A Black Master’s Handmaiden
A husband prepares my wife to get Blacked by her Black Master.
“Hold still, honey,” I said.
Natasha didn’t move nor uttered a word as I adjusted and tightened the ball gag leather holster behind her. Finished, I turned her around to inspect the result.
My wife barely resembled anything like the woman I have been married to for twenty-plus years. With the ball gag enclosed between her mouth, the leather collar around her neck that ended in a leash, and the leather panties she wore and nothing else, she could have been any other woman besides my wife. Here, she resembled someone waiting to be sacrificed. She was food for the gods.
Currently, there was was one such god in our bedroom upstairs, awaiting her presence. He had granted me several minutes to get Natasha ready before sending her to him. Being a Black-Owned couple, it was my duty to ensure the night went well for us. This was the night Natasha goes from being a mere wife to becoming a black-bred hotwife.
Her Master had given specific instructions regarding how he wanted her to look the part, which was what I was about.
“All right,” I declared. “You’re ready, honey.”
Natasha shouldn’t respond, but the glimmer in her eyes declared she was anxious for things to happen. I kissed her cheek, then led her towards the stairs.
“Master Shango awaits you,” I said.
She nodded, then went up the stairs like the handmaiden she resembled. Natasha stopped at the top landing and waved at me; I waved back, and then she disappeared from view, leaving her shadow to trail behind her. Her Master had instructed me under no circumstances to come with her; I was to sit in the living room and await further instructions.
The sex sounded aggressive, like what you’d hear when two champion boxers square up. Natasha’s cries fell and rose in stuttered gasps.
I poured myself a glass of scotch, switched on the TV, and watched an ongoing soccer game. My Labrador, Charlie, snuggled against my ankle; for now, he was only companion.
I looked up when I heard Natasha’s loud grunts echoing from the bedroom—it sounded like she was attempting to scream but couldn’t because of the ball gag, and it seemed as if they had left the door open—it was punctuated by jerky noise that sounded like the bed’s headboard slamming against the wall. Charlie was captivated by the noise and suddenly started barking, but I managed to calm him down. The sex sounded aggressive, like what you’d hear when two champion boxers square up. Natasha’s cries fell and rose in stuttered gasps.
I sipped more of my drink while pretending to picture what was happening upstairs.
Shango had Natasha on her elbows and knees on the bed. He was grabbing a fistful of her hair and slapping her butt with his other hand while fucking her from behind. I imagined him fucking her with forceful aggression like he wanted to hurt her, like he genuinely wanted to split her in half with his cock. Natasha was struggling with her ball gag, making gurgling noise while grabbing onto the bed’s headboard that kept hitting the wall; I imagined several of our photographs had fallen from the wall and now lay on the floor.
I wished I was upstairs watching. My penis was hard in my pants; I was fighting the urge not to start masturbating. Somehow, I knew before the night was over I would be doing that.
I finished my drink and focused my eyes on the game playing on TV, and tried to pretend I wasn’t hearing loud banging sex noise above my head.
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