My Black Secretary Owns Me

My Black Secretary Owns Me  

By Aramis

I am not a gambling man, but I was so sure of it. I was so sure that my Chicago Bears were going to beat the Raiders in that Super Bowl that I began to brag about it at work.
My executive assistant, Deniece, is a lovely, 30ish, African American woman from Oakland, and it turned out that she is a major Raiders fan. Her family even has season tickets. We are not in Oakland or Chicago, but we carried our football loyalties to our current homes.
So the Friday before the big game, I said something like, "I just know the Bears are going to cream those sorry Raiders, who have no running game." And Deniece looked at me from her desk, and said, 'Oh yes? Would you care to bet on that?"
"I'll bet you a dollar-an-hour raise if Oakland beats the Bears," I said, thinking I was generous.
She shook her beautiful head and smiled. "No, i don't want your money. I want your freedom. If the Raiders win, I want you to be my total slave for the next month, outside of work."
"I won't do anything illegal," I said, taking the bet because I knew she would not win.
"You will do as you're told, but you won't have to worry about that. If you do, my brother in law is a cop. And if the Bears win, then I'll be your slave for a month, too; same conditions."
"YOu've got a deal," I said.
She pulled out a tape recorder from under her desk that had been running. "And I've got a witness," she said.

The Bears lost, 32-14. How humiliating.
Immediately after the game ended, the phone rang. "Hey, boy, this is your new owner Deniece. Be ready to serve me right after work tomorrow. YOu will not be going home after work, you'll be coming home with me, just so you know. Man, am I going to have fun bossing around my boss!"
Then she hung up. What had I gotten myself into? Deniece was nice, considerate, an excellent worker, with high standards, and as I said, was very attractive, single with no kids. The next day I went to work and tried to pretend nothing had happened. But she did nothing of the sort, and told some people about our bet and that I had lost! I thought that was in poor taste, but she won the bet and I couldn't really say anything.
As soon as the clock hit 5:00 P.M., the office emptied out, leaving me and her. "Take my briefcase and my bag and follow me to my car," she ordered. "You will walk behind me like the servant you now are!"

The drive to her home was not long but she gave me instructions. She was all business.
“You are to call me Master, and I will call you whatever I damn well please. I do like the sound of the word, ‘slave,’ though. I will thoroughly enjoy having a white man doing my bidding!! After all my race has been through at your honky hands, and your male hands, it will be sweet cream indeed to extract some payback!”
She looked over at me and smiled and her teeth fairly gleamed at the prospect of humbling me in ways I could not imagine.
“You are not to speak unless spoken to, or given permission. All women are your superiors, and if my sister comes over, or one of my neighbors, you do what they say, because that’s what I say. Any disobedience on your part, any hesitation to do what I command, any laziness or even the hint of an attitude problem, will be met with punishment. Am I clear? You will obey everything I tell you without complaining, or I will get out the whip I used to use on my old boyfriend and beat you even after you’re crying for mercy. Actually, I hope you DO cry for mercy, because that just gets me hot and aroused, and I’ll beat you some more while I cum!”
I said nothing.
When we pulled into the driveway it was around 5:20 p.m. and the sun was setting. She led me on the walkway to the front door, and then stopped. I stopped.
“Get down on your knees,” she ordered. Even though it was in public, I did so. Her curvaceous rear end was in front of my face. I had a feeling what was coming next.
“My neighbors are just coming home. I want them to see I have a new boy toy in my possession. Kiss my black ass, and don’t stop until I tell you!”
I leaned forward and began to kiss her butt, one check and then the other, and again and again. I heard her chuckle with satisfaction. I heard a car door slam nearby.
“Deniece, what’s this I see?” I heard a female voice call out.
“This is my boss, finding out who the real boss is! He bet me the Bears would beat the Raiders and he has to be my slave for the next month. Ain’t it grand seeing a honky kiss ass?”
“When can I get some?”
“I’ll let you know if he’s worth sharing,” she replied. “I wanna make sure he’s a good slave before I let anyone else use him. I don’t know how good he’s gonna be yet.”

She eventually ordered me to stop and on my knees I followed her into her house. The neighbor, another black lady, gazed in amused amazement. “I want you to kiss my ass, too,” she said to me as I entered the house.

Deniece put her things away, fixed herself a drink, and then in the living room sat down in a recliner, bringing her feet up. I was still on my knees.
“Slave, get in here! Now, what do you think I want you to do?”
I looked at her feet. “Take off your shoes?”
“I want you to beg me for the honor of kissing my shoes and licking them clean, first,” she said. “Beg me!”
“Please, Master, please let me have the privilege of kissing your beautiful shoes. Let me kiss them and let me lick them clean, because they are dusty and the things that house your feet should be treated royally. Please, Master, I don’t deserve it, but please show me mercy and let me kiss your shoes and lick them clean!”
“Not too bad for a first try,” she mused. “I suppose it will do for now, but later I want to see some tears when you beg. All right, honky, get busy and kiss my shoes!”
She cackled with delight as I covered her black pumps with fervent kisses. I kissed the vamp, the sole, the heel, all over, and then did the other shoe. She started telling me how good it felt for her to have a white man humble himself at her feet like this, and how she was going to love having this done for the next month. Then her tone changed, as I finished a round of kissing, and she said, “Lick, boy!”

I licked where before I had kissed. “I like your enthusiasm,” she said. “You seem to like licking my shoes. I wondered how you’d react to this. Maybe we can make this last longer than a month, hmmm?”
I didn’t say anything, I just licked with a passion. She had nice shoes, and I didn’t notice until now that she had not worn any hose or stockings; the shoes were on her bare feet. “Lickin’ the sole of my shoe, my my, finally the white man learns his place in the world,” she said with a regal sigh. Suddenly she flexed her feet without my expecting it, and her shoes were sloughed off. Her black bare feet were before me as I knelt before her.
She smiled again, as I looked at her with some trepidation. “Behold your gods!” she said. “You were born to be beneath my black bare feet, slave boy, and now you get your first chance to worship my feet! Kiss them. And thank me.”
I leaned forward again and inhaled the musky aroma of shoes freshly liberated from leather pumps. Her skin was dark, and smooth, and demanding of homage. “Thank you,” I said quietly as I began kissing her bare feet.
I kissed like a lover kisses the face of his beloved. I kissed reverently, lovingly, slavishly, but not slobberingly. I found myself saying, “Thank you,” more than once, breaking the not-spoken-to rule, but she didn’t mind.
I found out why. She had fallen asleep!
Should I or shouldn’t I? Now was my chance to escape. But she had the tape recording, and I didn’t want to leave. I was falling in love with Deniece in all her sexy dominance. Should I or shouldn’t I . . . lick her feet? She hadn’t told me to do that yet. I had to finish the shoe kissing before I started the shoe licking. Would it be the same for foot kissing and foot licking? She might applaud my adoration if she woke up and saw I’d gone to the next level of worship.
So I began to press my tongue against her arch. Against her heel. On her full sole. And then she woke up. Angry.
“Slave!! I did NOT give you permission to lick my feet yet! Now I’ll have to turn your white ass red.” She got up, got her shoes back on, and stormed out of the room. When she came back in, she had that whip she was talking about, and she was not smiling.

"Kidnapped in Africa"

"Kidnapped in Africa"

By Aramis

Do you remember the news about women in Nigeria holding hostages in an oil refinery as a way of getting their labor demands met? It got little press, but in the earlier siege, it said that the hostages included Americans. I was one, and when the siege ended with a labor agreement, I was missing. Because I had been spirited away, into slavery.

The day began with tension; we'd heard there might be trouble. Then before long, the doors crashed open and a whole bunch of native women paraded in, armed and angry. We stopped what we were doing, and were lined up, as the leaders in control walked up and down before us with fury and pride. They quickly let us know they were in control of the facility and we'd better do as they commanded. At some level, I guess, negotiations began, but that was way beyond our involvement. We, we had to be involved with our black African female captors. Some of them were very lovely. But they hated us, especially the white ones like me.

After a while, while we were still lined up, one of the leaders came before us and said, "Who here is American?" I and others raised our hands.

"You are not fit to stand in our presence, you pigs," she said. "You kneel!" Right away I knelt. I saw Reggie down the line hesitate, and he was immediately slashed with a whip and he fell onto his face. "Take him away!" the leader ordered, and Reggie was tied up and carried out of our sight.

We Americans were on our knees for some time. Eventually the other men were herded off to some place the women could control, leaving us behind. Then the women came up before us, about three women to each of us, standing dominantly in front of us as we knelt.

"We have a treat for you American pig-dogs," the leader said. "You long ago took our people away to be your slaves. Now we will return the favor and you will become our slaves! Even when negotiations end and this place goes back to normal, you will be our slaves, deep in the jungle and villages. Your freedom days are over and you belong to us. Disobey an order and you will be severely punished. Now is the time for justice; now is the time for white boys to be slaves to black women. Whities!! On your bellies and kiss the feet of the women in front of you! NOW!"

Before me stood three African women; all of them in their thirties by my guess, and all of them in sandals. Except now, at her words, they all shook their sandals off and their commanding feet were bare. I did not want to repeat Reggie's fate, whatever it was, and fell to my stomach at their feet.

"Kiss our feet, imperialist dog, and if we are not pleased with your efforts we'll castrate you!" one said to me. I immediately began to kiss the 6 feet; three kisses on each foot, then moving on to the next one, and then on to the next, etcetera.

"He seems to enjoy this," said one. "Do you like this, slave? Do you enjoy being our foot slave, whitey?"

"Yes, I do," I said. "It is an honor and only right that I should do this. I deserve nothing less; my race deserves nothing less. We should be your slaves."

"Look at this," said another. "Your white lips worshipping our black feet, your inferior white mouth adoring the very bottom of our superior black bodies. Tell us you want to be our footslave forever."

I wanted to get in good with them, and hoped for freedom after negotiations regardless of what the leader had said. "I want to be your footslave forever. This is my true place in life. Please let me be your slave."

They laughed. "Honky knows his place," said one. Another called to the leader as I continued to kiss, "We got a live one here, Marcella."

One of the trio suddenly got behind me and stood on my back! A second one put her bare foot on top of my head and pressed down while I kissed the other woman's feet. "Kiss, white man, kiss! Remember, you have to please us!" The woman on my back began walking around on me; then she stopped and I felt the lash of a whip on my butt.

"Don't stop,slave! Keep kissing. In fact, start licking my feet clean, white man!" ordered my owner before whom I groveled. So now I had one foot on my head pressing me down, one woman on my back whipping me, and one pair of black feet standing before me, expecting my white slave tongue to clean the dust and dirt off of them, and from in between the toes, and later, from the soles.

Marcella the leader had come over now, and suddenly there were flashes. She was taking pictures of me! "Now he can never go home," she said with triumph.

After some lashes, the pain got to me and I cried out. "Mercy, mercy," I asked. They laughed. "Mercy? When did your ancestors show mercy to our ancestors? You're a slave. Take it and like it. We like it!"

The three women took turns having me clean their bare feet, pressing me in place, and beating me. Then my hands were tied behind my back, and my ankles tied together, so I was on my stomach, going nowhere unless I crawled prostrate. The three women sat down next to each other, and facing me, and then they all extended their legs towards me. So their dirty soles were right before my slave face. Huge grins were on their pretty, regal, black faces. "Lick our soles clean, foot boy," one demanded. I began to do so, struggling a bit to reach them.

"You will be doing this for the rest of your life," Marcella said. She had come out of nowhere to watch the proceedings a few feet away, with an approving smile on her lips. "White slave to black women; the way it was intended to be! You will be coming back with us to our village when we leave here, and you will be our footlicking white boy and whipping boy and slave for ever. Say 'thank you.'"

"Thank you."

I continued my worship of their dusty black soles. I looked at their radiant faces, and I knew I was in heaven.