Ritual 16

Solemn without excuse, our sacred ritual. Sacred, hallowed, secret, libidinous, true. I will guide you again into your journey of self-discovery. And your joy will appear to you as bright and revelatory as the first time. It is your ambition, your breath, your prayer.

I prepare my body, and my mind, and my soul. I take the trouble to do a thorough, cleansing enema. Crude and prosaic perhaps, but nevertheless judicious and propitious. And actually quite stimulating in its way. Then I shower to emerge in pristine, glistening freshness. After which I set my hair and bathe by candlelight in rose-scented water with rose petals floating about me, reading some erotic poetry, drinking some wine and smoking a little grass. I relish the anticipative swell of fervency within me. My pussy throbs and I run a hand over my breasts and pinch my hardening nipples.

I'm ready. My mind refreshed. My body enlivened. My soul roused. I'm ready to be worshipped. Worshipped profoundly, reverently, devotedly.

I walk into our bedroom, where you await with devout obedience, reclining on our bed. Your naked milky white body shines luminously upon the black silk sheets in the oscillating golden glow of the candles placed around the room.

You have prepared our inner sanctum well, according to my instructions. The curtains drawn. The lights out. The room lit only by these choice variously scented candles. Vanilla, jasmine, cherry, sandalwood, musk and ylang ylang. The open bottle of red wine (Bordeaux, my favourite) standing ready beside the gold-rimmed, long-stemmed glasses. Our little antique silver dish, engraved with an interlocking floral motif, with four pre-rolled grass blunts sitting in it. I am pleased.

And I approve of your affectionate smile, your handsome male body firm and lithe despite your maturity, your submissiveness and eagerness to please evident in your whole demeanour. I love your spirit and I will accept your adulation.

As I sit in my beloved sleek teak Scandinavian armchair, nestled in amongst our little forest of houseplants, I note with joy how the candlelight caresses my very dark brown skin with a lustrous silken sheen. I am comfortable, serene, ready. I am where I need to be. Where I wish to be. This is our sanctuary of rejuvenation and renewal, my love. Our lair of revelation and fulfilment. The cathedral of our very own freaky kinkiness.

With a curling forefinger I beckon you from your repose and you rise from the bed. I tell you to pass me a glass of wine and a lighted spliff. You fetch them for me. And I point to the floor for you to kneel down as you proffer them to me. I draw on the spliff and sip the wine. It arouses me to study your attentive gaze and poise, because I know exactly what it is that you are looking forward to. Poor blessed soul. I share a little of my wine and smoke with you.

"This is very nice," I muse airily. "Well done."

There is one last remaining consideration before you perform your deed of veneration. The effortlessly glossy lift of some smooth jazz? The unrelenting optimism and vigour of West African djembe drum music? The gloriously unrestrained spirit of free jazz? I decide I'd like to hear the expansive, soothing, sugary refrains of smooth jazz, and so I tell you to go put on the playlist I wish to hear.

The velvety musical cadences flow into the room. Perfect. Soulful. Sensual. Tender. Meditative. I indicate you should turn the volume down just a touch. You return to kneel beside me and I take my time to imbibe the scene's sensual gratifications and appreciate your submissive compliance and willingness to serve. How profoundly appropriate and restorative your participation is. Balm for the spirit. Affirmation. Human connection and empathy, transcendent simply because it defeats worldly expectations. I notice that your penis, though still flaccid, is somewhat juicily plump in partial arousal at your subservience to me. I gently rub my foot over it and study the rapt expression on your face as the ball of my foot massages your cock into full firmness.

I get up and stand at the foot of our lovely expansive bed. I wave you over to me and point to indicate that you are to kneel behind me. You do so. And thus in the tableau of our respective positions is revealed a beautiful and perfect symmetry. I tell you that you may begin and I accept your first affectionate kisses on my buttocks.

I draw on the spliff while you tenderly, repeatedly press your compliant arse-kissing lips into the soft fleshy globes of my backside. I exhale, feeling light-headed and energised and exultant. I sip my wine. I am wholly at ease with my ascendancy. And I'm so happy that we have each other, that I can share with you this sublime and logical manifesto, this beautiful correction to the malice and iniquity of the world, this esoteric and prismatic glimpse into the things that can be. It is your elevation and your salvation, and I accept your intimate act of redress as my rightful due. A restorative honeyed glow blossoms within my body. Show me, my darling, show me what an arse-kisser you are. Show me that you're my very own personal, private, devoted arse-kisser. I'm your woman. I control you. I take you any way I want you. And I do so absolutely love your self-abasement and humiliation in reverence to me.

"Would you like to be permitted the honour of giving me the dark kiss?" I inquire, knowing full well what the answer is of course, but nonetheless relishing the necessary protocols of our ceremony.

"Yes please, my Empress Queen, yes please," you respond predictably enough.

"Beg well enough," I advise, "and I may bestow the honour upon you this very evening."

You react with gratifying fawning enthusiasm, pleading for the honour and kissing my buttocks with even greater intensity. I sip my wine and anticipate the exquisite touch of your lips upon the ring of my anus, that most mystical of eulogies, that thorough relinquishment of dignity, that simple and delicately rude ode to truthfulness, that most personal, profound and intense individual act of repentance and adoration.

Then suddenly, while you are still zealously kissing my backside and imploring me to allow you to kiss my shit-hole, I abruptly walk away from your grasping hands. I know this will alarm you. I do this because I like you grovelling. I enjoy you bewitched and begging and surrendering up to me every last shred of your pride for my pleasure.

I strut to the bedside cabinet and refill my glass. I drop the stub of the spliff into the dish and take another and light up. I refill my glass then turn and strike a pensive pose, one folded arm resting over the other as I drink, exuding my best austere and concerned air, as if sternly interrogating your worthiness. The barely controlled panic in your face stirs a throb in my spiteful pussy. I drink and let you marinate in your anxiety.

There have been times before when I've halted proceedings in this manner. Either because I was tired, or just felt like doing something else. At those times it was cunningly convenient to feign dissatisfaction with you as the reason behind my decision to stop, as if you were not grovelling enough or some such expedient pretence. Thus utilising the opportunity afforded by my indecision in those moments to safeguard you more generally from complacency, and allow me greater freedom to toy with you. Prudently storing wisely against a day such as this, when you are now sincerely bewildered and uncertain, and aching for reassurance, while I may wallow smugly in your insecurity.

"I'm not sure I should let you."

"Please, I beg you, my Empress Queen. Please."

"Are you sure you deserve it?"

"I know I do not, Empress. But I beg you to please let me."

I observe your erection and note how well behaved you are by not touching yourself. It is gratifying to see how excited you become by your subjection to me. Your large, smooth white penis stands so sturdy and hopeful. I stroll over to you and tap the side of your shaft with my foot. I see your stomach muscles strain against the desire in your hungry cock as it thrusts upwards and forwards to chase the touch of my little kick.

A smile breaks across my face and the game is up. You know from my smile that I will pursue the narrative of our piece of theatre. I place the spliff to your lips and you draw in the smoke. After you have exhaled I put my glass of wine to your mouth.

"Drink deeply, my love," I tell you.

And you gulp down nearly the whole glass as I offer it, dribbling drops of red wine down your chin and over your chest and stomach. These gifts I supply to you because I am truly your friend, your advocate, your provider, your source of joy, your angel. And I want you to exult in your abasement as much as I.

I finish off the glass of wine and go and place it on the bedside cabinet. I swig greedily from the bottle and suck the grass spliff to a furious conclusion.

And now, our moment of conciliation. Of propitiation. This perfect moment. Our repudiation of fear and antagonism. A celebration of accord and balance. The advocacy of harmony and peace and love.

I beckon you to me. You shuffle on your knees across the floor to rest kneeling behind me. I guide your head to my backside. Your hands rest on my thighs. I glance down at you over my shoulder and ask, 'Do you worship my Black womanhood as the ultimate aspiration of your desires and the complete fulfilment of your purpose?'

"I do," you reply.

"Do you profess kissing my arse to be the absolute pinnacle of your accomplishments?"

"I do," you reply.

"Will you always serve me, with all your being?"

"I will," you reply.

"You may kiss your Empress Queen."

I part my buttocks to accept the dark kiss from you. You hold my cheeks reverentially and I feel your trembling, pursed lips pressing onto my hot little ring. I could never describe how thrilling it is to my soul. My tummy flutters, my pussy throbs and my bum-hole puckers in response.

I sway with heady intoxication, not just from the wine and the grass, but also, and most poignantly, from the organic potency of our rude and incomparable intimacy. Eloquent and unclouded. Obscene and pristine. Dirty, filthy, shameful and utterly revelatory. Scandalously and outrageously honest and tender. I'm transported by your loving subservience. My Black arse puckers for another kiss. You comply instinctively, sensing my appetite for your obsequious propitiation, and I'm delighted by a forceful flurry of hot, passionate kisses to my anus. A river of unfettered acknowledgement and desire.

You're a foolish, savage White man tamed by my Black feminine power. Enlivened by my acceptance. You're a non-entity become self-aware by the transformative power of my gracious Black arse. How wonderful to have you within the fold, my love. I am your protector and provider.

After lingeringly enjoying your further kisses of submission and adoration, I decide it is now time to progress your intimate worship of my body and my soul. I step away from you. I stub out the spliff and slide myself on my tummy onto the bed over the spectacular silk. Parting my legs widely to receive your body, I wave you over and you come and settle in position between my legs to continue.

"Come lick it, my darling," I tell you.

You spread my cheeks again and your tongue wets my hole, licking gently at first, and I know you're relishing the honour. And then you grow progressively more and more fervent, a lovely rasping sensation softening my hole. The feel of your hot wet tongue pushing into my bottom is exquisite. My stomach muscles are contracting and relaxing in spasms of exultant pleasure. My head is spinning and my feet are tingling with excitement.

I grasp the soft silk sheet in my fists and gasp and mutter breathless encouragement to you. "Oh that's so fucking good! Yes, that's how I like it! That's it, pleasure my Black arse for me, my precious little White man. Lick it for me! O that's it! Lick it for me!"

And you lick so enthusiastically, so determined to make me feel all that you can give me, so eager to make me happy.

"Y'know, my darling," I tell you, "I truly applaud your meekness and compliance."

"Thank you, Empress Queen," you reply as you lick. "Thank you for your mercy."

"And your enthusiasm," I say, "I love your enthusiasm. You really love licking my Black arse for me, don't you?"

"Yes, Empress Queen, I do. Thank you so very much indeed for the privilege of being allowed to lick your Black arse for you."

"Oh you're so smart for a White guy," I murmur blissfully. "So gifted. So wise."

I reach around and stretch across the bed for the bottle of wine on the bedside cabinet. You crawl responsively on your stomach at my backside, following my stretching movement, eager to keep that obsequious Caucasian tongue deep in that ebon hole. "Mmmm, I just love that wise, appreciative tongue up my arse! How does that taste, darling? Taste good? Sweet like cherry pie, right?"

You mutter affirmatively, enthused and insistent. I glug down the last of the wine and slip the empty bottle down beside the bed. I'm euphoric, my body worshipped and glowing. Your every tremble, lashing flick of your tongue and clinch of your greedy hands reverberating throughout me. I begin to feel myself floating in the trembling fringes of a sublime ecstasy, drawn ever closer inwards towards an incomprehensibly vast galaxy. A grand pleasure too beautiful to describe. For the sake of art, and poetry, and truth and testimony, and for the lucidity and focus of our minds, I vocalise an ecstatic monologue as you hotly plunder the galactic splendour my arsehole.

"Luxuriate," I exhort, "in the veneration of my glorious dark sensuality. My indisputable dark allure. My exquisite dark dominion. Luxuriate, my darling anomalous White man, in your lowly humility at the altar of my Black sensuality. Because you are, by our mutual consent, mine to school with my counsel and indulge with my charms. Your surrender, my love, is your life. To my womanhood. To my Blackness. To my fearful majesty. This is your temple. This is where you worship God. They say when God made Black women he was just showing off. Well, how true is that? Show me how true that is. Show me you recognise the truth of that statement. Show me you believe. Oh yes, that's it, that's it! Fuck it! Work that tongue for me! Show me how much you love my Black arse. My wondrous Black arse! How you love abasing yourself in worshipping me. Surrender your dignity to me, your privilege, your soul. Pleasure me. Pleasure your Black goddess like the grateful, obedient, courageous White man you are. Craving me, craving all the magnificence that is Black womanhood, craving my Black assent, desperate for my approval. Lick my Black arse for me, my darling! Luxuriate in that Black arse! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! That's it, lick it, you fucker, lick it!"

I groan wildly as I run out of words with your happy little tongue running rampant in my anus. I've been rubbing my pussy and I'm suddenly aware I could bring myself to orgasm very easily. I instruct you to jerk yourself off. I want you to climax with your tongue up my arse. I want this to be your pinnacle. I want your utter, depraved, earnest subjugation to me to be the most sparkling evocation of heaven you could ever dream of.

"Come for me, darling," I say. 'But you better keep that tongue busy up there in my arse! You hear?"

"Yes, Empress Queen. Thank you."

"Come for me right now," I tell you curtly.

You grip my thighs harder and I feel you tense and quake as you break into shuddering spasms and release your load, your tongue still obediently jammed into my hole. You cry out exultantly and I finish frenetically frigging myself off.

'Oh fuck! Oh fuck!' I gasp as I shake and writhe in my sharp, incredibly satisfying orgasm.

My head is flooded with light. I'm disoriented but wholly here. My body is at one with the universe. I feel your tongue still obediently wiggling in my hole as waves of pleasure lap at my soul and body. You're licking slower now, without the frantic urgency, but still with warm, wet affection. I tremble. I soak in the moment.

After a minute or two I tell you that you can stop. You stop licking my hole and kiss my bum fondly as you roll aside with a groan of contentment to rest beside me. We're sprawled out here together in the peace, floating in our converged sexual consciousness, sharing the vibrations, each absorbed in our own glistening perceptions of our wholeness, skin touching skin with your shoulder pressed against my thigh. There is no rush to go anywhere, or to do anything, or to be anything other than free and elevated. We can simply revel in the splendour of our disclosure. Our ritual complete. Our secret glory fulfilled.

An alto-sax reverberates forlornly in the fluctuating candlelit ambience, joined after a moment by a sympathetic glissando of electric guitar over the gentle, warm beats. Shifting on the bed to reach for another spliff, my feet brush the moisture of the semen you ejaculated onto the silk sheet in joyful self-abasing veneration of me. I kiss the top of your head. We have perfected a beautiful sacrament, you and I. Solemn without excuse.