Two Dommes One Podcast Coming Soon

🖤 THE  HEART  OF  DIXIE 🖤

She never had been to Alabama before, but she never had been interested in going there, either.  It was different just driving through there, on a road trip, going somewhere else.  On all of those other occasions, Alabama hadn’t been her final destination.  But today, it was...

Anytime she had been to Alabama in the past, it seemed like she had always been forced to drive through Birmingham, just to get wherever else she was going.  Knowing about Birmingham’s racist past, however, including “Bull” Connor’s fire hose histrionics and the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing, had always been enough to dissuade her from stopping there.  Even just to get gas!  And besides, it’s not like Birmingham was the state capital, anyway.  That was Montgomery, and Montgomery is where she was headed.

Her website had been how he first found her.  He had been especially interested in something she called “Racist Conversion Therapy.”  The premise of this program she offered was simple enough.  In an effort to eradicate racism, she had skillfully developed and introduced an extensive training course that demanded all caucasians denounce white privilege, embrace Black Supremacy and, if need be, saddle themselves in heavy debt to start paying off all the reparations they rightfully owed the Superior Race.  So faced with the festering stress of over a century’s worth of white guilt, going all the way back to his slave-owning ancestors during the Civil War, he couldn’t wait to contact her, once he found her website.

Since his first contact with her, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.  Her arrogant, irresistible image haunted his thoughts, and her cruel, mocking laughter echoed in his ears.  Her words were burned into his brain.  It was painfully obvious that, no matter how quickly it happened, she now completely controlled every aspect of his life.  Even his computer! 

He couldn’t believe he had actually allowed that to happen.  He was an IT expert, for God’s sake!  But he had still gone along with it...because ultimately, at the end of the day, he really didn’t have any choice.  Her voice...silky and smooth...during that NiteFlirt call he was paying her for at the time, had somehow convinced him that she unequivocally needed control over every single thing about his daily routine.  

To be completely honest, he was less concerned about being locked in chastity than he was about watching someone else...yes, even her...log into his computer and assume administrator privileges on it.  Yet that was exactly what TeamViewer was designed to do.  She didn’t give a damn if he liked it or not.  She simply told him to install it, which he reluctantly did...and now, she had total control over his computer.

She put restrictions on which websites he could visit.  This was not just to advance her own noble agenda, but to help further enforce his Racist Conversion Therapy as well.  With access to only certain websites, he suddenly found it impossible to research subjects like “Confederate Civil War Generals.” 

She also gave him an extensive list of material to read, to learn more about Black Supremacy, civil rights and various Black leaders in general.  Just knowing names like Huey P. Newton and Louis Farrakhan didn’t mean a damn thing if he still didn’t what they had done and how much they accomplished.  So assigned reading had been essential to his training.

Draining white boys of every last dime they had was always exhilarating, but somehow, re-educating them not just to serve...but to genuinely appreciate...their Black Superiors was a major turn-on for her.  Her trip there now, to visit him in person, was simply just an effort to evaluate how well his conversion therapy was going.  And going to his house, in particular, seemed like the perfect opportunity to mark her territory, so to speak.

Meekly peaking out the window, watching her sleek black Jaguar pull into the driveway, drove his excitement over the edge.  Just meeting her in person had made him a nervous wreck already, and now that she was actually there, he could hardly contain himself.  Finally seeing her face-to-face made him nervous.  And anxious.  And he just hoped he hadn’t forgotten to do something she told him to do before she got there.

The house where he lived was an old white antebellum mansion in the Montgomery Garden District.  It was situated at the dead end of a cup-de-sac, sitting in the middle of a meticulously-landscaped lawn.  Laughing to herself as she got out of the Jag, she couldn’t help but notice the personalized tag on his pick-up truck.  It was a Sons Of Confederate Veterans (special interest) tag that simply said R3B3L.  Hell, it even had a logo in the bottom lefthand corner of it that said the “Heart Of Dixie.”  Damn, she really was down South now! 

Not only was she below the Mason-Dixon Line, she was in Montgomery, Alabama, the first capital of the CSA, or...the “Cradle Of The Confederacy” as some of those old white racist bastards still insisted on calling it.  It was somehow simultaneously laughable and also disgusting, she thought, how blindly loyal these closet Ku Klux Klan members still fiercely were to an antiquated, pointless ideology.  Looking back, just to confirm what she actually saw...she did, indeed, discern a bumper sticker on the back of his High Country Silverado that said “Smile, This Is Wallace Country.”

Now...coming from another state or not knowing anything about history, this might not seem like much of a big deal.  But it is.  It’s also sneaky subtle, because the story behind it happened almost 60 years ago.  

On June 11, 1963, segregationist Governor George C. Wallace stood defiantly in the doorway of Foster Auditorium on the University of Alabama campus, denying all Black Students enrollment and/or admissions there.  That’s not the end of the story, of course, because even though Alabama was the last state in the union to integrate its education system, it eventually did.  That didn’t stop Wallace from serving four terms as State Governor, however, and eventually running for President until someone tried to assassinate him in 1972.  So to those not in the know, that bumper sticker might not be cause for alarm, but to anybody that knows their history, the sticker itself...and certainly Wallace...will always be associated with segregation.

Shaking her head in disbelief as she strode purposefully toward the front door, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had actually followed the instructions she sent him earlier, in preparation for her arrival.  She realized that, even though he had been following her instructions up until this point, he still had an awful lot of wicked, ignominious history deeply ingrained in him that was actively trying to prevent him from submitting to her.  He had potential, though, there was no denying that.  The question now was whether he could live up to the expectations she had for him.

He couldn’t stand the anticipation anymore, so when she rang the doorbell, he opened it immediately and there she stood, stunning as expected.  She was wearing a black cashmere turtleneck, tight black leather pants and a buttery-soft black leather jacket to match.  The militant black beret she wore was reminiscent of the Black Panther Party in their prime, and the colorful kente scarf dangling from the collar of her jacket highlighted the whole outfit.  He literally felt like he was face-to-face with an actual African Goddess! 

He also felt like a fool, however, for the simple fact that —for their first meeting— she had insisted on him dressing like Don Johnson’s buffoonish Big Daddy character from “Django Unchained.”  But this wasn’t Candyland, and she wasn’t looking for the Brittle Brothers.  She was looking for the same kind of “Good Trouble” that John Lewis had been looking for in Selma all those years earlier. 

Laughing briefly at his ridiculous appearance, she quickly regained her composure and told him to stop standing there —gawking— and invite her inside.  She impatiently pushed past his speechless reaction, realizing this must all seem overwhelming to him.  Without the hat from the movie, she astutely noted that he looked more like Colonel Sanders than he did Don Johnson, but what the hell?!  One redneck’s just as good as another. 

“Now get your cracker ass over there, where the light’s a little better, and let’s commemorate this historic moment!” she said enthusiastically, sitting her black Coach handbag on a nearby settee and taking her cell phone out of it...

“I...I...can’t,” he stammered stupidly.

“Sure, you can,” she countered condescendingly, “you can get your ass over there NOW...and let me take a few candid snaps of you dressed like a racist aristocrat...or you can take your little outfit off altogether and let me see if you’re wearing what I told you to underneath it.”

Not sure what to do, he just stood there frozen, like a deer in headlights, until she snapped him out of it with a brutal, backhand slap!

“What the fuck did I just say?!” she demanded irritably.  “Either strike a pose...or lose your clothes!”

Caught off guard and content to try and appease her, he felt her eyes scrutinize his flabby physique as he nervously fumbled to remove his clothes.

“Come on, Colonel Sanders,” she insisted, “I don’t have all day!”

Actually...she did.  But he didn’t know that, and this muthafucker was so stressed out, he couldn’t even unbutton his own clothes.  So she figured why not make the most of it, maximize her advantage, and try to rattle him even more! 

Making an ass of himself didn’t seem like something he was unfamiliar with, so she pressed her luck and kept up the verbal humiliation until he finally finished removing his shoes, clothes and ridiculous string tie.

“I’m not typically the patriotic type,” she mused, casually assessing the Confederate Battle Flag panties he was wearing, “but I must admit...I actually kind of admire your mindless devotion to such an outdated ideology, no matter how xenophobic or offensive it is to others.”

And with that...she suddenly, unexpectedly...rammed her leather-clad knee into his Confederate Flag-covered crotch with all her might! 

“Right now,” she admitted as he quickly collapsed like a sack of potatoes, “I’m not sure whether to laugh at your ass, bust your balls again or just grab my cell phone and start taking pics whether you like it or not.  So I’m gonna offer you a deal...”

“I don’t usually cut faggots like you any slack,” she confessed thoughtfully, “but I’m willing to...just this once...if you agree to my conditions.”

“I’ll consider letting you cum,” she conceded while watching him squirm awkwardly on the floor, “if One...you let me to lock you in chastity.  Indefinitely.  Once you climax, of course, and Two...you let me choose whatever I want for you to ejaculate on.”

Unsure how she wanted him to answer, he slowly started trying to curl himself into the fetal position, for his own protection...

But she promptly blocked that move by sliding the shiny black sole of one of her boots in between the Colonel’s chicken legs...

“So what’s it gonna be, redneck?” she pried as he tried to slink away from her.  “More abuse for your balls?  Or just accept my offer and you get to cum?” 

How dumb could he possibly be, she wondered, as she studied the pained expression on his frightened face. 🥴

“Finally!” she thought to herself while he quietly nodded his silent consent.  “Finally!”

“Now get up...get on yours knees,” she directed unconditionally, “and start jerking off!”

Offering him an option where he actually got to cum was cruel, indeed.  Especially when he realized what it was that she wanted him to ejaculate on...

Kneeling there, on the floor of his own home, apprehensively masturbating, he looked on in abject horror as she shoved one of his most prized possessions in front of him.  He had collected Civil War memorabilia for years.  He usually kept these Confederate relics clean, and clearly on prominent display despite their delicate nature and incalculable cost.

Collectible Civil War plates, commemorating Confederate officials were commonly held in high regard.  Reeling at the realization she just slid an irreplaceable plate with the official seal of the Confederacy on it in front of him elicited an involuntary shriek of disbelief. 

Feeling an unexpected rush of conflicting emotions, he quietly continued stroking himself while staring at the very essence of his family heritage. 

“Heritage, Not Hate,” he had always maintained to explain his undying devotion to a cause that was literally all but forgotten.  Cotton was no longer king in the South.  That was the sad reality he was now faced with, whether he liked it or not.

Kneeling naked, mindlessly masturbating for her amusement, must have been somewhat it was like for slaves serving their masters, he wrongly concluded.  He had deluded himself into accepting the notion that unwanted sexual advances were the extent of the indignities slaves suffered at the hands of their unconcerned overseers.  Seeing her standing there, cell phone in hand, filming his humiliation in high definition, however, reminded him of his rightful place, beneath her heel.

He couldn’t believe she was shooting video of his degradation!  Despite his displeasure at being photographed (or, for that matter, filmed) against his will, he wasn’t nearly as worried about that as he was about her having unrestricted access to his home computer, the laptop he had synced to it and, perhaps most dangerous of all, his complete list of coworkers, friends and family, and all of their contact information.  Masturbation suddenly seemed like the least of his concerns.  Instead, it now seemed like being blackmailed was!

“Well...what are you waiting for?” she sneered sarcastically, shaking him out of his submissive reverie.  “Are you gonna cum or not?”

Knowing his fate was unavoidable and already sealed, he yielded the results she expected and ejaculated all over the plate.  He hated himself for doing it, but didn’t see any other option.  She was holding all the cards.  And that damn camera! 

He couldn’t believe she had filmed the whole thing.  The only thing that could make his situation worse at that point was if she insisted that he also clean the plate...

“Great job, jerk-off!” she praised, aptly laughing at her onanistic pun.  “Now clean it up!”

Abruptly looking for something he could use to clean up the mess he made, he leaned forward and tentatively retrieved the Confederate Flag panties he had been wearing earlier...

“I don’t think you understand,” she clarified quickly, taking the panties back away from him, “I don’t mean to wipe it up with some tacky-ass lingerie.  I’m saying you should lick it clean!” 

Leaning down to clean the gleaming semen off the plate, he felt like a massive asshole.  He had spent most of his adult life looking for collectibles like this.  Looking them up on the internet, tracking them down, acquiring them at any cost and then displaying them throughout his house.  

He took great satisfaction in knowing this collection was the envy of almost every other collector in the Southeast.  The least he could do was just to maintain it and treat it with the reverence it deserved.  And that did not include cumming all over the centerpiece of said collection.  Yet that was exactly what had just happened!

His tongue touching the collectible cum receptacle sent shockwaves through his whole system.  It simultaneously ashamed and also excited him.  He couldn’t control his conflicting emotions anymore, though, so he just sat there once he finished, waiting for her approval.

Removing what looked like a slave collar from her handbag, she sauntered over where he knelt quietly on the floor and fastened it securely around his neck.  Not expecting anything but a basic black collar, he was somewhat shocked to see the words “BLACK OWNED” written in chrome on the front of it. 🖤

It made him feel some sort of way when she latched it in place with a padlock, but he knew better than to complain, so he just studied her sheepishly as she returned to the settee where her purse was.

Watching intently, he took note of the handcuffs she produced from her purse this time, and some other contraption that he could only assume was the chastity device she said something about locking him in earlier.  It literally looked like some sort of chrome tube that tapered down slightly at one end, with a locking device on the other...

Muthafucker! 

He hadn’t expected this...but even before she locked him into it, he could already tell that he wasn’t going to enjoy it.  It wasn’t necessarily that his manhood was being taken away, per se.  It’s just simply that he was no longer gonna be in control of it.

“Oh, well...one less thing to worry about,” he rationalized, looking lustfully at her as she swaggered back over where he was kneeling on the floor and efficiently fixed his hands together behind his back with those shiny chrome cuffs.  Stuffing the discarded Confederate Flag panties into his mouth to muffle any opposition, she then turned her attention to locking his pitiful excuse for a penis in that secure-looking chastity device she got out of her handbag.  Gagging on his flag panties, he offered little resistance as she effortlessly attached that ominous chrome cock cage to his embarrassingly-shriveled manhood.

He now suddenly found himself bound, gagged, cock-locked and completely at her mercy.  Maybe even still a little horny, but being locked in chastity, it didn’t really make any difference.  She stood there before him, smirking down arrogantly at him in his helpless estate, while he stared back in adoration. 

She was in total control and to be completely honest, he couldn’t think of a single thing she could do right then to shake his admiration for her.  He revered her like a Queen, a Goddess, She Who Must Be Obeyed.  But what happened next was about to change all that...

Without warning, she astonishingly stomped the hell out of his limited edition/commemorative plate with the bottom of her big black boot, completely shattering it!  It disintegrated into what looked like a hundred different pieces.  He probably couldn’t just glue that one back together again, she glibly quipped, quite pleased by his exaggerated reaction.

She had expected him to come unglued once she broke that plate, and that was exactly why she’d done it.  It was one of his most prized possessions.  She didn’t want it for herself, though...she just didn’t want him to have it.

It was irreplaceable.  Like all of those other collectible plates he so proudly had on display.  All of which she took great delight in systematically destroying the exact same way she had that first one.

Walking slowly from one china cabinet to the next, knocking over stand-alone displays that were standing in the way, she theatrically announced the name of every official, dignitary or army officer depicted on each plate before enthusiastically smashing them.  There was Robert E. Lee, “Stonewall” Jackson, James Longstreet and so forth.  Of course, those were not the only treasures tucked away and on display throughout his house, but with each one she smashed, it seemed like a little piece of him died inside...and she delighted in it!

It was long overdue, and somebody had to do it.  Who better than her to teach this white trash cracker the error of his racist ways?  What he was guilty of deserved appropriate punishment, and she was there to administer it.

It only took a few plates breaking to break him down entirely.  But she didn’t intend to stop there.  There were literally dozens of paintings, lining the walls of this asshole’s house, all depicting battles from the Civil War that the South says they won.  One was for the First Battle of Bull Run, one was for the Second Battle of Bull Run, one was for Harpers Ferry, one was for Fredericksburg and so on.  On top of that, there was also an endless assortment of military portraits.  The most prominent of which was some artist’s impression of Nathan Bedford Forrest, hanging above the mantle for his fireplace.  It was a face that only a mother could love, but unfortunately for Forrest, it was the only one he had.  He had been a big-shot cavalry commander during the war and, as it turns out, the first ever Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan as well.

“Well...this is unacceptable!” she decreed immediately, dragging his ornately-framed painting to the floor with a resounding thud.  

“This obloquious old bastard don’t deserve any praise or accolades.  All he deserves is my foot, smashing his face!” she seethed in anger as she shattered the glass protecting his portrait with her punishing black boot.

The beauty of everything unfolding in front of her at that very moment was that she could do whatever she wanted, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but moan and groan in that panty-gag and whine like a pathetic little bitch.  Switching tactics, she suddenly returned to her purse and pulled out what looked like a can of spray paint...

“You can’t just maintain this rogue’s gallery of racist panjandrums,” she insisted, shaking up the paint can with one hand and gesturing at all of his offensive artwork with the other, “that’s simply unforgivable.”

Before he knew what was happening, he saw her squat down and deface Forrest’s portrait with a haphazard frenzy of black spray paint.  He felt faint, like he was literally going to pass out, but somehow he pulled himself together long enough to see her stand back up and stroll over to another colorful depiction of Confederate Pride.  She decided to disfigure it as well...

It was a pretentious picture of Jefferson Davis, the President of the Confederacy, himself.  Shaking up the paint can again, she hoped Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi would approve of what she was thinking.  Surely, the co-founders of the Black Lives Matter Movement wouldn’t object to her improving this ostentatious representation of Davis with the world-famous #BLM hashtag in bold black letters. 

Laughing at his reaction to the alteration she just she made on his precious painting, she casually moved on to the next one she saw and vandalized it, too.  She took great pleasure in painting phrases like “racist” and “redneck” or something else equally as degrading on almost every other portrait she found in his house.  He was so deflated at that point, the only real resistance he offered was an occasional, frustrated groan.

On the other hand, she was having a helluva night, knocking over collectibles, ceramic figurines and just generally running amok.

“Fuck this racist shit!” she thought to herself, suddenly spying yet another reminder of Southern aristocracy and entitlement.  Margaret Mitchell’s masterpiece, “Gone With The Wind,” was no longer available on most online streaming services anymore (at least not without some sort of content warning to go along with it, that is), yet down here...in the Heart of Dixie...these hayseed hillbillies couldn’t get enough of it.  It was almost like the Southeastern equivalent of serials killers’ inexplicable obsession with J.D. Salinger’s “Catcher In The Rye.”  She really didn’t see what the big deal about it was...but damn if these rednecks didn’t love that shit!

It was, indeed, a testament to his undeniable Southern culture to have an original movie poster of it (that was even autographed by Clark Gable!) hanging on a wall beside the big screen TV in his living room.  Writing her own review of this controversial classic...on the actual movie poster for it...seemed like the least she could do.  So she drew the words on it with artistic flair and then stepped back briefly, to admire her handiwork.  What she had written was, in essence, like announcing an Academy Award...for the “MOST  RACIST  MOVIE  EVER.” 

Several other antebellum artifacts and fixtures littered the living room as well, and were easy targets to be spray painted or broken.  Choking on the soggy pair of panties in his mouth, he moaned again to get her attention, but she just laughed, (haha!) called him a cracker...and continued her path of destruction through his now devastated house.  He didn’t even want to think about how much damage had been done, but he couldn’t help trying to process it in his head.

Instead of trying to ignore her hateful rampage, he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.  Her haughty attitude and flawless facial features left him feeling frustrated.  He hated what was happening.  He hated himself for being so aroused as she stood there, surveying his house, deciding what to decimate next.

She had wrecked almost everything he had already.  There really wasn’t much left that she hadn’t stomped on, sprayed painted or smashed.  Dashing his hopes of living happily ever after actually made her even happier!

He couldn’t fully understand why she seemed to hate him so much.  Was it because he was a middle-aged, middle class, conservative, straight, white male?  Apparently, that was the worst possible combination of character traits imaginable.  He just hoped she could somehow forgive him for it.

It was almost like she literally made him feel guilty for being white.  Like he should sincerely apologize for it, to atone for in sins.  Including reparations, of course!

He couldn’t quite comprehend how she magically made him betray his own race.  But let’s face it, she had betrayed his trust as well, not just by coming to his home...but by taking everything he had ever told her in confidence, and then using it ruthlessly against him.  His mind was a mangled mess, his emotions on a roller coaster, and the only was he could reconcile it was simply just admitting to himself that being outsmarted and then, eventually betrayed by a beautiful, Superior Black Woman was the most explosive, satisfying experience of his otherwise mundane existence!

Since she first showed up, even after she trapped him in that damnable chastity device, he had been more undeniably aroused than he ever remembered being.  Being that as it may, however, in some remote parts of his soul, it still pained him to see the extent of damage she had done to his ancestral home.  But moaning his muffled objections seemed to have little effect on her at all.

All he could do was watch as she stalked across the cluttered floor to the corner of his living room and ripped the flag that was hanging there down by the grommets, fastening it to the halyard.  He couldn’t prove it, not with proper documentation, but the flag she had just torn down was supposedly once the actual naval jack of a Confederate ironclad called the CSS Tennessee.  She had served as the flagship of Admiral Franklin Buchanan during the Battle of Mobile Bay.  

Needless to say, she didn’t give a damn about that shit.  She only knew it represented everything about the Civil War...and the South in general...that she hated.  So it had to be destroyed, just like his feeble male ego and equally precious Southern Pride.

Sliding her hand inside the pocket of her jacket, she extracted a sleek black switchblade and slit the shit outta that fuckin’ flag.  Rags and fragments were all that remained once she finished slicing up one of his most treasured possessions into nasty tatters.  Nothing matters now, he forlornly thought to himself, seeing her toss the final, leftover vestiges of his own fragile vanity into his palatial fireplace.

Pacing back across to her purse, she reached inside and removed a whole new flag.  He was flabbergasted by it because he had seen it somewhere before.  He just couldn’t remember where until she explained it to him.

He was about to have his historically racist Confederate Flag replaced by a far more meaningful variation of the American Flag itself.  Instead of being red, white and blue, however, this one was red, black and green.  Each color had its own meaning...

Red represented the blood that was shed by all of her African Ancestors, during their fight for liberation.  Black exemplified the inherent nobility of their proud and powerful race.  And lastly, green symbolized the verdant vegetation of Africa and the implied, natural fertility of their Motherland.

Standing there beside the flagpole, she explained that this flag, the one she was raising, had also made its debut on January 20th, 2009, during Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration.  A nation rejoiced that day, she remembered fondly, further noting that, whether he liked it or not, 

America actually had a Black President longer than the Confederacy even existed.  She insisted that this was the flag he should be supporting from now on, no matter what.

Nodding his head in silent consent, he almost choked when she waltzed over where he was now lying on the floor and helped him back to his knees.  Not sure what to do, he just knelt there, trying to be perfectly still.

“I feel like you’ve learned a lot tonight,” she said reflectively, taking his chin gently in her hand so he couldn’t avert his gaze.  “I’ve even been working on a pledge of allegiance to go along with this new flag, but since you’re gagged and all right now, I guess we can save that for next time.  It’ll give us both something to look forward to...and just in case you’re not down with that idea, well...frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”

~ finis ~

Things had been looking up since the election. It took longer than it should have to make sure the right candidate got elected...and then, ultimately inaugurated...but in the end, that wait was definitely worth it. It marked not only the end of an ugly stain on the fabric of American history, but also the beginning of a brand new chapter. One that was more promising. One that was more empowering.

The promise of a new administration stamping out white privilege made her happy, but the prospect of actual reparations made her downright excited. She had been delighted, in fact, when her favorite slave, a white boi who was completely consumed by unforgivable guilt had tentatively asked about restructuring their current contract. According to what they both mutually agreed upon, the compact between the two of them now reflected that on days when he got paid at work, his entire paycheck would be directly deposited into her bank account. He wouldn’t actually have any money of his own anymore, except what little she allowed him to have (as needed) for minor living expenses. She, in turn, assumed responsibility for paying his monthly bills, such as utilities and rent, and he agreed to serve her unconditionally.

She couldn’t believe what an eager beaver he was to compound his own servitude to her, but she certainly didn’t question it. In fact, she loved it! Almost as much as she loved the look on his slightly-frightened face when she explained that, despite his entire paycheck being directly deposited into her bank account every two weeks, it still didn’t excuse him from making monthly reparations payments to her as well.  

With that in mind, their contract had systematically been amended to reflect that stipulation...and he had reluctantly had to scrounge up a second job, just so he could make his monthly payments on time and not disappoint her. Her control over him was already absolute, because of his sheer dependency on her for any money he might need to cover his cost of living, but as an extra precautionary measure, she had also insisted that their contract require him to be kept in chastity 24/7. She even wore the key to his chastity device on a chain around her neck as a constant reminder of his permanent enslavement to her.  

She had recently just quit her job. He had recently just started working a second one. White privilege, at least for him, now consisted of kneeling naked in front of her once a month and making reparations payments. Payments like the one she had come to collect today...

His tongue darted out, quickly licking and kissing the shiny surface of her Louboutins as she stood there smirking down in contempt at how pathetic he looked, kneeling at her feet. She felt empowered, like this was exactly how her life was meant to be. Being a Black Woman meant being powerful. It meant being in control. Not just of her own life, but his, too. No matter how meaningless it might be. 

This had been a long time coming. It was long over-due. But thanks to the new administration in the White House, it was hard not to recognize that this was their time. It was time for Black Women to shine. 

“We shall overcome?” she thought as she laughed at the adoring look on his face while he dutifully handed his monthly reparations payment to her. “No,” she quickly decided, “we HAVE overcome!” 🖤🏾 #BLM

t wasn’t like he drove a luxury car to begin with, but one of the stipulations in the slave contract he had signed was the sale of his own automobile to facilitate the acquisition of a brand new one for her. He had faithfully followed instructions, selling his car to the highest bidder and relinquishing every last dime from the sale of the car to her. She had then gone directly to the nearest Jaguar dealership and bought a brand new, blacked out SUV. ⚫️

She had never owned a car that expensive before, yet somehow, she realized that she deserved it. It didn’t matter how much it cost...because she wasn’t paying for it, anyway. He was! 

And that was exactly how it should be. Especially now, under this new administration. White privilege had plagued this nation for too long, and now it was time for all white boi’s and gurlz to start making amends for their transgressions, for them to start paying reparations. And she intended to do everything she could to help rectify this shameful situation.

Once his car had been sold, and she bought herself a shiny new Jag, she suddenly realized that he was going to need a way back and forth to work everyday, so he could afford to make his monthly payments to her and, at the same time, also keep her in the lifestyle that she now so thoroughly enjoyed. He was employed, but he still needed a way to work, so she did a little research online and located a “buy here, pay here” used car lot where they went together and financed a sub-compact economy car for him that supposedly got great gas milage. She decided that the best car they could get for him was one that drove OK, but that had the cheapest down payment available.

It didn’t matter if the car itself was a piece of shit, she concluded, or even if he somehow managed to keep it running...because she never planned to pay another dime on it in the first place. That probably meant it would get repossessed at some point down the road, but oh, well. Maybe by then he could save up enough money to either redeem it or she guessed he would just be having to hitch a ride to work everyday...or take the bus. But if that was, indeed, to be his fate, she had already decided she was going to make him sit at the back of the bus, out of deference to his Betters. She thought Rosa Parks would approve of that move. 🏾

It made her laugh, thinking back about how surprised he’d been when she told him that, if he wanted his own vehicle, he was going to have to pay for it himself. He objected at first, claiming that he couldn’t...because he didn’t have any money left. But just like usual, she was one step ahead of him and reminded him that even though his entire paychecks were being directly deposited into her bank account now, she knew he still had some money squirreled away in his own bank account. 

She had even offered to give him a ride to the ATM, and then the used car lot after that. He certainly couldn’t complain that she wasn’t doing her part to help make sure his reparations payments to her were not delinquent. Late fees added up after a while, and whining about it wasn’t going to excuse his commitments to her. 

He had already given her almost everything he had...but in the back of his mind, he knew that still wasn’t good enough. She wanted it all. And she didn’t want to hear any excuses about it, either. 

So he agreed to pay for the car that he could drive to work out of what was left it his already decimated bank account. He couldn’t really expect her to pay for it, anyway. Not really. After all, it was going to be the car that he drove, not her. She was going to be riding in style, in her shiny new Jaguar. The one that he was paying for, for fuck’s sake! 

Sometimes, she at least let him ride in it, though. Like right now, for instance. He was hogtied and ball-gagged, but he was riding in it. In the cargo hatch, that is. On his way to the nearest ATM, to withdraw the dwindling remainder of his now almost non-existent life savings.

Slaving away everyday didn’t seem like such an unimaginable thing to him now. Not like it had before. Before he finally realized the extent of his white guilt. Before he fully renounced white privilege. 

Pleasing her had thoroughly replaced his own fragile ego, his own ambition for advancement. His only ambition now was to kneel meekly at her feet, to acknowledge his own inferiority and to pay dearly for the privilege of it. It was a New Day, indeed! 🖤🏾 #BLM

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