The cock cage that Master Ahmed, my black on-line findom Master had instructed me to order for myself, arrived three days after we last spoke. I had it sent to my office to avoid my wife, Marisa, opening it accidentally. I couldn't even imagine what she would think. Making sure that my office door was secure, I opened the package and held the small metal and plastic device in the palm of my hand. There was a tiny padlock to secure the cage once fitted to my penis, and two keys. I had become so erect just from anticipation that, small as even my fully hard cock was, there was no way I was going to be able try the cage on until I'd relieved myself of the load I’d built up.
I used my phone to log into my Blacked.com account, to avoid using my work computer and wifi. I watched a scene in which a young woman seduced a supposed rap star who sported a dick that must have been the length and girth of her forearm. Skilled as she was, she could suck on little more than the head of his enormous crowbar of a cock. When he fucked her, with her legs splayed wide, it looked like he was going to tear her in half, even as he made his entire monstrosity of a dick disappear in her distended cunt. I jerked myself off feverishly, in my imagination substituting my wife's smooth, pink pussy and Master Ahmed's lengthy black truncheon for the two performers. I caught my load in a tissue, trying to avoid getting any on my slacks or tie. With the sexual release, my cock slowly lost its rigidity. I wiped it clean of cum, careful to swab under the head and bottom of the shaft. It was ready, now, to be caged.
Once my cock was dry and shrunk down to its usual irrelevant size, I puzzled out how to fit the stainless steel device to my flaccid penis, following the illustrated directions that accompanied the package. Once encased in the metal, I placed the padlock over the clamps, but hesitated to snap it closed. Even with the keys readily at hand, there was something very final about the act of locking myself up. With a deep breath and force of will, however, I snapped the padlock shut and sat very still, my penis remaining out of the fly of my slacks, but now encased in shiny, cold stainless steel. I used my phone to take a photo of my crotch. Logging onto my Twitter direct messages, I sent the photo to Master Ahmed, and typed, "Caged, Master." I waited several minutes, but received no answer. Assuming that my Master was busy with whatever took up his daily life--work, school, women, I had no real idea--I zipped my fly closed, secreted the cage's packaging away in my briefcase, carefully placed the keys in my wallet for safekeeping, and resumed work, trying impossibly to forget the metal sheath encasing my penis.
At dinner that night, as my wife talked about her day while our sons, typically, squabbled about their food and school and video games, I focused on the feeling of my cock in its new, metal cage, locked away, secured. I did not know what Master Ahmed intended for my chastity, but I took some solace in knowing that I retained possession of the keys, that I could end contact with him at any time, that this was all just a kind of elaborate game, although, admittedly, an increasingly expensive and extreme one.
"...this weekend, ***? Huh? Can we? Can we?" I became aware that my sons were talking to me. "You have to, ***," Tommy was saying. "It's your fault!"
"What's that," I asked. "What's my fault?"
Marisa shushed the boys to be quiet. "Tommy and Wayne want you to take them to buy new skateboards this weekend," my wife explained.
"Oh, they do, do they?" I asked archly. "And who is supposed to pay for two new skateboards, I wonder."
Tommy's voice became shrill. "You are, ***! It's your fault! It's your fault those black boys took our 'boards! You let them! You took us to that horrible park! Those boys were mean! You were mean!" Strictly speaking, Tommy was correct: I had purposely taken him and Wayne to a park in the black part of town, stood by and allowed a group of young black boys to bully them, to steal from them. I had videoed the entire encounter, pleased to see my sons, my little, white piglets as Master Ahmed called them, put in their place, have their white privilege shoved in their faces.
I glared at my ten-year old son. "Maybe," I said, gritting my teeth, "those boys, those 'black boys,' as you call them, aren't as fortunate as you. Maybe they don't have as much as you: a big house and bikes and skateboards and video games. Maybe they don't go to as good a school or have parents who care for them. Did you ever think of that?"
Tommy was turning red with exasperation and anger. Wayne looked nervous and uncertain.
"You're mean!" Tommy shouted. "I hate you! I hate you!" Banging a fist on the table, he ran upstairs to their bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Wayne sat silently, looking downcast.
"What about you," I asked him. "Do you have anything to add?" I had rarely ever spoken a harsh word to either boy. Marisa looked on silently. Wayne just shook his head, picking at his food with his fork. "Well," I pressed. "Use your words, Wayne."
"No," he responded glumly. "We...we just want our skateboards back," he whined.
I thought about it for a moment. "Then save your allowance, your birthday money. When you can afford half the cost of new skateboards, we can buy them. Until then, you'll just have to be happy with what you have. With all the many things that you and your brother have." I stood and began clearing the table. Marisa, I noticed, did not look unhappy at this new hardline I was taking with our sons.
After the boys were asleep, and Marisa was reading in bed, I shut myself up in my study, eager to see if Master Ahmed had responded. There was a message in my DMs, saying simply "call me," with a link to the same video chat app we had used before. I logged on and he responded right away. He appeared to be lying down on his back in bed, so I assumed he was on his phone instead of a computer. He wore a Laker's T-shirt and glasses. "Hey, faggot," he said.
"Master, it's good to see you. I hope you're well."
"I'm always good, boy, as each new day brings us that much closer to the total extinction of the white race. Have you done your part to help that along, piggy?" he asked me.
I stood in front of my laptop and dropped my slacks and lowered my briefs in front of this confident, young, black Master. My flaccid penis was on display, sheathed in its new metal and plastic cage. "I hope this helps, Master," I said, with my eyes lowered humbly.
Master Ahmed examined his screen, nodding with approval. "That's a good step, piggy. It'd be better if we just had you nutted, but turning white boys into eunuchs is still a thing of the future, unfortunately." His expression turned stern. "Too bad, though, you weren't caged before you made those horrible little piglets, wouldn't you agree, son?" It was particularly dismissive whenever he called me son, being 15 years younger than me.
I thought of Tommy's tantrum at the dinner table, his spoiled, privileged behavior. "Yes, Master! I wish I had sliced my white balls off myself before I made the mistake of reproducing. I'm so sorry for bringing more white boys into this world, Sir. I'm so sorry!"
"You should be sorry, piggy. But you are on the correct path now, and I'm here to guide you. Time to tribute me, piggy. Let's make it $100 to start today, what do you say? Are my lessons worth it to you, piggy?"
Without minimizing my screen, wanting Master to see me do it, I opened the PayPal app on my phone and sent him $100 as instructed. I felt the blood rush to my caged cock; it strained against the metal loops, aching painfully as I completed the transfer. Master Ahmed's notification beeped and I watched him smirk as the $100 drained from my account to his. "Good piggy," he said simply.
"Tell me, white boy, how long have you had the cage on, now?"
"I put it on at work, Master, just before sending you the photo," I told him. "So...almost, uh, ten hours, Sir."
“Yeah, that’s another thing, piggy: don’t ever send me a picture of your fuckin’ faggy junk again, got it? If you send me pictures, make it of your wife’s tight snatch or her white booty, got it?”
“Yes, Master! I’m so sorry, Master!”
"How's that cage feel, piggy, nice and snug?"
"Yes, Sir! My cock is pressing against it right now. It hurts, Sir."
"You don't have a cock, cracker," he snapped. "Only real men have cocks: black men. You have a, let’s call it a dink. A little dink, just like a little pink piglet. Probably no bigger than your piglet sons."
"Yes, Sir," I repeated, "I have a dink."
"Now, I need you to do something important for me, piggy. You got a pen and paper?" I took a pen and a post-it from the top desk drawer. "Good. Write this down." He gave me a P.O. Box number in the city where he lived. "Tomorrow, I need for you to mail the keys for your cage…to me. I want you to enclose a thank you note, telling me how appreciative you are that I have locked you in chastity."
My heart beat faster, I felt light-headed. He wanted the keys to my cock cage. Both of them! "B-but, Master," I stuttered in feeble protest, "if I, if I s-send you both k-keys, what do I do if, if, if...?"
"Relax, faggot," he said cooly. "You want to know what you're supposed to do if you need to use your little dink, right? Well, piggy, don't worry about it: you won't. When and IF I decide you have earned the right to jerk your little dink, which is unlikely, I will return the key to you...temporarily. But I don't see that happening anytime soon. White boys behave better when they're locked up."
"But, Sir," I whined, "what about my wife? What if she wants to have...to have sex? What if she sees the cage? What am I supposed to tell her?"
"Well, piggy," Master said, bringing the screen closer to his grinning face, "that's your business, but...I would suggest you tell her the truth. As for sex: that’s kind of the entire point of the cage, dumbass. You will not be having sex, maybe never again, but certainly not while I own you. I may consider letting you jerk your pathetic wiener once in a while when you have performed a great service for my people and our future. Otherwise, your junk stays locked. And pretty soon, I'm going to be wanting some of that fine white ass of your wife’s for myself. That'll go a whole lot smoother if you start paving the way now. I own you, piggy. And just as I own you, I own your sow and your little piglets, too."
"Yes, Master," I answered, "I understand." I realized that I was weeping.
"Aww, why you crying, piggy? You scared?"
I thought about it for a moment. "Yes, Master. But...that's not why I'm crying, Sir."
"No, piggy? Then tell me, why are you crying, son?"
"Because, Sir, it feels...right...to be owned. I think, I think I have wanted this my entire life."
Master smirked. "Of course you have, piggy. You’ve just needed the right black man to come along and take ownership of you and your pathetic life. Isn’t that right?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. I really believe that, Sir.”
“That’s good, piggy, because I have something else I need for you to do for me.”
“Of course, Sir,” I rushed to say. “Anything, Sir. Anything at all.”
“I have some expenses, piggy. Expenses that a black man like myself shouldn’t have to bother with. I think it’d be good, piggy, if you offered to take over the monthly payment on one of my credit card bills. I already have a white pig that pays my American Express every month. What say you take over my Visa payments?”
I did not hesitate this time. And again, my little white dink strained against its cage. “I’d be honored, Sir. Please, Master, please, may I pay your Visa bill each month?”
“Yes, piggy, you may.” He asked me for an email address to which he could forward his payment details. “It needs to be paid by the fifteenth of each month, piggy. You need to take the initiative, I don’t want to have to remind you. Shit like this is beneath me.”
“I understand, Master. It would be a privilege to take that burden off your hands and assume responsibility for the debt. Thank you so much, Sir!” He had mentioned that he owned another piggy who paid his American Express bill. I wondered how many whites this young stud owned, and found myself vaguely jealous toward any other whites, resenting them, but also proud that my Master should have a sizable stable of slaves.
“What’s your mantra, cracker?”
“Whiteness is a disease,” I pronounced on cue, like an army recruit responding to his sergeant. “Black cock is the cure!”
“That’s right, piggy, it is. You want that sow of yours blacked, don’t you, piggy?”
My cock grew rigid in its tiny cage, quite painfully trying to escape its confines. “Oh, Master, it’s so shameful, but, yes, I really do. I cannot please her with my little white…dink. She needs a real man, Sir.”
“Don’t give much of a fuck what any white sow needs, faggot. I only care that the white race gets fucked and fucked good. I only care about fucking up white marriages in the name of Allah and Black Supremacy. I only care about getting my share of reparations from white fucks like you. How’s that sound, boy?”
Unable to stroke my little nub of a cock, I massaged my aching, cum-filled balls. “That sounds perfect, Master, just perfect. The way it should be.”
“The way it’s going to be, piggy.” I watched as he tapped away on his phone. “Open your email, faggot.”
I did as instructed. I found an email that contained the Visa contact phone number, along with the details I would need to make a payment: the last four digits of both his account and his social security numbers, and his zip code. At the bottom of the email, he’d written, “Don’t let me down, Davey.” I realized that I’d never told him my name, but there it was. I looked back at the video screen, but he was gone. Fuck! He knew who I was, and if he knew that, there was no telling what else he knew about me. My home address, my phone number, my place of work. I didn’t dare challenge or refuse him anything. This twenty-one year old black man from two states away held complete power over me. I was caged literally and figuratively.
I fought down a panic attack as I wrestled to accept the fate that my interracial fetish had led me to. I dropped the keys to my cock cage in a small, padded manilla envelope. I took out a sheet of stationary to begin the thank you note that Master Ahmed expected of me.
“I am so grateful that a strong, dominant, superior Black Muslim like yourself has taken possession of me,” I began. “As you have decided to lock your devoted slave in sexual abstinence, I have placed a cage on my insignificant white cock. Enclosed, please find the keys to that cage. I surrender my sexual liberty to you, Master, and thank you for putting me into chastity. I thank you, also, for educating me about Black Supremacy and the sinfulness of my own race. I look forward to serving you in any way I can so long as it continues to please you to own me.” I hesitated at the close, recalling his use of my first name, intentionally signaling that he knew who I was, that I no longer enjoyed the protection of internet anonymity. I signed my full name to the thank you note, hoping to let Master Ahmed understand that I accepted his proprietorship of me and all that it entailed.
I placed the note in the envelope with the keys, addressed and stamped it. I was tempted to unlock my cage and enjoy one final wank, but Master had not given his permission, so I refrained and sealed the envelope. I set it aside to mail out on the following day.
Upstairs, the light was out in our bedroom, so I assumed Marisa had already gone to sleep. I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, adjusting the cock cage, still fascinated by the feel of it encasing my flaccid penis, my dink, as Master Ahmed referred to it. I crawled quietly into my side of the bed.
"David?"
Shit, Marisa was still awake. "Oh, sorry, honey, I didn't mean to wake you," I said, my back to her.
"No, it's fine," she said, her hand on my back, caressing my shoulder. "Your attitude toward Tommy and Wayne, you've been much tougher on them lately."
"Oh. Well, uh, I just, I'm sorry if you don't think that..."
"No, no," she interrupted. "I think it's probably just what they need. A bit of discipline. You're right, you know, we have spoiled them." Her hand reached around my back, stroked my chest. Oh, Christ, I realized: she was turned on by the hard stance I was taking with our sons. She was instigating sex, something she very rarely did. And I was locked in a chastity cage! The key was still downstairs in the unmailed envelope. I could retrieve it, enjoy sex with my pretty, obviously aroused wife, return the key later. Master Ahmed need never know. But I would know, and I did not want to let my Master down or betray his trust. No, I resolved, I would remain locked, just as he instructed.
"I'm sorry, honey," I explained to Marisa, my cock straining against its cage once again. "I have a bit of a headache, just not feeling very well." I sensed her disappointment.
"But, if you want, ah, I can...take care of you." I slipped under the covers, and lowered my mouth to Marisa's crotch. I slipped her panties down her thighs and applied my lips and tongue to her vagina. As I licked and probed, I massaged her swelling clitoris. Our oral sex, always rare, was usually little more than foreplay, brief and circumspect, never to completion. I was inexperienced at stimulating a woman with my mouth, but I applied myself like a trooper, trying to mimic some of the things I’d seen in porn, both interracial and lesbian. As I moved my mouth from her labia to her clitoris, I inserted two fingers in her vagina, fucking deeply. I imagined Master Ahmed enjoying Marisa's sweet cunt with his enormous black cock, providing her the kind of pleasure I never had or could with my insignificant pink dicklet. Her breath grew louder, more rapid.
My balls cramped with the pain of denial, as I ministered to my wife's pussy. Marisa squirmed, her hands on my head, pushing me forcefully onto her wet pussy. We had married young, and neither of us had much sexual experience beyond one another. I didn't even know if Marisa found black men particularly attractive or if the size of a man's cock mattered to her in the least. We’d never discussed it. But as I sucked and fingered her cunt, I grew resolved to see my wife blacked, to do what I could to make certain that a superior man, that a black man, enjoyed her lovely body, her pretty mouth, her tight, pink twat. My wife moaned as I ate her pussy with a fervor I'd never shown her before. Just as she was aroused by the uncharacteristic manliness I'd demonstrated in disciplining our sons, I was aroused at the thought of another man using her body, her pussy, taking her from me much the way those strong black boys had taken my weak sons’ skateboards.
Marisa cried out, and her pussy gushed, much to my shock, filling my mouth with thick, milky ejaculate. I'd never tasted it before, and gulped her rich, sweet pussy cream down my throat. "Oh. My. God," Marisa panted. "David, that was, that was amazing. What got into you? Headache, really? You should get headaches more often."
I climbed out from under the covers, wrapping my arms around the woman I loved, the woman I longed to give to a better man, a real man, a black man. Whatever it might take, I was resolved to ensure that my wife would serve Master Ahmed with her body the way that I served him with my money. White submission to Black rule was the proper order of things. I would do any and everything I could to bring it about.
I used my phone to log into my Blacked.com account, to avoid using my work computer and wifi. I watched a scene in which a young woman seduced a supposed rap star who sported a dick that must have been the length and girth of her forearm. Skilled as she was, she could suck on little more than the head of his enormous crowbar of a cock. When he fucked her, with her legs splayed wide, it looked like he was going to tear her in half, even as he made his entire monstrosity of a dick disappear in her distended cunt. I jerked myself off feverishly, in my imagination substituting my wife's smooth, pink pussy and Master Ahmed's lengthy black truncheon for the two performers. I caught my load in a tissue, trying to avoid getting any on my slacks or tie. With the sexual release, my cock slowly lost its rigidity. I wiped it clean of cum, careful to swab under the head and bottom of the shaft. It was ready, now, to be caged.
Once my cock was dry and shrunk down to its usual irrelevant size, I puzzled out how to fit the stainless steel device to my flaccid penis, following the illustrated directions that accompanied the package. Once encased in the metal, I placed the padlock over the clamps, but hesitated to snap it closed. Even with the keys readily at hand, there was something very final about the act of locking myself up. With a deep breath and force of will, however, I snapped the padlock shut and sat very still, my penis remaining out of the fly of my slacks, but now encased in shiny, cold stainless steel. I used my phone to take a photo of my crotch. Logging onto my Twitter direct messages, I sent the photo to Master Ahmed, and typed, "Caged, Master." I waited several minutes, but received no answer. Assuming that my Master was busy with whatever took up his daily life--work, school, women, I had no real idea--I zipped my fly closed, secreted the cage's packaging away in my briefcase, carefully placed the keys in my wallet for safekeeping, and resumed work, trying impossibly to forget the metal sheath encasing my penis.
At dinner that night, as my wife talked about her day while our sons, typically, squabbled about their food and school and video games, I focused on the feeling of my cock in its new, metal cage, locked away, secured. I did not know what Master Ahmed intended for my chastity, but I took some solace in knowing that I retained possession of the keys, that I could end contact with him at any time, that this was all just a kind of elaborate game, although, admittedly, an increasingly expensive and extreme one.
"...this weekend, ***? Huh? Can we? Can we?" I became aware that my sons were talking to me. "You have to, ***," Tommy was saying. "It's your fault!"
"What's that," I asked. "What's my fault?"
Marisa shushed the boys to be quiet. "Tommy and Wayne want you to take them to buy new skateboards this weekend," my wife explained.
"Oh, they do, do they?" I asked archly. "And who is supposed to pay for two new skateboards, I wonder."
Tommy's voice became shrill. "You are, ***! It's your fault! It's your fault those black boys took our 'boards! You let them! You took us to that horrible park! Those boys were mean! You were mean!" Strictly speaking, Tommy was correct: I had purposely taken him and Wayne to a park in the black part of town, stood by and allowed a group of young black boys to bully them, to steal from them. I had videoed the entire encounter, pleased to see my sons, my little, white piglets as Master Ahmed called them, put in their place, have their white privilege shoved in their faces.
I glared at my ten-year old son. "Maybe," I said, gritting my teeth, "those boys, those 'black boys,' as you call them, aren't as fortunate as you. Maybe they don't have as much as you: a big house and bikes and skateboards and video games. Maybe they don't go to as good a school or have parents who care for them. Did you ever think of that?"
Tommy was turning red with exasperation and anger. Wayne looked nervous and uncertain.
"You're mean!" Tommy shouted. "I hate you! I hate you!" Banging a fist on the table, he ran upstairs to their bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Wayne sat silently, looking downcast.
"What about you," I asked him. "Do you have anything to add?" I had rarely ever spoken a harsh word to either boy. Marisa looked on silently. Wayne just shook his head, picking at his food with his fork. "Well," I pressed. "Use your words, Wayne."
"No," he responded glumly. "We...we just want our skateboards back," he whined.
I thought about it for a moment. "Then save your allowance, your birthday money. When you can afford half the cost of new skateboards, we can buy them. Until then, you'll just have to be happy with what you have. With all the many things that you and your brother have." I stood and began clearing the table. Marisa, I noticed, did not look unhappy at this new hardline I was taking with our sons.
After the boys were asleep, and Marisa was reading in bed, I shut myself up in my study, eager to see if Master Ahmed had responded. There was a message in my DMs, saying simply "call me," with a link to the same video chat app we had used before. I logged on and he responded right away. He appeared to be lying down on his back in bed, so I assumed he was on his phone instead of a computer. He wore a Laker's T-shirt and glasses. "Hey, faggot," he said.
"Master, it's good to see you. I hope you're well."
"I'm always good, boy, as each new day brings us that much closer to the total extinction of the white race. Have you done your part to help that along, piggy?" he asked me.
I stood in front of my laptop and dropped my slacks and lowered my briefs in front of this confident, young, black Master. My flaccid penis was on display, sheathed in its new metal and plastic cage. "I hope this helps, Master," I said, with my eyes lowered humbly.
Master Ahmed examined his screen, nodding with approval. "That's a good step, piggy. It'd be better if we just had you nutted, but turning white boys into eunuchs is still a thing of the future, unfortunately." His expression turned stern. "Too bad, though, you weren't caged before you made those horrible little piglets, wouldn't you agree, son?" It was particularly dismissive whenever he called me son, being 15 years younger than me.
I thought of Tommy's tantrum at the dinner table, his spoiled, privileged behavior. "Yes, Master! I wish I had sliced my white balls off myself before I made the mistake of reproducing. I'm so sorry for bringing more white boys into this world, Sir. I'm so sorry!"
"You should be sorry, piggy. But you are on the correct path now, and I'm here to guide you. Time to tribute me, piggy. Let's make it $100 to start today, what do you say? Are my lessons worth it to you, piggy?"
Without minimizing my screen, wanting Master to see me do it, I opened the PayPal app on my phone and sent him $100 as instructed. I felt the blood rush to my caged cock; it strained against the metal loops, aching painfully as I completed the transfer. Master Ahmed's notification beeped and I watched him smirk as the $100 drained from my account to his. "Good piggy," he said simply.
"Tell me, white boy, how long have you had the cage on, now?"
"I put it on at work, Master, just before sending you the photo," I told him. "So...almost, uh, ten hours, Sir."
“Yeah, that’s another thing, piggy: don’t ever send me a picture of your fuckin’ faggy junk again, got it? If you send me pictures, make it of your wife’s tight snatch or her white booty, got it?”
“Yes, Master! I’m so sorry, Master!”
"How's that cage feel, piggy, nice and snug?"
"Yes, Sir! My cock is pressing against it right now. It hurts, Sir."
"You don't have a cock, cracker," he snapped. "Only real men have cocks: black men. You have a, let’s call it a dink. A little dink, just like a little pink piglet. Probably no bigger than your piglet sons."
"Yes, Sir," I repeated, "I have a dink."
"Now, I need you to do something important for me, piggy. You got a pen and paper?" I took a pen and a post-it from the top desk drawer. "Good. Write this down." He gave me a P.O. Box number in the city where he lived. "Tomorrow, I need for you to mail the keys for your cage…to me. I want you to enclose a thank you note, telling me how appreciative you are that I have locked you in chastity."
My heart beat faster, I felt light-headed. He wanted the keys to my cock cage. Both of them! "B-but, Master," I stuttered in feeble protest, "if I, if I s-send you both k-keys, what do I do if, if, if...?"
"Relax, faggot," he said cooly. "You want to know what you're supposed to do if you need to use your little dink, right? Well, piggy, don't worry about it: you won't. When and IF I decide you have earned the right to jerk your little dink, which is unlikely, I will return the key to you...temporarily. But I don't see that happening anytime soon. White boys behave better when they're locked up."
"But, Sir," I whined, "what about my wife? What if she wants to have...to have sex? What if she sees the cage? What am I supposed to tell her?"
"Well, piggy," Master said, bringing the screen closer to his grinning face, "that's your business, but...I would suggest you tell her the truth. As for sex: that’s kind of the entire point of the cage, dumbass. You will not be having sex, maybe never again, but certainly not while I own you. I may consider letting you jerk your pathetic wiener once in a while when you have performed a great service for my people and our future. Otherwise, your junk stays locked. And pretty soon, I'm going to be wanting some of that fine white ass of your wife’s for myself. That'll go a whole lot smoother if you start paving the way now. I own you, piggy. And just as I own you, I own your sow and your little piglets, too."
"Yes, Master," I answered, "I understand." I realized that I was weeping.
"Aww, why you crying, piggy? You scared?"
I thought about it for a moment. "Yes, Master. But...that's not why I'm crying, Sir."
"No, piggy? Then tell me, why are you crying, son?"
"Because, Sir, it feels...right...to be owned. I think, I think I have wanted this my entire life."
Master smirked. "Of course you have, piggy. You’ve just needed the right black man to come along and take ownership of you and your pathetic life. Isn’t that right?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. I really believe that, Sir.”
“That’s good, piggy, because I have something else I need for you to do for me.”
“Of course, Sir,” I rushed to say. “Anything, Sir. Anything at all.”
“I have some expenses, piggy. Expenses that a black man like myself shouldn’t have to bother with. I think it’d be good, piggy, if you offered to take over the monthly payment on one of my credit card bills. I already have a white pig that pays my American Express every month. What say you take over my Visa payments?”
I did not hesitate this time. And again, my little white dink strained against its cage. “I’d be honored, Sir. Please, Master, please, may I pay your Visa bill each month?”
“Yes, piggy, you may.” He asked me for an email address to which he could forward his payment details. “It needs to be paid by the fifteenth of each month, piggy. You need to take the initiative, I don’t want to have to remind you. Shit like this is beneath me.”
“I understand, Master. It would be a privilege to take that burden off your hands and assume responsibility for the debt. Thank you so much, Sir!” He had mentioned that he owned another piggy who paid his American Express bill. I wondered how many whites this young stud owned, and found myself vaguely jealous toward any other whites, resenting them, but also proud that my Master should have a sizable stable of slaves.
“What’s your mantra, cracker?”
“Whiteness is a disease,” I pronounced on cue, like an army recruit responding to his sergeant. “Black cock is the cure!”
“That’s right, piggy, it is. You want that sow of yours blacked, don’t you, piggy?”
My cock grew rigid in its tiny cage, quite painfully trying to escape its confines. “Oh, Master, it’s so shameful, but, yes, I really do. I cannot please her with my little white…dink. She needs a real man, Sir.”
“Don’t give much of a fuck what any white sow needs, faggot. I only care that the white race gets fucked and fucked good. I only care about fucking up white marriages in the name of Allah and Black Supremacy. I only care about getting my share of reparations from white fucks like you. How’s that sound, boy?”
Unable to stroke my little nub of a cock, I massaged my aching, cum-filled balls. “That sounds perfect, Master, just perfect. The way it should be.”
“The way it’s going to be, piggy.” I watched as he tapped away on his phone. “Open your email, faggot.”
I did as instructed. I found an email that contained the Visa contact phone number, along with the details I would need to make a payment: the last four digits of both his account and his social security numbers, and his zip code. At the bottom of the email, he’d written, “Don’t let me down, Davey.” I realized that I’d never told him my name, but there it was. I looked back at the video screen, but he was gone. Fuck! He knew who I was, and if he knew that, there was no telling what else he knew about me. My home address, my phone number, my place of work. I didn’t dare challenge or refuse him anything. This twenty-one year old black man from two states away held complete power over me. I was caged literally and figuratively.
I fought down a panic attack as I wrestled to accept the fate that my interracial fetish had led me to. I dropped the keys to my cock cage in a small, padded manilla envelope. I took out a sheet of stationary to begin the thank you note that Master Ahmed expected of me.
“I am so grateful that a strong, dominant, superior Black Muslim like yourself has taken possession of me,” I began. “As you have decided to lock your devoted slave in sexual abstinence, I have placed a cage on my insignificant white cock. Enclosed, please find the keys to that cage. I surrender my sexual liberty to you, Master, and thank you for putting me into chastity. I thank you, also, for educating me about Black Supremacy and the sinfulness of my own race. I look forward to serving you in any way I can so long as it continues to please you to own me.” I hesitated at the close, recalling his use of my first name, intentionally signaling that he knew who I was, that I no longer enjoyed the protection of internet anonymity. I signed my full name to the thank you note, hoping to let Master Ahmed understand that I accepted his proprietorship of me and all that it entailed.
I placed the note in the envelope with the keys, addressed and stamped it. I was tempted to unlock my cage and enjoy one final wank, but Master had not given his permission, so I refrained and sealed the envelope. I set it aside to mail out on the following day.
Upstairs, the light was out in our bedroom, so I assumed Marisa had already gone to sleep. I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, adjusting the cock cage, still fascinated by the feel of it encasing my flaccid penis, my dink, as Master Ahmed referred to it. I crawled quietly into my side of the bed.
"David?"
Shit, Marisa was still awake. "Oh, sorry, honey, I didn't mean to wake you," I said, my back to her.
"No, it's fine," she said, her hand on my back, caressing my shoulder. "Your attitude toward Tommy and Wayne, you've been much tougher on them lately."
"Oh. Well, uh, I just, I'm sorry if you don't think that..."
"No, no," she interrupted. "I think it's probably just what they need. A bit of discipline. You're right, you know, we have spoiled them." Her hand reached around my back, stroked my chest. Oh, Christ, I realized: she was turned on by the hard stance I was taking with our sons. She was instigating sex, something she very rarely did. And I was locked in a chastity cage! The key was still downstairs in the unmailed envelope. I could retrieve it, enjoy sex with my pretty, obviously aroused wife, return the key later. Master Ahmed need never know. But I would know, and I did not want to let my Master down or betray his trust. No, I resolved, I would remain locked, just as he instructed.
"I'm sorry, honey," I explained to Marisa, my cock straining against its cage once again. "I have a bit of a headache, just not feeling very well." I sensed her disappointment.
"But, if you want, ah, I can...take care of you." I slipped under the covers, and lowered my mouth to Marisa's crotch. I slipped her panties down her thighs and applied my lips and tongue to her vagina. As I licked and probed, I massaged her swelling clitoris. Our oral sex, always rare, was usually little more than foreplay, brief and circumspect, never to completion. I was inexperienced at stimulating a woman with my mouth, but I applied myself like a trooper, trying to mimic some of the things I’d seen in porn, both interracial and lesbian. As I moved my mouth from her labia to her clitoris, I inserted two fingers in her vagina, fucking deeply. I imagined Master Ahmed enjoying Marisa's sweet cunt with his enormous black cock, providing her the kind of pleasure I never had or could with my insignificant pink dicklet. Her breath grew louder, more rapid.
My balls cramped with the pain of denial, as I ministered to my wife's pussy. Marisa squirmed, her hands on my head, pushing me forcefully onto her wet pussy. We had married young, and neither of us had much sexual experience beyond one another. I didn't even know if Marisa found black men particularly attractive or if the size of a man's cock mattered to her in the least. We’d never discussed it. But as I sucked and fingered her cunt, I grew resolved to see my wife blacked, to do what I could to make certain that a superior man, that a black man, enjoyed her lovely body, her pretty mouth, her tight, pink twat. My wife moaned as I ate her pussy with a fervor I'd never shown her before. Just as she was aroused by the uncharacteristic manliness I'd demonstrated in disciplining our sons, I was aroused at the thought of another man using her body, her pussy, taking her from me much the way those strong black boys had taken my weak sons’ skateboards.
Marisa cried out, and her pussy gushed, much to my shock, filling my mouth with thick, milky ejaculate. I'd never tasted it before, and gulped her rich, sweet pussy cream down my throat. "Oh. My. God," Marisa panted. "David, that was, that was amazing. What got into you? Headache, really? You should get headaches more often."
I climbed out from under the covers, wrapping my arms around the woman I loved, the woman I longed to give to a better man, a real man, a black man. Whatever it might take, I was resolved to ensure that my wife would serve Master Ahmed with her body the way that I served him with my money. White submission to Black rule was the proper order of things. I would do any and everything I could to bring it about.
