Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

Kenyatta kissed Angela on the cheek and said goodbye, then he did the same to me. He paused and brushed the hair from my eyes. I smiled and dropped my gaze to the floor. He placed a finger under my chin and lifted my head so I was looking him directly in the eyes. That familiar flutter returned in the pit of my stomach. He was so handsome.

“Hang in there, Kitten. I’ll be home soon.”

That same sadness was still in his eyes when they locked with mine. Whatever was bothering him had not yet been resolved. It was also clear that he was as worried about leaving me alone with Angela as I was.

“Take good care of your Mistress today,” Kenyatta said. “She got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

He kissed me on the forehead, then glared another warning at Angela before grabbing his briefcase and heading out the door. I stared at the closed door like it was the locked door of a tomb or a prison cell. The knots in my stomach twisted tighter when I heard Kenyatta’s car start and then pull out of the driveway.

“Come with me.”

Angela’s voice sent a cold chill through my bones. Whatever she wanted me to come see or do was bound to be painful and/or humiliating. Refusing her, however, was not an option. I followed her tight little ass up the stairs. When she passed the master bedroom, the guest bath, and the guest bedroom, I knew where she was taking me...the playroom. The dungeon.

We built it a year ago, when our “play” began getting more serious. It contained a stockade, a whipping post, a crucifix, a dentist’s chair, and our prized possession: a birthing table complete with stirrups and leather restraints. There was nothing in that room I wanted to experience with Angela.

“You have been a bad girl, Natasha. Or should I call you Kitten? Hmmm?”

I refused to take the bait. I kept my head lowered and my hands clasped in front of me in as submissive a posture as I could manage.

There was a “toy chest” on the far side of the room, a table loaded with whips, flails, canes, and paddles of different sizes and description. Some were made of rubber, some wood, and some leather. Some were knotted and some had spikes. On a small stainless steel instrument tray by the birthing table, were metal dildos, forceps, clamps, catheters, and a stainless steel speculum.

The speculum had been my idea, as had the birthing table. Since my very first OBGYN appointment at fourteen, I had fantasized about meeting a handsome gynecologist who would seduce me while my legs were in the stirrups and so Kenyatta had agreed to do some role-playing.

“Relax, Miss. This won’t take long.”

He had snapped the latex gloves as he put them on one at a time. Then he squirted lubricant in his hand and eased a finger up inside me. I gasped and clenched, locking down on his finger with my Kegel muscles.

“Relaaaaax,” he repeated in that deep sultry voice of his. He began rubbing my clit with his thumb as he eased another finger inside me then another and finally another until he was practically fisting me. Then he eased his thumb inside me as well, while using his other hand to work my clit. I moaned, my legs trembled, as he punched up inside me over and over again. The first orgasm hit me and I thrashed in the restraints. But Kenyatta wasn’t done. He picked up the speculum, lubed it up, and eased it inside me.

He fucked me with it. Thrusting it in and out of me. Then he picked up the metal dildo and used my own juices to lubricate it before easing it into my rectum, while still fucking me with the speculum.

He squeezed the handle, opening me up wide. The cold metal felt uncomfortable and I was almost turned off until I felt Kenyatta’s lips and tongue on my clitoris, sucking and licking my body into another violent orgasm.

“Oh God! Oh my fucking, God!”

Kenyatta withdrew the speculum, but left the dildo in my ass as he stood and began to undress. He shrugged out of his lab coat, unbuckled his pants and let them drop to the floor.

“Everything looks perfect down there to me. Let’s see how it feels, shall we?”

I nodded my head enthusiastically, practically salivating as he withdrew his massive erection from his pants.

“Yes! Fuck me, Doctor!”

With my legs still strapped in the stirrups, my arms cuffed to the table, and the stainless steel dildo still in my ass like a butt-plug, Kenyatta rammed himself inside me and fucked me hard, gripping the sides of the table and almost lifting it off the floor as he pounded into me.

The memory sent little shocks through my loins. The lab coat still sat on a hook beside the table. I wanted to hold it to my chest, hold it to my nose and inhale, hoping it would still smell like Kenyatta. Whatever Angela had planned, I knew it would not be nearly as pleasant. I tried to imagine what Angela would do if she had me strapped into those stirrups with scalpels and a speculum at her disposal. I shuddered at the thought.

Luckily, Angela wasn’t very creative. I doubt she’d have known what half the instruments were used for or that she’d have had the stomach for it. Instead, she grabbed a knotted cat o’ nine tails. As painful as I knew the cat was, at least it was a familiar pain.

“Strip off those clothes!”

I let the dress fall to my feet. I felt Angela’s gaze all over me.

“Get over there! Put your hands on that post!”

The whipping post was a thick pillar, seven feet tall and the circumference of a telephone pole. It had two metal loops attached to either side of it, two near the top and two near the bottom, and there was a strip of leather attached to each one. I turned around and held on to the metal ringlets. Angela stepped forward and tied my wrists to the loops.

“I am really beginning to get in to this shit,” she whispered in my ear. Her breath smelled like mouthwash and syrup.

I knew she wanted me to beg, whimper, plead with her. It wasn’t going to happen. I could take whatever she could give and more. All the shit I’d gone through in my life. Being raped and molested when I was barely in my teens. Being broke, homeless, hungry. Being beaten up by boyfriends, cheated on, lied to, used, and stolen from. There was nothing this bitch could do to break me. Bring it the fuck on!

Angela cracked the cat hard across my back with a loud whap! The slapping sound hit simultaneous with the braided leather cutting through my skin and the pain that seemed to slice through the muscle into the bone. The air whooshed out of my lungs. I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming.

Again and again, Angela cracked the cat o’ nine tails with all her might, ripping deep grooves in my flesh and turning my back into a bloody mess, painting the walls with my blood. I knew I would keep these wounds for the rest of my life. I closed my eyes and imagined that Kenyatta held the cat instead of his spiteful ex-wife. In a way, he did. Angela was little more than his proxy. Whether she realized it or not, he was swinging the cat vicariously. She was just another tool for my education in the black experience, like the box in the basement or the shed in the backyard or the whipping post. Even when I was licking this bitch’s cunt, it was at Kenyatta’s behest.

“I love you, Kenyatta,” I whispered.

The whip cracked again.

“I love you, Kenyatta,” I said louder as the braided leather cut into me again. My legs went weak as the pain began to overcome me.

“I love you, Kenyatta!” I yelled. This time, the cat did not land again.

I heard the cat o’ nine tails drop to the floor and then Angela’s footsteps walking toward me. She stepped around in front of me. I saw her through a dizzying fog of pure pain. I was panting hard, exhausted. My body shivered with agony. I was on the verge of collapse. Angela grabbed me by the chin with her long, French-manicured nails. I was in so much pain I couldn’t lift my head without assistance.