He said he didn’t want to rush me into anything. I suspected he had other motives. He wanted to give me time to fantasize about it, to obsess over it, and eventually, to beg him for it.
“This whole lifestyle is pretty intense. It might turn you off and I don’t want you to get turned off by me because of all of this. I’m not done having fun with you yet. Or you might get really into it. This scene can get really addictive. There was a time when I was here every night with a different sub. That was years ago though. Why don’t you take your time and think about if this is really something you want to get into.”
“Can’t we just try it a little just to see if I like it?”
“I don’t do anything halfway. You should know that by now. It’s all or nothin’ darlin’.”
We walked through more rooms where couples partied in more and more intricate ways. We watched a gay couple brand each other’s cocks. We paused for a moment to watch a lesbian threesome using huge dildos and some type of electric cattle prod on each other. We watched a scarification with a tall gorgeous black woman carving on an old white woman’s back and rubbing what Kenyatta explained to me were ashes into the cuts to make some Wiccan occult design of raised welts.
“Is that permanent?”
“Very.”
Each new room revealed something even more bizarre. We saw an old man wearing a saddle while a young dark haired woman in latex rode his back and striped his buttocks with a buggy whip. We entered a room that was humid with female musk and the scent of Astroglide, several women and even a few men were sitting around the room strapped into bizarre machines that looked like dentist chairs with dildos attached to some bicycle looking apparatus so that they fucked who ever sat on the seat as they peddled. Kenyatta laughed and shook his head. I was happy that he found the scene as ridiculous as I did.
We were still laughing as Kenyatta dragged me into a room where some sort of swap meet was going on. We picked through all kinds of S&M paraphernalia, whips and paddles and flails and cat-o’-nine-tails, dildos, vibrators, collars, and restraints of every variety and description. He bought me the studded collar that night along with the hip boots and some latex lingerie and we’d gone home and fucked like maniacs. The coat came much later. He presented it to me as a gift, but I could tell even then that it was part of his fantasy. Every time I wore it he made me wear the collar and the hip boots with it and either lingerie or some tight slinky dress or nothing at all if we were going to an S&M event. I figured we must be going to something like that now. I was excited, because for us it was a return to normalcy.
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
“Really? Where?”
“My ancestors never knew where they were going, neither should you.”
My heart sank, and the fear I’d been feeling for the last two weeks, ever since our experiment began, came rushing back. I’d almost forgotten about our little game, but he obviously had not. I looked at the coat and the boots and collar and wondered how this could possibly fit in with the oppression of black people. I couldn’t imagine what he had planned for me this time and not knowing made it seem all the more terrifying. I tried to tell myself he wouldn’t have been so sweet to me and made love to me so lovingly and passionately if he were going to do something terrible to me. He wouldn’t have bathed me and perfumed me.
“I said get dressed. Now. We can’t be late.”
I took the boots from his hands, slid them on, and zipped them up. Then I took the diamond collar and fastened it around my throat. I stood and Kenyatta handed me my coat. The silk lining felt luxurious after feeling nothing but iron and wood for the last fourteen days. I ran my hands over the soft fur. It felt amazing. I felt beautiful and sexy and I could tell by the look in Kenyatta’s eyes he thought I did as well.
I remembered how he made love to me that first night after he’d bought me the coat. He wouldn’t let me take it off and he made me sleep at the foot of the bed curled up at his feet after he was done. The next morning he served me breakfast out of a pet dish with a saucer of milk beside it and made me crawl on my hands and knees and lap the milk from the bowl. It turned him on so much that he stood above me masturbating as I lapped up the milk and then ordered me to give him head. He came almost immediately and I lapped his cum from the head of his cock as it spurted out all over me. I licked every drop from his shaft and then licked my lips clean and purred. That’s when he started calling me Kitten.
Kenyatta hooked a choke collar around my neck and attached the leash to that. Then he made me stand still as he dressed. He wore a dark suit with a black turtleneck that made him look absolutely sinister. I loved that outfit. He wore it mostly when we were going to S&M events. He added a pair of dark sunglasses that enhanced the sinister look. The combined effect made him look like a mafia hit-man and helped him to stand out among the other leather-clad doms at the Society of “O.” When he was finished dressing, he led me out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I wanted to ask him again where we were going, but instead I hung my head and shuffled obediently behind him, following wherever I was led.
We climbed into his car, a black Chrysler 300 with limo tinted windows, and sped off in silence. It felt great to be outside after what seemed like endless days in the stifling heat and darkness of the basement. I watched the city rush by with a feeling of exhilaration. I almost didn’t care what lay ahead, the bath, the perfume, the sex, the massage and now the feel of the luxurious fur against my bare skin and the sight and sounds of the city as it rushed by my window, made me dizzy with joy. I felt incredible.
We pulled up outside the small art gallery that I knew had a rather extensive dungeon in the rooms above where the Society of “O” held its events, and I relaxed. This was more normalcy. Whatever Kenyatta had planned, it could be no worse than a little harmless sex-play. The Society of “O” was about as safe and sane as S&M could get, so I knew he couldn’t do anything too vicious, not without losing his membership and getting himself kicked out. And there was no pain or humiliation he could put me through in there that could be worse than what I’d already endured in the box. Or so I thought.
Kenyatta pulled the car around back and turned off the engine. Then he once again pulled out the book that had become his bible on how to treat me in our new roles, 400 Years of Oppression. A shiver went through me. Still, I remained confident that, whatever he was planning, I could endure. When he started to read and the realization of what he planned to do hit me, I began to cry.
“When the slave ships arrived in America, those slaves that survived the trip and had not committed suicide, been murdered by the crew or by other desperate slaves, or succumbed to suffocation or disease, were taken off the ship and placed in a pen. There they would be washed and their skin covered with dark grease or tar to give their complexion a healthier hue and hide cuts and scars that would lessen their value. Scars upon a slave’s back were considered evidence of a rebellious or unruly spirit, and would negatively impact his or her value at auction. The slaves were then branded with a hot iron to identify them as property before being removed from the pen one by one and made to stand on a makeshift stage so they could be seen by potential bidders. Before the bidding began, prospective buyers were allowed onto the platform to inspect the merchandise prior to purchase. The slaves had to endure being poked, prodded and forced to open their mouths and show their teeth and gums the way horses and cattle are inspected before being sold at market. The auctioneer would set a minimum bid for each slave, higher for fit, young slaves and lower for older, very young, or sickly slaves. Then the bidding would begin.
“They would be made to hold up their heads and prance briskly back and forth, while customers would feel their hands and arms and bodies, make them do turns, and sometimes even calisthenics and acrobatics to display their physical fitness.
“Heartbreaking scenes of husbands and wives being sold to separate masters, sons and daughters sold away from their parents, and families split up forever were com
monplace. Not understanding what was transpiring, the African slaves would beg and plead, crying and screaming in panic as their families were torn apart. The utter misery of seeing those you loved taken away by hostile foreign hands while you sit powerless to save them, seeing your spouse, your children, your mothers and fathers, pulled from your gasp never to be seen again, is unimaginable. The shocked and terrified faces of children torn from their parent’s embrace and handed into the arms of their new masters were utterly heartbreaking as were the tears and desperate embraces of husbands and wives saying goodbye for the last time as they were sold to different masters.”
I was wailing uncontrollably by the time he was finished reading. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Kenyatta was planning to do, but even as his intentions became clear to me, I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept that he would do such a thing, that he would take it this far.
“No, Master! No! Please! Please don’t sell me! Please, don’t give me away. I’ll be good. I swear I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll never complain! I’ll do anything. Please don’t sell me. Please!”
I was in a panic. The thought of being handed into the arms of another master had never occurred to me. That Kenyatta would sell me like I was little more than property was something I would have never considered.
“Don’t speak again or I’ll have to punish you.”
“Please, Kenyatta…I mean…M-Master! You can beat me! You can whip me as hard as you like! Please, baby! Please I don’t want to leave you! Please don’t send me away!”
“All you have to do is say the safe word if you want it to stop. But this is what my ancestors went through, being sold away from their loved ones, sold to strangers they knew nothing about, some who were inhumanly cruel. Watching their wives and children torn from them and given to strange white people to do God knows what with them. Most of them didn’t even understand what was happening or why. That’s what they had to go through and that’s what you’re going to go through unless you want it to stop now? Unless you want to say the safe word and end this? Then we can go our separate ways right now. Your choice. Either way you lose me.”
I thought about it then, saying that word. I thought about giving up and seeing that disappointed and disgusted look in Kenyatta’s eyes as he walked away forever.
“I won’t say it. I’m still going through with it.”
Kenyatta nodded his approval, still looking at me with suspicion. He grabbed my leash and pulled me forward.
“Then no more crying. No more begging. You go in there and you do whatever I say without question. You get up there on that auction block and you smile your lily white ass off and you obey.”
He jerked my choke chain as he spoke, dragging me out of the car. I never had an opportunity to reply but none was necessary. He knew I’d obey.
Kenyatta walked me to the back door of the art gallery, jerking my choke chain every now and again to keep me moving. Beyond the door was a long flight of stairs that led to the huge loft above where the festivities took place. A big hairy leatherman stood at the top of the stairs looking like a Hell’s Angel except for the leather chaps he wore with no jeans underneath so that his genitals were freely exposed. He wore a spiked leather cock ring so that he maintained a painful-looking erection. It was already turning purple, and I wondered how long it had been that way. The look was completed by a leather vest with no shirt. Both his cock and his nipples were pierced. He had a thick beard speckled with gray and he wore a spiked dog collar around his neck. His chest, arms, and shoulders were enormous like a powerlifter and his hairy belly was proportionately just as large. He looked like he could have snapped my neck with one hand, but Kenyatta still towered over him when he stood next to him. Attached to the dog collar was a long chain and holding the end of the chain was a thin and strikingly beautiful middle-aged woman with a full head of gray hair that hung to her waist. She wore a red leather bustier and corset, a long black leather skirt, and red leather boots ending in spiked stiletto heels that were at least six-inches long. Her eye-makeup was dramatic, dark eye shadow and eyeliner, burgundy rouge to make her sharp cheekbones appear almost cadaverous and deep red lipstick. Despite all of that, she managed to look somewhat pleasant and even friendly as she asked for our membership cards.
Kenyatta reached into his jacket to retrieve his wallet and the woman laughed.
“I’m just kidding with you, King. Everybody knows you. It’s forty dollars tonight for the auction. It’s a charity event. Unless you’ve brought us something to auction off?”
She reached out and opened my coat so that my nude body was fully exposed to both her eyes and those of her big hairy sub. That’s how it was at this place sometimes. Once they knew you were a sub, every dom in the place acted like they owned you. I hated that, and I knew it bothered Kenyatta too. So I was surprised when he said nothing as the woman ran her hands over my breasts down my stomach and reached around and patted me on my ass.
“She’s lovely. Is she trained?”
Her eyes narrowed in on the collar pinching into the raw skin around my throat. Unlike the auctions that took place centuries ago when the slaves came over from Africa, my wounds would increase my selling price. A sub who’d already been trained by a respected dom was highly valued in the S&M community and Kenyatta, or King as they knew him in the scene, was very well-known and well-respected I had learned.
“Of course, she is.”
“Mmmmm, wonderful. So, is she for sale?”
“The minimum bid has to be at least five-hundred. She’s not like the used up tired old bottoms you guys usually drag up on stage. This one is newly trained.”
I wanted to cry again as I watched him write the nickname he’d given to me down on the auction list. “Kitten.” It took everything I had to hold the tears in.
“She’ll probably go for twice that. I might even bid on her myself. Just go in and march her up on stage. We’ll be starting in a minute. I’m closing the door at ten o’clock. I don’t want to miss the auction either. I am sponsoring the thing.”
We walked in and I stared at the familiar decor, which now looked foreign and hostile to me. The whipping post and crucifix in the center of the room, the rack on the wall by the windows, the dentist chair and the enormous canopy bed, twice the size of a California King, that sat in the far corner with what looked like over a dozen people crowded onto it. All eyes were pointed to the stage where the slaves were being prepared for auction. My heart rose up into my throat as Kenyatta marched me up there under the lights. He pushed me out among the other slaves and then ripped the fur coat from my shoulders leaving me completely nude and exposed under the stage lights. There was a gasp from the crowd and then applause. I tried to cover myself, but Kenyatta ordered me to stand at attention and I obeyed. He then told me to walk back and forth across the stage with the other slaves. Again, I did as I was told.
The stage lights turned red and the pulsing techno music thundering through the loft faded out, leaving only the hollow sound of shuffling feet and a few scattered applause. A huge leather dyke, the female equivalent of the big biker guarding the door, strode up on stage with a bullwhip in one hand and a microphone in the other. Her makeup was just as severe as the woman who ran the place, dark eye shadow smeared from her eyelids almost to her temples and a thick bead of eyeliner surrounded each emerald green eye. Her lips were large and pouty as if they’d been injected with collagen but one look at her belied such vanity. A thick nest of flaming red hair was knotted into a tight bun on top of her head and her mammoth breasts were squeezed into a tight corset and lifted up to her neckline, still managing to undulate and giggle with each step despite their bondage. The woman somehow managed to be beautiful, even sexy, despite her titanic girth. The entire crowd fell silent in anticipation as she cleared her throat and began to announce the show.
“Good evening subs and doms, sadists and masochists, I am Mistress Delia. Welcome to our sixteenth quarterly charity slave auction benefitin
g the AIDS Research Foundation. I hope you brought a lot of money because we’ve got some top quality flesh to auction off tonight! The rules are simple. Anyone wishing to bid must purchase bondage bills from Lady “O” at the front at the price of ten dollars for every hundred. This is a charity event so five dollars of every ten you spend will go to The AIDS Research Foundation. Our lovely slaves will be brought up one-by-one onto the stage and anyone wishing to may come up to the front of the stage for a closer inspection. Once the bidding begins, you will have twenty seconds to make a counter bid or the highest bid wins. Some of the slaves tonight will be yours for the evening and some for much, much longer depending on the contract they or their owners have signed. Remember that this is just a fantasy auction however, and these slaves do have the right to refuse to go with you even after you have purchased them. That does not however mean that you get your money back. We have a few one-year contracts for sale and even a lifetime contract or two. The minimum bid for any slave is one hundred dollars though some may be higher depending on the slave’s youth, beauty, and overall pedigree. So get those dollars ready! I’ll give you a few moments to purchase your bondage bills up at the front while we finalize a few contracts and then the bidding will begin with our first slave!”
I trembled as I heard the words “lifetime contract.” I held out hope that Kenyatta would only sell me away for one night and not to be someone’s permanent slave. I knew that I could still refuse to leave with my new master even after I was sold, but I wasn’t sure how Kenyatta would respond to my refusal. There were so many thoughts going through my head when Mistress Delia approached us and asked us what type of contract we were selling. I looked at Kenyatta, pleading with him silently. I wanted to cry and beg and scream, but I knew how much that would have embarrassed him. He would have never forgiven me for it. So, instead I sat silently as Kenyatta took the clip board from Mistress Delia’s large meaty hands with the painted nails so long that they curled at the ends, and began to fill it out while I strained to see which box he checked.
400 Days of Oppression Page 7