Sissy gets a black master
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Black Master Gets A White Sissy Part One free porn video
Black Master gets a white sissy
Part One
by
sissy4blackmaster
Every one who saw me at work used to think I was Mr. Clean, Mr. Respectable. I work in advertising and I used to model my appearance on the sort of guys you find between the pages of GQ. Very American, very preppy. I was a nice middle-class boy with a nice expensive haircut and a nice expensive suit. I went to an up market health club to keep my body in peak condition. I'd even dated a nice girl from time to time. So you'd be right in thinking that I was a bit of a closet case. I used to pass a gay bar on my way home from work; in the summer the faggots would spill out over the pavement and ogle me as I jogged past. I wanted nothing to do with them and no way did I feel part of them. Don't get me wrong - they didn't bother me and I wouldn't badmouth them; I just didn't feel that I could relate to them. So I guess you could say I was an arrogant son of a bitch.
Well, I've changed now. Sure as fuck I've moved on and you wouldn't recognise me. And I don't just mean my appearance though God knows that has changed, too. No I'm talking about the real me, the me inside that was always there but needed a real tough black skinhead master to bring it out.
It's a giveaway, isn't it, speaking so contemptuously about 'faggots'? I thought I was not just Mr. Clean but also Mr. Macho. So perhaps if that bar had been a leather bar, I would have changed sooner. I also used to jog past a building site and I sure slowed down a lot as I went past. A dozen or so workmen were always hanging around, smoking and chatting rather than working, and although some of these were the usual overweight, slack-jeaned type, there were a number of tough young hard-bodied lads as well. Of course, my arrogance meant that I imagined that I acted subtly, that I was able to size up the workmen without them noticing me doing so.
Until one evening, arms working like pistons, breathing heavily, my blond hair flopping sexily over one eye, I heard a voice say, "Here comes the faggot again.” To which another instantly added, "Nah, she’s a sissy.” I flushed red, a mixture of anger and embarrassment, and turned to look at the second speaker as I speeded up a little. Not too much - I didn't want the creep to think that he had got to me in any way. I had little more than a glimpse of a black street tough, a guy at least four inches shorter than me, hair cropped close to his skull, and a cheeky grin plastered across his face, before I rounded the corner and was gone. I changed my route home from then on.
After that experience, I often found myself studying my face in a mirror for signs not just of of faggotry but effeminacy. I couldn't see them. I thought I looked pretty hot, of course, but also very masculine. I mean I wasn’t overly hairy but nor was I smooth. But I was haunted by that glimpse of working class rough who felt that I wasn't the man that he was. He was right and I had a lesson still to learn.
And so the fateful day came when I worked late at the office and was pressed for time and decided to go past the building site for the first time in weeks. It was after seven so I imagined there would be no one there. Almost from force of habit I slowed down as I neared it and there he was...sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette and watching me approach. I stared resolutely ahead and prepared to sail past him. The next thing the ground was coming racing to meet me as I went sprawling over his outstretched leg.
"Sorry, mate," said a voice that didn't sound remotely contrite. I looked up at him standing over me, stretching out a hand to help me up. I was winded and couldn't say anything for a few seconds. He was clearly enjoying my discomfiture.
"You bastard!" I finally managed to get out, ignoring his hand and standing up. "You did that on purpose!"
"Yeah. I wanted to see what a sissy looked like up close." I clenched my fist and swung for him. He stepped back and I almost fell over again.
"Hey. No hard feelings, mate. If you want it rough, we don't have to do it here." I blinked foolishly at this statement. "C'mon. Just follow me."
Right. I should have turned and headed in the opposite direction. I should have landed a kick on the fucker and got going. I could have outrun him - he looked fit but my legs were longer. I should have... But I didn't. What I did do was look furtively over my shoulder to see if anyone had seen this meeting and walk lamely behind him into the abandoned building where he had been working. He locked the door behind me which caused me a few anxious moments. He might have been a psychopath but I don't suppose psychos kiss which is what he did as soon as we were safe from the outside world. It was a rundown warehouse with lots of smaller rooms leading off a big deserted store room. He unlocked one of the smaller rooms and, taking me by the hand, led me inside. He picked up a six pack of beer from a table and passed one to me. As we both pulled on the tabs he looked at me and said, "Do you trust me?" I thought at first I had misheard him and looked quizzically at him. He repeated what he had said and I thought for a moment before replying that I did. And in fact I did trust him. In spite of him calling me a faggot, I think I sensed that this guy had planned this meeting because he fancied me. Certainly I fancied him - manual labour had given him a body that I worked artificially for, the skinhead haircut accentuated the strong chiselled features of his face, the broad nose and generous lips - and the unexpected turn the evening had taken excited me.
Plus he was black so that nothing could have emphasised the difference between us more effectively. My colouring was pale - he was ebony black, the kind of blackness so intense it begins to look purple.The hint of danger was a turn on too. But, yes, fundamentally I trusted him and told him so.
"Good," he said. "Don't go away." And he left the room. I felt that I had reached the point of no return now in any case and that I didn't have a clue how I'd get out of the building even if I had wanted to, so I sipped my beer and waited.
I don't know where he went - presumably to one of the other rooms; I don't think I wondered what he was up to; but I was genuinely surprised when he returned, dressed in full leather, jacket, jeans and boots, a pair of handcuffs dangling from the left hand side of his belt, and a glint of steel at his chest where his nipples had been pierced catching the light from the naked bulb above my head. Over his shoulder swung a back pack which weighed ominously heavy.
"Trust me," he said again, looking steadily at me. I stared back as if mesmerised, neither acquiescing nor rejecting and he moved towards me, unfastening the cuffs from his belt. He stopped directly in front of me and looked up at me. Then he said softly but in a tone which allowed no dissent, "Strip." Hurriedly, I pulled off my singlet and shorts, then hesitated.
"Everything," he said in the same voice. Off came the socks and trainers and then, with a final slight hesitation, my jockstrap to reveal my cock standing to attention. He turned me round, rather gently as if to reassure me, and fastened the handcuffs on my wrists.
I was trembling slightly. I had not had many gay experiences and usually only when I had a fair bit to drink. Half a can of lager had not relaxed me much now and I was apprehensive. He stroked me gently as if he were calming a nervous colt and kissed me again, his tongue forcing open my mouth and pressing between my teeth. I relaxed into him as he held my face between his hands, now really turned on by the feel and smell of his leathers, and the hardness of his body. I had been kissed twice and already I felt that it was the most exciting sex I had ever experienced! He hadn't even begun. Pushing me away, more roughly, he pulled open his back pack and rummaged inside it before producing a broad leather dog collar which he buckled around my neck.
"Hang on," I said anxiously. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"You like it rough," he said. It was a statement, not a question. "And you're lucky, cos so do I." He fastened a chain to the collar and pulled me after him, back into the large store room. I followed meekly behind him as he led me to one end of the room. Delving into his bag again, he produced a set of leather ankle restraints and bending down he fastened them on me. He then said, "On your knees" and when I obeyed he padlocked the restraints to a couple of heavy rings set in the floor. Had he set them there or had he chosen this place because of them? In any case, the difference in our heights had ceased to matter.
"Right, pretty boy. Now it's time for a little training. And time you learnt your place. This date's been a long time coming and I'm gonna make sure you remember it. So, for a start, a few rules. You're gonna keep your mouth shut until I give you permission to speak and when you do speak you call me Sir. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl!“
I opened my mouth to protest but the look he gave me was so fierce that the protest stopped on my lips. And the first thing I'm gonna do is make you look like less of a faggot and more like a sissy." His hand went into the bag again and came out with a set of electric hairdressing shears which he plugged in to the wall.
"Now just keep nice and still, slave, and it'll be easier for you." He started on my chest hair. I put up with that as I was reckoning that I could still get away with it at the gym - after all, many guys shaved their chests to show off the definition of their worked-out chests. When he started on my groin, I dared to protest.
"Hey, come on, man. I've got to show myself in the changing rooms." He slapped me across my face and said, "Shut the fuck up, sissy. And you'll regret not addressing me as 'Sir'."
"Please, Sir, please stop, Sir. You can do anything else, Sir but not that." I should have saved my breath.
"I'll finish it off with soap and a razor later," he went on, as if I had not said anything, "but this should teach you your position in life." I was pretty mad at all this but there was not much I could do and by the time he had finished removing the hair from around my balls and cock (which was still betraying me by sticking up in his face as he worked), I had decided that a few weeks of discretion in the changing room would see me through.
He dropped the clippers and, sticking his hand into his bag, produed a blond, female wig. It was ridiculously effeminate, like something out of Gone with the Wind. Totally prissy sissy in effect.
"No, you bastard, you can't do that. This is ridiculous!" He grabbed hold of my head and rammed it into his leather encased crotch, silencing my pleas, and planted the wig on my head.
"That’s better. You are looking really girly already. But we have to soften that face a little.”
Makeup! And where on earth had a black stud like this learned to apply women’s makeup? Little did I know at that point that he was doing a lousy job of it and was transforming me into a slutty whore with deep blue eyeshadow, sloppily applied eyeliner and mascara - and the glossiest, most scarlet lipstick you could imagine.
"What do you say, sissy? Let's hear you."
Brokenly I replied, "Thank you, Sir."
"Lick my boots, girl." Obediently I bent head with the blond ringlets cascading around my face to his dusty boots and started licking the leather. And that effectively ended the first stage of my training.
And that was the easy part. Next out of the bag (and I was beginning to get worried about the contents of that bag) came a set of tit clamps connected by a chain. Had he set them on me when we started I believe I would have moaned and groaned because I was simply not used to such things. It's amazing what a little humiliation does to the brain. I was in a mental state beyond resisting as the teeth bit into the virgin nipples and little more than a slight intake of breath escaped me. A hit of popper helped too and made me eager for what was to come.
"I'll build these tits of yours up a bit, sissy, and maybe think about some nice implants and in a month or so I'll get them pierced so you'll know that you are owned. You want to be owned, don't you, sissy?"
"Yes, Sir!" I said, firmly. At that moment I wanted it more than anything I could think of.
"Now, sissy, it's time to punish you for resisting me. In future, you'll do what your Master says without question, won't you?"
"Yes, Sir."
"O.K. slave. Now let's have you on your knees with your arse in the air." I hurriedly complied. He stuck the popper under my nose and I took a big hit as he continued, "I'm going to beat you now for your disobedience and you are going to count the strokes and thank me for each one. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
I was a wimp before I met him. I had gone to a liberal school where caning was not allowed so I wasn't into reliving my school days or anything like that. The first stroke of his belt seemed to me then like the worst pain I'd ever felt but it wasn't severe. I gasped with shock, nonetheless. And three blows had descended before I remembered that I was supposed to count them.
Or rather he reminded me. He stopped and said, "Right, sissy. We'll start again. And this time, you'll count and thank me."
"Yes, Sir... One, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
Waiting for the blow is worse than the blow itself I soon discovered. He did not beat me with a regular rhythm, nor did his belt always land on the same spot. And while I dreaded each blow, and my mind continued to worry about such things as whether my body would be marked or not, I found that the pain was greater. But then I discovered that, if I stopped anticipating where and when the belt would land, and simply accepted what was happening to me, when I reached that point of total submission, it just didn't hurt. And a voice that didn't sound like mine began to repeat over and over again like a mantra, "Beat me, Black Master. Beat me, Sir," between counting and thanking him, of course.
I reached fifty before he dropped the belt. The bag again and I felt him lubing my arse which burned fiercely after the beating. Then his cock was pressing into my sphincter. I was amazed how easily it slipped in and then he was pumping me hard while he whispered in my ear, "Yeah, sissy, you love it, don't you? You love having a black skinhead Master fucking your sissy pussy. Yeah, feel that cock up your poop chute. That’s your pussy, girl. I'm gonna train you up real good, girl. You're gonna beg for it, sissy, you're gonna beg your Master to whip you and fuck you and make you more of a girl than any girl you ever met. You are going dress nice for me, lots of sweet lacy things for my little girl, and you are gonna mince and lisp for me and beg for me and my black bros to use you..."
He came with a roar. I shot seconds later as he collapsed on top of me. Gently he withdrew and knelt in front of me. He raised my head and looked into my eyes which must have been glazed and focussing on something far distant and said, "You did well for a beginner, sissy." The word seemed full of affection. Then he kissed me again and the kiss sealed it. I was his.
That was only the beginning of my transformation...
Part One
by
sissy4blackmaster
Every one who saw me at work used to think I was Mr. Clean, Mr. Respectable. I work in advertising and I used to model my appearance on the sort of guys you find between the pages of GQ. Very American, very preppy. I was a nice middle-class boy with a nice expensive haircut and a nice expensive suit. I went to an up market health club to keep my body in peak condition. I'd even dated a nice girl from time to time. So you'd be right in thinking that I was a bit of a closet case. I used to pass a gay bar on my way home from work; in the summer the faggots would spill out over the pavement and ogle me as I jogged past. I wanted nothing to do with them and no way did I feel part of them. Don't get me wrong - they didn't bother me and I wouldn't badmouth them; I just didn't feel that I could relate to them. So I guess you could say I was an arrogant son of a bitch.
Well, I've changed now. Sure as fuck I've moved on and you wouldn't recognise me. And I don't just mean my appearance though God knows that has changed, too. No I'm talking about the real me, the me inside that was always there but needed a real tough black skinhead master to bring it out.
It's a giveaway, isn't it, speaking so contemptuously about 'faggots'? I thought I was not just Mr. Clean but also Mr. Macho. So perhaps if that bar had been a leather bar, I would have changed sooner. I also used to jog past a building site and I sure slowed down a lot as I went past. A dozen or so workmen were always hanging around, smoking and chatting rather than working, and although some of these were the usual overweight, slack-jeaned type, there were a number of tough young hard-bodied lads as well. Of course, my arrogance meant that I imagined that I acted subtly, that I was able to size up the workmen without them noticing me doing so.
Until one evening, arms working like pistons, breathing heavily, my blond hair flopping sexily over one eye, I heard a voice say, "Here comes the faggot again.” To which another instantly added, "Nah, she’s a sissy.” I flushed red, a mixture of anger and embarrassment, and turned to look at the second speaker as I speeded up a little. Not too much - I didn't want the creep to think that he had got to me in any way. I had little more than a glimpse of a black street tough, a guy at least four inches shorter than me, hair cropped close to his skull, and a cheeky grin plastered across his face, before I rounded the corner and was gone. I changed my route home from then on.
After that experience, I often found myself studying my face in a mirror for signs not just of of faggotry but effeminacy. I couldn't see them. I thought I looked pretty hot, of course, but also very masculine. I mean I wasn’t overly hairy but nor was I smooth. But I was haunted by that glimpse of working class rough who felt that I wasn't the man that he was. He was right and I had a lesson still to learn.
And so the fateful day came when I worked late at the office and was pressed for time and decided to go past the building site for the first time in weeks. It was after seven so I imagined there would be no one there. Almost from force of habit I slowed down as I neared it and there he was...sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette and watching me approach. I stared resolutely ahead and prepared to sail past him. The next thing the ground was coming racing to meet me as I went sprawling over his outstretched leg.
"Sorry, mate," said a voice that didn't sound remotely contrite. I looked up at him standing over me, stretching out a hand to help me up. I was winded and couldn't say anything for a few seconds. He was clearly enjoying my discomfiture.
"You bastard!" I finally managed to get out, ignoring his hand and standing up. "You did that on purpose!"
"Yeah. I wanted to see what a sissy looked like up close." I clenched my fist and swung for him. He stepped back and I almost fell over again.
"Hey. No hard feelings, mate. If you want it rough, we don't have to do it here." I blinked foolishly at this statement. "C'mon. Just follow me."
Right. I should have turned and headed in the opposite direction. I should have landed a kick on the fucker and got going. I could have outrun him - he looked fit but my legs were longer. I should have... But I didn't. What I did do was look furtively over my shoulder to see if anyone had seen this meeting and walk lamely behind him into the abandoned building where he had been working. He locked the door behind me which caused me a few anxious moments. He might have been a psychopath but I don't suppose psychos kiss which is what he did as soon as we were safe from the outside world. It was a rundown warehouse with lots of smaller rooms leading off a big deserted store room. He unlocked one of the smaller rooms and, taking me by the hand, led me inside. He picked up a six pack of beer from a table and passed one to me. As we both pulled on the tabs he looked at me and said, "Do you trust me?" I thought at first I had misheard him and looked quizzically at him. He repeated what he had said and I thought for a moment before replying that I did. And in fact I did trust him. In spite of him calling me a faggot, I think I sensed that this guy had planned this meeting because he fancied me. Certainly I fancied him - manual labour had given him a body that I worked artificially for, the skinhead haircut accentuated the strong chiselled features of his face, the broad nose and generous lips - and the unexpected turn the evening had taken excited me.
Plus he was black so that nothing could have emphasised the difference between us more effectively. My colouring was pale - he was ebony black, the kind of blackness so intense it begins to look purple.The hint of danger was a turn on too. But, yes, fundamentally I trusted him and told him so.
"Good," he said. "Don't go away." And he left the room. I felt that I had reached the point of no return now in any case and that I didn't have a clue how I'd get out of the building even if I had wanted to, so I sipped my beer and waited.
I don't know where he went - presumably to one of the other rooms; I don't think I wondered what he was up to; but I was genuinely surprised when he returned, dressed in full leather, jacket, jeans and boots, a pair of handcuffs dangling from the left hand side of his belt, and a glint of steel at his chest where his nipples had been pierced catching the light from the naked bulb above my head. Over his shoulder swung a back pack which weighed ominously heavy.
"Trust me," he said again, looking steadily at me. I stared back as if mesmerised, neither acquiescing nor rejecting and he moved towards me, unfastening the cuffs from his belt. He stopped directly in front of me and looked up at me. Then he said softly but in a tone which allowed no dissent, "Strip." Hurriedly, I pulled off my singlet and shorts, then hesitated.
"Everything," he said in the same voice. Off came the socks and trainers and then, with a final slight hesitation, my jockstrap to reveal my cock standing to attention. He turned me round, rather gently as if to reassure me, and fastened the handcuffs on my wrists.
I was trembling slightly. I had not had many gay experiences and usually only when I had a fair bit to drink. Half a can of lager had not relaxed me much now and I was apprehensive. He stroked me gently as if he were calming a nervous colt and kissed me again, his tongue forcing open my mouth and pressing between my teeth. I relaxed into him as he held my face between his hands, now really turned on by the feel and smell of his leathers, and the hardness of his body. I had been kissed twice and already I felt that it was the most exciting sex I had ever experienced! He hadn't even begun. Pushing me away, more roughly, he pulled open his back pack and rummaged inside it before producing a broad leather dog collar which he buckled around my neck.
"Hang on," I said anxiously. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"You like it rough," he said. It was a statement, not a question. "And you're lucky, cos so do I." He fastened a chain to the collar and pulled me after him, back into the large store room. I followed meekly behind him as he led me to one end of the room. Delving into his bag again, he produced a set of leather ankle restraints and bending down he fastened them on me. He then said, "On your knees" and when I obeyed he padlocked the restraints to a couple of heavy rings set in the floor. Had he set them there or had he chosen this place because of them? In any case, the difference in our heights had ceased to matter.
"Right, pretty boy. Now it's time for a little training. And time you learnt your place. This date's been a long time coming and I'm gonna make sure you remember it. So, for a start, a few rules. You're gonna keep your mouth shut until I give you permission to speak and when you do speak you call me Sir. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl!“
I opened my mouth to protest but the look he gave me was so fierce that the protest stopped on my lips. And the first thing I'm gonna do is make you look like less of a faggot and more like a sissy." His hand went into the bag again and came out with a set of electric hairdressing shears which he plugged in to the wall.
"Now just keep nice and still, slave, and it'll be easier for you." He started on my chest hair. I put up with that as I was reckoning that I could still get away with it at the gym - after all, many guys shaved their chests to show off the definition of their worked-out chests. When he started on my groin, I dared to protest.
"Hey, come on, man. I've got to show myself in the changing rooms." He slapped me across my face and said, "Shut the fuck up, sissy. And you'll regret not addressing me as 'Sir'."
"Please, Sir, please stop, Sir. You can do anything else, Sir but not that." I should have saved my breath.
"I'll finish it off with soap and a razor later," he went on, as if I had not said anything, "but this should teach you your position in life." I was pretty mad at all this but there was not much I could do and by the time he had finished removing the hair from around my balls and cock (which was still betraying me by sticking up in his face as he worked), I had decided that a few weeks of discretion in the changing room would see me through.
He dropped the clippers and, sticking his hand into his bag, produed a blond, female wig. It was ridiculously effeminate, like something out of Gone with the Wind. Totally prissy sissy in effect.
"No, you bastard, you can't do that. This is ridiculous!" He grabbed hold of my head and rammed it into his leather encased crotch, silencing my pleas, and planted the wig on my head.
"That’s better. You are looking really girly already. But we have to soften that face a little.”
Makeup! And where on earth had a black stud like this learned to apply women’s makeup? Little did I know at that point that he was doing a lousy job of it and was transforming me into a slutty whore with deep blue eyeshadow, sloppily applied eyeliner and mascara - and the glossiest, most scarlet lipstick you could imagine.
"What do you say, sissy? Let's hear you."
Brokenly I replied, "Thank you, Sir."
"Lick my boots, girl." Obediently I bent head with the blond ringlets cascading around my face to his dusty boots and started licking the leather. And that effectively ended the first stage of my training.
And that was the easy part. Next out of the bag (and I was beginning to get worried about the contents of that bag) came a set of tit clamps connected by a chain. Had he set them on me when we started I believe I would have moaned and groaned because I was simply not used to such things. It's amazing what a little humiliation does to the brain. I was in a mental state beyond resisting as the teeth bit into the virgin nipples and little more than a slight intake of breath escaped me. A hit of popper helped too and made me eager for what was to come.
"I'll build these tits of yours up a bit, sissy, and maybe think about some nice implants and in a month or so I'll get them pierced so you'll know that you are owned. You want to be owned, don't you, sissy?"
"Yes, Sir!" I said, firmly. At that moment I wanted it more than anything I could think of.
"Now, sissy, it's time to punish you for resisting me. In future, you'll do what your Master says without question, won't you?"
"Yes, Sir."
"O.K. slave. Now let's have you on your knees with your arse in the air." I hurriedly complied. He stuck the popper under my nose and I took a big hit as he continued, "I'm going to beat you now for your disobedience and you are going to count the strokes and thank me for each one. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
I was a wimp before I met him. I had gone to a liberal school where caning was not allowed so I wasn't into reliving my school days or anything like that. The first stroke of his belt seemed to me then like the worst pain I'd ever felt but it wasn't severe. I gasped with shock, nonetheless. And three blows had descended before I remembered that I was supposed to count them.
Or rather he reminded me. He stopped and said, "Right, sissy. We'll start again. And this time, you'll count and thank me."
"Yes, Sir... One, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
Waiting for the blow is worse than the blow itself I soon discovered. He did not beat me with a regular rhythm, nor did his belt always land on the same spot. And while I dreaded each blow, and my mind continued to worry about such things as whether my body would be marked or not, I found that the pain was greater. But then I discovered that, if I stopped anticipating where and when the belt would land, and simply accepted what was happening to me, when I reached that point of total submission, it just didn't hurt. And a voice that didn't sound like mine began to repeat over and over again like a mantra, "Beat me, Black Master. Beat me, Sir," between counting and thanking him, of course.
I reached fifty before he dropped the belt. The bag again and I felt him lubing my arse which burned fiercely after the beating. Then his cock was pressing into my sphincter. I was amazed how easily it slipped in and then he was pumping me hard while he whispered in my ear, "Yeah, sissy, you love it, don't you? You love having a black skinhead Master fucking your sissy pussy. Yeah, feel that cock up your poop chute. That’s your pussy, girl. I'm gonna train you up real good, girl. You're gonna beg for it, sissy, you're gonna beg your Master to whip you and fuck you and make you more of a girl than any girl you ever met. You are going dress nice for me, lots of sweet lacy things for my little girl, and you are gonna mince and lisp for me and beg for me and my black bros to use you..."
He came with a roar. I shot seconds later as he collapsed on top of me. Gently he withdrew and knelt in front of me. He raised my head and looked into my eyes which must have been glazed and focussing on something far distant and said, "You did well for a beginner, sissy." The word seemed full of affection. Then he kissed me again and the kiss sealed it. I was his.
That was only the beginning of my transformation...
Annalisa
- 03.12.2022
- 6
- 0
