Part 1 — Karen Spreads
She had been more than distracted, she had thought of nothing else since the phone call at the breakfast table, his name flashing up — James — and the whole space, a family morning scene, changing utterly in an instant. Her husband’s glance, knowing, but powerless, meek. She had ducked into the garden to receive the curt summons, her first in over a week. It had felt like the longest week of her life, filled with longing, daydreams, questioning, speculation, panic, and desire. Then as she hung up, even her own children were almost invisible to her, they seemed nothing but a chore to be completed as soon as could be, terrible to think it but so true in that moment that she could not deny it to herself.
So she had hurried from the school, almost delirious with anticipation, the sunshine bringing a sweat that she barely noticed, and it was all that she could do to keep the semblance of composure and stop herself from running all the way to his flat. The greetings of other parents, neighbours on their way to work, were all ignored. Her mind was on one thing only, her throat dry with the thought of it, the rest of her body moist, not least her sex. Her knickers — just plain white briefs, if only she had known — were wet by the time she got to his block, flustered and hot. And now she lay on his bed, naked, shining, waiting. He liked to make her wait. In her wildest fantasies she had wanted some kind of greeting, but he had just thrown open the door, pointed, and said the fewest words possible to her:
“On the bed. Naked. Spread.”
Then he went back to his phone call, strolling into the living room in his white vest and boxers, the white of the vest setting off his jet-black skin, his biceps accentuated as he held the phone to his ear, and not a bead of sweat on him. He had not met her eye. As she lay on his bed, breathless, her desire only grew by the second as she obeyed the last of his commands and spread her legs for him. She felt shivery in the heat as she lay ready for him in this most basic and animal of postures, the human equivalent of ‘presenting’.
It excited her that he wanted her like this. She looked down at her body, thirty eight years old in a few months, a little fuller around the tummy after two births, a little longer in the breast, and it thrilled her that this body should be an object of desire for James – a black man, a man who was, in her eyes, little short of physical perfection. Oh, he didn’t love her, or worship her as she worshipped him, she knew that well enough. But even to be used for his pleasure, just for a time, was a thrill enough for her. The seconds ticked by, and turned into minutes. And still Karen lay there with her legs spread, waiting for him.
She looked down at her cunt. It looked and felt beautiful to her now, no longer a thing to be hidden away, intellectualized out of existence, but the center of her being. It was as if her whole life and soul radiated out from between her legs. It made her laugh to remember that she had once thought herself a feminist. No, she thought, this cunt is me, open, glistening, waiting to be penetrated and used for its Master’s coarse pleasure. That was her reason for being, above all others. The little coiled hairs had grown back, and there was a trim bush that she hoped would not displease him.
It had been eleven days since she had last been here. As she waited, feverish, Karen wondered again who he had been with. She had tried to bat away feelings of jealousy. For one thing, she was a married woman herself. More importantly she knew that a man like James was too great a sexual force to ever restrict himself, he was a man who saw whatever he wanted as his right to take, and the world generally went along with that.
He had had many women, she knew that. He had different ‘interests’ that he liked to pursue, some of which he had told her about and some of which she had picked up in their five-month acquaintance. There were black women. He still had a taste for ‘sisters’, and she had even seen him once by chance in the street, with a proud, shapely young woman with extravagant golden braided hair, who had seemed to look down her nose at Karen as though she pegged her as a rival, despite the affectation of not knowing each other that Karen and James had performed. Then he liked what he called ‘party girls’. When pressed, it seemed like this meant young white girls, often teenagers, that he picked up in clubs. But he never went back to them, he just used them once then threw them away — his words. He also liked to try women of different races and nationalities, and he had boasted once that he had had Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Latino, French and any kind of women you cared to mention. But what made it so hard to hold off her jealousy was also, perversely, the thing that should have given her comfort. James’s greatest interest, his passion, his ‘hobby’ as he had once called it, was fucking married white women.
So on the one hand, Karen knew that she fell into his favorite category of sexual adventure. On the other hand, she knew it was unusual for him to go that long — eleven days — without indulging in his passion. All of which led her to the suspicion that there was another little white wife on the scene, which choked her in a way that no number of party-girl or ‘sister’ rivals ever could. She resolved, somehow, to try to find out. But for now, she was glad to be back in his bed, waiting.
It must have been half an hour at least that she lay there. It felt longer. She gasped inwardly when he appeared in the doorway, a slight sneer breaking his lip. She was wide-eyed, gazing at him, and she stretched her legs a little wider, offering her cunt, showing him. He grinned and nodded slightly — good girl, he seemed to be saying. She started to breathe heavily as he took his vest off in one movement, displaying that beautiful tall black torso from above her.
Then the boxers came down. This was it, hello again, God she had missed it terribly, this thing of dark, veined beauty that occupied almost all of her waking thoughts. His cock. Flaccid, heavy, swaying, menacing, magnificent. Black. Jet black. A thing of worship. Conqueror of countless women. How many gloried in it as she did? Quite a few in all likelihood. He held it gently in one hand, teasingly brushed the tip against her wet cunt lips as it stiffened.
“Oh God. Oh James. Please …”
This wasn’t like the first time, when she had feared it. She knew she could take it all, in her cunt, feel the thick, long, hot darkness inside her, taking over her body. She was proud of her cunt, proud that it had been in a state of perfect union with such a God-like cock and taken it all. She was bigger inside, looser, since the kids, she knew that, and Richard had remarked on it, their sex life had suffered, and she could feel herself that her husband’s penis would never fit snugly again but thrash about awkwardly, as if lost. So for a time she had felt some loss. But now, with James, it was so, so different. His penetration, his power, his fucking, was something altogether different to whatever she had done with Richard. This was a man and a woman in union as God intended. His cock becoming her, taking her body, owning her.
It only made the anticipation more intense as she saw it reach its full growth in his hand, and he stepped forward to claim her married cunt again. Almost touching, looking, gasping. The size of it. Then the first contact, always electric, so different. The huge brown head on her wet lips, barging her clit, shoving rudely like a battering ram for the length it led. She groaned, loud, shameless, as he slid inside her and started to slowly thrust. She felt whole again, a whole woman, with the missing piece restored, as though her spine had been removed and replaced. The shudder came so quickly, maybe the third thrust, as she came for the first time. He looked down at her, savoring his conquest, then took over and went at her hard and selfish, almost wild. To be fucked so hard by that cock, for so long, took her to another plane, one she could never quite recapture when she masturbated. There were shrieks and moans, gallons of sweat pouring out of her. He stopped for a second — after 10 minutes? 20? 30? — to flip her onto all fours.
Again he made her wait for a moment. She waited for the hot tip of the cock to touch her wet behind, but felt a hard spank instead, and orgasmed again. He carried on slapping her as he fucked her from behind, and his black hips slapped into her ample white flesh to create a parallel and continuous slap. Her tits swayed furiously as he pounded her. She knew he liked to see that, and knowing it added to her delirium. When he was close to coming, he grabbed her waist so hard, thrust his hips so hard, went so far inside her with his cock that she felt it must break her. She felt the extra throb in his cock as the white essence gushed out into her cunt. Ten, twenty ever harder thrusts, and he was done with her.
That was all he wanted that day. He woke up wanting a hard fuck, he told her. She thanked him for calling her and not someone else. Was it because she was closest, she asked, half-joking. He didn’t quite answer but told her:
“I felt like fucking another man’s wife. Some white pussy.”
As they lay there in the heat she took his cock into her mouth, gently, cleaned it for him, lovingly and greedily, with her tongue. Then he had to go, but instead of kicking her out, full of his cum, as he had done so many times, he told her she could stay in the flat if she wanted. Karen was thrilled, overwhelmed with gratitude. Just to be there in his bed, alone, fucked, used, trusted.
Snooping. Such a thrill, tiptoeing naked around his flat. Not quite naked – she had pulled on her plain white panties, out of some strange sense of shy half-propriety, covering her sated pussy, filled with his seed. Knowing he could bound through the door at any moment (although he probably wouldn’t) just added to the excitement. Obsessed with James, she wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know his secrets. She opened drawers, and felt a frisson of fear each time, giving her goosebumps.
Did he have porn? Every man did, that’s what her husband had told her, shamefaced, when she had discovered his bizarre box in their basement. That day came back to her as she gently poked around James’s bedroom. Richard’s fallen face when she showed him. His stumbling attempts to explain. Then the tears and the confessions. She had looked through it all, horrified but fascinated. DVDs. Women’s underwear. Magazines, some straight top shelf stuff, others with stronger images of sex acts. Always the same theme, the same types — black men and white women. Karen had never seen black men’s cocks before. She had felt more than a tingling as she leafed through it all, alone in the basement, seeing those thick, long, smooth dark organs, so different to Richard’s pale flabby little thing. Then the faces of the women, white women like her, some young, some middle-aged. Looking at the camera with black cocks in their mouths.
One picture, one pretty white brunette in particular had captivated Karen, and despite her feelings of revulsion she kept going back to look at that one. The woman’s grey-blue eyes looking straight at the camera. Her pretty lips stretched, mouth wide, filled with a thick, dark, black man’s cock. A hint of a grin, a beckoning, or a challenge, dimpling those soft white cheeks. The eyes too seemed to speak to her. Ooh, look at me. Aren’t I a bad girl? You’re no better. I know you’re curious. I know you’re excited. You’re thinking about it now. You’d love to try it. She had put the box away, taken a long shower, masturbating, then waited for her husband to come home.
Did James have something like that? She couldn’t imagine it. Her husband was a fantasist, a pervert. James was a man. He lived in the real world, for himself. He didn’t have to dream about sex between black men and white women, about what it was like to feed a long black cock into a waiting white pussy. About what it was like to see it. No, she couldn’t imagine it. But she kept looking all the same. In his drawers. Under the bed. Then in his wardrobe. There. A white box, larger than a shoebox, heavy as she eased it to the floor. Shocked when she opened it, but it soon became clear and she exhaled heavily, a mixture of relief and excitement. This was James’s private collection, no doubt about that. But this was pictures of real people, of James himself. This was real life, photographed, not some fantasy world. Karen sat on the floor in her white knickers, breathed deeply, her heart pounding, and prepared herself for the thrill of it, the excitement of what she was about to do and see. She couldn’t resist. The risk that he might return — what would he do? Punish her? It was all part of it. She was going to take her time. She wanted to see all of it.
There were pictures, prints. Lots of women and girls, on James’s bed, nude, in their underwear. Tied up. That’s a thought. Kneeling, mouth open. Taken from above. She knew that pose. He liked that. Liked making her wait like that, teasing her with his cock, showing it to her, right in her face, coming close to her lips, but not letting her lick, not letting her suck as she longed to, till he was good and ready. The pictures backed up his boasts, there were all kinds of women in there. These were just the ones he had photographed — how many more were there? Karen herself had never been photographed, and she had been here countless times. There were pictures with James in them. Usually his cock. In a woman’s mouth. Penetrating white pussy as his conquest lay back on the bed, legs spread joyfully.
There were a couple of toys. Handcuffs. Then a metal chain, which she pulled, and out came a full leash and handle with a metal-studded leather dog collar. A little shiver when she saw that. He had never shown it to her, never suggested it. Hands trembling, she raised the collar, tried it on around her neck, felt the cold metal studs on her hot skin, and felt light-headed. Oh, she wanted that. How could she let him know? She sat and savored the thought for a while.
She had almost reached the bottom of the box. There were some DVDs, plain, homemade. Another time maybe. If only she could ask him, and watch them with him. Real video, she had no doubt of that. James with other women. Watching porn together had perked up her sex life with Richard a little after her discovery and his pathetic blubbed confessions. Things had developed a little. It started with straight 70s stuff, then when she asked for something ‘different’, out came the ones with the black men and white women. She had loved those as much as her husband did. It showed in the sex. They gradually started talking more, and she made no secret of it, her enjoyment of those. He always let her choose which ones to watch, and she always chose her favorite black ‘actors’, envying the women, those sluts.
Right at the bottom, a plain black album. His prize possession? It felt like it somehow. She carefully opened it. On the first page, a wedding photo. A young white couple, the husband handsome if a little short. The beaming bride in her twenties, the picture looked to be about fifteen years old judging from her shoulder length wavy hairstyle. Then on the facing page, a woman on her knees, James’s cock in her mouth, looking up at him, wide-eyed, as he took the picture. The same woman. Older now, around forty maybe. Her wedding and engagement rings clearly visible against the black veined skin of his cock as she gently held it. The next page had pictures of her spread out on his bed, the way he liked his women to wait for him, and then one of him fucking her, her face flushed pink.
Karen’s heart walloped against her breast as she turned the pages. Who was this woman? Was this album all about her? But then on the next page, another wedding photo. A different couple. Bouffant hair, cheap and chintzy dress, this must have been taken in the eighties, and the couple had a working class look about them. Then opposite, as before, the white wife servicing James, wedding ring and all. So this was his private collection. His hobby in an album. Karen herself hadn’t even made it into his married white sluts album. The pages went on in the same format, wedding photo of the happy couple, then the slut conquered by James on the following page or pages. Couple after couple. She counted seventeen in all. There were a few gimmicky, kinky shots, where James had had a little fun. One was of him fucking a woman in front of pictures of her wedding and her children, obviously in her home. There was one woman fucked in her wedding dress by James, not long after the wedding judging by the comparison with the real wedding shot — she still looked young. There were a couple of real nasty, hot ones. Those were the ones that Karen kept flicking back to. One, a white woman with her legs spread. On the page facing, as usual, were the woman on her wedding day and her hapless husband. She appeared to have a small tattoo just next to her cunt, which Karen could just about make out — did that say ‘James’s Bitch’? Karen started to touch herself when she saw that. Then another, a wife wearing the dog collar she had found in the box, kneeling at James’s feet, with her Master holding the leash.
Karen was breathing hard as she closed the book. Something stuck in her memory, more than all the shocking and thrilling images she had seen. A woman’s face, familiar somehow. She flicked back through the collection of wives. There she was, the one Karen remembered, close to the end of the book. Dark curly hair, slim, Jewish-looking. The usual slut poses. Jewish wedding photograph. Karen racked her memory as she put the box away and lay back on the bed. She tried to empty her mind and let it come to her. Her fingers drifted into her panties again. Then it came. Rachel. A member of her husband’s tennis club. On the board of directors at the kids’ school. A lawyer or something? A magistrate. A slut.
She had been in James’s flat alone for two hours when her phone rang. It was him.
“You still there?”
“Yes James. I’m sorry, do you want me to leave?”
“No. Stay. I want a bitch on my bed when I get back. So wait there, assume the position …” he laughed, “don’t know when I’ll be back though.”
“Of course James. But I have to leave at three to collect the kids.”
“OK. I’ll get someone else round if I’m not back then.”
Then he hung up. Something stung her in his last words, but somehow thrilled her a little as well. She was just a piece of cunt to him, interchangeable and replaceable. She was just one of over a dozen married white women that he had fucked and used, in some cases even branded as his property. She had to look in the album again. She wanted what they had, these sluts. She had part of it, but not all of it. How could she show him?
After a quick shower, and one last lingering browse through James’s collection of married women and cuckolded white men, Karen lay back on the bed again. She peeled her knickers down and spread her legs. Then she waited. It was almost one. She knew she might be waiting here like his whore for two hours and not get fucked at the end of it. But she liked it, she wanted to go further, submit her body to him for his use, whether he took advantage or not. The clock ticked away, the occasional breeze drifting across her naked white body. As it got closer to three, she started to feel regret. She wondered who he would call to take her place. Finally, reluctantly, having left it as late as she possibly could, she dressed and closed the door behind her. Out in the street, in a hurry just as she had been in the morning, she hardly noticed the people she passed. She had already dashed past a blur of a woman, slim, black curly hair, a few grey streaks. Then she turned. Was it Rachel? She strained to see the woman’s face and catch her direction. She couldn’t quite see. The woman turned left towards James’s flat. Karen wanted to follow, but had to get the children, so she marched off again in the opposite direction, more flustered than ever.
Karen’s fingers were shaking as she held the photograph, checking for the third time that she had brought it as she waited for James to answer the door. She could have made a copy, but she had ripped it straight out of the wedding album. It felt like more of an offering that way, a sacrifice, and token of obeisance. Richard would not notice it was gone, not for a long time. Perhaps his mother would be the first to notice, she always liked to look through the albums when she came.
She looked down at the photo, the happy couple. Richard beaming proudly, Karen slim, white, innocent. No hint of what the future held for this marriage, for this couple. The thought excited her somehow. The beautiful contrast between the innocence of the picture and the wicked destiny she was leading it to, the sordid design which had held the tingle in her panties ever since she had taken it from the album and secreted it away in her handbag while she waited for the summons from James. It had only been four days as it turned out, but those days had been torture more than ever before, now that she had seen a glimpse of James’s world. Who was he with? How far was he going with his hobby this time?
Karen felt her knees weaken and hurriedly pushed the picture into her bag as James opened the door. He moved aside to let her enter, then slammed the door. He said nothing. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She knew what that command meant, and sank to her knees, shuddering.
“James, I … ”
He placed two black fingers over her mouth, the inside skin white and hard against her lips.
“Don’t talk, bitch. Later.”
His hand moved to his fly. She knew what he wanted. He seemed impatient, he had a need to be fulfilled and as always Karen was thrilled to think it was her that he wanted to please him. The sharp crackle of the zip as it lowered rang loud in her ears. Time seemed to stand still. Now she was the impatient one. Her breasts moved under her heavy breath as she waited, kneeling, her tongue sliding about involuntarily inside her mouth, salivating at what she was about to receive. The heavy, heaving bulge on the black lycra. Dormant power. Her eyes were fixed on the thing, her mind empty of everything, giving itself to worship this thing. Her body, knees digging into the carpet, her full, sagging breasts, her stretch-marked belly, her moistening cunt, all of it had but one purpose which was to serve this thing, to worship it and give it pleasure. This cock. How much of every day did she spend thinking and dreaming about it? What a slut, what an air-headed bimbo she had become, thinking only of this black man’s cock all day. But it felt so right, so natural. When she let her mind wander, this was where it wandered to. Why resist nature?
He reached into the lycra shorts and took the thing out, letting it swing down heavily in front of her face.
“Oh God,” she gasped involuntarily at the sight of the beautiful black organ. Her heart thumped, she was breathing heavily as she opened her mouth and let her tongue extend to lick it.
The hot touch of the cock against her tongue was just as magical as the first time. She licked, lovingly, with the tip of her tongue, all along the immense length of it, worshipping with all the restraint she could muster. She knew he liked it slow like that. She licked down the growing shaft to his huge black balls, and applied her tongue lower down, all around his crinkled dark globes of pure manhood. His first groan of approval sent shivers all over her kneeling body. How she loved to please him!
The mighty cock was stiffening now, growing in length and girth to what Karen knew to be a quite awesome full size. Sometimes she found herself laughing out loud when she thought of the comparison with her husband’s floppy little thing. Karen knew what James liked. She continued to lick along the shaft and under the bulbous round head, tickling it with her tongue, until the moment that James gave the unspoken command to suck.
After several minutes of devoted tongue-ing from her kneeling position, the command came. He grabbed the hair on the back of her head into his fist, almost forcing her mouth wide open. Obediently she opened wide, took the black cock head into her mouth and sucked, eyes up on James as if for approval, she knew he liked that too. The head was quite a mouthful, not much smaller than a tennis ball, and she sucked it gently while stroking her tongue along the taught groove underneath. My oh my. Now she was groaning with pleasure too. Her cheeks tightened with each sucking motion, but the cock filled her mouth so much there was little movement, just the tightening of the little muscles in her cheeks. Slowly she worked down, extending as much as she could of the huge thing down into her throat.
She had practiced at home for him, wanting to do better for him, give him the pleasure he deserved. She had bought a huge black toy (her husband had seen it and made no comment), which of course had multiple uses, and practiced until she was now quite accomplished at taking such a large thing into her throat. She could see that it was pleasing James as she took it almost all the way, up and down. Like a real whore. His married white whore. Karen knew she had competition and wanted to get the edge however she could.
She felt the cock penetrate her throat, avoiding the gagging that would spoil his pleasure. It was so deep that she felt the wiry, black pubic hairs brush against her nose, inhaling their musky, manly smell. Her pretty face, the face in the wedding picture, just an orifice, just a cunt for his cock to fuck now. Her whole head and neck like an elaborate white cunt for him. He felt it and made some slow thrusts, fucking her mouth and throat. She made a muffled groan of approval, and he grabbed her hair again and thrust harder. When Richard had tried to thrust into her mouth, early in their marriage, she had reacted with fury, throwing him off and rejecting him for days. With James it was so different. She wanted him to fuck her head like this, to do whatever he wanted with her body, she just wanted to satisfy his cock.
Her face was red, there were tears in her eyes as the intense fucking and sucking went on, Karen on her knees in the hallway, James standing imperious over her, using her face as his fuck-toy. She lost her sense of time, caught up in the physical sensation of having her mouth and throat filled with cock as never before, being fucked and used so beautifully, so selfishly. Her make up that she had spent so long applying, wanting to look pretty for James in her middle age, all a mess now of cock juice and sweat and tears. It was not just physical, it was overwhelming emotionally for her. Never had she felt so subservient, such as sense of worship and gift of herself to another. Her Master.
His grunting and thrusting was getting wilder, he arched his strong back and it was all she could do to keep her mouth on the thing, keep sucking when she could and stay on her knees. He grabbed her head with some violence now and held it down on his cock, deep in her throat. She braced herself and felt the hot jet in her throat, opening further, determined to take it all. She felt it pump through his cock, ten, twelve pumps, then slow, the cock mercifully relenting and softening in her mouth. A lot of cum had gone straight down her throat, now the fat cock head lay on her tongue, still oozing white essence. She savored it in her mouth, licking the head again, then gazed up at James as she swallowed.
He grinned. “Good girl,” he said, the closest to praise she had had in a long time.
She was still fully dressed, on her knees, face-fucked and used, full of his cum. Deliriously happy. She had never swallowed for Richard, in fact the very thought disgusted her. But for James it seemed a beautiful thing, an act of worship and devotion. Signifying something. A special bond, stronger than her marriage bond. Ownership.
He lifted her by her hair, a cruel contempt in his eyes, so aware and sure of his power over her. He zipped up.
“Thank you James,” she said, wiping her mouth and dabbing at her mascara.
“OK. Now get out of here, bitch, I got things to do today.”
“Wait … please, James. I have something for you. Something special,” she pleaded as he ushered her out the door.
She took the wedding photograph from her bag and put it in his hand. He looked down at it, grinned with cocksure recognition, then slammed the door in her face.
Karen felt her phone vibrate as she stood chatting to the other mothers waiting to collect their children. That name, she felt her heart thump when she saw it. James. Excusing herself from the conversation, she collected herself as best she could and answered.
“James! I’m so happy you’re calling me …”
“So you been pokin’ round my house bitch?”
“I … yes … James I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I was so excited. I wanted to know you better. To be better for you. Give you what you need. James you know … I’ll do anything for you James. Anything.”
“Get over here tonight. Nine. Your husband will understand.” Then he hung up.
It was the first time she had been to James’s place in the hours of darkness since that first time she had given herself to him, and walking the dark street on the approach called it back into her mind, walking that night, shaking with nerves, compelled by her own desire and frustration to go home with this man she had only met a couple of hours before. Walking away from the pub with a black man, feeling the eyes on her, a white woman walking away from her husband, the flush of alcohol taking her inhibition away, the black man’s hand on the seat of her jeans as they stepped through the door. The black man her husband had met online, cultivated and now introduced to her, how strange and twisted, yet how exciting and irresistible at the same time. A very modern way of meeting to be sure, but the mixture of fear and exhilaration, pride and shame that she felt when she looked up at this dark man, or looked at her white hand in his black hand, was distinctly un-modern. Ancient, primal some how. More powerful than modern morality or political correctness. A feeling, a magnetism, something natural that was sweeping all before it.
That feeling had only grown in power from that first night until now, as Karen obeyed his summons and walked in her evening high heels up to those same steps, those same emotions … fear at what he might do to her, excitement at not knowing, the thrill of being in his power … they were all still there, magnified tenfold.
Trembling fingers as she knocked. The usual wait in the dark hall. The door swept open. James, she could barely meet his eyes, beckoning her inside. A camera on a tripod in middle of the living room. He looked down at her shoes.
“Take your clothes off. Leave the shoes on.”
He left the room and she disrobed as quickly as she could so that when he returned she stood, naked and exposed, in only her high heels, like a piece of merchandise available for his use. When James returned she shivered as she glanced at his hand. He was carrying the dog collar and chain, and what looked like a riding crop.
“So you want to be my bitch Karen? Not just a fuck-toy, a real bitch, like those whores you saw when you poked around here? You think you’re up to that?”
“Yes … oh yes James. Anything … please let me … be your … bitch.”
It felt strange saying that word out loud. Strange but thrilling.
“A bitch needs training. You ready to be trained?”
“Yes James. Please train me to be your bitch.”
“First of all I gotta punish you. Don’t ever snoop around my place like that again.”
“S…Sorry James. I won’t, I swear.”
“Bend over, bitch.”
She bent over and touched her toes, exposing her ample, fleshy middle-aged bottom to him. She had bent for him before, but this time was different. Before she had felt the intoxicating anticipation of feeling the huge tip of his cock touch her pussy lips from behind. Now she waited for something else, something painful, something she had never experienced before. If anything the fear she felt brewed up an even greater excitement, as though something life-changing was about to happen to her. She was wet between her legs, and a bead of sweat dripped from her forehead, flushed from her upside-down posture. The seconds ticked by. James knew the power of making a woman wait. She knew something about what was coming, but didn’t quite know what or when.
For a split second she heard the swish of the crop through the air, then felt a ringing, stinging pain as the first blow struck her. She couldn’t remember a sharper feeling of pain, different from the agonizing ache of childbirth. She cried out, agony and ecstasy.
“You like that, bitch?”
“Y… Yes James. Thank you.”
Another whiplash, without warning. Tears in her eyes now. Then another, and another in quick succession. She had never been physically punished before. Through the pain and tears she could feel a kind of liberation, a glorious submission that took her outside of her humdrum self. One more savage blow, he was merciless now, enjoying his mastery and power. Then the hardest blow, and he appeared to stop.
Karen was holding back the tears and the stinging radiated from her behind now as he left her there, bent, naked, exposed, punished, humiliated. She felt a drop roll down the back of her thigh, the part she could never quite shed the cellulite from … was it sweat? Blood?
“On your knees now, bitch. Kneel.”
She sank to her knees and looked up at him, mascara running down her cheeks.
“Anything to say to me before we start your training?”
“Th … Thank you James.”
He smiled, then dropped the crop. He retrieved the dog collar from his belt.
“You gonna take the collar now bitch. Bow your head for the collar.”
She did as he commanded and lowered her head, exposing the back of her neck to him. Her whole body tingled with pleasure as she felt the cold metal of the studs on her neck, James’s black fingers wrapping the leather around and fastening it. It felt mesmeric to feel it around her, on her knees for her Master, accepting the collar as a symbol of her status and role, her glorious submission, more than just a physical restraint that would facilitate his use of her.
She looked up at him, confused … she was already on her knees.
“Right down. Kiss my feet.”
She obeyed and stooped at his feet, feeling the tug of the leash on her neck as she did so. Her cold, trembling lips touched his black shoes and she puckered and kissed.
She extended her tongue and without a thought began this ultimate submission and abasement, licking at his shoes. She felt the reverence, the worship, the primal exchange, and wallowed in it as she licked. All her love for her Master was playing out in her lapping, her leashed body giving utterly to him, so deserving of this.
Karen was sore as she crept back into her own bed. Richard was asleep, or at least pretending to be. She looked at the clock … 04:38. Her training, a thrilling adventure, flashed through her mind. Being led around like a dog on all fours, leashed and collared. The perverted photos James had taken for his album. James standing, holding the leash, Karen on her knees at his feet, eyes on the camera. Another, with his huge flaccid cock draped over her shoulder … a display of ownership, the cock owned her. Perhaps he would use that one opposite the pretty wedding picture she had given him.
Then finally, the reward, he had given his bitch what she came for, his cock … he had never fucked her so hard. She had never been drilled and pounded like that, so intensely, for so long, losing all sensation and thought til she felt that being fucked was all that existed. Then when he flipped her around, a new experience, something she had never felt before as he forced the huge cock head into her smaller, drum-tight hole. Pain, mixed with pleasure, just like the whipping she had taken, the cheeks still raw and sore from that as he pushed further into her. She wanted to accommodate him and finally she did as he thrust gloriously in and she felt his pubes touch her scars. His muscular thighs slapped against her as he buggered her mercilessly. Then hot cum inside there, another new sensation.
Now she ached with pleasure, felt the soreness in her cunt and behind, kept in her panties as she lay back in her own bed, too excited to sleep, thinking of her new life as James’s bitch, used and happy. How far she had come. She felt pride as she delicately traced her fingers along her scars as she lay in bed, there on her now, for her husband to see the next day perhaps, as she climbed out of the shower, a sign to show him how utterly she was owned by another, a kind of branding. The mark of her Master.