Content that the girl knew what agony his displeasure could bring, Stoner sat on the edge of the bed. He motioned for the girl to come to him. He grabbed her hair and lifted her to her knees between his legs. His cock was rampant and his desire was obvious. She knew what he wanted. The trembling girl hesitatingly took Stoner’s cock in her hand and pressed her lips to it. Stoner, his hand still in her hair, pressed her face down on his cock. He pierced the girl’s mouth to the back of her throat. “Suck cock!” he ordered. These words, and other short, curt imperative phrases such as, ‘spread your legs’, ‘kneel’, ‘bend over’ would quickly become known to the girl.
The frightened girl began to swirl her tongue around Stoner’s rigid member. With tears running down her youthful face, she pleasured Stoner’s tool with all of the skill and enthusiasm she could muster. Seeing that she had gotten the message, Stoner released her head and let her do the work.
The dark, cruel man reveled in her oral caresses. He watched her face intently, enjoying the desperate look on her face. The girl looked back up at him, seeking any sign of displeasure, the bright whiteness of her eyes, eyes filled with wetness and ringed with red, a stark contrast to the coal-like blackness of her skin.
Stoner was enflamed by the wide lips that encircled his pulsing cock. Here was Africa, itself, at his feet, its eyes searching for his approval, sucking his steel hard dick, succumbing to his whims. He felt it fitting that this black cunt should be on her knees to him, as was every living thing within a thousand square miles. He did not often have native whores to his bed, but when he did, his mind reeled with exaltation as his mastery of this corner of the continent. Few men in this modern age wielded the power that he did.
The black girl’s efforts were bearing fruit as Stoner felt his juices rising. She felt it too, as the cock in her mouth began to throb and the semi-sweet precum washed against her tongue. She had one hand cupping Stoner’s drooping testicles, caressing them gently as she had been taught, and the other hand wrapped firmly on the meaty pole. She began to hum a song of delight, as her husband liked it, her voice reverberating on Stoner’s swollen member. Stoner moaned and seized her head again, pressing it into his loins. He groaned with pleasure as he shot his load into her throat. Pulse after pulse of almost excruciating delight swept through him.
He allowed the native woman to continue to massage his softening cock with her mouth and lips. Her oral skills matched her beauty, he thought to himself.
When she had finished, and Stoner’s cock had deflated to its restful state, Stoner pulled her up onto the bed. She had never been in a bed like this, her marriage bed in her village consisting of a thin pallet laid on the dirt floor of her small hut. She marveled, in spite of herself, at its softness. She felt unsteady as it rose and fell beneath her, as she struggled to the center of the bed.
Once she had lain out prone on the bed, Stoner commenced a minute inspection of her flesh. He ran his hands over the smooth skin of her hips. He felt the softness of her inner thighs, the pink softness between her black thighs. But what delighted him most of all were her firm, large lactating breasts. The milk was oozing from her nipples. The breasts, used to the frequent suckling of a child, were filled to burst. Stoner placed his lips upon them and drank the sweet, thick milk. The girl moaned in relief as the aching pressure on her teats was released. She cursed this man for stealing what was, by rights, her child’s. The thought of her young boy hungry and crying for his mother was unbearable to her. But she docilely allowed the white man to have his way. The white men had stolen everything, why should her mother’s milk be any different.
That night Stoner ploughed his new captive fore and aft. She had never been fucked in the ass before and protested loudly when she felt his thick cock press open the dainty ring of flesh. She cried while he plunged deep into her bowels. Stoner held her hands locked tightly behind her back as he took his pleasure there. To the girl’s abysmal shame, before he allowed her the safety of her cage, he forced her to clean him with her mouth.
Dalila, her name meant ‘gentleness of soul’, was thereafter Stoner’s almost constant companion. He led her around, naked on a leash, while on his visits and inspections. He proffered the use of her mouth to his managers and overseers matter-of-factly, and often used it or her cunt, if he was in the mood, casually throughout the course of the day.
At night, at dinner, she would be chained to his chair, her own dinner presented in a wooden bowl. In his bedroom, he would order her, by obscene gesture, encouraged by the whip if necessary, to suck on his wives’ pussies while they fellated him or while he fucked her ass. She would spend the night jammed into the cage with one of the white women every night, their hot flesh pressed firmly together. She had no words for them and they had none for her.
Dalila’s milk still ran, as Stoner suckled at her breasts several times daily. She was mortified to have these white women, who were treated almost as shamefully as she, watch as this grown man drank from her body. She was also shamed that she permitted the white man to bring her to pleasure, for there were times, as Stoner callously drilled his cock into her wet slash, that her own lusts were sated. And she was ashamed to admit that the soft white bodies of the white women, as she caressed them with her tongue or was pressed up against them in her cage, made her loins burn.
On several occasions, Stoner ordered his white women to make love to her after dinner in the drawing room, reveling in the sharp contrast between the black and white flesh. She hesitatingly accepted their tongues in her mouth, their fingers on her sex. She had often played at sex with her girlfriends when they were younger, and the delicate softness of female flesh, the aroma of their arousal, was not new to her. At times, she would close her eyes and imagine herself back in her village, a young girl, kissing and fondling her best friend.
It was the whipping she could not stand. Stoner whipped her when she failed to understand an order, when she was slow carrying it out, or when the whim came over him. He had the servants beat her while he ploughed one or another of the orifices of his white slaves.
Cheryl and the other wives felt great sympathy for Dalila, although they did not even know her name. She seemed so young and frightened. Only once, when Stoner was away for a day, did she spend any time in the wives’ dormitory. Jeremiah had brought her there and, at first, the poor girl trembled with fear that the white women would beat her. When Mary took her in her arms and kissed her, the girl broke down into tears. The women spent the afternoon comforting her. Late in the day, Jeremiah took her away, down to the Discipline Room to beat her and to fuck her.
A few days after the raid on the village, the trucks carrying the remainder of Stoner’s booty arrived. Coffled in strings of twelve, the women were pulled from the trucks and hosed down. A large fire was kept burning into the night, heating the branding irons, as one after the other, the women were marked as Stoner’s property. There was much crying and protesting from the women, but they had been taught obedience while prisoners on their four day trek, and there were no incidents of rebellion. By late afternoon and into the evening, Stoner’s helicopters were ferrying the first groups to their new homes, the many workers’ brothels around Stoner’s mines. A few would be sent to service the lonely men who toiled in Stoner’s cotton fields or to the workers on the hillside coffee plantation. By noon the day after their arrival, they were all gone.
It was about two weeks after the raid that Jeremiah came into the wives’ dormitory to announce that, “All sluts must make themselves clean!” He instructed them to be particularly meticulous in their makeup. They were to wear their dinner dresses and to make up the lips of their pussies.
The wives frantically followed Jeremiah’s instructions. It was clear that something unusual was to happen, but they could not fathom what. Justine helped Mary and Cheryl line their labia with bright red lipstick. Cheryl did hers. They sat dressed and waiting for a long time, well into the afternoon. Jeremiah checked them several times, each time telling them, “No fucking. No fucking!”
Jeremiah checked them again before he brought them downstairs, ensuring that they had properly made themselves pretty for their master’s benefit. He had them kneel in the entrance hall, as usual, but delayed their self ministrations for the purpose of readying their cunts for their master’s pleasure.
Faintly at first, then louder and louder, came the sound of a large helicopter. The women could see the backwash of the props through the glass of the main doorway as it landed, blowing dust and leaves around in great swirls. This was the signal for the women to start massaging their pussies for presentation to their owner and lord. They heard heavy steps on the veranda and then Stoner and another man, dressed in a khaki army uniform and a red beret entered the room. Stoner had his new slave, Dalila, in tow. The second man was huge, almost ape-like. He skin was a dark brown and he had a round, regal face. There were two rows of medals on his chest and he carried a long swagger stick with what looked like hair from a lion’s mane on one end. He wore tall, black paratrooper’s boots and a pistol on his hip.
His eyes widened as he saw the three white women in their obscene dresses. All of their breasts were exposed and the front of the dresses had been cut away to show their now glistening intimacies.
Stoner spoke to the women, “Ladies, I present to you His Honor Upenyu Uzoma, President of the People’s Republic of Katango.”
The fact that they were being held in bondage in the Republic of Katango was something that had somehow been learned by Stoner’s wives at some time during his fifteen year reign. It had been handed down from group to group as individual wives were sent to the capital to spend the rest of their days as whores and new ones were added. And so Cheryl knew that they were in some place called Katango. She had often cursed her geographical ignorance. Somehow it would have been better to have at least an approximation of where on the globe she now resided.
None of the women had had the pleasure of actually meeting someone from the government of this strange land and the presence of the President was quite a surprise. However, whatever his business was here with Stoner, his presence did not bode well for Stoner’s sluts if measured by the lustful glances he took of their exposed bodies.
“What a lovely picture,” he said in a deep baritone voice. “Good enough to eat!” he exclaimed.
“And you probably would, too,” Cheryl thought to herself. The man took his time to stroke their breasts, fingering the tips of their nipples, caressing their faces.
Stoner continued the introductions. “The blonde is Justine, a French slut. She is extremely skilled with her mouth. The middle one is Mary, an Irish cunt. You can see her main assets on her chest. I’ve often taken pleasure between her fat tits. And the last is Cheryl, an American. She is undoubtedly the most passionate of the bunch. If you massage her tits, she will rock you like a hyena in rut.”
President Uzoma laughed heartily. “Aptly put, my friend, aptly put.”
Stoner led the huge man into the house. The wives followed the men into the drawing room where the men were served cold drinks. The women knelt in an arc around them. Dalila knelt by Stoner’s side.
“Stoner,” Uzoma said, “I am grateful for your hospitality. Here’s to a continuation of our warm friendship.” Uzoma lifted his glass and clinked it against Stoner’s.
“Thank you Mr. President,” Stoner replied. “We have much to talk about, but after dinner. My chefs have made up some special courses for you.”
The small talk continued for about forty minutes. Jeremiah entered and announced dinner.
Uzoma, unlike Stoner, was a true gourmand. He reveled in the fine white wine served with delicate goat’s cheese and prawns. He found delicious the plump, grilled kupaka fish, covered with a delightful sauce made from ginger, cayenne powder, curry and coconut milk. He swooned at the large, fresh oysters, flown in that morning from east Africa. He consumed, amid groans of delight, a hearty share of a rack of lamb grilled with garlic and paprika. And there were many other delights. The President ate with gusto, joking with Stoner, quaffing his best red wine. He proffered mouthfuls of food to the half naked women who sat next to and opposite him. They obliged the fearsome man, chewing their portions meekly, wary of the attention of this gregarious giant. Dalila ate from her bowl on the floor.
When the main meal was concluded, they were served freshly baked bene cakes, smeared with honey, 25 year old brandy and fine, fat Havana cigars. The President’s entourage ate outside with the servants, and he politely asked that the remnants of several courses be taken out to them.
Stoner waited for the President to light his cigar before he broached business. “Mr. President, I am glad to be able to give you my hospitality,” he said. Stoner had saved this man’s ass more than once by the intervention of the automatic rifles of his well trained and utterly loyal troops. The President was the recipient of ample largess from Stoner’s operations. He would not be able to maintain the loyalty of his political allies were it not for the flow of cash from Stoner. But the niceties of protocol were always to be followed.
“As you know, we have been facing a mounting problem with local bandits. I have lost two truck convoys and several patrols over the last few months. I need the support of the central government in patrolling the roads from the capital to here so I can free up my men to search out and destroy these criminals.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Stoner,” the President replied, letting out a long stream of grey smoke from his lungs. He drank a sip of cognac. “I am sympathetic with your problem. We are grateful in the capital for the fine work you have done here, north of the Paliba River, in bringing the benefits of Western culture to our people.” This was more protocol since Uzoma was well aware of the penury visited upon the villagers in Stoner’s domain and Stoner’s habit of enforcing his iron rule at the point of an AK-47, a rifle more reliable and more easily available than the American’s M-16. He had heard about the recent raid on Yarukamba, and while he applauded the suppression of rebels, had winced when he learned of the abduction and enslavement of over 150 women.
The President continued. “As you know, we are fighting our own group of bandits in the south. Most of my army is involved in operations there.” The President’s experience was that once crops and livestock had been burnt or confiscated, women could usually be bought quite cheaply. A nice, young woman could feed a family for weeks.
“As you say, Mr. President,” Stoner replied. “But all I ask is that the government protect the road from the capital to Benswala, 150 miles of road. I can cover the remaining thirty. As I am sure you realize, when my operations must be curtailed for security reasons, it cuts down on the taxes I can pay to the government. And my suppression of bandits here, by means at my own disposal, is a boon to the government, freeing up 1, 000 men to strike at the government’s enemies in the south.”
Uzoma had known very well what the purpose of Stoner’s invitation was. He had already decided to assign four companies of men to guard the Benswala Road. It was all he could spare.
“I hear your request, Mr. Stoner, and I am happy to say that I will assign a contingent of my best troops to the road. Keeping the road open and suppressing bandits is good for the government and good for business.” The man flashed a wide grin at Stoner. He knew that Stoner held the balance of power in Katango and, when he had put down the rebels in the south, he would consider a lightening strike against this prideful white man who was siphoning off most of the profit from this richly endowed corner of his small country. A contingent of troops thirty miles away from Stoner’s headquarters could provide the spearhead for such a strike. On the other hand, Stoner did have the financial connections that allowed him and many of his key supporters to stash Western aid money abroad against the eventuality of a successful coup against them. Time would tell what course the wily president chose.
Now that business was concluded, it was time for pleasure. Stoner invited the lusting man back into the drawing room. “I have a little entertainment for you, Mr. President. I think that you will enjoy it.”
The men retired to the drawing room followed by the reluctant women. They were available to service this mountain of a man as his whim took him, and one of them would be required to retire to the guestroom with him to face whatever abuse and torment he would have to offer her there.
A television screen had been set up in front of the easy chairs in the room. Jeremiah instructed the wives to kneel at the President’s feet. Uzoma leaned over and stroked Cheryl’s breast, leering lustfully at her. “Not me,” Cheryl pleaded to herself. “Please not me.”
The television flickered into life. On the screen was a frightened blond woman. She was dressed in a short, flowered frock. Her long hair was drawn behind her head. It was Justine. She was standing in front of a blue canvas backdrop. Her wide open, attentive eyes were on someone behind and to the left of the camera.
“I thought that you might like to see a little preview of my whores before you select one for the night, Mr. President,” Stoner told the huge black man. “These videos were made shortly after their capture and were sent over the internet for the benefit of potential bidders for their flesh. They’re quite humorous.”
Stoner clicked the remote, and the young woman on the screen came to life. She looked nervously around her. She seemed dazed, uncertain. A man’s voice spoke in halting, heavily accented English. “Speak, cunt! What is your name?”
The blond women replied in a nervous, tremulous voice, “Justine.”
“How old are you Justine?”
The girl looked at the camera, biting her lips nervously. “Twenty two,” she answered.
“Do you like to fuck, cunt?”
The girl cringed at the question, her eyes brimming with tears. She gave an obviously preprogrammed answer, “Y-yes,”.
Cheryl looked over at Justine. The French girl stared at her own image. Her lips were trembling.
“Do you like to suck cock, Justine?” the voice continued.
The television Justine shuffled her feet. She was wringing her hands before her. She looked as if she was trying to answer the question, but the words would not come out. She started to cry.
“Answer the question, cunt!” the voice commanded.
“Y-yes, monsieur,” was her barely audible answer.
“Yes, what cunt?”
The girl looked at the off camera voice, confused, visibly terrified of making a mistake.
“P-please monsieur, please, I won’t tell anyone. Please let me go!” Justine replied in a forlorn voice. She then spoke something rapidly in French, clearly a continuation of her supplication to the disembodied voice. The voice answered back harshly in French. Whatever he said had a visible impression on the young girl.
She looked at the camera. “Y-yes, I like to suck cock,” she said, finally. Her tears were flowing freely down her face.
“Show us your tits, cunt,” the voice ordered.
Justine looked visibly shaken at the order. She peered intently at the screen. The voice yelled out, “Veit! Veit!”
Clumsily, the blond girl grabbed the straps of her pretty dress and pulled them down off of her shoulders. Her arms were crossed as she lowered the bodice below her braless breasts, blocking the view. She held her arms there momentarily and then dropped them to her sides, her head lowered in shame. The camera zoomed in on her tits. It paused over the display of her womanhood, the nipples taut, the breasts themselves small and firm. There was enough so that the delightful globes drooped slightly on her chest, but the nipples pointed upwards and out. A curt order was issued in French. Justine’s hands reappeared in the camera and she cupped her delicate, pale mounds and squeezed them gently. The camera panned back showing the distraught woman proffering her youthful breasts to the audience.
The President was visibly aroused by the display of Justine’s charms. He looked down at the blond girl at his feet. He grabbed her chin and turned her head upwards to look into her face. “What a pretty little girl,” he said. “Come, sit on my lap and let me see those nice little titties up close.” Without hesitation, Justine rose to her feet and sat on the large man’s lap. He pressed one hand between her thighs and grabbed the lips of her cunt. Her red satin dress draped over the black man/s lap. Although disconcerted at the view of her own descent into slavery, watching the girl that she once was, Justine had, when she knelt at the President’s feet, continued to stroke her pussy lips, achieving the state of arousal customary in the presence of her master. The President spread her legs wide and plunged his thick, fat fingers inside her. With his other massive hand he enveloped a breast.
The video continued. The harsh voice behind the camera issued another command. “Take off the dress, show us your cunt!”
The video Justine fearfully pulled the dress down over her waist, down her thighs and let it slip to the floor. She kicked it nervously aside. A black clad arm appeared and stole it away. She wore nothing underneath. She looked up nervously. There was another command in French and Justine placed her hands on her head and spread her legs. She closed her eyes. The camera, slowly, lovingly, zoomed in and roamed over her succulent flesh. It paused at her delicate face, her thin red lips. It descended the length of her torso to stop at the furry blond bush at the apex of her thighs. The camera panned back and held a shot displaying Justine in all her naked glory. A message scrolled over the screen, “Justine, French, 22, opening bid €50, 000 Euros.”
“She cost me a lot more than that,” Stoner commented. He took a long pull on the cognac in his glass.
“And I’m sure it was worth it,” replied the President. “She has such a pretty cunt,” He added as he thrust his fingers inside her. He addressed Justine. “I hear that you are a good cocksucker, little Justine, is this true?”
Justine had begun to respond to the ministrations of the fingers in her quim. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Yes, Monsieur le President,” she replied.
“Then let’s see what you can do,” President Uzoma said as he pushed her off of his lap. While the video Justine stood, frozen in time, the real, physical Justine unfastened Uzoma’s belt and then opened his pants. Uzoma shifted himself so that his thighs hung over the end of the chair. He watched as the diminutive blond woman undid his fly and released his already swollen member. It sprung up when released and Justine seized it with her lips. Uzoma sighed with pleasure.
Cheryl could sense the dismay of her sister slave. She had just watched a video of her own debasement, the last moments of her free life, and now she was abjectly sucking the cock of a man she had never met as wantonly as any whore. Ironically, the better the job she did in bringing oral pleasure to this mountain of a man, the more likely she would be picked to be his bedmate. One could only speculate at the cruel and callous nature of a man who had risen to power in this God forsaken country, a man who had probably unflinchingly sent thousands to their deaths. But Justine knew that she could not falter in her task. Whatever this man could deal out to her, the fact was that tomorrow, or the next day, he would be gone. If he was unimpressed with her oral skills, she would be in the Discipline Room tonight and, doubtlessly, for many nights to come.
Stoner had Mary on his lap and was sucking at her big breasts. His hands squeezed them until Mary moaned in pain. Stoner took the clicker and started the next scene. It was Mary.
The video opened with a shapely young woman, naked, her arms affixed to a chain from the ceiling. Her legs were captured in a spreader bar. She was hooded, but her long, reddish brown hair ran out from under it down her shoulders to her hips. The girl wore a large, auburn bush around her sex. But the most telling feature of the young woman was her tits, large, firm, round tits.
Stoner turned Mary’s head so that she was forced to watch. “See those lovely tits Mary? That’s what sold me on you. When I saw them I had to have you.” He squeezed Mary’s breasts again as if in emphasis.
Justine’s efforts were clearly having an effect on Stoner’s native guest. Uzoma’s face was flush and he was breathing deeply. His eyes were glued to the screen.
A man came from the side of the video. He was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and blue jeans. A distortion was kept over is face to hide his identity. He addressed the camera stiffly, as if reading from a script. His voice was heavily accented, Russian or maybe Serbian. It was oddly macabre to see this man with no face speaking to the unknown audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a high pitched, raspy voice. “We present to you a cunt for sale. Fresh cunt, never been fucked by us.” He stepped back to stand next to Mary. “Look at hips,” he said. “Beautiful hips, flat stomach.” He ran his hand over Mary’s stomach. Mary squirmed; a low mumble could be heard from under the hood. The man looked at Mary and then back at the camera.
“Sometimes cunts do not know to shut up,” he continued in his broken English. “You can teach, with whip,” he said. He reared his hand back and slapped it down hard on Mary’s bottom. A loud ‘crack!’ came from the tape. The woman stiffened. The man yelled something at her in another language and slapped her ass again. The mumbling stopped.
Stoner’s wives had traded stories of their abductions. While Justine had been plucked from the very streets of Paris, and Cheryl had been kidnapped in her own home, Mary’s story was different. She and her German boyfriend were hitchhiking their way to Greece. They were passing through Croatia. The main highway had been blocked by a landslide and they were on a local road. A van stopped for them. Three men emerged. The boyfriend was shot out of hand. With three bullets in his chest, his body tumbled into the gorge below the road. Mary had screamed. In a flash, she was hauled into the van and sped away.
Mary looked at the screen bitterly. This man on the screen was not only her captor, one of the men who had profited by the sale of her body into slavery, but he was also one of her lover’s murderers. Stoner, his hand in her crotch, was oblivious to her reaction. “Watch this!” Stoner instructed his guest.
Having silenced the video Mary, the obscure man stood behind her and reached around her chest seizing her breasts. They overflowed his hands. His obscured head appeared over her shoulder. “Look at these tits!” he exclaimed. “You will not see better tits!” he said.
The man placed a hand between Mary’s legs from behind and seized her twat. “This is a hungry, juicy pussy,” he said as he massaged the tender lips. He took his time. At first the only reaction from Mary that could be seen was her stiffened response to having her slit invaded. Slowly, but surely, over the course of about seven minutes, the effects of the hand began to tell on her. The pale skin on her chest began to redden. Sweat appeared between her breasts. Her hips started to sway involuntarily. As if trying to shake off a chill, the woman shuddered in apparent frustration at her body’s reaction. Before long, Mary’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. A moan escaped from under the hood. The hand could be seen dancing between her thighs. Another hand had taken hold of a breast and was massaging it, teasing the nipple. Mary’s hips swirled as she tried to avoid the hand that was driving her lust. Suddenly, she gave a loud, low moan, her knees buckled, her hips shivered. Her body convulsed in the chains. Moan after muffled moan came forth from her throat. The man withdrew his hand and showed it to the camera. It was full of Mary’s discharge.
“You see?” the man in the video said.
Uzoma gave a long, guttural laugh. He looked over at Mary, whose face was red with mortification. “Mary,” he said to her, “you come like a Bantu woman!” He looked at Stoner, who had a broad grin on his face. “Ha, ha, ha,” Uzomo laughed. “Stoner, you were right! Excellent! Excellent!”
All eyes went back to the video. The man was removing the hood. A wild woman’s face appeared, sweaty and red. A small rubber ball was lodged in her mouth, silencing her without distorting her features. Her body covered with a sheen of sweat, anger in her eyes, her bulbous breasts swaying to and fro, Mary was a visual delight. The video froze with that scene. A legend crossed it reading, “Mary, Irish, 23, opening bid 45, 000 Euros.”
Cheryl knew what was coming next. Stoner had replayed these videos a number of times, and each time that she saw her own, she broke down into tears. Tonight, even though tears were already filling her eyes, she steeled herself, praying for emotional strength. She did not want to be a source of this savage ruler’s amusement.
Cheryl’s video opened with her dressed in the very short, black cocktail dress she wore now. When he had kidnapped her, the Turk had thoughtfully placed it in her carrying case with her. Cheryl also wore tonight, as she did every night for dinner, the ruby earrings Turk had decorated her with that night many sad months ago. Two long strands dangled from her ears, two were clipped to her nipples and two fastened to the lips of her vagina.
In the video only the earrings in her ears could be seen. Uzoma noticed the similarity in dresses immediately.
“Ho, ho!” he exclaimed, “She’s wearing the same dress, no?”
“The very same dress,” Stoner responded with a laugh. “With some modifications, of course.”
“Stand up! Stand up!” Uzoma demanded of Cheryl. “I want to see!”
Hesitatingly, Cheryl rose to her feet.
“Stand next to the tv!” Uzoma ordered.
Cheryl dutifully stepped closer to the television. She wore the very same forlorn, desperate look she did the night the video was made. She hung her head, not wanting the big black man to see her tears. It tormented her to see her own apartment, the furniture she had bought, a print on the wall, a row of books on a table. This was her home, a sacrosanct place. It, and her very life, had been stolen from her.
And there was the Turk. Cheryl was conscious of him behind the camera, she remembered the feel of his hands, his lips on her burning pussy. And she remembered the kiss. It was a kiss of promise, of desire. “Will he ever save me?” Cheryl thought.
She excoriated herself nightly for her fantasy that the very man who had cruelly kidnapped her and sold her into slavery would be her redeemer. But, yet, it stayed with her.
The dress that Cheryl wore tonight was the same dress that Turk had selected for her from her bedroom closet. It had a narrow waist, a low back. Two straps held panels of overlaid fabric over her breasts. The skirt flowed around her knees almost jauntily. Now, the panels had been removed so that her breasts, adorned with the red jewels, could be plainly seen. So too her sex, as a pie shaped wedge had been sliced out from the skirt of the dress. Even now, Cheryl’s fingers stroked the interior of her bare cunt, a ministration that was clear for all to see.
Cheryl was spared the torment of watching herself tauntingly tease the camera, slowly removing her dress and underclothes. The video Cheryl remarked on the purpose of her presented breasts. She bent over, her back to the camera, to give a clear picture of the split lips of her sex and the jewels that adorned them. Hearing her voice, remembering the Turk’s non verbal commands from behind the camera, the present day Cheryl could not hold back her tears.
Uzoma noticed Cheryl’s discomfiture. Justine was still slowly, exquisitely teasing his hard meat. His hand was on her head, stroking it. With his other hand he called Cheryl over.
“Let me kiss your lips, you poor girl,” he said. Cheryl cringed at the thought of the evil man’s tongue in her mouth, but she obeyed readily. She leaned over him and presented her lips. The man took one of his oversized hands and grabbed her hair at the back of her head. He thrust his fat tongue into her mouth and jammed lips his against hers. Apparently, this was all he needed to release his building lusts. He grunted loudly as he spurted into Justine’s mouth. His hand gripped Cheryl’s head tautly. “Ughh! Ughh! Ughh!” he cried, his hips thrusting at the mouth that engulfed his throbbing black cock. He gave a long, final moan and his body slumped. Justine sucked and licked at his cock delicately, determined to absorb every drop. Although he had shot his load, Uzoma continued to press his tongue into Cheryl’s mouth. His other hand had left Justine’s head and had inserted itself under Cheryl’s skirt and was rubbing the soft, hot cheeks of her ass.
Although her stomach turned at the unwanted invasion of her mouth by the President’s large, demanding tongue, Cheryl knew that he had chosen his whore for the night.
Uzoma finally released the grief stricken girl. He looked her in the eyes. “Tonight,” he told her, “I will comfort you with my cock. Okay?”
Cheryl strained to find the proper words. “Y-yes, Mr. President,” she replied, her voice soft and low. “If you desire it.”
“Very much, my dear,” the large man said gleefully. “Very much!”
To Stoner he said, “I compliment you on your wife’s very skilled mouth. I thought I was in heaven.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. And now Jeremiah will show you to your room.”
The giant rose from his chair and stretched. Jeremiah was standing, ready to lead him upstairs. The leader of the nation signaled his readiness and Jeremiah strolled from the room. The President grabbed Cheryl by the wrist and dragged her along.
When they reached the sumptuous guest room, Jeremiah left the President and his slut to their own devices. He had shown Uzoma a liquor cabinet and a small container of ice. The room was dimly lit by several lamps along the walls.
Uzoma’s demeanor changed immediately as they entered the room. Gone was the pretension of the amiable giant. He spoke sternly to Cheryl, “Take off that dress and the jewels and get on the bed.”
Cheryl quickly complied. She knelt there expectantly, her hands on her thighs, her back erect.
“No,” the President corrected her, “on your belly.”
Cheryl lay down on the bed on her stomach. She heard the African removing his clothes at the foot of the bed, where a suitcase sat on a stand. Uzoma looked at Cheryl whose hands were by her sides. “Hands behind your back, cunt,” he said. Cheryl obeyed.
Uzoma went over to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass of cognac. He took two long strands of leather from the suitcase and approached Cheryl. He quickly tied her wrists to her elbows. Cheryl groaned at the stress on her shoulders. For now, he let the ends dangle free. “Sit up,” he ordered Cheryl. The bound girl struggled to her knees and then swung her legs around so that she was sitting on her bottom, her legs crossed.
It was the first glimpse that she had gotten of the naked African. He had a broad, hairless chest, firmly muscled arms. He sported a slight paunch, a tribute to fine living. His thighs were like tree trunks and his long, thick, tumescent cock lay between them. He sat on the bed, taking a large mouthful of cognac from his snifter. He put his lips to Cheryl’s and forced them open. Slowly, he squirted the cognac into Cheryl’s mouth.
Cheryl had not tasted alcohol since before her kidnapping. She struggled to swallow the steady stream of liquor that flowed into her mouth. Her throat burned as it went down and a flash of heat passed through her body. Uzoma took another large mouthful and repeated the exercise. When his lips left Cheryl’s, her head was swimming. The alcohol made her dizzy. Her whole body tingled.
Uzoma smiled at the girl. “We’ll have some fun tonight, whore,” he said to her. He finished off the snifter of cognac and placed the glass down on a nightstand. He draped an arm over Cheryl’s shoulder and drew her body to his.
“Stoner says that you have very sensitive tits, white bitch. Let’s see how sensitive.”
The man pushed Cheryl back down on the mattress and pressed his body next to hers. With his right hand, he began to worry the nipples of Cheryl’s breasts. The ample breasts lay flat against her chest, but her taut, thick nipples stood out. The bulky man had a delicate touch, and he stroked and pulled the hard buds on Cheryl’s tits teasingly.
Cheryl could feel her cunt moistening as the tender strokes on her nipples began to enflame her. Uzoma leaned over and whispered in Cheryl’s ear. “I’ll bet I can make you come just by sucking on your tits. What do you think?”
The liquor had loosened any control Cheryl had over her body’s responses to the man’s caresses. She felt the heat growing in her loins even as the man spoke. “Y-yes, Mr. President,” she moaned back.
Uzoma laughed. “Call me ‘Master’ you white bitch,” he said.
“Y-yes Master,” Cheryl replied with a sigh.
Uzoma placed his broad lips over Cheryl’s nipple, subsuming the top portion of the breast in his large mouth. He sucked at the teat strenuously. He massaged the other breast while doing so and evoked another moan from the girl. Cheryl’s hips were grinding against the mattress. Her legs were splayed, inviting a caress of her now well lubricated gash. Uzoma leaned over and took the other breast in his mouth. Cheryl squirmed and moaned in pleasure. She felt her lusts building. Sensing her approaching climax, Uzoma withdrew his lips and tickled the teat with his tongue. Cheryl groaned in frustration.
“There’s no rush, whore,” Uzoma said to her. “We have all night.”
After he had sensed that Cheryl’s tide of passion had receded, he began his teasing and caresses once more. Three more times, he led the panting, bound girl to the brink of satisfaction, only to draw her back again. Cheryl was desperate for release.
The African was enjoying his torment of Stoner’s white slut. His rigid manhood was lodged against her thigh. He whispered into Cheryl’s ear. “Do you want to come, slut?”
“Yes, please Master, please let me come,” Cheryl responded, her voice husky with passion. The cognac’s effects heightened the sensitivity of her breasts, made her cunt burn all the hotter.
“First you must tell me what you are, slut,” Uzoma instructed the writhing woman. “Tell me that you’re a whore.”
“Yes, master, yes, I’m a whore, please!”
“A cocksucking slut.”
“I’m a cocksucking slut!” Cheryl cried out desperately. Uzoma was stoking her passions while he interrogated her, twisting and turning her nipples with his fingers, pulling on them.
“I thought so, cunt,” he said. Once more his expansive mouth captured fully a third of Cheryl’s breast. She moaned loudly, arching her back. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she cried out, digging her heels into the mattress, pressing her thighs together. The contractions of her orgasm were like electrical shocks. She twisted and turned her torso while the African’s tongue and lips tormented one breast and a huge hand encircled and squeezed the other. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” the girl cried as throb after throb of pleasure passed through her.
When he felt her orgasm subsiding, Uzoma withdrew his lips. He placed his hand between the panting girl’s thighs and delved into the gushing slit. “You come like a Bantu too,” he said. “Now you’re nice and wet for my cock.”
The huge, muscular man moved between Cheryl’s legs and mounted her. His thick cock slid home easily. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked his manhood inside of her. Cheryl groaned and met his thrusts by rocking her hips. Twice she orgasmed as the African probed her loins in a mesmerizing rhythm. Cheryl felt him splash his seed into her hot canal, felt him stiffen, heard him moan. She expected for him to withdraw, to give her relief from the almost excruciating pleasure of the friction of his meat against the hard bud that lay at the top of her gushing slit. But the domineering man merely paused and then started his subtly rhythmic rocking again.
Uzoma’s bulk dwarfed Cheryl’s body, and his torso pressed hard against her chest. He slid his thighs up, pressing Cheryl’s out widely. He took her lips with his and filled her mouth with his meaty, insatiable tongue. Cheryl tried to fight the brute off, her pleasure now becoming exquisitely painful. Each stroke sent sharp bolts of passion through her.
Cheryl moaned and cried into the mouth that covered hers. Uzoma’s big, meaty hands were on either side of her head, holding it still. He tore his lips from hers and whispered in her ear, his breath coming in grunts, “What are you?”
“I’m a whore!” Cheryl yelled out, frantic to satisfy the iron rod that ploughed her.
“And what else?” Uzoma hissed.
“I’m a slut, a cocksucking slut! Oh, please, please, I can’t take it, please!” Cheryl replied screaming with passion.
Uzoma took Cheryl’s thighs in his arms and pressed them back against her chest. Angled above her, he began to thrust hard and long into her cunt. Cheryl’s pussy throbbed and pulsed, her nerve endings tortured to their endurance. As the black ruler’s cock jetted a stream of thick, white cum into her body, Cheryl cried out again and again as her final orgasm shook her.
When Uzoma was finished, he slipped his rod free and let Cheryl’s legs flop down in exhaustion. The big man stepped off of the bed and poured himself another cognac. He sipped it, watching the white woman fall into slumber. Her hands were still bound behind her and her back arched over her arms. Her breasts were puddles of flesh on her chest, raised slightly by her arching back. The black giant was not through with her yet, but he would let her rest. He went to the bathroom and peed. He returned to the room and called the kitchen on the room telephone. He ordered a snack.
Placing the receiver back into its cradle, he went to his suitcase. He pulled out a black box, about 8 inches by 6 inches long and wide. It was about three inches high. He placed it on the nightstand. He returned to the suitcase and removed two penis shaped plugs and two long sets of wires. He connected the wires to the unit and plugged the unit into the wall. A knock came on the door. “Come,” he called out. A tall black woman entered. She was dressed in a long multicolored, patterned kanga wrapped around her and covering her from the tops of her breasts to her ankles. She wore a scarf in her hair decorated with lavender orchids. She carried a tray of cheeses and meats.
“Put it down over there, lovely lady,” the President said in their common native tongue.
“Yes, Lord,” the woman said deferentially as she walked towards the long credenza against the wall. She passed closely to the naked President. She was used to such things in Stoner’s mansion. As she went to walk away, she felt the black man’s hand on her arm. “Don’t go, lady,” the President said to her. “Stay and let me see that beautiful body.”
The woman was slender, about 25 years old, and her shapely hips were not masked by her garment. Her skin was dark brown, her face slender, her features delicate. She had thick, puffed out lips. She froze when the fearsome man touched her. She knew better than to displease one of Stoner’s guests. She had known that there was a good possibility that he would make advances to her when she entered the room. She and the other women in the kitchen had drawn straws to see who would go. She had lost.
“Why do you hide your charms, lady?” Uzoma asked the woman. He picked at the edge of the garment where it was tucked in at her side and pulled it free. Standing up close to her, he was able to unwrap the garment from around her body using both his hands. The woman’s graceful, full breasts were unbound beneath the garment and they swung free. She wore a pair of plain white, cotton, bikini panties. It covered a thick, black bush. Uzoma pulled the underwear down over her hips and worked it free of her feet. The woman was trembling with apprehension. Stoner sometimes grabbed a serving girl to satisfy his physical needs, but not often, as he had the three white sluts for that. But all the women had heard of the fierce man from the capital. Uzoma’s reputation for cruelty was known all throughout the country and outside of it. And now she was faced with the evil man himself, naked, his erection forming between his legs.
Uzoma pressed his body against the native woman’s and grabbed the cheeks of her ass from behind. He pressed his lips to hers and scoured her mouth with his tongue. The woman’s arms rose in feeble protest. He pressed on the woman’s shoulders, forcing her to her knees. “Suck my cock, pretty lady,” he ordered.
The native woman took the hardened meat into her hands and directed it at her mouth. She engulfed its tip and slowly swirled her tongue along it. The President was uncircumcised, and she pulled back the sheath of flesh that covered the end of the cock and caressed it tenderly with her tongue. Uzoma allowed the woman to pleasure him for several minutes. A groan from Cheryl, awakening from her nap, caught his attention. He could get a blowjob from a native woman anytime he wanted. But a pretty white woman, those were in short supply.
The man pulled his hardened rod from the native woman’s mouth. “Thank you for the service,” he told her. “You may go.”
The woman nodded gratefully and rose to her feet. She went to pick up her coverings and Uzoma stopped her with his foot. “I think I’ll keep those,” he said.
The woman nodded fearfully and backed away towards the door. She felt for the handle behind her and, when she found it, rushed from the room. She would have to run through the house naked. This would amuse all of the other servants very much.
Uzoma turned his attention to Cheryl. There were several canes mounted on the wall and he took one down. He stepped over to the bed and slapped it forcefully across the front of Cheryl’s thighs. Cheryl jumped fully into wakefulness at the blow. She sat up and, seeing the cane in the mighty hand of the black giant, started to edge herself away from him in fear.