Aren's Master

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of erotic fiction, the themes of which include interracial sex, cuckolding, and humiliation. If any of these themes are not to your taste, feel free to stop reading at this point.

Part 1 -- Karen Spreads

Karen felt the heat overwhelm her as she lay back on the bed. A round drop of sweat rolled down her upper lip. Her forehead glistened. A slight breeze from the window gave her a momentary sliver of cool. But she was wet all over, having rushed over in the heat of the morning through the park, straight from dropping off the kids. The sweat made her whole body feel slippery, afloat, unreal, in the folds under her arms and her breasts. Between her legs. Her cheeks were red, and there were little flushed patches all over her body, as though it had already happened.

She had been more than distracted, she had thought of nothing else since the phone call at the breakfast table, his name flashing up -- James -- and the whole space, a family morning scene, changing utterly in an instant. Her husband's glance, knowing, but powerless, meek. She had ducked into the garden to receive the curt summons, her first in over a week. It had felt like the longest week of her life, filled with longing, daydreams, questioning, speculation, panic, and desire. Then as she hung up, even her own children were almost invisible to her, they seemed nothing but a chore to be completed as soon as could be, terrible to think it but so true in that moment that she could not deny it to herself.

So she had hurried from the school, almost delirious with anticipation, the sunshine bringing a sweat that she barely noticed, and it was all that she could do to keep the semblance of composure and stop herself from running all the way to his flat. The greetings of other parents, neighbours on their way to work, were all ignored. Her mind was on one thing only, her throat dry with the thought of it, the rest of her body moist, not least her sex. Her knickers -- just plain white briefs, if only she had known -- were wet by the time she got to his block, flustered and hot. And now she lay on his bed, naked, shining, waiting. He liked to make her wait. In her wildest fantasies she had wanted some kind of greeting, but he had just thrown open the door, pointed, and said the fewest words possible to her:

"On the bed. Naked. Spread."

Then he went back to his phone call, strolling into the living room in his white vest and boxers, the white of the vest setting off his jet-black skin, his biceps accentuated as he held the phone to his ear, and not a bead of sweat on him. He had not met her eye. As she lay on his bed, breathless, her desire only grew by the second as she obeyed the last of his commands and spread her legs for him. She felt shivery in the heat as she lay ready for him in this most basic and animal of postures, the human equivalent of 'presenting'.

It excited her that he wanted her like this. She looked down at her body, thirty eight years old in a few months, a little fuller around the tummy after two births, a little longer in the breast, and it thrilled her that this body should be an object of desire for James - a black man, a man who was, in her eyes, little short of physical perfection. Oh, he didn't love her, or worship her as she worshipped him, she knew that well enough. But even to be used for his pleasure, just for a time, was a thrill enough for her. The seconds ticked by, and turned into minutes. And still Karen lay there with her legs spread, waiting for him.

She looked down at her cunt. It looked and felt beautiful to her now, no longer a thing to be hidden away, intellectualised out of existence, but the centre of her being. It was as if her whole life and soul radiated out from between her legs. It made her laugh to remember that she had once thought herself a feminist. No, she thought, this cunt is me, open, glistening, waiting to be penetrated and used for its Master's coarse pleasure. That was her reason for being, above all others. The little coiled hairs had grown back, and there was a trim bush that she hoped would not displease him.

It had been eleven days since she had last been here. As she waited, feverish, Karen wondered again who he had been with. She had tried to bat away feelings of jealousy. For one thing, she was a married woman herself. More importantly she knew that a man like James was too great a sexual force to ever restrict himself, he was a man who saw whatever he wanted as his right to take, and the world generally went along with that.

He had had many women, she knew that. He had different 'interests' that he liked to pursue, some of which he had told her about and some of which she had picked up in their five-month acquaintance. There were black women. He still had a taste for 'sisters', and she had even seen him once by chance in the street, with a proud, shapely young woman with extravagant golden braided hair, who had seemed to look down her nose at Karen as though she pegged her as a rival, despite the affectation of not knowing each other that Karen and James had performed. Then he liked what he called 'party girls'. When pressed, it seemed like this meant young white girls, often teenagers, that he picked up in clubs. But he never went back to them, he just used them once then threw them away -- his words. He also liked to try women of different races and nationalities, and he had boasted once that he had had Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Latino, French and any kind of women you cared to mention. But what made it so hard to hold off her jealousy was also, perversely, the thing that should have given her comfort. James's greatest interest, his passion, his 'hobby' as he had once called it, was fucking married white women.

So on the one hand, Karen knew that she fell into his favourite category of sexual adventure. On the other hand, she knew it was unusual for him to go that long -- eleven days -- without indulging in his passion. All of which led her to the suspicion that there was another little white wife on the scene, which choked her in a way that no number of party-girl or 'sister' rivals ever could. She resolved, somehow, to try to find out. But for now, she was glad to be back in his bed, waiting.

It must have been half an hour at least that she lay there. It felt longer. She gasped inwardly when he appeared in the doorway, a slight sneer breaking his lip. She was wide-eyed, gazing at him, and she stretched her legs a little wider, offering her cunt, showing him. He grinned and nodded slightly -- good girl, he seemed to be saying. She started to breathe heavily as he took his vest off in one movement, displaying that beautiful tall black torso from above her.

Then the boxers came down. This was it, hello again, God she had missed it terribly, this thing of dark, veined beauty that occupied almost all of her waking thoughts. His cock. Flaccid, heavy, swaying, menacing, magnificent. Black. Jet black. A thing of worship. Conqueror of countless women. How many gloried in it as she did? Quite a few in all likelihood. He held it gently in one hand, teasingly brushed the tip against her wet cunt lips as it stiffened.

"Oh God. Oh James. Please ..."

This wasn't like the first time, when she had feared it. She knew she could take it all, in her cunt, feel the thick, long, hot darkness inside her, taking over her body. She was proud of her cunt, proud that it had been in a state of perfect union with such a God-like cock and taken it all. She was bigger inside, looser, since the kids, she knew that, and Richard had remarked on it, their sex life had suffered, and she could feel herself that her husband's penis would never fit snugly again but thrash about awkwardly, as if lost. So for a time she had felt some loss. But now, with James, it was so, so different. His penetration, his power, his fucking, was something altogether different to whatever she had done with Richard. This was a man and a woman in union as God intended. His cock becoming her, taking her body, owning her.

It only made the anticipation more intense as she saw it reach its full growth in his hand, and he stepped forward to claim her married cunt again. Almost touching, looking, gasping. The size of it. Then the first contact, always electric, so different. The huge brown head on her wet lips, barging her clit, shoving rudely like a battering ram for the length it led. She groaned, loud, shameless, as he slid inside her and started to slowly thrust. She felt whole again, a whole woman, with the missing piece restored, as though her spine had been removed and replaced. The shudder came so quickly, maybe the third thrust, as she came for the first time. He looked down at her, savouring his conquest, then took over and went at her hard and selfish, almost wild. To be fucked so hard by that cock, for so long, took her to another plane, one she could never quite recapture when she masturbated. There were shrieks and moans, gallons of sweat pouring out of her. He stopped for a second -- after 10 minutes? 20? 30? -- to flip her onto all fours.

Again he made her wait for a moment. She waited for the hot tip of the cock to touch her wet behind, but felt a hard spank instead, and orgasmed again. He carried on slapping her as he fucked her from behind, and his black hips slapped into her ample white flesh to create a parallel and continuous slap. Her tits swayed furiously as he pounded her. She knew he liked to see that, and knowing it added to her delirium. When he was close to coming, he grabbed her waist so hard, thrust his hips so hard, went so far inside her with his cock that she felt it must break her. She felt the extra throb in his cock as the white essence gushed out into her cunt. Ten, twenty ever harder thrusts, and he was done with her.

That was all he wanted that day. He woke up wanting a hard fuck, he told her. She thanked him for calling her and not someone else. Was it because she was closest, she asked, half-joking. He didn't quite answer but told her:

"I felt like fucking another man's wife. Some white pussy."

As they lay there in the heat she took his cock into her mouth, gently, cleaned it for him, lovingly and greedily, with her tongue. Then he had to go, but instead of kicking her out, full of his cum, as he had done so many times, he told her she could stay in the flat if she wanted. Karen was thrilled, overwhelmed with gratitude. Just to be there in his bed, alone, fucked, used, trusted.

***

Snooping. Such a thrill, tiptoeing naked around his flat. Not quite naked - she had pulled on her plain white panties, out of some strange sense of shy half-propriety, covering her sated pussy, filled with his seed. Knowing he could bound through the door at any moment (although he probably wouldn't) just added to the excitement. Obsessed with James, she wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know his secrets. She opened drawers, and felt a frisson of fear each time, giving her goosebumps.

Did he have porn? Every man did, that's what her husband had told her, shamefaced, when she had discovered his bizarre box in their basement. That day came back to her as she gently poked around James's bedroom. Richard's fallen face when she showed him. His stumbling attempts to explain. Then the tears and the confessions. She had looked through it all, horrified but fascinated. DVDs. Women's underwear. Magazines, some straight top shelf stuff, others with stronger images of sex acts. Always the same theme, the same types -- black men and white women. Karen had never seen black men's cocks before. She had felt more than a tingling as she leafed through it all, alone in the basement, seeing those thick, long, smooth dark organs, so different to Richard's pale flabby little thing. Then the faces of the women, white women like her, some young, some middle-aged. Looking at the camera with black cocks in their mouths.

One picture, one pretty white brunette in particular had captivated Karen, and despite her feelings of revulsion she kept going back to look at that one. The woman's grey-blue eyes looking straight at the camera. Her pretty lips stretched, mouth wide, filled with a thick, dark, black man's cock. A hint of a grin, a beckoning, or a challenge, dimpling those soft white cheeks. The eyes too seemed to speak to her. Ooh, look at me. Aren't I a bad girl? You're no better. I know you're curious. I know you're excited. You're thinking about it now. You'd love to try it. She had put the box away, taken a long shower, masturbating, then waited for her husband to come home.

Did James have something like that? She couldn't imagine it. Her husband was a fantasist, a pervert. James was a man. He lived in the real world, for himself. He didn't have to dream about sex between black men and white women, about what it was like to feed a long black cock into a waiting white pussy. About what it was like to see it. No, she couldn't imagine it. But she kept looking all the same. In his drawers. Under the bed. Then in his wardrobe. There. A white box, larger than a shoebox, heavy as she eased it to the floor. Shocked when she opened it, but it soon became clear and she exhaled heavily, a mixture of relief and excitement. This was James's private collection, no doubt about that. But this was pictures of real people, of James himself. This was real life, photographed, not some fantasy world. Karen sat on the floor in her white knickers, breathed deeply, her heart pounding, and prepared herself for the thrill of it, the excitement of what she was about to do and see. She couldn't resist. The risk that he might return -- what would he do? Punish her? It was all part of it. She was going to take her time. She wanted to see all of it.

There were pictures, prints. Lots of women and girls, on James's bed, nude, in their underwear. Tied up. That's a thought. Kneeling, mouth open. Taken from above. She knew that pose. He liked that. Liked making her wait like that, teasing her with his cock, showing it to her, right in her face, coming close to her lips, but not letting her lick, not letting her suck as she longed to, till he was good and ready. The pictures backed up his boasts, there were all kinds of women in there. These were just the ones he had photographed -- how many more were there? Karen herself had never been photographed, and she had been here countless times. There were pictures with James in them. Usually his cock. In a woman's mouth. Penetrating white pussy as his conquest lay back on the bed, legs spread joyfully.

There were a couple of toys. Handcuffs. Then a metal chain, which she pulled, and out came a full leash and handle with a metal-studded leather dog collar. A little shiver when she saw that. He had never shown it to her, never suggested it. Hands trembling, she raised the collar, tried it on around her neck, felt the cold metal studs on her hot skin, and felt light-headed. Oh, she wanted that. How could she let him know? She sat and savoured the thought for a while.

She had almost reached the bottom of the box. There were some DVDs, plain, homemade. Another time maybe. If only she could ask him, and watch them with him. Real video, she had no doubt of that. James with other women. Watching porn together had perked up her sex life with Richard a little after her discovery and his pathetic blubbed confessions. Things had developed a little. It started with straight 70s stuff, then when she asked for something 'different', out came the ones with the black men and white women. She had loved those as much as her husband did. It showed in the sex. They gradually started talking more, and she made no secret of it, her enjoyment of those. He always let her choose which ones to watch, and she always chose her favourite black 'actors', envying the women, those sluts.

Right at the bottom, a plain black album. His prize possession? It felt like it somehow. She carefully opened it. On the first page, a wedding photo. A young white couple, the husband handsome if a little short. The beaming bride in her twenties, the picture looked to be about fifteen years old judging from her shoulder length wavy hairstyle. Then on the facing page, a woman on her knees, James's cock in her mouth, looking up at him, wide-eyed, as he took the picture. The same woman. Older now, around forty maybe. Her wedding and engagement rings clearly visible against the black veined skin of his cock as she gently held it. The next page had pictures of her spread out on his bed, the way he liked his women to wait for him, and then one of him fucking her, her face flushed pink.

Karen's heart walloped against her breast as she turned the pages. Who was this woman? Was this album all about her? But then on the next page, another wedding photo. A different couple. Bouffant hair, cheap and chintzy dress, this must have been taken in the eighties, and the couple had a working class look about them. Then opposite, as before, the white wife servicing James, wedding ring and all. So this was his private collection. His hobby in an album. Karen herself hadn't even made it into his married white sluts album. The pages went on in the same format, wedding photo of the happy couple, then the slut conquered by James on the following page or pages. Couple after couple. She counted seventeen in all. There were a few gimmicky, kinky shots, where James had had a little fun. One was of him fucking a woman in front of pictures of her wedding and her children, obviously in her home. There was one woman fucked in her wedding dress by James, not long after the wedding judging by the comparison with the real wedding shot -- she still looked young. There were a couple of real nasty, hot ones. Those were the ones that Karen kept flicking back to. One, a white woman with her legs spread. On the page facing, as usual, were the woman on her wedding day and her hapless husband. She appeared to have a small tattoo just next to her cunt, which Karen could just about make out -- did that say 'James's Bitch'? Karen started to touch herself when she saw that. Then another, a wife wearing the dog collar she had found in the box, kneeling at James's feet, with her Master holding the leash.

Karen was breathing hard as she closed the book. Something stuck in her memory, more than all the shocking and thrilling images she had seen. A woman's face, familiar somehow. She flicked back through the collection of wives. There she was, the one Karen remembered, close to the end of the book. Dark curly hair, slim, Jewish-looking. The usual slut poses. Jewish wedding photograph. Karen racked her memory as she put the box away and lay back on the bed. She tried to empty her mind and let it come to her. Her fingers drifted into her panties again. Then it came. Rachel. A member of her husband's tennis club. On the board of directors at the kids' school. A lawyer or something? A magistrate. A slut.

She had been in James's flat alone for two hours when her phone rang. It was him.

"You still there?"

"Yes James. I'm sorry, do you want me to leave?"

"No. Stay. I want a bitch on my bed when I get back. So wait there, assume the position ..." he laughed, "don't know when I'll be back though."

"Of course James. But I have to leave at three to collect the kids."

"OK. I'll get someone else round if I'm not back then."

Then he hung up. Something stung her in his last words, but somehow thrilled her a little as well. She was just a piece of cunt to him, interchangeable and replaceable. She was just one of over a dozen married white women that he had fucked and used, in some cases even branded as his property. She had to look in the album again. She wanted what they had, these sluts. She had part of it, but not all of it. How could she show him?

After a quick shower, and one last lingering browse through James's collection of married women and cuckolded white men, Karen lay back on the bed again. She peeled her knickers down and spread her legs. Then she waited. It was almost one. She knew she might be waiting here like his whore for two hours and not get fucked at the end of it. But she liked it, she wanted to go further, submit her body to him for his use, whether he took advantage or not. The clock ticked away, the occasional breeze drifting across her naked white body. As it got closer to three, she started to feel regret. She wondered who he would call to take her place. Finally, reluctantly, having left it as late as she possibly could, she dressed and closed the door behind her. Out in the street, in a hurry just as she had been in the morning, she hardly noticed the people she passed. She had already dashed past a blur of a woman, slim, black curly hair, a few grey streaks. Then she turned. Was it Rachel? She strained to see the woman's face and catch her direction. She couldn't quite see. The woman turned left towards James's flat. Karen wanted to follow, but had to get the children, so she marched off again in the opposite direction, more flustered than ever.