Fuck me please. Make me your bitch. Own me. PLEASE. Own me. Release me from my bondage of pretending to be the great, almighty white man. Torture me. Do anything you want.” His pleas were becoming more urgent, more insistent. “Fuck me like the dirty, filthy, white pig I am. I bow to you; I worship you. I love you.”

He was sobbing like a baby and terrified beyond measure. The room was spinning and he’s freely given up the last bit of self-respect he’d tried to grasp onto. His boypussy was throbbing to be violated and used in ways that made his week-long ordeal seem like playtime in the park.

Mistress Emmanuelle grabbed his throat and began to choke him. He struggled but it was only the remnants of a fight of flight instinct. His mind and soul wanted her to choke him; he wanted her to control his life and his breath. Just as he felt himself passing out, he remembered her words of how she was going to make him pray for the sweet release of death. In that split second, in that epiphanal moment, he gained knowledge and understanding of what it was to be a true slave, not just a sexual submissive.

His unconsciousness, the literal state at least, didn’t last very long. He awoke to find himself secured to the huge four-poster bed with his legs tied so that they were back over his head and his cock was aimed directly at his mouth. Emmanuelle climbed on the bed and straddled his body, giving him a perfect view of her pussy and ass from below. She placed the gigantic head of the strapon on his hole and began pushing it in. Not having a reason to be gentle, she stabbed and pumped the thick phallus deeply, causing the tender ring of muscle that protected his anus to give way to the marauding intruder.

“You fucking white bitch. I own you. I own your ass. I own you so completely I can do anything I want to you and you won’t say a word. That’s power. I’ve taken my true role as your superior. This is the way it’s supposed to have been, with me controlling you. You stupid, worthless, pathetic, disgusting, nasty, insignificant worm. Does that hurt? Does it?”

Charles didn’t have to answer, she knew it hurt him in a way he’d never felt with any pro Domme before. The physical pain was blinding but the psychological pain was debilitating. “Yes Mistress,” was his only response as he felt her plunge deeper and deeper into his guts and pierce his very soul with her cruelty.

He awoke on day seven in a down filled bed and new clothes for him to wear and his personal belongings by the bed. Breakfast was prepared for him and if anyone had taken a snapshot of that scene they would have thought that he had just awoken from a week of rest and relaxation at a spa. Charles knew differently. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to his normal life. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to a society that existed off the fallacy that he was superior. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed