped on my knees on the throw rug, and pressed my lips to her booted left foot. Prayerfully kissed and licked from the tip of the toe to where the V of the top of the leather converged. I reversed the order and repeated on her other foot.

Next, she bent down, took a handful of my hair, and raised her right foot to my mouth. Opening my lips, she shoved several inches into them and commanded me.

“Suck it off.”

I gave the best imitation blowjob I could muster. Once Zarina was satisfied, she stood and ordered me to stand. When I rose, I looked her in the eye and received a hard blow to my cheek—a reminder of my previous mistakes.

She sat back down on the divan.

“Eat me out, you odious, white parasite.”

I knelt between Zarina’s legs and started at the top of her boots. My lips and tongue traced an unyielding path along the insides of her magnificent, muscled thighs. Each kiss and lick ignited a mixture of pleasure and raw apprehension deep within me.

As I advanced toward her smooth, shaved pussy, I felt every moment sharpen my awareness. Her powerful grip on my hair pulled me vigorously into the experience while her sharp insults punctuated the air. Each word fed the intricate blend of yearning and fear I couldn’t escape.

My movements, oscillated between her clit, labia, and cunny hole, were dictated by her demands. Every time the toe of her boot struck my balls or cock. I was jolted by a sting of pain that mingled inexplicably with overwhelming ecstasy. Leaving me questioning the boundary between suffering and sublime pleasure.

“Is that the best you can do, neanderthal?” Zarina’s voice was like a jolt of electricity. Her words cut through me with the precision of a surgeon cutting a tumor away.

I whimpered, pressing my mouth against the flesh of pussy. Each lick a silent plea for approval. My tongue felt heavy and awkward, and I wondered if Zarina felt the trembling need that surged through me with each hesitant stroke.

“Useless,” she said, and I shivered. The heat in my belly knotted into something equal parts shame and want. Her leg shifted, and my heart stuttered as I looked up at her. My gaze traveled to her glowering stare.

My tongue thrusted in and out of her pussy. Tasting her thick juices with a reverence that bordered on desperation. The fear of disappointing her quickened my pace, and I struggled to keep the longing in check as I stuck my tongue as far inside her as my tongue would go.

She intoxicated me. Her scent, flavor, the soft velvet of pussy flesh made my head spin. I could hardly breathe, overwhelmed by the reckless urgency to prove myself, to please her, to feel her heel driving into me once more. I moved my tongue furiously and pushed my head side to side so my nose perturbed her clit, and my chin, wet with her sap, did the same on her taint.

She reclined against the cushions. Zarina’s dark eyes fixed on me, her indifference almost convincing. I observed the faint quirk of her mouth. The hint of satisfaction as I lost myself against her skin. Each stroke drove us until I was nothing but raw, pulsing need. Vulnerable and open and entirely hers.

It rolled over Zarnia, a climax so vicious her body shook and bucked into my face. My hands gripped her boots, holding on as to anchor me. As if they’d keep me from dissolving into her strength.

“That’s it,” she said in sensuous purr, more taunt than praise. The low, vulgar sounds she made tightened my chest. This spurred me to move faster.