Best Sex Writing 2010 (9 page)

“Tell me, Molly, have you not been properly…ah…introduced?”

My mouth was dry. I could only whisper. “No, sir.”

I could not take my gaze from his hand wrapped around the enormous shaft thrusting aggressively from his lap. The tip was moist and split at the end and I was sickened. As I tried to back away, the hand on my throat deftly slid around to the back of my neck, forcing my face closer to it.

“You will kiss it, my girl.” I shook violently and threw myself backward, away from him. Momentarily escaping his grip, I slid farther on the floor, gasping. I dared not shout. I did not want to be beaten. I could not fathom why this refined man would demand such an awful and perverted thing of me.

The Admiral startled, but recovered quickly and was upon me in a second. That icy smile was back upon his face. In a flash, he had my back pressed to the cold floor, straddling me across the chest, pinning my arms to my sides, one calloused hand again on my neck. He was breathing heavily, despite the fact that he had hardly exerted himself. His male part was now mere inches from my face, and I turned away. In the corner of my vision, I saw a flash, and suddenly the left side of my face stung. Then he slapped the right. I had rarely ever been struck, and the effect was electric. As my mouth fell open in protest, he pushed his thumb between my teeth. I considered biting, as hard as I could, but I thought it better to wait.

“That was quite amusing, my dear. Now. Back to our lesson.”
He took his hand, wrapped it about his privates, and resumed his hypnotic stroking. I could not look away.

“Open your mouth, Molly. If you are so foolish to believe that a bite from those strong little teeth will save you, do not. You will take my cock into your mouth for me, and pass your tongue around it until I tell you otherwise. Is that clear?” I could only blink at him. His face darkened with impending anger. “I am growing impatient, little Molly. Do not feign ignorance…” I shook my head in a panic, tears welling to my eyes and sliding down my cheeks and into my ears. “Am I to believe you are not in the habit of servicing your Masters properly, then?”

I had started to understand his meaning. I shook my head, slowly.

“Have you never even been properly fucked?”

I shuddered at the ugliness of that word. I could not reconcile my terror and indignation with a vaguely shamed sense that, somehow, I had fallen short.

I shook my head again. As fresh tears ran down my face, I was amazed to see him throw back his head, roaring with laughter.

“By Jove! This is more delightful than I could have hoped for.” Leaning down, he took my face in his hands. I was weeping openly now, beyond caring. He placed his finger firmly against my lips, his chilly smile quelling my sobs. He leaned closer, and I felt his breath hot upon my skin. I shook violently as I felt the broad, firm sweep of his tongue caressing my cheek, wet with tears, and licking them away. I could not catch my breath. I was suddenly aware of his cock pressed hard and hot against my belly. I looked into his eyes and saw him watching me closely. He released me, and I knelt up before him.

The Admiral stood and walked over to the stool. He fastened his breeches, with some difficulty. Sitting on the ottoman once
more, he pulled on his heavy boots. I moved to stand, and in an instant, he was before me again, his enormous fingers pressed into my throat. I looked up, confused. “In my presence, my darling child, you will not move unless I order you, or you have requested my permission, and you will address me as your Master.” He pulled a heavy gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket, flipped open the catch, and sighed. “I shall have to begin properly after tea.”

He started away from me, paused, and turned back, grasping me about my waist. Without warning, he lifted me to my feet and threw me, facedown, onto the huge bed. I was not accustomed to such a pleasant and yielding surface. Momentarily forgetting my fear, I marveled at the softness. I had little time to relish this as I found my mouth quickly and firmly gagged. The Admiral’s cravat was secured about my head. He turned me on my back, one hand tightly pressing my wrists against the coverlet. In one fluid motion, he pulled up my dress and pulled down my underthings, tossing them to the floor.

Immediately, he was upon the bed, kneeling beside me, and I felt his hand groping upward. Unthinkingly, I screamed, but my cries were effectively muzzled by the tie. He laughed at my futile struggles as his hand reached higher and up to the cleft between my legs. I twisted violently, but only succeeded in aiding him, as his fingers grasped me firmly. I felt him touch me, gently, and I was shocked into stillness. A quivering seizure struck my belly, and I could only shrink back into the bed as he softly chuckled and stroked me more firmly. My eyes slid halfway closed involuntarily, and I found it difficult to draw a steady breath. He tried to push his thick fingers farther into me, and reached a tight resistance. Under his breath, he murmured, “By Christ, the little bitch wasn’t lying…” He grinned ferociously at me, and I cowered away, confused. I felt horribly ashamed and yet… as he pulled his
hand away, my hips lifted ever so slightly toward him. Mortified, I hoped he had not noticed, but it was too late. He displayed that terrifying smile again. He grasped between my legs, and leaned his face to my ear. I could feel the roughness of his cheek as it grazed mine. His hand relinquished not its possessive grip.

“This cunt is mine. Is that clear?”

Cunt.
I had never heard that word: repulsive, yet strangely compelling. I nodded.

“May I rely on your silence, should I remove this binding?”

I nodded once more.

“Splendid.” He undid the tie, and I licked my parched lips. His smile broadened and warmed. In a flash he rose, crossed to the armoire and shrugged on his jacket, looking for all the world as though he had just come from a relaxing stroll.

“Sir.”

“Yes, Molly.”

“Sir…I…what shall I…” I was not at all sure of what to do. I paused.

“Good girl. You learn quickly. For this afternoon, you will serve at tea. I shall begin your training later this evening. Come along now.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood and went to retrieve my crumpled underthings from the floor. Quick and silent, the Admiral was at my side. Afraid, I backed away, but he only laughed, pulling them out of my hand.

“Molly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never wear these again. I want to know that I have access to my cunt at all times.” Reaching between my legs, his hand unerringly found my moist inner place.

I shuddered. He smiled.

“Is this understood?” At once repelled and excited, I whispered, “Yes, sir.”

“I did not hear you, my dearest.”

I raised my voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Brilliant. Now, tea time. I’m famished.”

 

My first tentative steps in the BDSM community were back in 1996 and consisted of a year of research, reading, online perving. When I worked up the nerve to attend real-time events, I would frequently be the only Black person there, and often the only nonwhite person. I noted this, but since I had little choice if I wanted to explore the fantasy that weighed on my heart more heavily every day, I had to work with what I had. My first relationship was with a dominant who was averse to any play that smacked of racism. The irony was that, willy-nilly, he was a white man tying up and whipping and flogging and tormenting a Black woman.

I had a woman, white, approach me not too long ago and relate to me that she’d seen my playing, many years ago, and that it was “very difficult!” for her to watch. Specifically, to watch a white man beating and torturing a Black woman. “I wish someone could have warned me! That is a pretty intense thing to see when you walk into a playspace.”

I sighed. “You know what’s funny? That wasn’t a race-play scene. That man didn’t do race play. What you saw was the man to whom I was in service playing with me. What you perceived was a race-play scene. I can’t warn you about your own perceptions.”

And so it goes.

I do “race play” whether or not I want to. I have had white tops decline to play with me because they were squicked by the
idea of playing with a Black person. White guilt? Oh, it lives and thrives here in the San Francisco Bay Area! But this presents a quandary. If there are so few people of color in the scene, and a segment of the community feels bad about beating me, who the hell am I supposed to play with?

Eventually, I did find partners who were willing to push that boundary with me, often with explosive results. The toughest aspect of playing in this dark and turbulent dimension wasn’t even the play itself; it was the fury with which some people reacted to even the topic of race-based play being raised. On several BDSM-FOCUSED discussion groups, my writings on my play drew ire, fire and all manner of wrath. I had other Black people labeling me a “self-hating Black woman,” a “traitor to the race,” “deeply disturbed and in need of serious counseling,” and “unfit to be in the community.” Some have even gone so far as to indicate that they would lash out violently if they were ever to be in the proximity of anyone engaging in this type of play.

That isn’t too sexy. I like my violence consensual.

It took me a while to digest this vitriol. I lost friends, was removed from several social groups, uninvited from some events.

But I also had people, more and more often, writing me privately, telling me they’d had similar fantasies. Other Black people. Jewish people who have had fantasies of Nazi interrogations. People of Japanese descent who wonder what an internment camp scene might feel like. Native Americans mulling the idea of a mock “scalping” of a captured white soldier.

It wasn’t just me.

Therefore, dialogue was needed. And I was willing to initiate it.

Within the BDSM community, there are often classes and seminars that folks attend to expand their skill set, or to just investigate something new and curious to them. In my case, I have
about a dozen classes I love teaching, and the list expands. But one of the things that never seems to wane is folk’s desire to discuss the hard stuff. Play that is race based. Play that burns away the niceties of political correctness. Play that is hard. Brutal real.

Playing with an assumed role in BDSM is difficult for some, easy for others. Playing a role that incorporates part of who you really are brings it closer to home. Playing with real-time fears and hatreds is hot for precisely the same reason it is risky: danger. Danger of slipping into a bad headspace. Danger of believing that your top really is a racist. Danger of believing that your bottom really is your inferior and has no intrinsic value, is less than human, because of their race.

But don’t we all?

Aren’t we all walking that day to day?

I have had Black people tell me they thought it was ridiculous that I did this kind of play, and that they never would because, “I live it, why would I need to play it?”

Because we live pain. For me, BDSM is about transcendence. There is nothing as fierce as the pride I have in myself after a scene in which I have weathered the physical abuse, as well as the emotional slings and arrows of my partner, and endured.

This despite my fear that I am unleashing a monstrous army of thoughtless white people now skulking within the dungeons of America, looking for the next available “minority” to thoughtlessly degrade. Quite the opposite seems to be the case. I am almost never approached by white folks interested in specifically engaging in this type of play with me. More often than not, I am politely turned down when I ask friends if they would be interested in playing with me in that way. Don’t even get me started on how impossible it is to find someone to agree to participate as a top in a demo for one of my classes on race play.

The first time I did a race-based class for a kink event my “demo top” was a dear friend who is of Mexican descent. I felt it was necessary to awaken people to the possibilities of this type of play. He played the indignant homeboy—’do rag, cap to the back, baggy pants, a big chain—who pulled a knife on me because he didn’t like the way I was looking at him. I played the snotty Black woman looking down her nose at the wetback thug. And no one knew really what to think. Which was fantastic.

Subsequently, I taught a class with a friend with whom I had played on this edge quite a few times. He was beyond worrying about being perceived as a bigot, and therefore had no trouble doing the scene.

I did a demo with him that involved a job interview gone terribly, terribly wrong, an HR nightmare where, as part of the interview query, I was asked if I would be bringing the requisite fried chicken and watermelon to the company picnic, were I hired. The interview, of course, proceeded to a humiliating climax wherein I was made to debase myself for his amusement because, of course, “Your people are good at shucking and jiving, right?”

In the case of this demo, I was playing with someone I knew very well. There was then a lag of a couple of years where I was dating a guy who, though quite kinky in his own right, was not interested in the public BDSM scene. He was white, and interestingly, he had no trouble at all with the “pillow talk” being of a very racially charged nature. He was also a Southerner, so the traces of drawl that inflected his speech always drove me to distraction. It is enticing to have your lover make you beg for his cock. For me, the rough sex was even hotter and dirtier with the added facet of “wrongness.” No one need know that I was, late at night in the closed bedroom, his “slutty black whore” choking
down his “huge white cock.” Even as part of me was furious at the blatant wickedness, I would orgasm just from having his cock in my mouth and listening to the stream of invective with which he abused me as he used me for his pleasure.

That relationship had an organic component to the play, and after it ended, I had a long lag where I was still teaching classes, but rarely did the classes have demos, because I had so few people with whom I was comfortable doing that type of play.