And that’s where our story begins, with a mature cuckold chafing against the new reality, hating that any black man walking the street has a higher claim on his wife than him, and fed up with not being a man or a woman, but a whiteboi, treated not like a woman, but like a lower class of woman.
Until his wife’s Master catches him in an embarrassing position and demands a choice – suffer life as a reluctant, humiliated whore, or enjoy it as an aspiring black-owned cuckold in training.
Sample:
“Okay, see you later, Ken!” Genny’s keys jangled loudly in the otherwise silent kitchen as she called to me from across the house. “After dinner, I am going to entertain some of Carl’s yummy, black, well-hung friends, so don’t wait up!”
Inwardly, I cringed, but I forced myself to sound sincere when I cried back, “Have fun!”
Have fun. Seriously? Why didn’t I just fucking man up and tell her how much I hated it that any black man walking the street had a higher claim on my wife than I did? Why couldn’t I tell her how much it angered me to know what kind of debauchery she was getting up to, and how disgusted it made me feel when she came home stinking of other men’s cum?
How infuriated I felt to be standing in my own house, dressed in a skirt and blouse, still with fucking heels on my feet because my wife insisted I needed to build up my arches. How much I hated the eyeshadow, eyeliner, lipstick, and blush I had to wear every day. How fed up I was with not being a man or a woman, but a whiteboi, some new gender of the Black New World Order, leaving me stuck somewhere in between.
I heard the door slam shut behind her and cursed myself for wasting yet another chance to let her know how I really felt. The truth was, I was afraid of what she might say if I were to confront her. The rise of the BNWO had invalidated white marriages, so she didn’t owe me anything. I was a white male, the lowest of the low, without even the legal protections of blacked property. One word from her and I’d be out on my ass, free for any black man to claim, and powerless to resist.
“Forget about it,” I told myself with a sigh. “The house is yours for the night, and you know what that means.” I hummed softly to myself as I made a slow, leisurely circuit of the main floor, locking the doors, drawing the blinds, and strategically nudging a few pieces of furniture into the way of anybody coming in. As eager as I was to get started, Genny could be pretty scatter-brained at times, and I didn’t want her coming back for something and stumbling across my dirty little secret.
I hated that it had to be such a secret.
Still counting the minutes inside my head, I strolled casually down the hall to the bathroom. Genny had a bad habit of piling dirty clothes behind the door, trusting me to pick them up and drop them into the wash. The more she’d fallen under the sway of her black boyfriends, the more time she spent out of the house, the more I’d been stuck with housework, humiliated into ‘proper’ whiteboi domestication.
I didn’t mind things like dishes or vacuuming, and aside from feeling the weight of judging eyes on me from black shoppers, I liked getting out to do groceries. Laundry, though, was the one thing I loathed above all others. Every item of Genny’s clothing that I picked up just reminded me of how much she’d changed since our state voted to join the BNWO. Gone was the classy, professional woman I’d married, replaced by a scantily clad slut who dressed to arouse. Everything she wore smelled of black men’s cologne, their sweat, their cum, and sometimes even their piss.
And yet, at the same time, there was a small part of me that looked forward to the desperate hunt for laundry treasures. She entertained her black friends in our bedroom on a regular basis, and it was their clothing, discarded and forgotten, that I so craved. In a world where white men like myself were forced into panties, stockings, women’s slacks, and women’s blouses, there was an undeniable thrill in slipping into even something as simple as a forbidden pair of briefs and socks.
If she ever found out about what had become my secret fetish, I was pretty sure I’d have two ex-wives on my hands, but what did she expect me to do? I’d been emasculated, stripped of my dignity, and she hadn’t touched me sexually in over a year. I was so fucking horny, but it was damned near impossible to get a hardon when you’re dressed like some 1950s housewife.
It was no wonder I resorted to such drastic measures.
❤️ Bobbi
Author of nasty, trashy, taboo erotica
Book:
Wow! This sounds fabulous!
ReplyDeleteYes it does. Truly amazing!
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