Aramis
09-01-2003, 7:39 PM
The month of servitude that was based on the Super Bowl bet came to an end. I spent many nights coming to her home after work with her, dropping to my knees, and kissing and adoring her black bare feet as they rested, ankle crossed over ankle, on the coffee table or the recliner. I was made to kiss and worship her bare black rear end. I was trained in the arts of oral gratification of the superior woman. My jaw was much stronger at the end of the month than it was at the start!
There was also a party she had hosted. The African American neighbor who told me she wanted me to “kiss her ass, too,” came, and she got what she desired. When the guests arrived at my Mistress’ house for the party, I met them at the door, went to my knees, kissed their shoes or boots, and asked to kiss their behinds. Each woman said yes.
For entertainment, after all the ladies had had several drinks, I was called into the living room where they all sat on chairs, sofas, and the recliner. I was then quizzed on black American history. Who headed the Porters’ Union on Pullman trains? I didn’t know it was A. Philip Randolph. Deniece my Owner lashed me with the whip and made me go around on my knees to each of the guests, beg her forgiveness, and kiss her feet. At this point most of them kicked off their boots or shoes and socks, so it was bare black feet I was kissing. Then, another history question. And another. Each time I did not know the answer, I got a lash, and had to go around and beg and kiss feet.
“What a stupid honky he is,” one guest said. “He ain’t good for nothin’ but kissing feet anyhow.”
“And big, black ass,” chuckled another, a sort-of heavy-set guest who remembered my doorway greeting. “I like a white man who knows how to kiss black cheek!”
The group all hummed in unison. “How about the next question he misses, he licks our ass instead of just kissin’ our feet?” the neighbor asked Deniece.
“Whatever you want,” she said. “He deserves the humiliation. Make him do both.”
When I didn’t know that John Lewis was the sole surviving member of the organizers of the 1963 March on Washington, that was it. I got two lashes with the bullwhip, to the cheers of the lusty ladies, and then went from woman to woman, kneeling, and said, “Ma’am, may I have the honor of kissing and licking your royal behind?”
And she said, “You mean, you want to kiss and lick my black ass, white boy?”
And I said, “Yes, please, ma’am.”
Then she said, “Lick my feet 10 times each, and then, kiss my ass 10 times on each cheek, and then lick it all over like the white boy slave you are!”
And so it was, and so I did.
But the month was coming to an end. On the last night, as I licked my Owner’s feet while she reclined with a martini and a magazine, she said, “I know you swore to be my slave forever, when we both began. But that was in the heat of passion for both of us. It would be unfair and wrong and impossible for me to hold you to that pledge, much as I’d like to. But now, little man, tonight’s the last night of our month. I have learned a lot in this time. I’ve learned how much I love having a whitey for a slave. I’ve learned how much more I believe that this is how it is supposed to be, and what reparations should look like. I’ve learned how damn RIGHT it feels to have you worship my feet and tongue-shine my shoes and massage my feet and kiss my ass and cook my meals and be the carpet beneath me when I want to trample you. I’ve loved having you to show off at my party and be the envy of all my girlfriends. I’ve even gotten offers for you, to sell you. But, no. This is it, little man.”
She withdrew her feet, and paused.
I looked up at her.
“Unless . . . “ she said.
“Unless what?” I asked, technically breaking the rules about speaking without being spoken to.
“Unless you want to truly be my property for good,” she finished. “I have legal papers, drawn up by my cousin Charlene, which, if you sign them, will technically make you my personal servant, and bound to me for as long as I like. You would have almost no rights, no personal possessions, and basically do whatever I tell you for as long as I want. Sign them, and you’ll be mine forever -- or for as long as you do what you’re told and tolerate my abuse!”
“Then my secretary would be my Boss forever,” I mused. “I would get to continue licking and cooking and kissing and . . . “
“And being humiliated in front of my friends, and who knows what public humiliations I might have for you? Sign this, and there’s no going back. You’d have no way to take this to court and if you did, I’ll just show all the pictures and play the tapes that will ruin you!”
She extended her sexy feet in front of my hungry face again and rubbed her feet together. “Now then, boy, what will it be? I know what I want. What do you want? What will YOUR destiny in life be?”
I swallowed as I stared at her royal feet. “I’ll sign,” I said quietly. “Please, let me sign. Make me your white slaveboy forever.”
She laughed a joyful, playful, victorious laugh. She presented the papers. We both signed them. A friend was a notary public who was crooked and had already signed them. Then she stashed them away in a place I could not see, and she returned with another martini. She ordered me onto my back, and she stepped onto my chest.
“I own you now, whitey,” she said. “This past month has been a piece of cake. Now the real fun begins!” She raised a bare foot and hung it over my lips. “Lick my feet, boy, and make it good. I want to feel your passion. Now, and every night. Lick!”
And so I did. I heard her laughter above me. My black secretary owned me. I was afraid of the future. And I was thrilled. But for now, I had to focus on worshipping the bare sole of the dark skinned beauty who pulled my chain, who stood on my body in dominant victory, who made me crawl and grovel and made me long for more.
THE END
There was also a party she had hosted. The African American neighbor who told me she wanted me to “kiss her ass, too,” came, and she got what she desired. When the guests arrived at my Mistress’ house for the party, I met them at the door, went to my knees, kissed their shoes or boots, and asked to kiss their behinds. Each woman said yes.
For entertainment, after all the ladies had had several drinks, I was called into the living room where they all sat on chairs, sofas, and the recliner. I was then quizzed on black American history. Who headed the Porters’ Union on Pullman trains? I didn’t know it was A. Philip Randolph. Deniece my Owner lashed me with the whip and made me go around on my knees to each of the guests, beg her forgiveness, and kiss her feet. At this point most of them kicked off their boots or shoes and socks, so it was bare black feet I was kissing. Then, another history question. And another. Each time I did not know the answer, I got a lash, and had to go around and beg and kiss feet.
“What a stupid honky he is,” one guest said. “He ain’t good for nothin’ but kissing feet anyhow.”
“And big, black ass,” chuckled another, a sort-of heavy-set guest who remembered my doorway greeting. “I like a white man who knows how to kiss black cheek!”
The group all hummed in unison. “How about the next question he misses, he licks our ass instead of just kissin’ our feet?” the neighbor asked Deniece.
“Whatever you want,” she said. “He deserves the humiliation. Make him do both.”
When I didn’t know that John Lewis was the sole surviving member of the organizers of the 1963 March on Washington, that was it. I got two lashes with the bullwhip, to the cheers of the lusty ladies, and then went from woman to woman, kneeling, and said, “Ma’am, may I have the honor of kissing and licking your royal behind?”
And she said, “You mean, you want to kiss and lick my black ass, white boy?”
And I said, “Yes, please, ma’am.”
Then she said, “Lick my feet 10 times each, and then, kiss my ass 10 times on each cheek, and then lick it all over like the white boy slave you are!”
And so it was, and so I did.
But the month was coming to an end. On the last night, as I licked my Owner’s feet while she reclined with a martini and a magazine, she said, “I know you swore to be my slave forever, when we both began. But that was in the heat of passion for both of us. It would be unfair and wrong and impossible for me to hold you to that pledge, much as I’d like to. But now, little man, tonight’s the last night of our month. I have learned a lot in this time. I’ve learned how much I love having a whitey for a slave. I’ve learned how much more I believe that this is how it is supposed to be, and what reparations should look like. I’ve learned how damn RIGHT it feels to have you worship my feet and tongue-shine my shoes and massage my feet and kiss my ass and cook my meals and be the carpet beneath me when I want to trample you. I’ve loved having you to show off at my party and be the envy of all my girlfriends. I’ve even gotten offers for you, to sell you. But, no. This is it, little man.”
She withdrew her feet, and paused.
I looked up at her.
“Unless . . . “ she said.
“Unless what?” I asked, technically breaking the rules about speaking without being spoken to.
“Unless you want to truly be my property for good,” she finished. “I have legal papers, drawn up by my cousin Charlene, which, if you sign them, will technically make you my personal servant, and bound to me for as long as I like. You would have almost no rights, no personal possessions, and basically do whatever I tell you for as long as I want. Sign them, and you’ll be mine forever -- or for as long as you do what you’re told and tolerate my abuse!”
“Then my secretary would be my Boss forever,” I mused. “I would get to continue licking and cooking and kissing and . . . “
“And being humiliated in front of my friends, and who knows what public humiliations I might have for you? Sign this, and there’s no going back. You’d have no way to take this to court and if you did, I’ll just show all the pictures and play the tapes that will ruin you!”
She extended her sexy feet in front of my hungry face again and rubbed her feet together. “Now then, boy, what will it be? I know what I want. What do you want? What will YOUR destiny in life be?”
I swallowed as I stared at her royal feet. “I’ll sign,” I said quietly. “Please, let me sign. Make me your white slaveboy forever.”
She laughed a joyful, playful, victorious laugh. She presented the papers. We both signed them. A friend was a notary public who was crooked and had already signed them. Then she stashed them away in a place I could not see, and she returned with another martini. She ordered me onto my back, and she stepped onto my chest.
“I own you now, whitey,” she said. “This past month has been a piece of cake. Now the real fun begins!” She raised a bare foot and hung it over my lips. “Lick my feet, boy, and make it good. I want to feel your passion. Now, and every night. Lick!”
And so I did. I heard her laughter above me. My black secretary owned me. I was afraid of the future. And I was thrilled. But for now, I had to focus on worshipping the bare sole of the dark skinned beauty who pulled my chain, who stood on my body in dominant victory, who made me crawl and grovel and made me long for more.
THE END