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.
