Andy
- 4 years ago
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Andy free porn video
Andy
**One**
Andy tried not to be obvious about it: but it was hard not to notice that there wasn’t another white person in the entire restaurant. He’d let Mr. Asad pick the place of their lunch meeting. Maybe that was a mistake. But he wanted to make sure everything was to the black man’s liking. Andy hadn’t landed an account in months so when he’d been contacted by a corporate “headhunter” he’d been surprised—and relieved. As the fiscal year was drawing to a close, Andy suspected that his boss Mr. Baumgarten was about to cut division losses by giving Andy the axe.
So here he was, the only white person in a swank downtown African restaurant being courted by a high-powered business team. Very cool, he thought. He’d couldn’t wait to tell his girlfriend Alison about it. She’d been on his case lately about not having any ambition to make something out of himself. She was very success-oriented, Andy frowned, thinking about his sleek, rich, country-club girlfriend. If he didn’t show some potential real soon, Andy sensed that she’d be giving him the axe, as well.
“Is something wrong Andy,” Mr. Asad asked, dr****g his arm over Andy’s shoulders, like they were already old pals. An alpha-male thing, no doubt. “You looked sad, all of a sudden.”
“Oh no no…not at all,” Andy chased away thoughts of his women troubles, and smiled brightly. He had to pay attention to the business at hand; he couldn’t let this golden opportunity slip away. “I was just trying to figure out what to order. The menu…well, its written in a foreign language.”
The black man threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing. I’ll order what you need.”
Andy laughed, too, not knowing what it was he said that was so funny. Mr. Asad’s English was quite good, but there were times that Andy wondered if they were both understanding each other completely. “Pretty little head…” indeed! Clearly, Mr. Asad hadn’t grasped what the phrase meant in English, that it was inappropriate to use for a man…
Enough.
For now, he had to concentrate all his attention on the proposition at hand. Mr. Asad had brought along two of his partners, Mr. Ikamau and Mr. Tedros. Like Mr. Asad, they were both tall, well-muscled men with sleek blue-black skin. Andy was completely outclassed during the raquetball game they’d insisted on playing before lunch. And it was only worse in the shower afterwards. Andy felt tiny and soft among their hard, large, black bodies. Andy was trying not to peek at the other men, bll three of them had openly appraised Andy’s naked body. He figured it was either the difference between their two cultures or some kind of intimidation tactic; if it were the latter, then it had definitely worked. Under their unnerving scrutiny, which included a fairly intense conversation in their African language that seemed to specifically refer to aspects of his naked body, Andy had blushed a bright pink from the blond roots of his scalp all the way down to his bare pink toes.
He hoped he could do better to get a handle on the interview here at lunch.
Now, he stared at the menu written in some indecipherable African dialect and looked up helplessly at Mr. Asad. More intimidation?
All three black men laughed at Andy’s obvious bewilderment and Mr. Asad, as he’d promised, ordered for him. Then the three men once gain conversed in African amongst themselves, all but ignoring Andy entirely. Once in a while, one of the men would point at Andy, and make a comment to one of the others. Just like in the shower. Then they would all laugh again, or make low whistling noises or gestures that struck Andy as quite obscene. Smiling along, as if he knew what they were saying, Andy nodded his head in agreement, and that would make them laugh even more.
God, he thought, the things we do for money! As interviews went, it sure may have been the strangest, but at least it seemed to be going well. He doubted they’d take him out to eat if they weren’t interested in him.
And they did seem interested in him.
Andy wondered if it were some old tribal custom of assessing his worth as a prospective member of the tribe the way the black men had squeezed his arms and thighs in the shower, or how they’d grabbed his ass, turning him this way and that, examining him from every angle. They’d made him bend down and grab his ankles. They’d made him stand with his hands behind his head. They’d tweaked his nipples. They examined his mouth, pulled out his tongue, felt his balls. They made him kneel down under the shower head with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes closed, and his face turned up to the spray.
And the whole time they spoke to each other as if evaluating him, as if they were testing him. The warm water suddenly felt about ten degrees warmer and, though Andy didn’t dare open his eyes since he’d been told to keep them closed, he couldn’t help thinking that for all he knew the three black men were each, one by one, holding their cocks over Andy and pissing in his upturned face. Jesus! What would even make him think of such a thing? And, having thought of such a humiliating image, why had it caused his cock to spontaneously and embarrasingly grow erect right there in front of the three men? And were they laughing at the fact that he was sporting a hard-on, kneeling there in front of him in the shower, or was it because that, even flaccid, their cocks were nearly twice the size of his fully erect?
He was only trying to land a job, Andy thought, nothing more. His was not to reason why…
As they continued to put him through his paces in the shower, Andy kept telling himself that the African men had different customs, different attitudes, and that to refuse any of their commands was to run the risk of insulting them and throwing away a golden opportunity. So Andy unquestioningly obeyed his three prospective black bosses with a docile demeanor and a demure smile that he hoped was pleasing to them. They were in a position superior to his own, they called the shots, and, somehow, the fact that they were so big, so black, so in effortlessly in control, his total obedience seemed perfectly natural.
Andy felt himself flush again and hardly realizing it a tiny pearl of precum was decorating the tip of his returning erection…
The food had arrived—or rather, only Andy’s had arrived: it was a small plate that he figured was an appetizer. Mr. Asad insisted that Andy begin eating. Mr. Ikamau and Mr. Tedros watched with great interest. Andy figured it was another rite of passage: see if the white boy can stomach real African food. Probably some kind of gross delicacy like musk ox intestine or broiled grubs, Andy thought. He poked around with his fork a little to find something that looked reasonably safe. Oh well, he thought, here goes nothing.
He smiled at the black men and daintily ate a morsel. Within seconds the spicy food caused Andy to break out in a sweat. The black men exchanged a few words and Mr. Asad motioned impatiently for Andy to keep eating.
Andy took a few more small bites and he now began sweating profusely. He muttered an apology and looked for his water glass, but his vision seemed all screwed up somehow. Even worse, he was beginning to have difficulty breathing. Act normal, act normal, Andy told himself. He should excuse himself and go to the men’s room until whatever it was passed. But somehow he didn’t seem to be able to get himself to move. He was trying to act normally, but he was panting and sweating and feeling chilled. He’d begun to tremble all over. What was the matter with him? An allergy? Food poisoning? He tried to ask Mr. Asad where the men’s room might be. But the black man was nodding his approval, patting Andy’s forehead with a napkin, and grinning.
As if reading his mind, Mr. Asad held up a glass of water and held it to Andy’s lips as he sipped. It tasted rather funny…
Andy felt very strange by now—as if he had to remember that he was inside his body. His fingers suddenly went numb and he dropped the fork he’d been holding without even realizing it and the numbness spread up his arms to his shoulders. He panicked. Could he be having a heart attack? He was too young to have a heart attack…wasn’t he?
He tried to say something to Mr. Asad but the black man told him to be calm. He tried one last time to get to his feet but Mr. Assad laid a strong black hand on his shoulder and gently forced Andy to remain in his seat. He found he was was too weak to try again. Andy saw Mr. Ikamau calmly take out his cell phone. He spoke in African, quick, hard, efficient words. He wasn’t smiling, anymore. None of the black men were.
Andy understood only three words that Mr. Ikamau said: 9-1-1
**Two**
In the ambulance, Andy felt his clothes being cut from his body. He tried to tell the black woman that he was wearing his one good suit—the one he wore especially to interviews—but she shocked him by telling him to shut the fuck up. “You’re not going to be needing your old clothes anymore bitch,” she sneered. She dumped his cut-to-ribbons suit, along with the rest of his clothes, his shoes, socks, underwear, all of it, into a bag marked in big block letters: “WASTE.”
Why were his clothes suddenly garbage? What was happening to him?
He tried to get someone to explain, but no one would listen. Everyone in the back of the ambulance was moving quickly and super-efficiently. From the way they were acting, Andy could only assume it really was serious. Something bad must have happened to him. But other than a slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and a bit of dizziness left over from his fainting spell back at the restaurant, he really didn’t feel that badly. Andy wanted to tell someone he was feeling much better, but no one was listening to him. The black doctor who seemed to be in charge told one of the all-black EMT staff to prep him.
Prep him—for what?
They’d strapped him down to a gurney back in the restaurant. Now they began sticking needles into his arms. He saw his legs being raised and spread. Someone gave him an injection in his spine. Everything below his waist went cold and weak. Something huge was inserted into his asshole, stretching him out. Andy moaned. He tried to tell them to stop, but the a pretty, mocha-skinned nurse was determined to get whatever it was stuffed all the way inside him.
Andy started crying.
Mr. Asad knelt beside Andy’s gurney. His chiseled ebony face looked cool and impersonal. Like an African mask above a sacrificial altar.
“Am I—am I dying?” Andy sobbed. He hardly dared asked the question for fear of the answer. He felt dizzy and disoriented. They’d stuck needles into his chest and he felt a terrible pressure slowly building up there, like he was being filled with air or water or something…
“Listen to me carefully bitch,” Mr. Assad said.
Why were they being so mean to him, why did they keep calling him bitch…?
“Who are you? What are you doing to me? You aren’t a headhunter, are you?”
“I am a headhunter alright, but perhaps not the kind you were hoping for?” the black man smiled, showing his teeth. “ I’m employed for an outfit that supplies African men and women of distinction with white slave sissies, such as yourself.”
Andy tried to interrupt. Mr. Asad had it wrong. He wasn’t a sissy. They didn’t tell him that this was the position they were looking to fill. No, this wasn’t the job for him.
The black man cut him off before Andy could say a word.
“I’m a professional. I can spot a prospect a mile away. You have sissy written all over you. The potential is obvious. I’m only surprised you haven’t been captured already. My good fortune, eh?” The smile Andy had seen early once again spread across Mr. Asad’s handsome black face, but it didn’t seem nearly so friendly anymore. “You’ll fetch a nice commission.” He turned to the nurse monitoring the tubes attached to Andy’s chest. “Make them bigger. We’ve got a client with a breast fetish.” He looked back at Andy and saw the anguished confusion in the young sissy’s face. He laughed. “I don’t expect you to understand much of this right now. But believe me, you’ll understand soon enough. By then, it’ll be too late to change anything. In the meantime, I suggest you try to relax and let what happens happen.”
No, Andy thought, I won’t let it happen. This is madness. If this was some kind of k**napping, they’d taken the wrong person. His family didn’t have any money and his girlfriend’s family didn’t think he was good enough to be dating their daughter in the first place. It was his need to gain their approval—and Alison’s respect—that he’d gone on this interview in the first place! They would never pay a dime to get him back. They’d be only too glad he was out of the picture.
Was it possible…no, it couldn’t be true that they’d paid to get rid of him, could it? Andy felt a hopeless paralyzing terror. What if it were? Why go through all this trouble? Why not just pay someone to kill him, make it look like a mugging…
What Mr. Asad was saying…it just didn’t make any sense. These sorts of things just didn’t happen in real life! Andy tried to follow the surreal explanation the black man was giving him for his a*****ion.
“Normally we like to bring a sissy like you along nice and slowly with behavior and body modification,” Mr. Asad was saying. “But I’m afraid in this instance we have no time for all that. We’ve had an unfortunate…erm, accident…with the processing and preparation of one of our sissy slaves just prior to her delivery. She needs to be replaced a.s.a.p since we need to fill an order quickly. A very V.I.P. client. Impossible to disappoint. We need an emergency sissy, and, you my dear, are it. You fit the type our client specified, little bitch, and with some quick alterations, you should do just fine. Now we’re going to have to operate on you right now. We need to get started on your prep immediately. But not to worry, we’ll finish you up when we get you overseas and this particular client doesn’t expect you to be fully functional anyway…”
Andy felt something cold grasp his testicles, holding them up with an impersonal and mechanical precision. He he looked down between his legs to see his balls pulled up and away from his body, held in a pair of long-nosed surgical forceps wielded by a heavy-set black man in pale-green scrubs. Meanwhile, the pretty mocha-colored nurse stepped forward with a length of surgical cord. Without a word, she bent down and began the process of tying off Andy’s ball-sack close to the root of his penis. Andy wanted to tell her that she was tying it too tightly but the sickening sensation in the pit of his tummy made it impossible to speak; it was all he could do, it seemed, to keep from voimting. He heard the angry buzz of an industrial strength electric razor. He made on last effort to free himself and when that failed he tried to thrash around in the vain attempt to hold off the inevitable just a few seconds longer but he was bound too tightly. He felt a thick cold foul-smelling jelly being spread over his groin, over his tummy, down to his knees...
“Please please please,” he moaned, “don’t do this, don’t do this to me….”
A tall very beautiful black woman in a surgical mask appeared at the foot of his gurney; she stood imperiously, like a high-priestess, between his painfully spread knees. She nodded to the tech holding Andy’s tied-off scrotum in the steel forceps. The color of his swollen ball sack was already alarming. The baby-pink flesh had turned an ominous shade of purple. It was all becoming clear what was about to happen, but Andy still didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to see the scalpel in the beautiful doctor’s hand. Andy turned to Mr. Assad for help but knew that it was hopeless. He screamed but no one seemed to care. The scalpel slit through Andy’s numb sac with startling ease. The black woman’s two gloved fingers pried free his left testicle. Once again Andy thought he’d vomit.
The doctor, called for a scissors. The mocha-colored nurse handed them to her. The doctor held the scissors up to the light as much for her own inspection as for Andy to see and fully grasp what was about to happen; she slowly opened and closed the scissors twice, testing them. They snicked together with a flawless exactitude. With the scissors in one hand and his bluish-red testicle extracted and held between the gloved fingers of the other, the doctor looked Andy coldly in the eye for the first and last time, ignoring his mute appeal, like a snake about to strike a cowering, trembling mouse.
Without a word, she quickly and efficiently snipped the testicles free. Andy felt himself falling into a faint. Mr. Assad was talking to someone on the other side of the gurney upon which Andy’s naked, bound, and now half-neutered body lay helpless. The black headhunter was telling whoever it was to make Andy’s tits even bigger. The sissy’s new owners wanted a real big-titted white slut. Meanwhile, Andy decided to take Mr. Assad’s advice and try to relax and let whatever happened happen. There was nothing he could do about it now; it was out of his hands. The doctor slit his other ball sack, pulled free his remaining testicle, and snipped it free. It didn’t seem possible, that his life could be changed just like that, with a couple of snips of a scissors. But lives quickly changed suddenly all the time. A car accident, a street mugging, an interview with a prospective employer…
The tech and nurse were grinning down at him now. Mr. Asad looked pleased. Andy felt his empty ball sack fall against his plugged asshole. The doctor held up the steel surgical tray where his bloody testicles lay for Andy to see. She picked up one, rolled it between her gloved finger, and gave an order to the pretty mocha-colored nurse, who removed the doctor’s mask. She put the testicle into her mouth, first the one and then the other, and she very slowly chewed it. Her cold level gaze never once left the bewildered sissy’s face; her unblinking eyes fixed in primal triumph on the glazed-over eyes of the newly neutered slave.
**Three**
His name is now Adrianna and not even his own mother would recognize him, let alone his ex-girlfriend Alison, although he’ll never see either of them, or anyone else from his old life ever again. He’s a braceleted and collared slave in the large house of a wealthy African couple in Uganda. It is now quite fashionable for the African elite to own white shemale slaves, a status symbol that flaunts the complete reversal of social stations, from the time when white males were considered at the top of the pyramid.
Adrianna’s hair is a long golden mane which frames a kewpie doll face whose wide blue eyes and hear-shaped pink pout seem to be always begging for a fucking. In accordance with the wishes of his owners, he’s been given a pair of tits rather too large for his slight frame—one of Master’s favorite deviations being to slide his big black pole between the oiled globes of Adriana’s pale tit meat and to shoot his thick load into the sissy’s open mouth.
Adrianna’s entire wardrobe consists of nothing more than a complex web of thin chains that form a kind of tiny bikini fixed in place by the multiple piercings that now adorn her soft, waifish body. A pair of severely-arched, ultra-high heels are locked onto his slender feet—all other times, he is kept barefoot. In addition, his sissypuss is always plugged with a replica in rubber of his Master’s cock. His ankle is tattooed with the designs that mark him as property of his Master and Mistress’s house. The penalty for attempted escape is severe: death by public crucifixion.
There is no escape, of course.
And a slave like Adriana doesn’t even consider it. “Fixed,” the way he is now, he could no longer survive in the world outside the compound of his Master and Mistress. He is not only a slave for life but slavery is now what keeps him alive.
As a personal slave to his Mistress, Adrianna performs all manner of services befitting his lowly position—attending to his Mistress’s most intimate toilet; from pedicures to vaginal douches, from her makeup to wiping her ass after a bowel movement, these are duties that Adrianna has come to see as the most important in his life. Mistress will sometimes request a foot massage or even amuse herself by having her slave suck on her long brown toes after an afternoon of shopping—even in public or in front of friends. Adrianna has been well-trained, some might even say torture, to carry out commands without any hesitation or outward show of shame.
Only very rarely does Mistress utilize Adrianna for any form of sexual pleasure. Only her slave’s tongue would be of use, anyway, and Mistress much prefers the penetration of a real man, an act, which, naturally, the castrated shemale neuter can no longer perform. What remains of Adrianna’s former sex is now no more than a limp pee-tube of soft white meat; it is as useless sexually as an earlobe and, like an earlobe, it’s been pierced and decorated in order to make it look pretty.
To his Mistress—a strong woman who naturally enjoys the company of a strong man—a creature such as Adrianna is beneath contempt. Not a man, not a woman, but a non-human, an “it.” She would no more think of having sex with something like Adrianna than she would a lamp: the difference being you could turn a lamp on.
It was primarily his Master who required Adrianna’s sexual services. Tall, broad-shouldered, black as a wet tar, with the naturally imposing presence and authentically dominant nature of the big-bellied African chieftains from whom he was directly descended, Adrianna’s Master was in the prime of his manly life and had a sex drive every bit as prodigious as his heavy-balled, thick, ten-inch penis would lead one to believe. It was to satisfy this voracious and seemingly never fully sated appetite for all the variations of the entire sexual banquet Adriana found himself put to service.
Any and all of the practices that his Mistress deemed too disgusting or demeaning for a queenly woman such as herself to submit to satisfying, it was Adrianna’s responsibility to perform. Oral and anal sex were merely the beginning for Adrianna’s Master enjoyed placing his slave in various forms of extended bondage, shitting in Adrianna’s mouth, beating him with a bamboo stick on the ass, the tits, or the bottoms of his pale feet, having his prize-winning Rhodesian Ridgebacks fuck Adrianna in the ass, etc. There was mummification, breath-play, electric shock and other dangerous fetishes that could, either accidentally or by design, cost Adrianna his life. But this was one of the hazards of being a slave and Adrianna strove hard to please so that his Master would continue to consider his sissy a greater source of pleasure alive than dead.
So this is Adrianna’s life from now until it ends. It’s not the life he chose, or the one he thought he’d have; nor is it where he ever imagined he’d end up when he was contacted by those headhunters what now seems ages and ages ago. And yet how many among us can say that our life has turned out exactly as we planned it? Very few of us dream of becoming the castrated she-male sex slave of a wealth African couple. And even fewer of us ever actually see our dream come true.
Adrianna did. Perhaps—whether he believes himself to be or not—we should consider him lucky?
Annalisa
- 11.06.2022
- 26
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