And I must admit that I love the things she does to me too. But sometimes it confuses me. I start to think that, maybe, what my sister does to me just isn't right.
Her name is Mercy, but she has never shown me any.
Me? My name is Trudy. Mercy and I are black, and we come from the ghetto.
I never knew my father. I guess Mercy and I may have had the same father. But I doubt it. Momma fucked around so much with so many worthless dudes.
Mercy has always been like a mother to me, in a way. She is twenty-one now, and I am seventeen, and all this cruelty started about a year ago, when Mercy came in and told me that she had to use me to make some cash.
I will remember that night for the rest of my life.
It was about 10 o'clock that night, and I was in bed. I had been dreaming of that big black guy I had seen on the street that day, the one with the purple suit. He had been the most handsome thing that I ever laid these eyes on.
And I had been thinking of how good it would be to have that big guy fucking my insides out. I was naked there, and I just finished playing with myself when Mercy came in.
Now you may not believe this, but I had never really been sure of what Mercy did for a living until that night. I knew that she went to an office every day, and I guess I assumed that she worked there. But, that night, the whole truth came out.
She sat down on the edge of my bed and she touched my hair.
"Trudy," she said, "I need your help at work."
"Huh?"
Then Mercy took a deep breath and started to explain it all.
I was more than surprised when I found out what she did for a living.
You see, my sister works as a dominatrix for some of the biggest firms in New York City. Now, you may ask why a company would need a dominatrix on call. I will tell you. Sometimes a client comes into town and wants a special kind of action. That is when the company calls Mercy. Sometimes somebody is making trouble for the company and needs to be set right. That is when the company calls Mercy. I found out that night that Mercy makes a lot of money. A hell of a lot of money. Of course, I asked her What she did with all that money. We sure didn't spend it to live on. She said she was saving most of it for my college education and for the years when she would not be able to be a dominatrix.
"Black girls with whips age real fast, Trudy honey," she said.
That is the reason she needed my help, you see. She was aging real fast, and she needed a younger girl to help her with the clients that the companies would send to her. She had been thinking of bringing me into the business for a long time, but now it was almost an emergency.
She explained that she would need me for her next assignment and that assignment was for the next afternoon.
"You see, Trudy-pie," Mercy said. "There is this kid in New Jersey who is making trouble for one of the companies I work with. That company makes up exams that they give to kids. If a kid scores real high on the exam, he can get into college. A real good college. Maybe even get a scholarship. But this kid, well, he found a couple of errors on the exam, and he got all crazy about it. He says he is going to the newspapers and the courts and tell everybody that my company made those errors. That will be bad public relations for my company, you see."
"I see," I said softly.
"So the company has called me in. I am a big-time public relations consultant, you see."
I just looked at her. The truth was I did not understand everything but I figured she would explain it to me.
"But the guy who works with me, he said, 'Mercy, this kid ain't going to be convinced by just one black girl with a whip. He is gonna need two of them, at least. You got a partner?' I lied and said I did. I did not want to lost the account. But I ain't got no partner, Trudy. Never had one. I have been working by myself for the longest time. But now they think I got a partner and I better show up in New Jersey with a black girl as a partner or I will lose the account. You see?"
"So you want me to be your partner?"
"Right."
"But what will I do?"
"Same thing I do. Dress up in leather and beat the shit out of people. It's fun."
"It is?"
"Trudy, trust me. I got to train you quick."
Mercy got me out of bed that night and looked over my naked body.
"you sure have turned into a sexy thing," she said. "When did you do that?"
I giggled at her joke.
Then she asked, "You fuck guys yet, Trudy?"
I figured that I could not lie to my own big sister.
"Yes," I said, "I do fuck guys, Mercy. And I like it a lot."
"Good. It helps if you are sexually healthy."
Then she started to train me. She dressed me up in outfits that I had never even imagined before. She showed me how to use a whip. She taught me what parts of the body tingled best when they were struck.
God, I never knew there was so much to learn about beating the shit out of folks.
She had even set up a little dummy in her bedroom. All night, she kept me lashing away on that dummy. Sometimes she even yelled at me.
"Trudy! You idiot! I told you! Use the wrist! You won't get so tired so quickly!"
By dawn, I was exhausted. I staggered back into my bedroom, my mind reeling with everything that Mercy had taught me, and I collapsed onto the bed.
But, at noon, she was waking me up by slapping my firm, sweet ass.
"Come on, Trudy," she said. "We got to get to New Jersey. There is some snot-nosed genius kid who is looking for the beating of his life."
I showered and put on the costume that Mercy had laid out for me. It was the tight leather bodice and the tight leather pants and the boots. I looked at myself in the mirror when I had all of that stuff on and I smiled. I had to admit that I looked damned good.
Mercy and I are both very, very black. And the black leather looks like some kind of skin on us.
Mercy was dressed in much the same way. She looked even better than I did, I thought. I am sort of short and cute, but Mercy is big, tall and big-titted and wide-hipped. She looked like a-what do you call them?-oh, yes, Amazon.
We rode the train out to a small town in New Jersey. A guy was waiting for us there, a thin guy with white hair.
Mercy introduced me as her partner. The guy looked me over. I was wearing a coat over my black leather outfit, the same way that Trudy was wearing a coat over hers. But I opened my coat and showed the guy with the white hair what I looked like under that coat.
"Yeah," he said. "She will do just fine."
Then the guy took us to his car and we all got in and we started to drive through that scummy little town.
"Kid's at the library," the guy informed Mercy. "He is always at the library. He is a chubby, stupid-looking kid with glasses. You can use this car. You get him and you drive him out to the woods at the edge of town. We have a house set up there."
And he started to give Mercy directions to that house. My sister listened carefully and then she grinned.
"I got it," she said. "I got it just fine."
"Work him over good. Get him to liking it. I think he is the kind of kid who would like it. Do whatever you have to do, but make sure that he keeps his mouth shut about those mistakes we made on the exam."
"Keep him as long as it takes, right?" Mercy said.
"As long as it takes," the man with the white hair muttered. "Shouldn't take long though. Kids like him, they usually are virgins. They spend all their lives with books. They don't know the first thing about sex."
If the guy was right, I thought, it would be rather strange. This kid would go from not knowing anything to knowing more than most people did. I sat there in the back seat very quietly. I was scared and nervous. I hoped that I would do it right.
When we got to the little library, the guy with the white hair gave Mercy a picture of the kid and got out of the car. He started walking down the street.
Mercy turned around and grinned at me and pointed at the guy.
"He is a big-time scholar. He don't want to be associated with this kind of stuff."
I just sat there.
"In fact, he is the dean of a college somewhere. That is what I hear. But he is nice enough. He fixed up the house for us, and he will give us all the time we need."
Then Mercy and I just sat there in the car and watched the front door of that little library. We were waiting for our victim.
I felt a little bit like a bird of prey.
I liked that feeling for sure. And I liked the way that Mercy made me feel that I really belonged there.
While we were sitting there, Mercy turned to me and said, "Trudy, I think you will do just fine. And I want to thank you for helping me out of this jam."
"Sure thing, big sister," I muttered, still nervous but feeling damned good.
I guess you could say that for the first time in my life I felt that I was amounting to something. With that leather on, with all the stuff that Mercy had taught me in my head, I felt like a real professional. I was not just a nigger girl from the ghetto. I was something special.
Then the door to the library opened and the kid came walking out. He was carrying a big batch of books up against his chest, like a girl would.
"Let's get him," Mercy said quickly. And we moved out of the car at the same time.
Now that I look back on it and think, it is strange that I worked with her so well at that moment.
Sure, she had filled me in on how to kidnap a guy without making any special kind of scene. But I did it well. Maybe I am just a natural at this and I didn't even know it until that afternoon in that fucking small town in New Jersey.
The kid was walking down the sidewalk when Mercy and I caught him. She was the one who snarled at him.
"Get in the car, Alan, and don't make any noise."
"What?"
I opened the back door of the car and pushed him in. He dropped his books on the sidewalk and yelped a little. But I pushed his face down against the seat and held it down until Mercy got into the front seat and started to drive away.
Yeah, it happened that easily and that quickly.
"Who are you?" the guy finally choked out. "Why have you?"
And that was when I used my first bit of real brutality on a guy. I slapped the back of his head, and I said, "Shut the fuck up, Alan."
He did shut up. I was sitting on him, holding him down, but he did not even struggle that much.
He was a weak kid. He had spent all his time studying and not enough time building up his muscles.
That was the reason that we had been able to get him so easily.
"Put the cuffs on him, Trudy?" Mercy snarled from the back seat.
And then I felt like a great big fool. Here I had been thinking that I had worked so well, and I had forgotten to put the cuffs on him. That had been a major part of my job in the plan that I had made with Mercy.
I picked the handcuffs up from the floor of the car and snapped them on Alan's frail wrists quickly. Then he yelped again.
"Why me? My parents aren't rich?"
"But you are smart, Alan," Mercy said with a laugh. "You are too smart for your own good, buddy-boy."
"What?"
I slapped the back of his head again. "Shut up, Alan," I snarled, "or I am going to run a shithook through your ass."
"What?"
"Shut up or I am going to stretch your ass-hole over a doorknob."
"What?"
"Shut the fuck up, Alan," Mercy snarled from the front seat.
That was all she said, but her tone frightened even me. And Alan shut up.
I sure had a lot of learn about dominating people, I thought. All my threats had not worked, but a few words from Mercy had made that genius keep quiet real good.
We got the house that the company had set up for us a few minutes later.
It was the middle of the woods. No one would bother us there. Mercy and I got out of the car and pulled Alan out too.
His legs were weak he was so afraid. We had to almost carry that genius into the house.
When we got into the living room, I gasped. I could see that the people from the company had fixed the place up real special.
The room was bare except for a couple of big, box-like objects with chains and metal cuffs on them. The walls were covered with chains too and places for captives' hands when they were fixed to the walls.
And there were whips all over the floor. Mercy picked up one of them as I let Alan drop onto the floor.
That was when Mercy cracked the whip, using her wrist, just the way that she had taught me to do it a few hours before.
When he heard that crack, Alan screamed, even though the whip had not come within a yard of him.
"Don't hurt me!" he yelled. "My mother would never hurt me!"
I didn't understand this shit about his mother, but I understood Mercy when she gave me some directions.
"Get the cuffs off him. He ain't going no place."
I bent over and pushed Alan onto his stomach and unlocked the cuffs. I pulled them off easily.
Mercy was right, of course. Alan did not get up and run. He just crawled into a corner of the room and sat there, shivering.
"Why?" he kept whimpering. "Why? Why me? Why me?"
"I told you, Alan, cause you are too smart for your own good."
"But-"
"Get naked, Alan!" Mercy yelled at the genius.
He just sat there and blinked, as if he thought he might be dreaming. But then Mercy cracked that whip again and Alan, the genius, started to unbutton his shirt.
His flesh was bone white. He looked as if he had never been in the sun at all.
Mercy pulled off her coat and revealed to Alan her black leather outfit. I took the cue from my sister and pulled off my coat too.
Then, while Alan was stripping and gasping and sweating and Mercy was watching him, I picked up a whip and tried it out. I cracked it in the air.
Alan was down to his boxer shorts by then. He screamed again.
"Oh, shit," I snarled at him, "don't be such a big baby, Alan."
He started to cry and his glasses got all fogged up. Mercy walked over to him and pulled those glasses off his face and threw them across the room.
"Can you see without them?" she hissed at him.
"Yes, but not to read," Alan said softly.
"You ain't going to be doing no reading around here, Alan," Mercy said firmly.
And then she walked across the room and drove the heel of her black leather boot into the glasses, breaking them.
Alan continued to cry there in the corner. But Mercy cracked her whip again and reminded him that he was supposed to be doing something besides sobbing.
"I said for you to get naked, Alan," she growled. "And I mean real naked."
Alan wore white socks and brown shoes and boxer shorts. He looked like some kind of old man, I thought. He looked like someone who had never been a teenager at all.
"How old are you, Alan?" I asked.
"Sixteen," he said, as he pulled off his socks, "but I have the mind of a college professor already. That is what my mother says."
"Ain't your mind we is interested in," Mercy said. "You can keep your mind, and you can give your heart to Jesus for all we care. Cause, Alan, we has got your ass."
I had to fight hard to keep from laughing at that one. Alan sat there in his boxer shorts and looked up at Mercy and shivered with fear.
Then Mercy cracked the whip again. At least, this time Alan did not scream as a reflex.
"Get those fucking shorts off," Mercy ordered.
And Alan pushed the shorts down his legs and off. Then he struggled to stand up. He held onto the wall as he did that. He held onto the wall with one hand, that is. With the other hand, he tried to cover up his cock.
But I looked at that prick and I thought that he shouldn't be covering that thing up.
That cock was the best thing about Alan. It was really very big. Must have been about eleven inches long.
"Keep your fucking hand away from your doo-dad!" Mercy yelled. "Don't want no shit teenaged genius from New Jersey whacking off in front of me!"
Alan jerked his hand away from his-what do you call them?-oh, yeah, loins.
Then he just dropped to his knees right there in that room.
"Why me?" he asked again.
And this time, Mercy started to explain why he had been chosen as the victim of two black girls in leather.
"You see, Alan, we have been sent by the Testing Service Corporation to talk to you about those mistakes you found. We don't want you to make a big farting stink about those mistakes. We are going to change them answers. But we don't want you to say nothing about nothing, you hear?"
Alan grinned. He suddenly seemed positively cocky.
"I should have known," he said. "You want me to keep quiet. But I won't. I want everyone to know I caught you. I want everyone to know that I am smarter than all those-"
Mercy cracked the whip in the air again, and that crack knocked the cockiness right out of Alan.
"You ain't smarter than nobody, Alan," she said. "You ain't no smarter that a dog turd. Nobody smart is going to mouth off when a lady's got a whip and he ain't got no fucking clothes on."
"But I am smarter than you," Alan whined. "I bet you two have no education at all."
Mercy suddently exploded with wrath.
"I'll show you education, piece of shit!" she yelled.
And she lashed Alan right across the chest with that whip. He fell back onto the floor and grabbed his chest and kicked around with the pain.
Mercy had explained all about whips to me the night before. The whips she used did not cut people. But they hurt like hell just the same.
And I could tell that Mercy had hurt Alan bad at that moment.
But I could also tell that she had had a perfect right to hurt him. He had smarted off at her. He was such a smarty-pants. He thought that he was better than Mercy and me because he was some kind of genius or something. Well, that kind of genius stuff did not cut any mustard with Mercy, and I guess it didn't do much for me either. I had figured out already in my life that the measure of a man was not how much he knew or could figure out. A man was measured by how well he used that cock of his to make a woman feel good.
Still, I kept looking at Alan's cock, and I thought that, if he could get some training, he might be able to use that thing like a real man, might be able to measure up even to Mercy and me.
But he sure as hell was not going to measure up if he didn't stop that stupid shit about how smart he was. Mercy was right. We weren't that interested in his brains. We had come to get his ass.
Mercy looked at me and nodded. Then she said, "Trudy, get the paddle."
When he heard that, Alan turned and looked at us.
"My mother never paddled me," he muttered. "Never in my whole life."
"Should have," my sister said. "She should have paddled you good."
I had seen the paddles when I had come into the room. They were hanging on the wall beside the door. I went to the paddles and selected one that looked brutal and sturdy. What I especially liked about that paddle was that it was black, as black as Mercy, as black as me, as black as our outfits. Black seemed to be the color of the day, and I thought that Alan should remember that.
I carried the paddle back to my big sister and handed it to her.
Mercy took it and walked toward one of the big, wooden boxes. She sat down there on the box and she spoke to me again.
"Herd that pig over here, Trudy," she said. "Herd him with the whip handle."
This was really it ! This was my chance to show my sister just how much I had learned. I moved toward the white guy quickly and I turned my whip and jabbed him with the hard, black handle of the thing.
"Up on your hands and knees, hairbag," I snarled at him.
"But-"
I slammed the whip handle against the soft white meat of his thigh and he moved quickly to his hands and knees.
He looked at Mercy. She sat there with that paddle in her hands and she snarled at him.
"Come to Momma," she said.
"My mother tells me that I am very intelligent. My mother is proud of me," Alan said. "My mother never paddled-"
I did not know for sure about Mercy but I was getting sick and tired or hearing all that shit about his mother. The boy was sick with his mother, I thought. I slapped him on the white ass with the whip handle and said, "Get moving and shut up, piggie."
He started to move toward Mercy and her paddle. I slapped him again with the whip handle. I glanced at Mercy as I did that and I saw the faint smile that she gave me. I knew that I was pleasing my big sister with my rough and tough ways.
I thought of another possibility then. I whacked the genius's ass and said, "Moo, man, moo."
"Moo?" he said softly, tentatively.
"No, really moo, white genius. Moo like that cow of a mother that you talk about so much."
I could see his face grow red. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder and glared at me with more anger than I had ever seen any other person have.
I thought for a few seconds that I had gone too far. Alan was weak, but that anger could make him strong. And he might just use that anger to beat shit out of me and Mercy, I thought.
But the anger subsided, and he turned to look at Mercy again.
And then he let out the longest, loudest sound I have ever heard. It seemed to come from deep in his body, maybe even down in that big cock of his.
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Mercy relaxed and smiled at me as Alan crawling, mooing, toward her and her paddle.
When he got to her, he knelt in front of her. He was still shivering with fear, but something seemed to have changed in him. He had given up fighting and talking about how smart he was. He already was learning something, I thought. He was learning that, when women have whips, it is best not to fight too much.
Every man should know that. Don't mess too much with a woman when she has a whip or a paddle in her hand.
More men should learn that, I think.
Anyway, Alan had learned it good. He knelt there and waited for Mercy to give him some kind of order.
And then, as if he wanted to show us just how much he had learned, he mooed again for us.
"MOOOOOOOOOOO!"
It seemed that Alan was really getting off on the mooing now.
I moved up behind the genius and ran the whip handle up and down his spine as he knelt there. He shivered when I did that.
"I hate my mother," he muttered. "Down deep, I hate her."
"Why do you hate your mother, Alan?" Mercy asked, and I was surprised to hear a tone in her voice that seemed to say she actually cared.
"Because she never let me be like other boys. She always kept me around her. I wanted to play baseball. I wanted to run down the street yelling, but she taught me to read when I was only three. She taught me French when I was five. She taught me everything except how to be normal."
"And she never paddled you," Mercy said softly.
"Never. She didn't have to. She whipped me from the day I was born by telling me that I was smart. She whipped me with her tongue. I hated her for that."
My sister, who looked so good in leather, motioned for Alan to come closer.
"Over my lap, Alan," she said. "I will spank your white, white bottom for you."
"I have been bad, I guess," the genius muttered as he moved over her lap and lay there. "I should not have made so much trouble for that testing company."
I was surprised. It had worked that quickly. I knew then that Alan would not go to the courts or the newspapers with the story about those mistakes.
But I guess Mercy wanted to make sure that he did not do that. I guess she wanted to give him something that he needed real bad.
Because she raised the paddle and she brought it down hard on his white ass.
When I heard the smack and Alan's yelp, I sighed and felt my pussy growing warm inside my leather pants.
I felt weak, and my body started to burn as if I were the one that Mercy was spanking at that moment. Of course, she had never spanked me. She had been like a mother to me, but she had never spanked me once.
She brought the paddle down again and again on Alan's ass. He whimpered and he kicked a little, but he took it like a man, I thought.
And then, when she pushed him off her lap and onto the floor, he lay there and sighed out the words.
"Thank you, Woman in Leather. You are much more intelligent than I am. You knew just what I needed."
He looked at me too. I could see the tears of happiness in his eyes.
"You gave me what I needed too," he said.
Mercy stood up quickly and spoke to me as she moved toward the door.
"I got to go take a shit, Trudy. You look after Alan."
And then she was gone and I looked down at that bone-white male with the big cock and I was not sure at all what she wanted me to do with him.
So I dropped the whip and knelt down beside him. I was fascinated by that prick. I had never seen one that big before. I had only fucked black men, and I know you hear that black men have got bigger ones than white men, but it ain't true. At least, it wasn't true in this case. Alan had a fine and dandy whanger there, and I reached out and touched it softly.
He jerked a little when I touched it. I wonder now if he thought I was going to rip it off.
"You learn to use that thing, Alan," I said. "That thing is big. I tell you. You learn to use it right and you will get any girl you want. Be no question then that you are a real man."
"Really?" he asked. "Is it big?"
"Real big."
"I wouldn't know. I have never seen anyone else's. Most guys see other guy's things when they take gym class and shower together and stuff like that. But my mother never let me take gym class."
"It's big," I said. "Real big. Believe me, Alan. I wouldn't shit you on that one."
And then I heard Mercy coming back. I pulled my hand away from his cock and stood up. I knew in my heart that my sister would not like it if she had seen me touching that genius's cock.
Mercy came back with a piece of paper and made Alan sign it. It was an agreement that he would not tell anyone about the mistakes. But she smiled at me as he signed the thing. The truth was that she didn't need a piece of paper. She had already gotten Alan's promise and that promise was as good as a well-spanked ass.
Still, I guess people have to do things legal when they work in a big company.
After Alan had signed the paper, we let him get dressed and we took him back to town. The books that he had dropped outside the library had been stacked up neatly by the side of the street.
I wondered when I saw them there what kind of person would do that, stack up books and still leave them by the side of the street. But I guess that New Jersey is filled with strange people.
I guess the whole world is filled with strange people.
PART TWO
After that, I became Mercy's partner in domination. We made for quite a duo, quite a sister act, although most of our customers never knew that we were sisters.
Mercy continued to teach me and I continued to join her on special missions for special companies.
But I did not go out on my own until almost two months later.
And, when I did go out all by myself to service a client, I went to a woman. She was my victim, my willing victim in a sexy game. It was strange and it was kinky and it was exciting. But I must admit that I was a little scared right at first. I did not want to fuck anything up. I wanted to make Mercy proud of me.
I wanted to be as professional as my sister was, I guess.
But, at one point, I did think that I had screwed everything up. At one point, I thought that I had let my lust get in the way of my professional pride.
Let me tell you the story.
I got the assignment from Mercy.
"Trudy," she said one afternoon, "we have got one hell of a problem, little sister."
"What kind of problem?" I asked. It seemed that Mercy and I could have no problems as long as we worked together. When we were together, everything seemed positively perfect.
"We have two people to punish this afternoon?" my sister told me.
"You mean two in the same place at the same time?" I asked.
"No," Mercy said softly, shaking her head. "Two in different places at the same time. They are both good clients, and they are on opposite sides of the city.
I knew what she was getting at, but I waited for her to tell me. I was a little fearful, even then, I guess.
"We are going to have to split up," Mercy said. "You are going to have to work with a victim all by yourself this afternoon."
She probably gave me the easier client of the afternoon. I am not sure because I never asked her about her client, her victim.
But I know that, as I took the cab over to the big, imagine hotel in midtown Manhattan, I prayed that I would be able to handle it all by myself.
In a way, my client was easy. She was not like the genius in New Jersey. She wanted to be hurt, and she knew that I was coming over to do it to her.
Remember that I said that some companies hired Mercy when a special person came to town, a person who wanted to be hurt and abused a little bit?
Well, Ms. Leslie Bernstein of Philadelphia was one of those special people.
She was a literary editor for a big publishing house, and she was so good at her job that her bosses let her have anything she wanted. A lot of big-time writers had joined the publishing house to work with Leslie Bernstein. It was said that she had a perfect eye for what would sell It was said that she was tough on writers, but only when those writers needed someone to be tough on them.
Every so often, Leslie Bernstein came to New York City for a couple of days. She would meet with her bosses then, and she would meet with some writers too. But, mostly, she would take her room at the imagine hotel and she would tell someone in the company that she wanted to be abused by a black girl. And that is when the person in the company would call Mercy.
Nothing was too good for Leslie Bernstein, the people at that publishing company thought.
I knew I had to do some special things with a woman like her.
But, naturally, I kept wondering what kind of woman she was. I had pictured in my mind an old hag, a tough and bitchy hag. So I was surprised when she opened the door to her hotel room.
She was very attractive, very sexy. And she was naked under that robe. I could tell that.
"Come on in," she said with a smile. "I am on the phone right now, but I will be off in a minute."
She was short and she had dark hair. Her robe was open just a bit and I could tell that her breasts were firm and nicely pointed.
I closed the door behind me after I stepped into the room. This was going to be fun, I thought, a lot of fun.
She went back to the bed and sat down and crossed her legs. The robe fell open. Her legs were sleek and strong and curvy. I sat down in a chair and studied her and smiled thinking of my good fortune.
She started to bark out orders over the phone, and I could see another side of Leslie Bernstein. In business, she was one tough customer. I could tell that immediately from what she said.
"You tell Henry that he is going to have to re-write the last half of the book. It doesn't make sense to kill the girl off so early. She is the best character he has. She is the fucking heroine, for God's sake. I know he says it's mythic, but you tell him that, to me, it's shit. Shit. Mythic is always shit to me, and I am the one who always picks them. Call Norman too. Tell him to cut the first 100 pages of the book on the mass murderer. Nobody cares about his philosophy of the real and the ideal. They want to get to the blood and guts and scary stuff. If he says no, tell him that Leslie Bernstein knows about what he did to his fifth wife and she will plaster it all over the papers if he doesn't cooperate. Then call Stephen and tell him that I said that his book is great. I have just two minor suggestions. I want him to get rid of the hero. The guy has not one iota of style. Just chop the guy out. That's right. And tell him that he has a character on page 168, a black janitor. Yeah, well, tell him to make that black janitor the hero. I will expect his revisions next month. Next month! The guy writes fast. He can do it. He writes shit but he writes it quickly. Okay. Now don't bother me for a couple of hours. I am going to be busy. I will meet with Hal tonight for dinner. Yeah. Yeah. Fine."
She did not even say good-bye to whomever she was talking to.
She just hung up. Then she looked up at me and smiled.
I stood up and took off my coat. I was wearing a special leather outfit for her, and I wanted her to see it, to be thrilled by it immediately.
The leather bodice was cut low to show off my tits. I have nice tits. They are not as big as Mercy's, but they are curved and sexy and firm. They are good tits.
And I was wearing hot-pants, leather hot-pants that showed off my legs.
Some people say that my legs are the best thing about me, you see. I have strong, long legs.
Of course, I was wearing the black, leather boots too. That is a necessary part of the outfit.
I turned around slowly and let Leslie Bernstein look me over. When I faced her again, she was smiling.
"You like?" I asked, knowing full well that she did like it, of course.
"I like," Leslie Bernstein said. "I like it a lot."
I liked her too. She was going to be fun, I thought. I knew that she was naked under that robe, and I knew that that robe would come off when my whip came out of the little case I carried it in.
"You are Mercy's little sister, right?" Leslie asked.
"That's right. She has trained me in the art of domination. I am sure that I will be able to give you what you need."
"I am sure you will be able to do that too," Leslie Bernstein said. "I have had Mercy several times. She is fantastic."
Then Leslie Bernstein stood up and walked toward the bureau. She opened an attache case and I walked up behind her and looked into the case.
"I brought a few toys with me from Phillie," she said.
Her toys were the biggest collection of dildoes I had ever seen. She also had creams and jells inside that case.
She put her finger to her red lips and she started to pick out some toys for the afternoon.
"I think that this one will do nicely. And that one too. And, perhaps-"
I knew that it was time that I took control of the situation.
"I will decide which ones we use," I snarled at her, pushing her back with my arm.
I looked into the case and picked out the one that I liked best, the long, shining, black dildo.
Like I said, I have always been attracted to black.
"We will use this one," I said, turning and holding the black dildo up in the air. "I will use this on your whore's cunt."
Leslie Bernstein sighed. She opened her robe and let it drop from her shoulders.
Her body was sexy and tempting and trembling.
"Oh, you are going to be wonderful" she said softly, passionately. "I can tell that even now."
"Damned right," I said. "I am going to be fucking great with you, cunt."
Then I moved across the room in my sexy, leather outfit, and I opened my case.
I pulled the whip out of the case. Of course, it was black too.
I held the dildo up in one hand and the whip up in the other and I snarled at Leslie Bernstein, just the way that she wanted to be snarled at.
"First the whip. Then the black cock. I will use both of them on you, you fucking Philadelphia whore."
"I love it," the naked woman said, and then she fell back on the bed and spread her arms and legs wide.
I walked to the bed. She looked tempting that way, opening and oh, so female at that moment. It was difficult to remember that she had been the one barking orders over the phone just a minute before. Now she seemed so pliable, like white, soft dough.
I had an idea. I laid both the dildo and the whip down on the table next to the bed.
I did not need either one right now, I thought. I would use my hands on her.
I would use my hands and work her around as if she were dough, I thought.
I reached out and grabbed her dark hair and pulled her quickly from the bed.
She tumbled onto the floor. I pulled her up until she was kneeling in front of me. Then I slapped her hard across the face.
She winced with that slap, but she took it. She loved it. I could tell.
"You will go to the bed when I tell you to, you Philadelphia slut," I said. "And not one second before."
"Oh, yes," she sighed. "I am sorry, Mistress. I am sorry I went to the bed when I belonged here on the floor."
Mistress! No one had ever called me that before. I had heard that some victims liked to call their women in leather Mistress, but I had never heard that word come from another person's mouth before. I had never heard that word directed to me before.
The word sent shock waves right into my cunt. I loved that word.
To show Leslie Bernstein, my white, willing slave, just how much I did love it, I slapped her again. She took the blow and sighed.
"I am Mistress Trudy to you, you fucking Philadelphia slut," I said.
"Mistress Trudy," the woman sighed. "All right. Mistress Trudy. I love it."
"What?"
"I think I love you, Mistress Trudy," she admitted in an eager voice.
I could not let her get away with saying something like that. This was not an afternoon for love, and Leslie Bernstein and I both knew. This was an afternoon for domination.
I had to remind that piece of Philadelphia shit just why I had come here.
I kicked her with the toe of my black boot.
I kicked her right in the stomach.
And Leslie Bernstein fell over onto the carpeted floor and groaned with pain and desire mixed in her throat.
Her face was near my boot. That gave me another kinky and wonderful idea.
I snarled at her as she lay there, sighing with lust for my firm hand.
"Lick it," I said. "Lick my fucking boot, you piece of garbage."
"Yes, Mistress Trudy," she said, obeying me immediately.
She brought her face close to my boot and she started to lick it tenderly.
She worked her tongue over the leather and she spread her legs as she licked my boot.
I could tell that she wanted to play with her pussy, so I decided that I would let her have that pleasure too.
"Finger your mangy cunt, Leslie," I said. "Finger it while you lick that leather."
Her finger went quickly into her hole, like someone falling into the Grand Canyon, I thought.
She started to work on her pussy, but she continued to lick the leather of my black boot.
Her tongue made the boot wet. It shone there in the light of the room, and I felt myself burning with desire in my leather outfit as I gave Leslie Bernstein another order.
"Lick my black, sweet leg too, you slut," I said.
Naturally, she did just what I told her to do. Naturally.
She kept her finger in her snatch as she worked her tongue up to the top of my boot.
Then she licked my black flesh. The touch of that tongue on my skin made me shiver, made me feel things I had never felt before. That was a woman's tongue on my flesh, I thought, and that fact made everything better for me.
My cunt grew warm and moist and juicy and sexy inside my leather hot-pants.
I had never been touched or licked by a woman in this before, but I knew that I loved it. For sure, I love it.
I had heard that most girls don't mind an occasional taste of new, lesbian fruit, but I had never tried something like that. I liked the taste of the fruit too, even though I knew that Leslie Bernstein was the one who was doing the tasting now.
She was tasting my leg, my black flesh. I wondered if that flesh was as sweet to her as the black leather of my boot had been. I noticed that she kept digging deeper into her own pussy, and I suspected that my black leg was sweet enough, very sweet to her.
She moved up my leg, licking away, and, soon, she was on her knees in front of me, still working fiercely in her pussy. She was on her knees and licking and kissing the front of my leather pants.
Those kisses-from a woman's soft, red lips-were driving me insane. I lifted my arms and ran my fingers through my kinky hair and groaned.
But I had to stop that insanity that threatened to engulf me. I knew that.
I had to keep control of the situation. That was what Leslie Bernstein expected. That was what she had asked for when she had asked for a black girl in leather.
After all, I was Mercy's little sister, and I knew that Mercy was always in control.
But, as I fought off the desire that filled me, I had to wonder about my sister.
I had to wonder if Mercy had even felt this way with Leslie Bernstein, if Mercy had ever made it with a woman.
Maybe.
Probably.
It seemed only natural that my sister, who was so experienced, would have tried this strange fruit too, at least once.
It seemed only natural to me because I recalled how little I had really known of my sister until just a few short weeks before.
Leslie Bernstein moved her fingers up over my buns. Her touch added to the flame in my bloodstream. I had to stop this action right now, I thought.
So I shoved her. I pushed her away from me. She tumbled back on the floor and she lay there, looking up. She yearned for me. That was obvious.
But I knew that she yearned for the whip too. She expected the whip.
I turned and picked up the whip and held it in my trembling hand.
"Yes, Mistress Trudy," the white woman muttered. "Yes, beat me, Mistress Trudy."
She lay there on the carpeted floor and trembled and sighed. Her fingers were still working in her cunt. She had not stopped that action for anything since I had allowed her to put her fingers into that well of passion.
She was experienced at pain and suffering and passion, I thought.
I would let her continue to finger out her snatch while I beat the shit out of her.
I raised the whip and brought it down with a crack onto that sexy, white flesh. I was experienced enough now. I could take steady aim, even when I was filled with desire. The whip cracked against one of Leslie's sweet nipples.
And the little woman moaned and shoved her fingers even more deeply into her twat and she trembled there on the floor.
"Mistress Trudy," she sighed, "I have been so bad. Beat me, Mistress Trudy. Beat all that shit out of me. Please."
She twisted under my whip and I twisted too, with desire as I lashed her again and again.
Crack!
"You slut!"
Crack!
"Oh, yes, I love it. Beat me more, Mistress Trudy!" Crack!
"You Philadelphia whore!" Crack!
"I need it. I need it so badly. More. More, Mistress Trudy. Beat my tits and beat my body. Beat my everything."
My own passion, my own heat, my own need matched hers perfectly, it seemed.
I continued to bring the whip down on her as she sighed and moaned and trembled.
I beat her until I was exhausted and so hot in my leather that I thought I was going to explode like a volcano.
I had never reacted to any victim in that way before, and I wondered now, as I stood there gasping and sighing over her sweet body, if Mercy had ever been driven to distraction by a session such as this one.
I wondered if my sister had ever gotten this hot for a woman-for any victim at all.
Then I looked at the table, and I remembered that I had promised Leslie that I would use that too.
I was not finished with her. I dropped the whip onto the floor and, sighing, I reached out and picked up the black, long dildo.
"Onto the bed," I said in a rough voice. "It is time to take the big, black cock into your Philadelphia pussy."
I could tell when I saw her move that she still felt the pain, that she still ached from the whipping I had given her.
But, even with the pain and the aches rushing through her body, she moved quickly onto the bed and spread her legs wide. She was ready for the fucking, and I was more than ready to give it to her.
I held up the dildo and I glared at her sexy, sweet, hot body.
"Is your cunt all wet and warm and ready for this black cock, you tramp?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, Mistress Trudy," she moaned. "My cunt is wet and warm and ready for the black cock. My cunt yearns for the black cock because my cunt is so whorish, Mistress Trudy."
Mistress Trudy! The name sent more heat coursing through my bloodstream, and all of that heat seemed to end up in my wet, wanting cunt.
Mistress! I loved being this sexy woman's mistress! I would have liked to be her mistress for the rest of eternity!
I moved onto the bed as Leslie Bernstein spread her legs even wider.
I slipped that dildo between her thighs and touched the lips of her quaking pussy with the hard, cold head of the thing.
"I am going to shove this black cock into your Philadelphia pussy," I snarled.
"Please, Mistress Trudy," she whimpered. "Shove it in. I need it. I have been such a whore. I have been so fucking bad."
As Mercy would have done, I showed Leslie Bernstein my power.
I showed that open cunt no mercy at all. I showed the woman just how well I could dominate a female.
I slammed that dildo up her cunt. I made her take about half of that thing with one movement. She gasped, but she took it. She loved it too. I could tell
As I started to fuck her with vigor, I felt my own pussy and the desire that filled it. I knew that this sexy action with this woman had turned me on.
My own pussy was quivering and filling with juices because I liked being the mistress of such a sexy, naked, willing white woman.
Perhaps a genius like Alan could figure out all the reasons why this sexy stuff turned me on. It was a combination of the abuse that I had given Leslie and the whiteness of her flesh and the fact that she was female and oh, so willing.
But I am not a genius. I never claimed to be. I am just a black girl who grew up in the ghetto and didn't know shit until her sister let me in on this wonderful business.
I only knew I liked doing this stuff to Leslie. I only know I liked the way she looked when she suffered under me. I liked it just fine.
I liked the way she twisted and heaved and fucked that dildo back with all her might.
I liked the way she trembled and sighed and tossed her head from side to side as I shoved that black, fake cock deeper into her. I liked the way her pussy seemed to eat up that prick, the way that her whole body had seemed to eat up the abuse that I had given her.
And her nipples were pink and erect and they seemed to beckon me.
I liked the way those nipples looked too.
So, even though I had never done anything like that before, it seemed only natural.
Natural.
Very natural.
It seemed only natural for me to move my mouth close to one of those pink, sexy nipples.
I leaned in close and I kissed that nipple with my black lips.
Now, I kept working that dildo in and out of her just the same. And I didn't show any mercy with that fucking that I was giving her. I tell you, sometimes I thought I was going to rip her fucking Philadelphia guts out with that fake cock.
I did it all just right, I thought. That was the reason her reaction to my kiss surprised me.
You see, when I kissed that nipple, I almost ruined the whole fucking thing.
She gasped and she stopped churning there on the bed and the next thing I knew she had slapped me silly, knocking me across the bed.
That little, sexy woman packed a mean punch. I will tell you that.
"What are you?" she growled at me. "Some kind of fucking nigger dyke?"
"I didn't think you would mind," I said softly, as I touched that place where she had slapped me and felt the tingling and burning there. "I didn't think you would care. I thought you would like it."
"Well, I didn't like it," she said, sitting up on the bed and pulling the black dildo out of her cunt. "I don't fucking make it with niggers."
She had used that word twice. I hated that word.
Words are funny things. They can make you feel all sexy and good and warm inside, the way that the word, mistress, had made me feel when Leslie had said it.
And they can make you hot with anger and cold inside at the same time.
That word, nigger, does that to me. It makes me hot and cold and fighting mad.
This time, when I grabbed her, I was not a professional dominatrix doing what I had been hired to do. No sir. This time, I was a black woman defending her fucking honor.
I grabbed her dark hair and pulled her. I pinched her nipple and slammed my fist against her jaw.
And we tumbled off the bed onto the floor, fighting and struggling like that.
We growled at each other as we fought on the floor.
"Nigger whore."
"Philadelphia cunt."
"Nigger."
"God-damned Philadelphia bitch, white slut."
"Nigger."
As we rolled on the floor, battling fiercely, Leslie Bernstein ripped my leather bodice open. My tits were bared to her brutal hands.
She grabbed one tit and she pulled on it. I squealed and yanked on one of her pink nipples too.
And then it happened. I am not sure how it happened. I have tried to reconstruct it in my mind a thousand times, and I cannot find that one instant, that one second in which the battling turned into something else.
All I know is that Leslie Bernstein had her hands on my tits and I had my hands on her tits and we looked at each other and we seemed to really see each other for the first fucking time.
And, when our lips came together, it was fine. It was good. It was passionate.
Our arms went around each other and our mouths opened and our tongues played back and forth from one mouth to another and we held each other tightly there on that floor.
When the kiss was over, we were friends again. More than friends. We were going to be lovers for the afternoon, and we both knew it.
I raised up on my knees and Leslie brushed the bodice from my body with her sexy fingertips. I shivered as she moved those fingertips over my tips, as she circled my nipples with those touches.
"I will pay for it," she said. "And I really did not mean anything when I said that word.
Really, Trudy. I didn't mean a thing."
Just Trudy now. No Mistress here. We were equals now in passion and in lust.
And I did not know if Leslie was lying, did not understand why she would have used that other word if she had not meant it. Perhaps she was trying to make me angry so I would beat her. Perhaps she was speaking a word that she had learned a long, long time before.
But I did not take time to figure anything out. I am not a genius.
I was just a passionate, girl-loving girl at that moment. And, when Leslie put her red lips on my nipple and started to suck it, I felt my juices flowing like volcanic lava down there in my cunt.
She sucked first one nipple and then the other. Then she raised her face up to mine and we kissed passionately again.
Finally, she let me go and she stood up. She moved to the bed and sat down on the edge of the thing. I knew without being told that she wanted me to take off those leather shorts. I knew that she wanted a show to make her cunt tingle with even more desire.
So I gave her the show she wanted. I let her look me over as I stood there and massaged my own black tits. I pursed my lips and cooed to her.
"You are so beautiful, Leslie Bernstein," I said. "You are so beautiful to me."
And then, slowly, I moved my hands down over my body, touching my sides and my stomach. Slowly, I started to unzip those tight, black, leather shorts. The zipper was on the side. I turned so that Leslie could see that I wore no panties underneath them.
She sighed when she saw that black flesh come into view.
I opened those shorts and then I moved them down my sleek, black legs.
I stepped out of them gingerly and I smiled at Leslie Bernstein. I threw the leather panties to her. She caught them and turned them inside out and pressed her face against that spot that had been against my warm, wet pussy.
She took a deep breath and groaned. Then she took the shorts away from her face long enough to make a request.
"Please keep the boots on," she said. "It will make it even more special."
"Sure," I said."
She continued to breathe in the wonderful aroma of my cunt again. As she did that, she watched me with eager eyes. I spread my legs wide and I worked my fingers up the inside of my thighs and I moaned as I touched my own wet pussy.
The lips of my cunt were tender and wet with juices.
"Oh, Leslie," I sighed, "let's make it. Let's do everything together. As equals."
"Sure, Trudy," the dark-haired, short beauty said, throwing the leather pants to one side. "Come to me, Trudy. Come to me."
She fell back onto the bed and I dashed to her and threw my black, sleek, sexy, lustful body on top of hers. We kissed as she brought her legs up and around me.
Then she started to churn her body against mine. I churned back as our mouths opened, as our tongues played that sexy game together again.
When the kiss was over, I raised up slightly and smiled down at Leslie.
"Tell me," I said. "About Mercy, I mean."
"What about Mercy?" she asked innocently. But she grinned too, and she kept her pussy churning against my own. I knew that she knew what I meant.
I just grinned.
"Sure," she said, "Mercy and I make it together every time."
"That's what I thought," I said. "It's okay. I just wanted to know for sure."
"She is good, but you are even better. You have such a black, sexy body."
As Leslie said that, she moved her fingers up and down my sides.
And then we kissed and turned on the bed and I slipped my legs around her. I was on the bottom then, as a woman is often on the bottom with a man, and Leslie was on top, in the male position, working her cunt against my own and pressing her sexy breasts against mine.
Leslie seemed to know without being told that this was my first time with a woman.
That was why she took control of the situation then. She would show me what a woman did to another woman. She would show me all.
Like I said, I am not a genius, but I figured I would learn this very quickly.
Leslie kept her tongue very active as she moved slowly down my body. She licked my neck and throat with that tongue and that tongue-lashing made my pussy boil with even more lust.
Then Leslie started to kiss my black titties with soft smacks of passion.
Again, she put her lips on one of my nipples and sucked on that nipple until it was bumpy with desire. When she had done her magic on that nipple, she moved to the other one. She worked down my body slowly, sexily. She took her time. We had all afternoon, and she wanted to make sure that I enjoyed it all.
She did things to me that no one had ever done before. She flipped me over and licked up and down my spine. That sent new chills and new fevers through me.
She spread my ass-cheeks and licked me out there.
She seemed to want to taste every inch of my black, sweet flesh.
And every touch added to the passion that I felt for this sexy, little, white woman. Every touch added to the fire that was in my cunt.
When Leslie drove her tongue into my navel, I thought that I was going to pass out from all the passion that we shared.
But, finally, she made it to my cunt. She ran her tongue through my pussy hair and I stretched my legs wide apart. I wanted to open myself up to this woman as I had never been opened to anyone before.
I felt her breathe against my pussy lips, and I moaned to her as that cool air sent new chills through me.
"Oh, Leslie, lick out my cunt. Like out my cunt. Please. I want to feel your tongue deep inside me."
Leslie would not deny me. I knew that. She was filled with passion too.
She spread my pussy lips with her fingers. She paused, and I suspected that she was inspecting the pinkness inside me. I imagine that that pinkness looks very good surrounded by all my black skin.
She must have liked what she saw down there, for, a few seconds later, her tongue was working against my clit, jabbing me and sending me higher than I had ever been before.
When she sucked my clitoris into her red, soft lips, it did not take long for me to experience my first, sweet, lesbian orgasm.
I loved it all. I loved every touch, every move, every kiss that she had in her.
And, later, I did the same thing to her. And I am happy to report-proud to report-that I made Leslie Bernstein come like crazy. I think I have a right to be proud of myself for something like that.
But, before I left her, she made one more request of me. She asked for the favor while we were lying there naked in each other's arms.
I ask you: How can anyone turn down a request made under those sweet circumstances?
"Will you become Mistress Trudy again for just a few minutes?" she asked.
Her voice was soft and a little shy. I could tell that she was worried about how I would react to such a thing.
"Sure, Leslie," I said, smiling and then kissing her quickly. "What do you want me to use? The whip? The dildo? My hand?"
"None of those," the woman said. "Mercy does it for me before she leaves, and I hope that you will do it too. That you will not think it is sick or something."
"Oh, Leslie," I sighed. "Nothing that we do together is sick."
"Good," she said, "because I am sure it will be even better with you than it is with Mercy."
"Now what is it?" I asked, my voice growing firm.
I figured that, if I was going to be Mistress Trudy again, I should begin to play the part.
Leslie would expect that of me. I knew that for certain.
"Would you piss on me, Mistress Trudy?" she asked. "Please. Piss all over me. Bathe me in your urine, your sweet, sweet urine."
I had never done anything like that before, of course.
But I could not turn her down. I smiled and sat up. I figured out without being told how such things are done.
"Go into the bathroom. Get into the tub and wait for me there, you fucking Philadelphia slave."
Leslie jumped up and scurried to the bathroom.
I just sat there for a minute or two. A good mistress makes her slave wait whenever possible.
Mercy had taught me that. Mercy had taught me a lot of things.
And my bladder was full. I could piss a lot that afternoon.
Finally, I got up and walked into the bathroom. Leslie was lying there, waiting the way a good slave should.
I moved into the tub and I squatted over her.
"Piece of shit," I muttered, using my Mistress-Trudy voice.
"Oh, yes," the little sexpot said. "I love it. I love it."
And then the yellow stream began to flow and splash over Leslie's body. The aroma was sweet to my nostrils, and the moaning that Leslie was doing was sweet to my ears.
PART THREE
I was sitting in a coffee-shop in midtown Manhattan. I had just finished with a customer, a guy who, well, liked to test himself because he worked for the State Department and he had a lot of secrets in his mind. He liked to see how much torture he could withstand, and I had given him plenty that afternoon. But he had not told me one secret. When I had left him, he had been very proud of himself and he said that he was going to write a full report about our session to his superiors and suggest that any other men with secrets be tested by Mistress Trudy, the best black dominatrix in all of New York City.
You see, I had surpassed Mercy by then. And I knew that my sister was jealous of me.
I had been in the business with Mercy for nearly six months, and we were still sharing the money that we made. But many of the customers who had once been Mercy's regulars now asked for me when they called.
And I knew that that made Mercy angry. She would look at me sometimes as if she could kill me.
Frankly, I was sorry that she felt that way, but, more than that, I was proud of my own ability. I had been thinking of going out on my own, of starting my own business with my own customers. But I could not think of a way to tell Mercy that.
I was sitting there when the guy walked up and spoke to me.
"Pardon me," he said softly, "but I believe that we have met."
I glanced at him. He was tanned and good-looking, but I did not recognize him.
"Get lost, creep," I said, "or I'll call a cop."
"No," he said softly, surely. "I know we have met. I believe you beat me one afternoon in New Jersey. I believe that you were one of thee black girls who kidnapped me in front of a library."
I looked up at him and studied him. Sure enough, it was Alan.
But it was not the same Alan that I had beaten up that day, my first day on the job. It was not the same Alan who had been spanked by Mercy that hot afternoon in New Jersey.
This Alan was handsome and sure of himself. He had changed for the better, and I knew without being told that his session with Mercy and me had made the difference.
"Alan," I said, "you have turned into quite a stud."
I remembered then how big his cock had been. I smiled as he sat down on the other side of the booth.
"I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe my good luck. I thought that I would never see you again. I have thought so much about you and the other girl in the past few months. But more about you than her. You seemed to really care about me. You told me that my cock was big."
"It is," I said. "Tell me, Alan, have you tried it out with any girls yet."
"Yes," he said, beaming. "I hardly ever go to the library any more. And my grades have fallen off and I probably will have to go a state school when I get ready for college. But I don't care. I am fucking girls all over New Jersey, and I am loving every minute of it."
"I am very happy for you, Alan," I said truthfully.
Suddenly, Alan's dark eyes were filled with mischief. Of course, I knew what he was going to suggest.
But I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to see how he would put it into words.
"I was thinking that, maybe, you and I could go somewhere and I could show you what all of New Jersey is talking about," he said softly.
Sure enough. That cockiness was still there. But he was no longer cocky about his mind. Now he was cocky about his cock, and that seemed healthier to me.
I remembered that Mercy was out with a client. I smiled and nodded my head.
"Would you like to go up to the ghetto, Alan, and fuck me in my own apartment?"
"Sure," he said. "I would go anywhere to fuck you."
As we walked out the door, he asked me the question in a soft voice.
"By the way, I can't remember your name. I am sorry, but-"
"Trudy," I said. "My name is Trudy. And, believe me, Alan, when we are finished with each other, you will never forget that name again."
He laughed as we walked out the door. He was still laughing when we hailed the taxi.
At first the driver did not want to take us up to that neighborhood, but Alan offered him a big tip.
"You crazy, white man," the driver, who was Mexican or something, said. "Going up there. This chick ain't gonna be able to protect you, white man."
I put my hand on Alan's thigh. "I will protect him just fine," I vowed.
And the driver drove toward the ghetto, muttering to himself all the way.
When we got out of the cab, Alan looked around. It was a whole different world from the little town in New Jersey where he lived. People were yelling at each other and radios were blaring and guys on the corner eyed him with evil intentions.
But I hooked my arm into his and let everyone in the neighborhood know that Alan was with me.
"Hey, sugar!" a big black woman on the street yelled. "You keep that white man! He sure is sexy and he will get you out of this place, if you fuck him right!"
That caused the black guys to growl. They didn't like the idea of a white man coming up to the ghetto and getting a fine piece of ass like me and taking her out to New Jersey somewhere. But I did not take much notice of those dudes. I knew that they were more talk than action.
I led Alan into the building where I lived with Mercy and I walked with him up four flights of stairs. When we got to my door, he was not winded at all. He had grown strong and athletic in the last few months.
Inside the apartment, he took me in his arms and kissed me. His arms were strong and sexy.
"Oh, Alan," I murmured, when that kiss was over, "I am glad your grades as falling."
But then I put my hand on the crotch of his pants and I grinned up at him.
"Course, something else is rising, Alan. I can feel it right now."
"And it's rising all because of you," the handsome, young man said.
I laughed and I led him to the bedroom-my bedroom. I led him like a lover, because I felt like a lover to Alan that afternoon.
As we stripped, I said, "I hope you don't want me to do spank you or anything. I don't want to do that with you now."
"I don't need a spanking or anything. I am a real man now," he said.
And then he dropped his pants and I saw that cock, and I knew that he was a man.
It seemed that his cock had even gotten a little larger in those months that had gone by.
We fell naked onto the bed and kissed and held each other close. Alan excited me that way. I liked the way he smelled and the way he felt. I liked the tanned flesh and the muscles. He was everything a woman could want, I thought.
And he was with me that afternoon, naked in my bed there in the ghetto, because he wanted to show me what all the girls in New Jersey were talking about.
I wrapped my fingers around his cock and felt the throbbing in the meat. I made a move to go down and suck that organ, but Alan stopped me.
"Not yet," he said. "I want to eat you first. I have learned to use my tongue too."
I could not believe it. This guy, who had been so weak a half-year before, was not only going to fuck me but he was going to eat me too, eat out my black pussy.
He had turned into one masterful lover. I could tell that even then.
Alan moved down my body as I spread my legs wide. He worked his tongue through the pussy hair that grew there above my snatch and I trembled and grabbed my tits and pulled on my own nipples.
I remembered the way that Leslie Bernstein had eaten out my cunt. I remembered too that I had never told Mercy about my afternoon with Leslie. To tell my sister about that experience would mean that I would have to tell her that I knew she had had much the same experience. And Mercy and I did not talk too much about business any longer. Now that she had trained me, we saw no reason to talk about the job.
When I felt Alan's tongue drag against my pussy, I whimpered and thought that it was even better than the touch of Leslie Bernstein's tongue.
And then he spread my pussy lips and worked that tongue inside me. He rammed that tongue against my aching clit, and I threw one leg over his tanned shoulder and dug my bare heel into his back as I tossed there on the bed and pulled on my nipples.
I moaned to him with the desire in my voice. I wanted Alan to know that he was pleasing me.
"Oh, Alan, that is so good. Lick out my, pussy some more. Oh, yes, Alan. No wonder all the girls in New Jersey are talking about you. No wonder."
He drove his tongue deeper into my pink, hot snatch, and then he pulled his tongue away and started to suck on that clitoris. I was rocking and rolling with lust by then.
And I started to come as he sucked me through that first afternoon orgasm. I came with moans and sighs and sweet emotions.
He knew that I was coming too. As he sucked my clit, he worked his hands over my stomach and my thighs. He kept touching me until it seemed to my feverish mind that he had a thousand hands and all of those hands were giving me pleasure at the same time.
And, after I came, he moved away from me slowly. Then he moved up the bed and took me in his strong arms and held me tightly. He made me feel that I belonged there in his arms.
And the truth is that I have never really felt as if I belonged anywhere. Not really.
I felt something with Alan that I had never felt with any other person, not a dude or a girl, not a client or just someone I have picked up on the street. I felt something like love.
In the back of my mind, I could still hear the noise of the ghetto, but, in Alan's strong arms, I felt as if I had been transported to a castle, a castle in the air, where everything was quiet and beautiful and loving.
Silly, ain't it. I mean I am a dominatrix, not some kind of fucking fairy princess. But I guess that is how a girl should feel when a man treats her right. Like a fairy princess.
Anyway, this fairy princess knew that she had to do something special for her prince.
This time, when I started to move down his tanned, strong body, toward his prick, Alan did not stop me.
He was ready for the cocksucking now. He had given me my orgasm with his tongue.
And I was ready to give him the best sucking that I had given to any dude.
After all, a fairy princess has got to suck her prince's cock real fine, right?
Alan lay there on his back as I moved over that huge piece of man-meat.
I can't tell you how special that cock was to me at that moment. It was not just that it was big, although it was. And it was not just that it was sexy, although it was sexy too. I could hardly wait to feel that thing in my mouth and in my pink, tight pussy too.
But it was something else. Something special. Something additional.
I had the feeling that I had played a part in making that cock, even though I didn't really.
Remember that prick had been big when I had seen it the first time, but Alan had not known that it was big. He had been a weakling and an innocent. Well, he wasn't a weakling and innocent any more. He was a stud. A stud, you hear me! A fucking stud!
And I knew that he was a stud because I had taken that little bit of extra care with him.
Oh, Mercy had done something to him when she spanked him. I knew that. And I had done something to him too when I had hit me with that whip handle and made him say moo. But I had the feeling then-and I still have the feeling now-that what really made the difference was what I said when Mercy left me alone with him. When I touched that prick and told him that it was big, when I gave him that one little bit of confidence-well, that did the trick.
I don't want to brag, my friend, but I think that did the trick for Alan.
And now I was going to do some more tricks with that cock.
I was naked and he was naked and I was going to suck and lick that thing like there was no tomorrow. I held it up in both of my hands and stared at it for a minute. The thing was fat and long and sexy.
But it was not hard yet-at least not hard enough to fuck my sweet pussy.
I would have to work on it with my mouth and tongue. I knew that. I looked forward to using my mouth and tongue on it. I opened my mouth and let my tongue run slowly around the head of the penis.
Alan sighed and twisted a little there on the bed. I knew that I was doing the right thing for him.
I let my black fingers run up and down his dork, touching him, teasing him, getting him hard.
And then I slipped one hand over his balls. I let my fingers do their magic there too.
And all the time that I worked on him with my fingers, I kept my tongue working too. I licked the piss slit of the cock. I licked up and down the shaft. I licked around the crown of his noble prick again and again.
"Oh, Trudy," Alan sighed, "suck that thing. Suck it, please."
He was squirming on the bed. I knew that he yearned for the sucking. But I wanted to play games with him first. I wanted to make him wait just a little bit. I knew that men were like women in that way. A little bit of anxious waiting never hurt-Alan grabbed my head and snarled at me as he pressed my face down against his prick.
"Suck that cock, you black whore. Suck it, I tell you."
Of course, I never expected that of Alan. The tip of his cock almost jabbed me in the eye as Alan pressed me down roughly. I opened my mouth and found the organ and took some of his meat into me.
"All of it, you black whore," he murmured in an angry tone. "All of that cock. Suck all of it."
And he put his strong hand on my neck and he forced me down, down, down on his massive member.
Alan was certainly no longer a weakling. He had turned into a brute.
The tears came to my eyes as I felt that long and hardening spear of flesh work its way down my throat.
I was surprised that I did not gag on it I could hardly breathe. But Alan kept pressing me down on his prick, and I knew that I was no match for his new, brutish strength. Finally, I felt his cock hair against my nose and I knew that I had taken it all in. Perhaps now he would be satisfied, I thought. Perhaps now.
And Alan did sigh and release his hold on me. He lay there and he called me names in a soft and fierce tone as I continued to suck his dork.
"Yeah, you black bitch, you are no match for me now. Not for my new strength. I hoped I would find you someday. I wanted to let you see that you could not do that shit to me now, you black whore. You bitch. You fucking slut."
I realized then that Alan didn't like me at all-not one little bit.
This was all part of some strange revenge that he had cooked up for me or for Mercy.
As I came up on his cock, let a lot of that stiffening meat come out -of my throat, I figured that, in a way, he deserved to have this revenge. After all, Mercy and I had treated him rather shabbily.
We had scared him and beaten me. We had made him moo like a cow. We had insulted his mother and spanked him. All for the money that some company would pay us. All to keep Alan quiet about a couple of mistakes on an exam.
Perhaps he had a right, I thought with his cock in my mouth.
And his cock was tasty, and he had eaten out my pussy so well.
I decided to forgive Alan for his anger and get on with the sex. I moved up and down on that huge prick he offered me. I worked my fingers around the hardening flesh, and I could tell that he was responding to all of my touches, all of my whorish lust.
"Oh, yeah, suck that thing. Suck that cock, you black whore. You black bitch."
Strange, I thought, but the words did not make me angry. I guessed that he was right. Down deep I was a black whore, a black bitch. But I was his black whore and black bitch that afternoon and I was going to make Alan remember me for more than just the mooing and the beating that I had helped to give him six months before.
When I took my mouth off his organ, it was hard and full and ready to fuck me.
And my cunt was aching with desire, flooding with juices. I wanted to feel that prick in my black whore's pussy.
I looked up at his face, past his towering cock, and I asked the question.
"How you want to do it, lover?"
I tried to put a tone in my voice, a tone that was like tthe tone a black prostitute would use.
I must have gotten the tone right, because Alan smiled at me and snarled.
"Get on your back, you black slut. I am going to fuck you regular with this thing."
I wondered if he treated all the girls in New Jersey this way-all the girls he had fucked there.
But then I figured that he didn't. Those girls in New Jersey had never made him moo.
I moved onto my back and spread my legs wide. I worked my fingers over the lips of my pussy and I sighed to him.
"Put it into me, Alan. Put that cock into me, you wonderful stud."
Alan moved into position between my legs. Then he reached out and picked up a pillow.
He lifted my buns easily and slipped that pillow under me, to elevate my pussy.
"Slam it into me," I sighed. "Give me all of that cock, you stud."
By then I was on fire with need for a fucking. I did not understand why I needed to be screwed so badly. But I did need it. Perhaps Alan understood. He, after all, was a genius, even though his grades were dropping in school. But I did not have time to discuss my inner-most feelings with Alan. I only wanted to fuck, to fuck and be fucked by that hard, long meat that he had there.
I felt the tip of his organ against my pussy lips and I reached down with both hands and spread those pussy lips wide.
"Yeah," he muttered, as he slipped the fat tip of his dork into me. "Yeah, black whore, I will sure show you."
And then he slammed most of that meat into me, slammed that cock home.
I yelped and the tears came to my eyes again. It hurt to have so much in me so quickly.
But a black whore's pussy is a wonderful thing. Within a few seconds, my cunt had made room for the cock. Perhaps it had moved all of the furniture around inside me to make room for that big visitor, I thought. But it had made room just the same.
Alan lifted my legs in his strong arms and moved them over his chest and shoulders.
Then he leaned forward and that made my pussy even tighter around his big cock.
I stretched my arms out there on the bed and I squirmed with delight. I sighed to Alan, the stud.
"Oh, yes, fuck me hard. Fuck me right, you stud. Fuck my black whore pussy until you rip it apart."
"Oh, baby," he groaned, and then he started to fuck.
I could feel the muscles in his chest and shoulders against the back of my legs. I looked up through the tears of passion that flooded my eyes and saw his handsome face and his tanned flesh. I sighed and trembled and rocked there on the bed as he pushed my legs closer to my tits, almost bent me double there in that bed.
But the fucking was great. The cock was big and fat and long, and Alan knew just how to use it.
He varied the rhythm, sometimes moving slowly in and out of my pussy and sometimes quickening the pace. I had trouble keeping up with his changes. He was filled with surprises.
And I was filled with his sturdy, meaty cock. That made me feel good and warm inside.
We were fucking like that when the door opened. I turned slightly and I saw Mercy standing there.
Alan recognized her, of course. He snarled at her.
"When I am finished with her, I want you," he said to Mercy. "I will paddle your ass like you paddled mine."
I do not know if Mercy recognized Alan. She had paddled so many asses in her career I am sure that she could not remember them all.
But I sighed to Mercy. I tried to let her know that this handsome guy was special, and that he should be special to both of us.
"Mercy," I said, "his cock is huge. Really huge. And he knows how to use it so well."
Then Alan touched my face, slapped me. He moved my head so that I was looking at him again.
My face tingled from the slap, but I did not mind that. The cock made up for the slap.
"Watch me when I fuck you, you black bitch," he snarled at me.
"Oh, yes, Alan," I said, "I will."
And then I thought of something else to say, something else that I thought would thrill him, something that seemed right at the moment I said the word softly, but I suppose that Mercy, standing by the door, heard it too.
"Master," I whimpered. "Oh, Master, fuck me."
That was when I heard the door slam. I turned quickly and I saw that Mercy was gone.
I worried about what she was doing, what she was thinking at that moment. But I could not worry about it too long. My master was fucking me, and he was demanding all of my attention.
"I am going to come," he groaned. "I am going to come, you fucking, black bitch."
I sighed as he pulled his long piece of meat out of me. I relaxed as he moved away from me. And the next thing I knew I was trembling there on the bed, reaching out for his cock as he knelt there between my outstretched, sleek, black legs.
And then I grabbed his cock and pulled on it and he started to come, to come in white globs of male passion, all over my black, beautiful body.
It seemed that he had a gallon of come inside him. And that gallon of come came out in spurts onto my body.
I wallowed in his come. I sighed and twisted and let that come splatter all over me and warm me nicely.
When his orgasm was finally over, I let go of his cock and looked up at him as he knelt there between my legs.
He leaned forward and slapped me again, slapped me hard across the face.
"Oh, Master," I sighed, "I love it when you do that. I really do."
"You scum!"
It was the voice of Mercy, bellowing at someone in the room. I did not know if she mean me or Alan or both.
She was standing there. I did not know when she had come back into the room, but she was there now, and she was like a black Amazon, in her tight, black, leather outfit. And she was like a cruel mistress with that whip in her hand.
"You fucking scum!" she yelled again. "You fucking scum!"
She approached the bed with her whip up-raised. I did not know whom she was aiming it at. If it was me, I supposed that I could take the blows and forgive her . If it was Alan, I figured that he would be able to fight her off with his new strength.
But, to my surprise, he did not fight at all. He screamed in terror, just as he had screamed the afternoon that Mercy and I had kidnapped him.
And he curled up in a corner of the bed and put his hands over his face as Mercy brought the whip down on him again and again.
She lashed him with a fury, a quick and deadly accuracy. She lashed that cock and his chest and that cock and his stomach and that cock and his legs. She seemed to hit his cock with every other blow.
I moved away from them, shocked by what I was seeing, by what I was learning.
You see, the muscles and the tanned flesh made no difference. Mercy had seen that immediately.
Alan was still weak inside. He always would be weak inside.
I moved away from the screaming man in horror and revulsion. I had let that fuck slap me and screw me? That creep? That weakling?
"Please," he whimpered, "please, don't hurt me any more."
But Mercy showed no mercy. She lashed him with the whip again and again.
"You scum. You fucking scum," she snarled. "You don't belong here. You don't belong in the ghetto, in my little sister's pussy. Stay away from where you don't belong."
She was still beating him when I ran out of the room.
I stood there in the little hallway and I listened to the cracks of the whips and the screams of Alan and the curses of Mercy and I felt my head ache with pain.
Did I belong here? I wondered. I had not seen the weakness in Alan at all. I had shown him my weakness instead of acting like a true professional. Mercy was a true professional. Suddenly, I did not think that I deserved to wear black leather.
I put a coat on over my naked body and I slipped on some shoes and I left the apartment.
I walked out into the streets of the ghetto and staggered away from the place I had called home.
I listened to the music of the radios and the cries of the children. I saw the big dudes on the corners, eyeing me. I saw the fat women looking at me and wondering if I was drunk or high on dope.
I finally saw the church, the big Baptist church that I had attended when I was just a little child.
I staggered up those steps to the big church and I pressed my body against the door.
The door was locked. I could not get in. I fell to my knees and I cried. I cried. I cried.
I did not belong anywhere, I thought. I was weak inside, just like Alan, and no amount of training, no style of black leather could ever keep me from being weak.
I felt that I had let Mercy down in some terrible way, and I knew that I would never be able to face her again. She had expected so much from me, and I had been so haughty when I thought that I knew it all.
But now I knew that I would never be a black bitch in leather, not the kind of black bitch in leather that Mercy could be.
And I knew that I would never be able to go home again.
It was all so clear to me now, I thought, so clear now that I was crying there at the church door. Why hadn't it all been clear to me before?
I cried and cried and cried. People came walking by and looked at me. But none of them approached me, not even the dudes who could have come up there and raped me for all I cared at that moment. They all avoided me, like people avoid a crazy person.
I cried and I cried and I cried and I hammered on the locked church door.
But no one came to open it. And I knew that no one ever would.
And I was too weak to force it open. I was too weak to do anything like that.
The weakness engulfed me and I cried and I cried and I cried.
PART FOUR
That's how I ended up here, in Chicago, the Windy City, working in this nightclub on North Clark Street, near the spot where a famous gangland killing happened on St. Valentine's Day many years ago.
I had to leave New York City. I could not stand the idea that I might see Mercy on the street somewhere. So I came to Chicago, because I had heard that it was a big city too.
I have been in Chicago for nearly three months now. I guess I am lucky. I could have been working the streets here. Instead, I found this job my second day in the Windy City. I work here in this nice, warm club, this club for people with special tastes, and that makes me really lucky-because it is cold as a polar bear's cunt out there right now on the streets of Chicago.
Let me tell me you what I do here at this club.
The master of ceremonies here is a big, white guy named Rick. I think he also owns the place, although he won't admit it. This is one of those places that no one owns, it seems.
But everybody comes to Rick's-at least they do if they want a special thrill here in Chicago.
I am part of that special thrill, you see. Suffering Trudy, they call me.
The shows take place twice a night, and the place is filled to capacity for those shows.
First Rick comes out and does some stupid jokes. Stuff like this:
"What's the difference between a whipping and an orgasm? About thirty seconds."
"Why did the black girl go cross the road? So that a white guy could knock shit out of her."
Strange humor. I don't think the jokes are funny at all. But everyone laughs when Rick tells them. He says that it is all in the delivery. All the great comics can make bad material good by their delivery, he says.
I never heard no television comedian tell jokes like that.
Anyway, he tells those jokes and then he introduces me. Suffering Trudy.
I come out and I dance for the crowd. I come out in a flimsy, little outfit and I whirl around and I take off the outfit. Yeah, I get down to thee point where I am naked.
And then I lie down there on the bed that is moving around and around. I lie there and I spread my legs. That is when Rick comes out again.
He comes out in black leather pants and he is carrying all kinds of shit with him.
Every night it is a little different. Sometimes he jabs a spiked dildo up me and sometimes he whips me. Sometimes he puts the nipple clamps on me. Sometimes he burns some of my cunt hair with a match.
But, whatever he does, he makes me suffer and the crowd loves it.
I scream and I moan and I carry on. And they love it all.
That's what is happening at night in Chi-town, folks. That's what Rick calls it. Chi-town.
I do all of this because I know that I am weak inside. And the shows make me good money. Rick pays well. He says that he never had any girl who could suffer as well as I do.
But I have found that I need more than the shows. That is the reason I go to see some special customers in the afternoons. These are customers that Rick has told me about, men who pay a lot of money for some suffering girl.
I guess that, even if I am weak, I am still a black whore at heart.
Let me tell you about yesterday's master. That was an interesting afternoon.
Rick told me that the man was an administrator in the Chicago city government and that he was willing to pay double my usual price because he had something special he wanted me to do.
I did not even ask what the special stuff was. I just got the address from Rick. I guess I am just a whore at heart. The money is what really counts, you see. I will do anything now, suffer any abuse, if the money is right.
I took a cab over to the address. It was a tall, apartment tower in one of the best sections of the city.
The doorman told me that the gentleman was waiting for me in his apartment on the top floor. The doorman grinned at me. I wonder if he knew what I was going up there for. I wonder just how much doormen know of everything that goes on a person's life. Doormen, I think, must know it all.
Anyway, I went up to the top floor and I knocked on the apartment door.
The guy opened the door and smiled at me. He was good-looking. His dark hair had specks of gray in it, and he had a thick mustache and a sexy body.
I smiled back, thinking that I would not mind being punished by this sexy dude.
And then I went into the big apartment. The guy took my coat and said, "Call me Jim."
"Jim," I said, "I am Trudy. But I guess you know that."
"Yes, I have seen the show that you and Rick put on. I have seen it a couple of times. You do suffer well, Trudy. That is the reason that I thought about having you over. And, of course, you are black too."
My blackness was part of my appeal to Jim. I figured that out.
"Black as the ace of spades," I said with a grin.
I was perfectly willing to work on that appeal for the big money that Jim was paying.
We sat down on the couch and Jim smiled at me again. I leaned in close to him.
"Now what do you want to do, Jim?" I asked. "You want to spank my black ass."
"No."
"You want to use a whip on my black, fine body."
"No."
"You want to slap my black face and call me names?"
"No, Trudy. I just want to watch. I don't want to do anything."
"Watch?" I asked. "Watch what?"
"I want to watch Melanie torture you, Trudy," he said softly. "Melanie is my wife."
I thought about it for an instant. Kinky, Strange. The idea was all of those things. But it would probably be sexy too, I thought, unless Melanie was a real dog.
And the money was good, very good. I did not have to think long about the proposal.
I nodded my head. "Sure, Jim, where is Melanie?"
She must have been listening on the other side of the door. She came out quickly, as if she had been given a cue.
She was certainly not a dog at all. She was about the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
She had long, blonde hair and big tits. She had flashing, green eyes too.
She was wearing a black, leather bra and black boots that came up almost to her knee.
And she was wearing black stockings and a black garter belt. Her pussy was bare, and it looked sweet.
But what looked even sweeter was the long, leather rod she carried in her hand.
I looked at that rod and I sighed and I fell onto my knees.
"Melanie," I said. "Mistress Melanie. You may torture me forever if you wish."
"Nigger bitch," she snarled at me. And I could tell by her accent that she was a Southern girl.
She lifted her leg. I studied the way that her pussy looked. But she pressed the heel of her boot against my shoulder and pushed me back onto the floor.
"Nigger slave bitch," she said. "You are going too learn that you can't run away from my plantation."
Nigger. Slave. Plantation. The southern accent and the words told me that she had a fantasy already in mind.
And I should tell you that the word, nigger, did not bother me at all now.
A few months before, when Leslie Bernstein had called me a nigger, I had been outraged.
But now I knew that I was a nigger, a slave, a bitch, a suffering soul. I was so weak inside that I could not be outraged by anything.
"Get her ready for the punishment, Jim,"
Melanie said in that Southern, sweet voice.
And then she turned and walked out of the room and shut the door behind her.
I was still lying there on the floor. Jim stood up and held out his hand to help me to my feet.
"Melanie is from Georgia," he said. "She needs to do this kind of thing from time to time. She says it helps her get back to her roots. It makes her feel all sexy, and then she is a better lover for me."
I struggled to my feet. My shoulder was aching where she had buried her heel into my flesh.
But the ache felt just fine. Oh, so fine. I cannot tell you how fine it felt.
"Come with me," Jim said. "We have a special room set up for you and Melanie."
He led me through the apartment to a door. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a key and unlocked the door.
And then he flicked on a light and let me enter the room.
I was in paradise, I thought, as I looked around the place. It was a paradise for any sufferer.
The room was filled with chains and whips and special instruments of torture. In the corner a fire was burning in a brick oven. I wondered what was in there, but I figured that
I would find out soon enough.
I turned to Jim. "Does Mistress Melanie want me naked?" I asked.
"Yes," the handsome man said softly. "She does. She wants you naked and kneeling when she enters."
"All right," I said, and I started to unbutton my blouse.
As I stripped, as I bared my body to Jim's eyes, I could tell that he thought I was sexy.
In another situation, I thought, he would have wanted to fuck me. He would have paid to fuck me. But I did not fuck that much any longer. I suffered for my supper.
And I was Mistress Melanie's toy for the afternoon, not his.
He knew that and I knew that too. I belonged to his wife, the Southern blonde with the whip.
When I was naked, I stood there for a moment. The fire in the oven made the whole room warm. That warmth felt good there in the middle of a Chicago winter.
I would have stayed in that room for the rest of the winter if someone would have let me, I thought.
But then I figured that Melanie was probably waiting for me to kneel.
So I dropped to my knees and I lowered my eyes to the floor. I knelt there and waited for my punishment.
"I am sure she will like you a lot," Jim said softly.
And then he turned and went to the door and spoke to Mistress Melanie.
"We have captured the runaway slave," he said. "She is waiting for her punishment."
The blonde came into the room then. I saw her boots. But I did not look up to see anything else.
"Runaway nigger," the woman snarled. "Ought to cut her foot off."
"But Mistress Melanie," the man said, "she is a house nigger. We can't cripple her. We need her to serve the food at the dinner parties and cotillions."
"Oh, yes," the woman said thoughtfully. "I guess we just will have to make do with whipping her and treating her bad for an hour or so. Can't cripple a good house nigger. That's for certain."
Mistress Melanie ran her leather rod around my jaw and used it to raise my face up.
"You shouldn't have run away, nigger bitch," she said. "You shouldn't have done that. I don't care what the Yankee soldiers say. We are going to win this here war, and we are going to keep our peculiar institution for the rest of time."
"Yes, Mistress Melanie," I said to the blonde.
As I looked up at her, I longed to finger my pussy. It was bubbling with lust for that beautiful, Southern woman and her special Dixieland way of punishment.
"Our General Lee is a much better strategist than any of the Yankee generals," Mistress Melanie said to me. "And our men are fighting for a cause. I wouldn't be surprise if we invade Vermont by the end of the summer."
"Yes, Mistress Melanie," I said.
"The Starr, and Bars, you nigger bitch," she snarled. "Jefferson Davis forever."
And then she hit me with that that leather rod. She slammed that rod against my cheekbone. It was worse than any slap I had ever received before-and better too.
The rod was hard and cold, not like a human hand. My face felt like it was crumbling inside my skin.
But I loved it. I loved it for sure. I was a weak, nigger bitch and I had been raised to love blows like that, especially when they came from a mistress like Melanie.
Then Mistress Melanie dropped the leather rod and touched my hair with her hand.
"Kinky nigger hair," she sighed. "I love it."
Then she seemed almost sad. She tilted her head back and she moaned to me.
"Oh, nigger, nigger, why did you run away?
Didn't Mistress Melanie do everything she could for you? Didn't you have a good, easy job in the house? You didn't work in the fields. And you got to lick out Mistress Melanie's cunt every morning in her sweet, soft bedroom."
When she said that thing about my licking out her cunt, I almost leaped up with joy.
But I stayed there on my knees. I knew that Mistress Melanie would tell me when she wanted me to move.
Mistress Melanie moved to one of the big box-like beds in the room. She sat down on the edge of the thing and she spread her legs wide. Her pussy was pink and covered with a fine mist of light-colored hair. She was a natural blonde, a natural, Southern blonde.
"Come here, nigger," she said. "Lick out my pussy. You know I have missed that licking since you ran away a couple of days ago. Why, nigger, there ain't another nigger tongue on this whole plantation that can please my pussy like yours does. You know that, nigger."
I moved toward her on my knees, slowly, passionately. I slipped between her outstretched legs and I kissed the pinkness that she offered to me.
I do not know what mint juleps taste like, but they must be sweet, as sweet as that Southern pussy.
I turned my head to one side and I kissed the inside of her thigh. I smelled the faint aroma of womanly pleasure that came to me from Mistress Melanie's hole.
As I moved my face toward that hole slowly, I licked her soft, white flesh.
And I noticed that the man-her husband-had moved around to get a better look at all of this.
Mistress Melanie was the one who would make me suffer, but both Mistress Melanie and I were really putting on a show for Jim. I was reminded of that. He had to have his pleasure too, I thought.
I moved my black, nigger fingers, my nigger fingers, over her honey-haired snatch.
I licked the lips of that pussy with a long and slow movement of my tongue.
And then I spread those pussy lips. I looked into her deep, Southern pinkness.
I could not look away. The pinkness captivated me.
I licked my black lips and then I moved my mouth close to that pink hole as Mistress Melanie moaned to me.
"Oh, nigger, nigger, I have missed that tongue so in my Southern cunt. I have missed that tongue. That is the best nigger tongue in the whole world. I have searched over the whole plantation and I can't find a better tongue than that one. Oh, nigger, nigger, lick my sweet, sweet, Southern cunt."
And, being a good nigger slave, I did just what Mistress Melanie wanted me to do.
I drove my tongue deep into her sweet, sweet, Southern snatch. I worked my tongue around in that hole.
I moved my tongue against her Southern clit, that morsel of flesh that was so juicy.
"My Dixie clit," she murmured. "Suck my Dixie clit, you nigger slave."
And I sucked that clitoris into my lips and worked on it. I tugged on it and let that juicy tastiness roll down my throat. My body was aching and my soul was hot and my passion was growing for this Southern blonde in the leather boots and bra.
She moved one of her legs over my black shoulder and she worked the heel of that boot up and down on my back. That hurt, of course, but it hurt so fine, oh, so fine.
Then she moved her other leg over my other shoulder and she tightened the hold she had on me with those legs. She tightened her hold on me as I continued to suck her clit.
She worked her heels up and down on my back, hurting me, burning me with that friction, but making me feel good too.
And then she gasped out in a Southern, sweet tone.
"Oh, nigger, nigger, you are good. The best of the plantation. I am going to come."
Mistress Melanie started to jerk and rock with my sucking. I put my hands on her body and held her down as she lay back and let the orgasm roll through her like the muddy Mississippi.
And, like the good nigger slave that I was, I sucked her through that orgasm.
When it was finished, I took my lips away from her cunt. She moved her legs and released me, freed me in a special way.
But I was still a slave at heart. I knelt there as Mistress Melanie sighed and let that soft aftermath of orgasm fill her up with good ideas.
I knew in my nigger slave heart that Mistress Melanie was not finished with me. Not by a long shot.
Sure enough, she sat up and looked down on me. She put her hand on my hair again. She rubbed my hair.
"Good luck," she said. "Remember how I did that before you ran away. I used to rub your kinky hair every morning for good luck, right after you used that fine nigger tongue on me."
"I remember, Mistress Melanie," I said softly. "I hope I brought you good luck."
"You sure did, nigger honey," she said.
"You brought me a lot of good luck. I was one of the luckiest girls in the South. Why, when I went to New Orleans, gamblers used to have me blow on their dice before they threw them. I was that lucky."
She took her hand away from my hair and she snarled at me.
"But then you ran away, and my luck went sour. We lost at Gettysburg, nigger, and I think you caused it all." She leaned back and lifted her legs and put her heels against my shoulders.
She ground those heels into my shoulders while I winced in the delightful pain.
And then Mistress Melanie pushed me back onto the floor and stood up over me and snarled again.
"You runaway whore," she said, "you always cost us victory."
She moved to the wall and picked up a whip. She turned and cracked that whip in the air.
I trembled there on the floor. That crack seemed to go right through my nigger body to my nigger soul.
"On your knees, nigger," the blonde said. "Take this punishment with dignity."
I really did not understand how I could be dignified on my knees.
But I did not argue with Mistress Melanie. A nigger did not argue with a sweet, white girl in the Old South.
I moved onto my knees and looked at her as she approached me slowly, her whip held high.
"I used to say that I would wait to punish you. I used to say, well, tomorrow is another day. But I cannot wait now. You deserve this whipping, nigger. You deserve this whipping and more. And you deserve it all right now."
And, of course, I longed for the whipping. I longed for it with my soul.
When the whip came down the first time, it sent a wonderful shock of pain through my body.
I closed my eyes and imagined that the whip was slicing me up into little pieces. That fantasy made my cunt quiver with delight.
The whip came down again and again and I knelt there and took it all.
I listened to the gasping that Mistress Melanie was doing. I knew that she was working hard in her punishment of me. I felt a little guilty, making a blonde beauty like that work that hard at anything. She should not be working at all, I thought. She should be sitting in the shade, drinking iced tea and flirting with the gentlemen callers who came to the plantation to win her hand in marriage.
But, when the whipping stopped, I opened my eyes and I saw that she was tired and sweating. She stood there and gasped like an overworked animal.
The blonde hair was hanging in front of her face. Slowly, I moved to my feet, aching with the whipping and sighing with delight. I reached out and pushed her blonde hair back from her face, because I wanted to see her breath-taking, Southern beauty.
I smiled at her. "Thank you, Mistress Melanie," I said. "I promise I will never run away again."
She looked at me and her green eyes grew soft. I think that, for a second there, she wanted to kiss me, to hold my body to hers and love me.
But she fought off that desire, as a good white mistress should.
"If you do run away again," she growled, "we will have no trouble finding you."
And then she dropped the whip and she put her hands on my shoulders and pressed me back down on my knees. I went willingly, sighing as the residue of wounds added more sweet pain to my body.
Then, as I knelt there, I saw Mistress Melanie walk toward the oven.
Jim stepped up and spoke to the blonde.
"You sure you want to do this, Melanie," he said. "This was only an option, and I didn't discuss it with Rick."
"I want to do it," the blonde barked. "You can afford it. You know you can, Jim. And you will enjoy watching it too. You know that, you bastard. You enjoy watching everything."
Jim turned to me and looked into my eyes.
"Ten thousand dollars," he said. "I will pay you ten thousand, and I will pay Rick ten thousand too."
I spoke without even thinking. "Yes," I said. "I am willing for ten thousand dollars."
Of course, I did not tell the man the whole truth.
The truth was that I was willing to suffer anything for no money at all. This blonde had turned me on that much. I was willing to be cut into little pieces, if that was what she wanted.
What did she want to do to me? I wondered about that, and, when Jim moved out of the way, I saw and I understood what she had planned.
She pulled a long, metal rod out of that hot oven. At the end of that metal rod was a metal letter. M. She was going to brand me with her initial!
I sighed. I loved the idea. Being branded was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Mistress Melanie had put on a glove to protect her own perfect, white hand from the heat of the metal rod. She turned and moved toward me with that rod sticking out.
I watched it carefully. I was fascinated by that burning, white-hot letter.
M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M. M.
I kept thinking of that letter. I wished that Mistress Melanie would brand that letter all over my black, nigger body.
But she only branded me in one spot. Right on my black, left tit. She pressed that letter into my flesh carefully and held it there at first, I just sighed and sweated. Then I gagged and everything went black.
That kind of pain had been too much even for me to stand.
But that kind of pain had been delicious, all the same.
I woke up this morning in my own bed. I called Rick and he told me that Jim's driver had brought me to him, had paid him the extra money, and had gotten my address. Then I guess the driver brought me to my home and put me to bed.
This morning, I touched my brand and I sighed. I felt sweet and sexy with that brand, that M, on my tit.
But Rick is pissed off. Really pissed off. He said that he thinks Melanie and Jim have marred me. He is not sure how the customers will react when I next do my show with him. Do they want a branded, black girl? Will they boo her off the stage?
"Shit," he said angrily over the phone, "all the money in the world is not worth that. What if they don't like the brand? What if they start asking who this M person is?"
"We can change my name," I said. "We can say that the M stands for my name."
"That's a good suggestion, Kid," the man said over the phone. "What M name would you like?"
"Mercy," I said. "Call me Mercy."
"Mercy," he said happily. "That is great. Mercy gets no mercy tonight at Rick's Place."
Then Rick gave me a couple of days off to rest up from my wounds.
I lay in bed this morning and thought about the way that my name had been changed. I fingered the tender flesh of my brand, and I thought too, of course, of Mercy, my sister.
I suppose she is still in New York City, beating the shit out of clients, while I suffer in Chicago.
I wondered if she would be proud of my ability to suffer. I wondered if she would be proud that I have taken her name.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks of me. I know that I let her down. I know that she wanted someone hard and cruel, like she is. I know that she wanted me to learn to read the needs of clients better.
But I am not hard and cruel. I know that now. I was born to suffer.
Sometimes, late at night, I lie here in my room and I close my eyes and I think about how much fun it would be to suffer under Mercy's whip. I think that I should go back to New York City and visit her and bow before her and beg her to do her worst to me.
Perhaps I could challenge her. Do the most damage that you can, Mercy. I can take it all, and I will beg for more. My ability to suffer is better than your ability to give pain.
What a contest that would be. What a sibling rivalry.
But I know in my heart that I will probably never work up the courage to see Mercy again.
I don't think that she would understand. I don't think that she would be able to figure out how two sisters could be so different. She loves to give the pain, and I love to receive it. We are polar opposites. The only thing we share is our black, sexy flesh.
She tried to share more with me. She tried to teach me. And, for a time, I thought that I had learned. But I could never learn to read the people because, in truth, my black, nigger heart was never in it.
