400 Days of Oppression (15 page)

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.

“I love you, Kenyatta,” I whispered.

“Shut-the-fuck-up.”

“I love you, Kenyatta,” I whispered again.

The blow came suddenly and unexpectedly. Her palm smacked across my cheek with a loud
pop!
like a gunshot. The room spun then came into crisp focus. Angela’s furious stare hovered inches from my face.

“You are fucking crazy.”

She pulled a leather hood over my head. It had a zipper up the back and a zipper where the eyeholes were. The opening for the mouth was a hard plastic circle. Angela picked up a small, flexible, clear dildo and held it up to the hood’s mouth opening, pressing it against my lips.

“Open!”

I opened my mouth and she eased the Jell-O-textured little dildo between my lips and partially into my throat. Just when I felt myself beginning to gag. It stopped. Luckily, it was only six-inches long, and having sucked Kenyatta’s cock for months, I was accustomed to at least another two inches.

She walked across the room and picked up a strap-on dildo. This was a new addition, something she’d brought with her. The harness was made of black latex and leather and there was a nine-inch, pink, flexible dildo strapped into it, the father of the one that was currently filling my throat. Angela picked up a small vial of lube and slathered the dildo with it. She closed the mouth-slit, preventing me from spitting out the dildo, then she closed the two eye-slits, leaving me blind, anxious, and a little fearful.

I felt Angela’s hands on my breasts, then her lips, sucking my nipples. She took her time, sucking each one hungrily, then she stepped behind me. I felt her hands on my thighs, slowly caressing them. She rubbed my ass, jiggled my corpulent buttocks, smacked each cheek hard then kissed them lovingly. I felt her tongue flick along the crack of my ass before she bit and sucked on my ass cheeks. Then her hands went back to my thighs, slowly parting my legs.

Her body pressed against mine. Her breath was hot and moist on the back of my neck and her hands soft but brutal as they found my breasts again, squeezing them, tweaking the nipples. She whispered huskily in my ear, voice heavy with lust.

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

Her lubed fingers slid between my legs, up inside me. They were cool and slippery from the lubricant. She parted my labia and pressed her hips against my ass as she eased the dildo into my pussy. I gasped as the stiff, jelly-like phallus filled me and Angela began thrusting aggressively. She moaned in my ear, as if it were her own flesh inside me rather than rubber.

She untied me and I collapsed. Angela stormed out of the room and left me trembling on the floor. I could feel my sanity beginning to slip, but I thought of Kenyatta and I held on. I held on to the image of us as a family raising kids together. It was my lifeline in this sea of madness.

C
HAPTER
VIII

Kenyatta became increasingly affectionate toward me over the following weeks. When he saw the damage Angela had done to me, he threatened to kick her out of the house if it ever happened again. For her part, Angela never used the whip again, switching to paddles and canes and making sure to use them on my ass and thighs, which had regained much of their former weight now that I was eating table scraps instead of horse beans and yams. I would have never admitted it to her, but I was actually beginning to enjoy the spankings.

I was vacuuming the living room while, in the next room, Angela was working out that flawless body of hers. I could hear her doing squats and lunges with a pair of Kenyatta’s huge dumbbells. Her workout routine would have put half the men I knew to shame. She could bench press a hundred pounds, squat two hundred pounds, and curl seventy-five pounds. There was a heavy bag in there as well and, after finishing her last set of lunges, she pulled on a pair of gloves and began throwing combinations, grunting with each blow. If it ever came down to it, as tiny as she was, I didn’t think I could take her. Each time her fists pounded the bag, I winced, imagining those same fists crashing into my body.

I was almost finished cleaning the living room when Angela walked in wearing tight black yoga pants and a pink halter top that came to just beneath her breasts and accentuated her incredible abdominal muscles. She sat down on Kenyatta’s lounge chair, still breathing hard, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel. She had a paddle in her hands. I didn’t need to wait to be told. I dropped my dress and underwear, walked over to her and laid across her thighs.

Angela smiled. “I think you’re starting to like this,” she purred, rubbing my naked ass. She reached a hand between my legs. I was already moist. I gasped as she slid a finger up inside me, withdrew it, then licked my juices from her fingertip. “Mmmm. You do like this don’t you?”

She smacked my ass hard with her bare hand. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress. I like it.”

She rubbed my bare ass where she had just smacked it and I squirmed, waiting for the next blow.

“Maybe I can help you enjoy it a little more.”

Angela parted my thighs and began rubbing my clitoris. I moaned, closed my eyes, and once again imagined that it was Kenyatta’s hands between my thighs. Then she brought the paddle down hard against my ass.

“Oh!”

“You like it?”

She was flicking her fingertips across my clitoris, rubbing it, twirling her index finger around the swollen nub. I moaned louder, my thighs quivered and I squirmed in her lap.

“Yes, Mistress. I love it!”

She brought down the paddle again, harder this time, sending a shock through my thighs and bringing me closer to orgasm. Kenyatta had done a wonderful job teaching me to enjoy the pain. What Angela was doing now, was almost identical to the first time he’d paddled me. I was certain she had learned the technique from him. I felt a twinge of jealousy imagining Angela bent over Kenyatta’s knee being paddled and finger-fucked. But Angela’s fingers were so talented, I soon lost myself in waves of luxurious pleasure. This bitch knew her way around some pussy.

I was on the verge of orgasm when Angela flipped me over, lying me on the couch with my legs in the air and burying her face between them. She sucked and licked my clitoris aggressively, angrily, wrapping her powerful arms around my thighs and holding me in place, wrestling me toward climax.

A roller coaster of orgasms barreled through me at a hundred miles an hour. I screamed and clawed the couch cushions. When Angela lifted her head from between my thighs, licking my juices from her full, heart-shaped lips, there was a triumphant smile on her face. I knew the feeling. Making someone cum was power. It was the only power I had over Angela and she had just taken it back. But there was a difference, I still had Kenyatta.