It was the sound of his voice that triggered the knowing. In that split second, when I heard the acoustic waves created only by his vocal cords, I knew I had found my perfect submissive. He is the other half of the amulet, the yin to my yang, the missing piece that fits my kinky puzzle perfectly. Intelligent, articulate, completely depraved and perverted; he fits me. He is my equal and my opposite in every way. For all of my excellence and superiority he is excellently and equally inferior. He craves filth in a way that is far more extreme than most people could wrap their heads around and I can deliver what he craves and then some. He recognized my inherent dominance from our first communication and I could see his sub-human true nature instantly.
He’d been molested as a child. His father’s best friend had his hands in his pants before he was in little league. The abuse lasted until he was well into his teens and it grew more and more extreme, more twisted and perverted as the years progressed. By the time the man was promoted and moved away, my bitch had been emotionally and psychologically warped beyond repair and sexually used by more men than he could count. Now in his 40s, he’s become successful in his career and maintains the image of normalcy but it is just an image, a fake persona he wears. He is obsessed with sex. It consumes him. All day, every day, he thinks of nothing more than how to get his next nut, of how he can make it more extreme. His needs for stimulation have graduated far beyond anything remotely close to vanilla. He’s spent thousands of dollars over the years on toys and gear and hookers and memberships to websites. In every meeting, at every conference, he schemes and plots about how to be nastier, more sinister. At every company luncheon, he looks at his co-wokers and knows that they would be horrified if they knew he could fit a dildo the size of a grown man’s forearm in his slutty boicunt . . . and that he craves bigger, thicker, longer ones fucking him senseless.
Because of the abuse, he has trust issues. His father knew of the exploitation and turned a blind eye to it. They had a network of deviants that shared each other’s kids. His father liked little girls so he would allow his son to have sleepovers and camping trips with his friends while he got to play house with his friend’s daughters. Because of that, my little bitch doesn’t know what real affection and innocence feel like; he doesn’t know what it means to be a child who is protected and loved. I exploit that. I make him call me Mommy and make him feel like shit because of it. I toy with his emotions, degrade and humiliate him, taunt and tease him and remind him of how inherently fucked up he is, how he will never be normal, never have a normal relationship with anyone. I threaten to withhold my attention from him for my arousal; I terrorize him by intimating that I will throw him away like a piece of trash. It hurts him. I can see it in his eyes. But it arouses him. The more I tell him the truth, the more it makes him insane with lust and hunger. The more I toy with his emotions, the more it gets my pussy incredibly wet.
I own his very soul. I can tell him to do anything and he will still need more. If I tell him to suck my dog’s cock, he will ram his tongue in his asshole. My absolute favorite thing to do to him is to have him on his knees, with my lover fucking him savagely with his huge black cock, with his face in my hands, whispering in his ear, telling him that he is my white bitch boi. I punish him with threats that I will make him suck disgusting, old, white cock, like his abuser’s and he curls up like a ball and cries like a baby at the thought. He knows that his whiteness is an illusion. He knows that he isn’t more intelligent, that the arrogance and all his accomplishments were ill gotten gains. The truth, and he knows it, is that he has only achieved his success because white men have manipulated, lied, cheated, oppressed, cajoled, and stolen whatever advantages they have gotten. He knows, every time he has a black cock deep in his throat, that white men are the sick and twisted ones because I remind him that white men are the ones who created him to be what he is.
Every time he reads the racist rants of white men online, virtually screaming about how Blacks are inherently inferior, he knows that they are fighting their own demons, trying to deny what they know to be true in their hearts as well, that Blacks have more integrity, more ingenuity, more common sense, and a stronger will to survive than any white person could ever hope to have. With me, he can let down that defense. With me, he can be the pig he knows is his bloodline, his birthright. He comes from a long line a pigs and he is proud of it with me. He sees my grace, dignity, and my morality in my beautiful brown skin, in my deep, intoxicating eyes. He sees that I can control him with just a glance, a word softly murmured when he is on the verge of orgasm. I have the ability to break him down in a way no other person has ever done. He tries to build relationships with women, to pretend to be “that guy” the bachelor who Barbie wants, but his DNA is damaged and we both know it.
He has cried in my arms when I speak of the real horrors of slavery, of what heinous and evil things white men have done for generations. He has sobbed like a baby when I described the generations of racist privilege he had inherited to the detriment of my beautiful, strong, resilient, and inherently SUPERIOR ancestors. He knows that his father’s perversions weren’t isolated, that his father’s friends weren’t unique or exclusive. With me, he understands that the depravity in his blood has been there for generations and that Africans who were enslaved could never have been as twisted and damaged as his ancestors had been. His mother loves to be abused. His sister is a slut of extreme proportions. His father is a monster. And with me, my bitch is completely free to be the slug that he was born to be and give up his false sense of white superiority.
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