“Good boy!” Dr. Adele Brownlee seemed so very pleased with me.
I was sitting naked on the floor at the feet of my mentor and advisor, a beautiful black woman, my elder by at least forty years. And I had just agreed to masturbate for her while she explained her plan for my post-doc fellowship at the Institute for the Study of Curative Equity.
“First, though,” she continued, “could you stand up?”
“Now turn around,” she directed as I complied obediently. “That’s a good boy.”
I was floating on air, euphoric in my reverent compliance. I felt her hands on my naked butt.
“Let’s have a look at your pussy,” she commented, pressing one of her hands on the small of my back to lean me forward a bit.
She gently separated my cheeks, making me all fluttery inside. The physical memory of Ken’s cock inside me, stretching me, made me want to relax my sphincter and open up.
“Such a pretty pink hole!” she said. “Did you enjoy getting it reamed?”
“Yes, it was amazing!” I said.
“Did it hurt?”
“Only at first,” I replied. “You helped, made it feel amazing,” I added.
“Let’s see how much cum he gave you. Can you push it out?” she said brightly.
I bore down. I could feel movement in my bowel as my sphincter expanded. I could feel the cool air in my hot hole. And then some cum seeped out of me, making a little bubbly farting sound.
“Good boy!” Adele scooped up the cum in her hand and, reaching around me, smeared it onto my rigid cock.
“There. That can be your lube,” she explained, as she turned me back around to face her and get back on my knees.
The touch of her hand on my cock had increased my excitement. I prepared to perform for her. And then she raised her hand – the cummy one – to my mouth.
I licked her palm and sucked her fingers clean, the scent of ass-cum filling my senses. I started to stroke. I was so aroused. If I hadn’t just cum minutes before, I’m sure I would have shot off immediately!
“Good boy, so sweet,” she said, stroking my hair to wipe her hand clean.
I watched her face as I masturbated for her. She looked radiant; the sparkle in her eyes and her proprietary smile seemed approving and encouraging.
“I met with the board of directors yesterday,” she began. “I told them about your thesis and my idea of offering you a post-doc fellowship.”
My heart quickened and my cock buzzed. There was literally nothing I wanted more. So imagine my distress at her next words.
“As I expected, there was strong opposition. The main issue, almost unanimous, was the concept of admitting you to the Institute as a person in your own right.”
No wonder she had insisted on my signing the non-disclosure agreement with Ken as witness! As she continued, its importance became more and more obvious.
“As a white person, you will need a ‘sponsor’.” She looked me in the eye, her expression deadly serious. “White people have no standing whatsoever in the Institute. It’s important that you understand this.”
She paused, watching for my reaction. I think I nodded my head; I felt light-headed and all fluttery inside.
“We do have white people there – quite a few, actually – but every one of them is under the authority and protection of an Institute Member. Only Blacks can be members.”
The picture was becoming clear, excitingly clear. My sexual arousal, momentarily flagging with my disappointment, surged again, hearing the words “under the authority.” They immediately brought to mind how I had felt worshiping Ken’s amazing cock and surrendering my ass to him.
She reached forward with a naked foot and gave my tender balls a stiff nudge.
“Ow!” I yelped in surprise.
“Don’t stop,” she commanded. “There’s a lot more I want you to know.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I responded, chastened. I resumed stroking my erection, wondering at her interest in my masturbation.
“There are two factions on the board,” she explained, “those who want to maintain the Black Supremacy as written into our charter and constitution, and those who feel that it conflicts with the higher purpose for which we were established: to obliterate the whole concept of race.
“To be fair, that division has been there from the beginning. Dr. Yurass, Phillip Yurass, was the driving force behind establishing the Institute. I’m sure you’re familiar with his pioneering work on race and sexuality. He wanted to show that slavery always corrupts the slaveholder class, regardless of race. That’s why the strict racial roles were established. That was what the founding members and the investors bought into.
“But Dr. Yurass had another motive. Coming of age in the 60s during the civil rights movement, he took a great deal of pride and pleasure in degrading whites. And he took particular pleasure in sexual domination, especially of white men. By the time he began working on the Institute, he and his wife, Iona, had a stable of around a dozen sex slaves of both sexes, all of them white. He wanted to bring these people into full-time slavery.
“And Yurass’s other principal, one that made the Institute possible, was his belief that slavery must be consensual to be legitimate. That gave investors enough courage to overlook the slavery issue and it’s the glue that has held us together for over thirty years.”
This was fascinating. I was familiar with Dr. Yurass’s work; it had been a major source for my doctoral thesis. But the actual implementation of his consensual slavery concept was news to me.
“Keep stroking, boy!” Adele admonished.
I renewed my masturbatory action with increased vigor, ashamed that I had allowed my intellect to undermine my obedience.
“The upshot, boy,” she resumed, “is that, if you want to study at the institute – even to enter onto its grounds – you’re going to have to be my slave.”
She paused, silent, while she appraised my reaction.
I was close to the edge. Being her slave seemed absurd to the rational side of my brain, but my libido was suddenly in overdrive. I gazed deeply into her eyes with a helpless sense of longing, as if my very life were in her control, as if pleasing her was the only thing that mattered.
“You don’t have to do this, of course. You can continue your studies elsewhere.”
She sounded somewhat detached, and I felt myself deflating at the thought of losing the opportunity to learn at the institute. But to my surprise, what distressed me more was the possibility of not becoming her slave.
“No!” I said emphatically. I realized suddenly that in the confusion of my growing desire, I had stopped masturbating. I immediately began pumping vigorously. I wanted to prove my devotion. I needed to come for her!
“No, you don’t want to be my slave?” she asked.
“No, I mean I do!” I panted desperately. “I don’t want to study somewhere else,” I added somewhat lamely as my imminent orgasm slipped back out of reach.
She smiled down beneficently on my eager, straining face as my hand flew up and down my rigid pole, so hard for her. I had never felt so much longing as I now felt for Dr. Brownlee’s approval.
“You wish to be my slave?” she asked in a clear and serious voice.
“Yes!” I panted.
“Will you consent to being my property, giving up all rights, obedient to my will alone?”
“Yes!” I almost shouted, ecstatic.
“Then come now. Come on my feet. I command you.”
At the word “command”, I erupted. I leaned forward and my cum spurted and flowed, pulsing, copiously anointing her naked feet, spreading and dripping between her toes.
“What do you say, boy?”
“Thank you… ma’am,” I replied reverently. “Thank you for allowing me to cum on your perfect feet.”
“You may wash them now with your tongue.”
It felt like a great gift as I bent to the task of cleaning her feet and swallowing my cum.
This act of humility served to prolong my post-orgasmic euphoria. I wallowed in my abject debasement, savoring the flavor of my cum and relishing the textures of my mistress’s feet. My tongue joyfully explored the shape of each toe as I suckled like a happy piglet.
When Adele removed her feet from my face, I sat back on my heels and gazed up at her in awe as I licked my lips. I was still a bit dazed, with tingling lips and a cock still tumescent, keeping me aroused.
“Good boy,” said my goddess again. The effect of those words had become so predictable that I knew she used that phrase deliberately.
“Your obedience has earned you the privilege of becoming my slave. Do you still wish it?”
“Yes, please, Ma’am,” I answered dreamily.
“Get up, boy,” she directed.
I stood up, shaky at first.
“On my desk is a clipboard and box. Bring them to me.”
I picked up the clipboard. It had a paper fastened on it and a pen attached. The box was a flat, white cardboard affair, about eight inches square. I presented them to Adele. The exercise had exorcised my euphoria; I was more focused now and keenly aware of my nakedness. My cock swayed as I stopped before her, still swollen enough that it pointed horizontally directly at her.
She placed the box beside her on the couch and turned the clipboard, displaying the document it held.
“Covenant of Commitment” was the caption in large letters at the top. It had three short paragraphs and a signature line at the bottom. Each paragraph began in all capitals. The first began, “IN THE FIRST PLACE…”.
“Kneel,” said Adele.
I got down on my knees and she turned so that we could both see the document.
“This is your slave contract,” she said. “I will read it to you and if you agree to all its stipulations, you can sign it and become my property. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied soberly despite my rapidly pounding heartbeat. I swallowed audibly.
“In the first place,” she began. Her deep, rich voice filled me as I read along attentively: “I, the undersigned, do avow that I hereby renounce and disclaim all personal rights and freedoms and promise that I will henceforth be obedient and compliant, to the fullest extent possible, to every wish and command of Dr. Adele Brownlee (“Owner”). I further declare that I make this vow freely, without mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will accept any and all forms of discipline from Owner, whether for correction or any reason or purpose whatsoever, without question.
“Secondly, as a condition of admittance to The Institute for the Study of Curative Equity (“the Institute”), I will hold myself in subservience to all people of Black African descent, regardless of age and status, and will obey all such persons to the extent that such obedience does not conflict with that owed to Owner. In addition, I will hold all knowledge of and about the Institute as secret and will not disclose such information not already in the public domain to any person or persons outside of the Institute (“Non-Disclosure”).
“Finally, I understand that I may at any time reclaim my rights or, by refusing Owner’s discipline, create a breach of this Covenant. In either case, I will leave the Institute and this Covenant is dissolved, with the exception of the Non-Disclosure, which remains in effect in perpetuity.”
We had reached the end. Adele’s melodious voice stopped sounding. I sat on my heels, staring at the signature line at the bottom of the page, my mind blank. My body felt empty, as hollow as my mind.
“Boy!” she said sharply. “Look at me.”
I looked up into her dark eyes, unfathomably and inscrutably deep. I was lost in them. Her face was stern, beautifully impassive. She spoke again, her voice somehow filling the void in my soul.
“Do you understand the terms?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” My words sounded thin and hollow in my ears.
“Do you wish to sign?” she asked, taking on a slightly perceptible softer tone.
I realized then that there was no deciding; somehow the choice had already been made. I was already enthralled. It was inevitable, foreordained. I would say yes, of course. It was an acknowledgement, not a decision.
“Yes.”
She handed me the pen and held the clipboard while I signed.
She placed the clipboard beside her on the couch, picked up the small box, opened it, and removed its contents, a leather dog collar.
“Bow your head,” she said. And she fastened the collar around my neck by its buckle.
“This collar signifies your enslavement. Everyone associated with the Institute will recognize that you are owned. You will not remove it, ever.”
She held up the dangling tag.
“This is your serial number. It will be registered under my name at the Institute. The tag is temporary; it will be removed when you’ve been tattooed.”
She lifted my chin and looked into my eyes. Once again, I was drowning in hers.
“This collar is the only thing you will wear in my presence and on the grounds of the Institute. White people are not permitted clothes,” she explained.
I was fascinated, imagining being naked before her like this all the time. My cock swelled.
“We will go to the Institute in the morning. You will see other slaves there, all of them white, almost all of them naked.”
She paused, gauging my reaction. “You need to know that at the Institute, naked slaves are available to all members under our ‘communal use’ rule. This generally refers to sexual uses, so it’s not unusual to see sexual abuse of slaves in public. Slaves who refuse to comply are subject to corporal punishment, which is also performed publicly.”
I should have been disturbed, perhaps even outraged by this revelation, but instead I simply became more aroused.
“I will allow you to wear a simple garment called a slave tunic when you are off campus or if I wish to exempt you from communal use for my own reasons. I don’t have one here, so you will put your own clothes back on when you leave.”
I glanced over at my rumpled, cum-stained togs.
“Now, stand up.”
I stood, conscious of my nakedness, aware of my erection, high on my submissiveness and vulnerability.
“You are mine, now. My property. To do with as I wish. And I wish to prove it, to test you.”
She stood up and went behind her desk. She retrieved something from a desk drawer, a long leather strap.
She pointed to the opposite side of the desk. “Bend over the desk. Right there, where Ken fucked you.”
I complied, not without trepidation. I laid my torso on the desk, trapping my hard cock beneath me against the cold mahogany as she walked around the desk to stand behind me.
“Ass up!” she commanded. Spread your legs.”
I knew she was going to beat me with the strap. I understood why: because she could. She would show me that my body no longer belonged to me. She would teach me that I was hers to discipline as she saw fit. I was afraid of the pain, but my obedience excited me. My cock throbbed in anticipation.
The strap came down ten times, five on each cheek. The pain was searing; each stroke stung and made my legs twitch involuntarily. As the count grew, so did a tingling heat that radiated through my body and concentrated in my cock.
Then she delivered an eleventh blow, flicking the end of the strap sharply on my exposed balls. I came.
I felt my cock spurt. I felt the cum squish between my belly and the desk.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I gasped as the last spasm left my cock.
“You are welcome, slave,” Adele replied. “Get back on your knees.”
She made me crawl back to the couch.
“You did well, my pet,” she said, as she knelt on the couch facing away from me. She flipped her skirt up over her back, exposing her big, round ass to me, golden brown and glowing in the light.
My nostrils picked up the scent of her, the tang of her pussy that peeked its salt and pepper curls from between her soft thighs underneath her abundant bottom, and the rich scent of her deep ass-furrow, where her skin grew darker and flavors beckoned.
“You’ve been a good boy. You deserve a reward. Lick my asshole.”
