When Breeding Up Means Breeding Black

I am relating these events as a warning. They say 'Take good care of your wife or risk losing her forever'. I say you can try, but you could well lose her anyway. Especially if she's a highly sexed horny bitch who naturally prefers black. And often, the instinct to breed is followed by the desire to totally humiliate her former, inadequate mate, as my Sara is enjoying doing to me.

After what has happened over the past year, I now realize that the instinct to breed with the better man is one of the strongest physical drives that a woman has. It's part of the primal reproductive instinct to select the strongest mate. And if her husband isn't prime breeding material, no wedding ring will stop a prime female from seizing the opportunity to 'breed up'. That is, to spread her legs for sperm from bigger men with bigger cocks - in other words, the best gene pool she can find. And in my wife's case, breeding up' meant 'breeding black'.'

My name is Darren Walters. I come from a ****** of intellectuals, and although I do not consider myself unattractive, I must sadly accept the fact that I have lost my wife to a superior man. My demure and very beautiful wife, Sara, has made a simple choice - she has decided to forsake what I have to offer, in order to 'do what comes natural' as she puts it - with an African American male. A man she genuinely considers to be my biological superior. And not only does she not shy away from letting me know it, the bitch has become a total sadist, getting her kicks by witnessing my humiliation and pain.

Oh, it turns her on all right. Her new antics have turned her into what can be described as a classic 'bitch on heat'. I do not use the term lightly. She is 'on heat' because she's a highly sexual, fertile woman in her early thirties, the time of a life when the sex drive of the female of the species is at its height. Sadly, I must also use the term 'bitch' because that's exactly what she is to me. She now only has sex with her black lover (a quite well-known rap artist who goes by the stage name of Masta D), sleeps in a separate bed to me (when she's home at all) and won't even allow me to take my 4 inch cock out in her company. And that's without the beatings.

However, her faithfulness to her new, 'better' man does not stop her using highly provocative language in front of me, degrading all white men as she flaunts her shapely body inches from me and even rubs against me. But she always keeps her big breasts, shapely ass and stocking-clad legs inside her daring outfits, and well away from my lustful touch. And given the state of my balls and the painful welts on my back inflicted by Sara, her lover and her black cock-loving slut friends, I would not be capable of making love to her now, even if I were allowed to try.

As Sara knows full well, there is nothing I can do but obey her orders. I am effectively under house arrest, and as I am a convicted sex offender, she is legally entitled to have me beaten to within an inch of my life. The strange thing is, I still love her madly. But it hurts terribly when I'm forced to stand, shackled in the garage after a whipping as my darling wife sexes her lover in our marital bed. Half the street can hear all the noises Sara makes as she takes his big Negro penis, loving it pumping inside her and spraying her womb with his fertile sperm as her stocking-clad legs lock tight round his muscular back.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

I blame rap. She was always into rap and hip hop, despite the fact that I dislike the so-called music intently. It was how we had one of our first arguments in our marriage. You see, I'm a more classical man myself. Don't get me wrong, I can listen to John Denver or the Carpenters, but after suffering the 'music' of that Snoopy Dog person, Two-pack, the Live Crew, all the names (including Masta D) time after time, I finally put my foot down and refused to allow Sara to play her favourite CD's in my presence.

To me, it was so infantile, there was no melody, and worst of all, the lyrics all seemed to be bragging about anti-social and even criminal practices. From what I could hear there seemed to be little to the words other than bragging about the aforementioned, plus the artists virility, penile size and - unbelievably - physical violence against those who dared to 'dis'. Masta D was one of the worst offenders.

As I said, when I confronted her about it we had our first major spat. That must be just over a year after I married her, when I still foolishly went around thinking I was the luckiest man on the planet for scoring such a trophy wife. Anyway, she said that if I remained intent on banning her from listening to her music in our house, she would be forced to listen to it at her friend Caroline's place. I was apprehensive, but let it pass.

Then later that month I met Caroline's husband Arnie, by chance, on the street. The couple had recently moved to the wrong side of the tracks after he was laid off by his pharmaceutical company and lost a disability case. I was surprised to see he had a black eye and what looked like a broken nose. One thing led to another, and we went for a drink.

During the tearful hour that followed, he had told me that his sweet Caroline had gotten involved with 'the wrong type of crowd' - a group of gangsta rap artists and hangers-on - and he 'did not feel safe in his own home any more.' Reading between the lines, I surmised that - on Caroline's insistence - she and Arnie had initially started hosting parties for a bunch of rap guys with their spoiled white 'bitches' in tow.

It seems that she wasn't so sweet after all cos one night she was high on coke, and so fucking besotted with her handsome, rich black stud lover that the slut ended up spreading her legs for him right there on the sofa, without a concern for her poor husband. The injuries he sustained were due to an attack by her black lover when Arnie tried to separate the rutting couple. Shortly after our meet, Caroline, who was pregnant with her black boyfriend's baby, filed for divorce from poor Arnie.

I became very worried about the situation with Sara and Caroline, but they were old high school buddies, and there was little I could do prevent Sara going round. She always looked stunning when going out, invariably wearing a tight dress, high heels and plenty of makeup. Although she said that they were spending the evenings alone, I became more and more apprehensive.

The next thing I knew Sara was enrolling for a course that Caroline already attended at the local college. Called 'African Studies' the syllabus was quite controversial. Indeed, I remembered there had been some furor in the local press about it being 'racist' and 'anti white' although the allegations were never proven.

One night, when Sara was at Caroline's place, I managed to sneak a look her coursework, and couldn't believe what I was reading. One module, called 'Black Biology - the Proliferation of the Strongest Seed' was full of what I saw as incredible claims that black men were much more attractive to women of all races because they were physically superior.

The next evening, after a few glasses of wine, I tried to quiz my darling wife about her studies, and asked her whether she really believed all that stuff about blacks being superior. She replied that blacks were certainly better in many physical respects. I detected a note of scorn in her voice that I hadn't heard before.

"Don't you know why Africans win so many medals at the Olympics, Darren?" she asked coyly. Then, blushing and smiling slightly, she opened her folder to show me a copy of an article in a medical journal, which had been reproduced in 'Black Power' magazine.

Beside a picture of a black, muscled 100m runner in a lycra costume, the article referred to a survey of a test group of black and white males. The results apparently 'proved' that blacks were between 45 and 290% bigger in penis size, had over 62% more stamina and were up to 240% more fertile.

"Sara, I don't know if you should be reading this." I said. "It's kinda racist - isn't it?"

She looked at me kind of strangely, and with an almost evil glint in her eye, said 'How on earth can it be racist when it's true? White women are naturally more attracted to black men. I don't care what you think, anyway. I'm going to bed.'

When I followed her to bed later, I silently undressed, then decided I had to try to make things right between us. It had been a long while since we had had sex, so I tried to initiate mating by gently stroking her beautiful soft body. She seemed to respond at first, sighing and arching her breasts, and giving me an aching hard on. She allowed me to massage her feet, then she made me kiss her toes and stroke and kiss her luscious thighs. However, when desire overcame me and I tried to kiss her bulging, bra-encased breasts, she pushed me away quite violently.

"Keep your fucking hands off my tits", she muttered. "If anyone's racist, it's you."

I was outraged and in a frenzy, and I'm ashamed to say, tried to force myself on her. I pinned her down with my weight, and tried to open her legs with my hand. I may have even slapped her head. At that moment I desired her madly, and hated her all at the same time.

All of a sudden I felt white pain. She had managed to ram one of her fists into my balls. Immediately I got off her, and curled into a ball on the floor. It hurt so much I couldn't speak.

"Serves you fucking right!" she breathed.

With that, she turned over to sleep, as I sobbed in pain and anger.

The next day we hardly spoke at all. It was her night to go to Caroline's place and she dressed in silence. She left in a tight, low cut purple dress, seamed black stockings and spike-heels that matched the dress. She looked like a total slut. She knew it and I knew it, though nothing was said. After she left I jerked off tearfully to the smell of my darling wife's strong perfume and the memory of her luscious body and fuck-me attire.

Sara arrived back at midnight, tousled and bubblier than I had seen her for a while and to my surprise she initiated sex with me. She seemed ***** as she whorishly spread her stockinged legs, revealing her bare, stretched pussy to my gaze, pinching her nipples and presenting her heavy breasts to me. "Come on then Darren!" she said. "Do you want it or not?" My balls still hurt from the night before, but I couldn't resist her. I lasted about 30 seconds, spurting my load into her gorgeous wet cunt, which seemed much wider than I remembered. After I came, I was sure I heard a slight chuckle. I fell asleep but around 2am I woke to hear her dressing. I pretended to be asleep, but as soon as she left the room I threw on some clothes. I decided to follow her. I took the bike, and headed towards Caroline and Arnies' house, but along the way I spotted Sara's car parked outside a bar called the 'Blue Star'.

When I walked in I immediately felt out of place. The bar was full of muscled young black males and plenty of black females, and a number of sluttily dressed white women. I recognised Caroline and Rachael, a Jewish legal attorney of our acquaintance who had recently left her slightly-built Jewish husband for a well-known black lawyer known for representing gang members. Both were on the dance floor smooching with well-built black partners. Then I saw my wife. She was sitting on a comfy sofa snuggled up to a huge muscular-looking black guy with tattoos on his broad arms. He was wearing a black vest, a gold medallion, chains, rings and a huge gold watch. This, I would later learn, was Masta D.
She spotted me immediately. "Darren!" she said.

The black man looked at me and immediately I was intimidated. He was big and looked mean. "Come on now, my love. I've had enough of this. We're going home."

"Bitch aint goin' nowhere!" said Masta D, standing up in a shot and slapping my face, hard. I felt my cheek cut from one of his gold rings. Then I felt two black guys grabbing my wrists from behind. I was helpless, as Masta D continued to slap me. My wife, the bitch, just crossed her shapely stocking-clad legs and looked on. Masta D slapped me again, hard, then turned to my wife. "You ready for this baby?" he said.

"Yes, darling, I am." she replied, licking her full lips and obviously turned on by the scene unfolding in front of her eyes. "You know it's what I've been waiting for."

"Sara!" I yelled, "You're my Wi-" - but before I could finish my sentence Masta D punched me hard in the gut, winding me, making me gasp for air. The two muscled black men were still holding me, both about a foot taller than me, so there was little I could do except plead for mercy.

"Please!" I gasped. "Sara?"

My wife sidled up to me and preened herself in front of me like a bitch on heat, running her painted hand through her hair and sticking her big tits out so I was looking down her cleavage, inches from my chest. "Who's the racist now?" she asked. "Who's the bigot now, you fucking ******? I knew you'd follow me tonight. Why else do you think I let you touch me?"

Sara was wearing a long, heavy, studded leather belt around her tight dress, and she undid it and handed it to Masta D. "There, darling." she breathed. "Sort him out for me real good, lover. Leave your mark on him."

I was dragged to a private room and my trousers and underpants were pulled down to my ankles. Then I was pressed over a table by the two thugs. Then Masta D proceeded to thrash my backside with my wife's belt, one agonising, stinging stroke after another. I was in agony.

"You dipshit!" Masta D stopping to catch his breath. "Who da man?"

I was in agony, and staring at my darling wife. "You'd better answer him darling." she said, pouting in her fuck-me heels. "Tell him!"

Masta D whipped me again, even harder this time. "I said who the man, ya muthafucker!"

"AAAAGH!! You're the man!!" I replied, desperately telling him what I hoped he wanted to hear.

"Dat's right wimp boy." he said. "Now, Sara don't like a ******, do you bitch?"

"Not one bit."

she added, staring at me with spite in her eyes.

He then whipped me again, hard, then walked round, clenched my chin and looked me in the face. I was in shock.

"You done lost ya wife to black!", he snarled menacingly. "And now her and a couple of brothers going down the station to make a complaint. Ya tried to **** her, and you aint gonna get away with it. Yo up shit creek, motherfucka!"

"That's right." said Sara, looking at the other guys present. "That ugly fat fuck forced himself upon me, just cos I gone black. Just coz I a good little whore, doin what done comes natural, givin it up to the black man, just like a prime white bitch should. Wimp boy here can't never satisfy me. Ain't no surprise I done gone black. It's only natural."

"You hear that?" snarled Masta D, showing no mercy as he continued to whip my ass hard. I was in agony. "She don't want you no more, bitch boy."

"You guys, take her down the precinct." said Masts D. "You speak to the officers, baby. And I'll bring this fuck in later, when I finished showing him who da man."

That's how it happened. My darling Sara claimed that I had ***** her that evening, and sure enough, the tests showed evidence that we had had sex. She also showed signs of being mishandled. Her cheeks were bruised, and her lipstick smudged, obviously Masta D's doing. There was no shortage of 'respectable' black guys from the recording industry to testify that Sara had left me for Masta D months ago, and I was crazy with jealousy.

Caroline, the whore, told a pack of lies on the stand, dressing respectably for the first time in months, her belly swollen. But it was my wife's testimony sealed it. She said that I had pleaded to have sex with her, to make a baby with her, and forced myself on her when she resisted. It even raised a snicker in court when she added "Luckily he didn't last long."

My punishment was a year inside a tough penitentiary, followed by what's called 'protective custody'.

My time inside jail I don't want to go into too much, suffice to say it was mercifully short. For six months I lived in constant fear of catching AIDS, and was used by the black guys in prison almost daily. As a white sex offender, I was the lowest of the low and was even forced to dress in women's clothing and perform sex acts at the weekend 'parties'. On one memorable occasion, Caroline surprised me with a supposed 'friendly visit', but it turned out the evil bitch just wanted to watch me being whipped and abused like her poor Arnie. No doubt she reported everything back to Sara, including my mode of dress.

I was relieved to be allowed out after 6 months and luckily I hadn't contracted any diseases during my time inside. The deal was that I was to be tagged, and forced to live, initially, within a mile radius of my home. Sara had supposedly moved out. However, when I arrived back home I had a rude awakening. Her slutty clothes and lots of new, expensive jewellery were still in the master bedroom, but my artistic pictures had been replaced with photos of heavily muscled black rap artists, most naked to the waist. My stuff had been moved into the spare room. Of Sara there was no sign.

The following day I had to meet Bob Chivers, my probation officer at the local office, to discuss the terms of my parole. He told me that a correction officer called Rachael had been given supervisory powers over me, which ultimately included the power to order me back to prison if I misbehaved. Under a strict new state law for sex offenders, he said, she could also order what he referred to as 'coercive punishment', which could be administered by a licenced nominee of her choosing if I broke the terms of my parole. With a gulp I realised he was referring to Sara and Caroline's black cock-loving aquaintance. The bitch with the lawyer boyfriend,who I had seen dancing at the Blue Star on that fateful night.

When I returned home that afternoon I heard loud rap music coming from the lounge and found Sara laying there on the sofa painting her nails. I couldn't believe how radiant she was. She looked absolutely gorgeous in an short, clinging, low-cut pink dress. As I hadn't had a woman in over six months, my cock became rock hard at the site of my gorgeous wife. She looked flushed and perfect, with her engorged breasts and hard nipples clearly visible beneath the thin material.

"Ah, there you are. Enjoy your vacation darling?" she asked, stifling a chuckle.

"You fucking BITCH!" I replied. "How on earth could you do something like this to me? You've put me through FUCKING HELL these last six months. Do you realise what I've gone through?"

"You've been whoring yourself for black men, Darren, haven't you?" she retorted. "I know what you've been getting up to in jail, you fucking faggot. Caroline told me. But I always knew it. You're just a fucking queer." She chuckled and her oversized, bra-less breasts jiggled like jelly.

"Fucking wimp dick faggot!" she mocked. "No wonder you couldn't ever fuck me properly!"

"BITCH!" Enraged, I lunged for her, but she neatly dodged me.

"MASTA D!" she yelled.

Suddenly a huge black figure lunged at me from the kitchen, and immediately I was floored with a flurry of punches. I found myself on the floor, inches from Sara's sexy stilettos gazing at her crossed legs. Masta D, who appeared to have been on a course of steroids, towered over me like a growling bear. Then he began kicking me hard and methodically. I curled in a ball, terrified.

"AAAh!" I cried. "Look, please stop this... please!"

Sara was breathing heavily as Masta D mercifully let me be and sat down next to his woman. She snuggled up to him like a hot teenage schoolgirl, and started nuzzling and kissing his cheek and neck. My wife's sexy dress rode high and I could see her stocking tops. He sat there, full of arrogance, his legs spread obscenely wide, the huge outline of his cock visible beneath his designer slacks. I later learned he has the same length of the porn star Mandingo but a broader girth. As I watched, Sara's dainty painted hand slid lower, down his chest. And then she started feeling the outline of his cock. I watched powerless as she snuggled closer to him, her hot body flushed. She was on heat, obviously aroused by my shock and humiliation, her big breasts heaving . She ran her nails through Masta D's cropped hair and licked his face.

"Mmmmmmm", she breathed "Are you going to give my husband a lesson in black superiority darling?"

"You fucking bitch!" I spat through clenched teeth.

"Hell yeah!" he said. "I got da whole course planned out. Lesson one starts today."

"Ooh darling!" Sara said, crossing her dainty legs. "I love it when you're mean to white guys. And this one definitely needs putting in his place. Mmmmmm."

Masta D then fixed me with the meanest, most evil stare I have ever encountered. "Now strip for her, bitch boy.", he said. "Get those clothes off now. FUCKING DO IT!"

Absolutely terrified, I started fumbling with my shirt. Just then the doorbell rang, and I breathed an inner sigh of relief. I hoped that Masta D and Sara would end their cruel game if we had visitors. I just wanted to get out of there. Sara walked to the door, and in a second she flounced back into the room followed by Caroline and none other than Rachael .

My relief at seeing my new correction officer was short lived. Rachael was not at all dressed in a manner befitting her profession. In fact, despite being the wrong side of thirty, she sported a 'sexy schoolgirl' look. Her thick dark hair was in two plaits and she wore a mini skirt, long stripey pop socks, yellow stilettos and a tight yellow T shirt emblazoned with the single word 'SLUT'. Caroline was wearing her usual slutty attire - a short, tight black dress showing plenty of cleavage. They were followed into the house by two more massive black guys, one of whom I recognised as Rachael's rich, hot-shot lawyer boyfriend. I noticed that Caroline was carrying a long thin cane.

"Hell, guys, you right on time. Fun just about to start!" said Masta D. "Bitch boy here's about to do a striptease for us, like he learned in jail."

"Ooh really?" said Caroline, pouting and flexing her cane as she strode into the room. "Mmmmm. I can't wait."

"Meet your new correction officer, bitch." Masta D said to me.

Rachael then sauntered up to me, put her hand under my chin and looked me in the eyes. "You'd better do a good strip, bitch boy." she breathed. "Or I'll order Caroline to rip your sad ass to shreds."

Caroline flexed her cane again with an evil glint in her eye. "And guess what? I'm legally entitled!" she smiled, triumphantly. "I'm licensed, white boy."

The new arrivals seated themselves on the lounge chairs, the girls crossing their shapely legs. I was first ordered to bring them drinks. I was shaking with fear as I served them. I was terrified, and knew that I should do exactly what they said to avoid a severe beating. Rachael's lawyer lover produced a long reefer and demanded I give him a light, then Sara got up and changed the music.

"Now FUCKING DANCE!" said Masta D

The girls were in hysterics as I tried to catch the rhythm, failing woefully, shaking my fat ass. The new song was a particularly infantile tune by a female rap artist called "Short Dicked Man." I will always remember those lyrics. "Eenie weenie, teenie weenie, don't want no short dicked man."

I was totally embarrassed, but no way did I want to be beaten again so I made a real effort to entertain them, shaking my ass as sexily as I was able, to the left and right, and undoing the buttons of my shirt. Masta D was right - I had been forced to do something similar in jail on more than one occasion, but not in front of three sexy, horny women.

"Yeah, shake that ass!" said Rachael, taking a draw on the joint from her lover and sitting on his knee.

"Yeah! Show us some flesh!" Caroline said, laughing.

I started to remove my shirt, clumsily.

"Tease us darling." said Sara, who still had her painted nails on Masta D's massive cock-bulge. "We want you to strip properly, like a male stripper."

I turned round and again shook my ass at the assembled party. The guy on whose knee Rachael was grinding launched a kick onto my backside, sending me sprawling.

"AAAAGH!" I yelled. I fell on the floor and banged my knee painfully.

"Get up, bitch!" Caroline said when she could control her laughter. "Carry on dancing. DO IT!"

"Don't stop now darling." Sara laughed, still rubbing herself against Masta D. "I want to see your cock. Everyone does. We're dying to see it, aren't we girls?"

"We want to be reminded how fucking small white boys are." Caroline added, with spite in her tone. "And you better not insult us by getting hard!"

"Hey, Sara this could be your song!" piped in Rachael. "He's a short dicked man and you sure don't want him."

"He sure is!" agreed Sara. "Big fat butt and tiny little cock. Not enough for a prime, sexy alpha bitch like me. Ugly fuck. No wonder I kicked his fat ass out of my bed for good."

"It's our duty to make sure this wimp know his place." Rachael added.

"Get up and get naked," Masta D snarled. "And don't forget to shake that sad ass for our bitches."

In tears at my total, final abandonment by my wife I finished removing my shirt, trying to remember to do some teasing moves as I tossed it to the floor. I then stumbled out of my trousers, leaving me naked but for my socks and boxer shorts. Despite my terror, my balls were swollen with months of cum and my tiny dick was rock hard and throbbing at the sight of three hot females preening themselves and giggling in front of me. It was very visible, sticking out of my shorts. All the time, the song 'Short Dick Man' was playing.

"Ooh, look!" Caroline said, flexing her cane. "Look at wimp boy's little weener. He's getting turned on without permission. I might have to thrash his sad ass." Terrified, my cock went limp at the thought of a whipping.

"C'mon," said Rachael between giggles. "I want to see it all. Don't hold back, baby!"

I moved my hips from side to side in tune with the music and pulled my boxers to the floor, stumbling as I stepped out of them, which brought renewed giggles from the girls. I stood there stark naked.

"Don't fucking stop, wimp boy!" said Masta D. "Dance for our bitches. Shake that fucking ass!!"

I continued to dance, shaking my ass and rubbing my breasts like a striptease artist. The girls were in hysterics. They were getting ***** and high. Then Caroline took off her stilettos. "Put these on and carry on dancing, bitch." she ordered, handing them to me.

The evil slut must have been a couple of sizes smaller than me and I struggled to fit the shoes onto my bare feet. I managed to get them on, but it was painful and almost impossible to carry on dancing. I stumbled again, this time mercifully keeping my balance.

"Sara, may I dance with your husband?" asked Rachael

Be my guest!" said Sara. "But make that ex-husband. I'm divorcing his sad ass. Then Masta D's going to breed me."

Rachael took another draw on the joint and then hauled herself off the knee of her massive, muscled black lawyer boyfriend. She sauntered up to me, put her arms round my neck and pulled me close, her nipples grazing my chest and her pretty face inches from mine. Despite the pain and humiliation, I found myself getting hard again. Rachael started moving against me in time to the music and despite my footwear I did my best to dance with her. Then she started kissing and licking my neck.

"Ooh Darren!" Rachael breathed in my ear as my cock sprung to attention. "Am I making you hard? Because if I am, Caroline might have to do something about that."

I glanced down at Rachael's cleavage, her big, engorged breasts, soft and firm under the T-shirt emblazoned with the word "SLUT." Then I looked over her shoulder at Caroline. She was flushed, her black boyfriend pawing her heaving breasts as she lay back on the sofa and flexed her cane.

"Now let's see..." Rachael said. She reached down and began to tickle my full balls with her dainty fingers.

"Nooo!" I said. "Please!" Her bullet-hard nipples brushed against my chest. My cock strained under her ministrations.

"Ooh, I think he's hard. Though..." Rachael hesitated. "He's so fucking miniscule it's hard to tell. Are you hard, wimp dick?"

She looked me in the face, her perfect face inches from mine . "Ooh, Darren, you ARE. Your tiny fuckin' pencil dick is getting hard."

She continued to stroke my balls. "You know you're not supposed to get hard. We may have to take you down to the garage, darling."

She then nonchalantly kneed me in my engorged balls, as hard as she could. I fell to the floor in agony, rolling around, still in high heels and nothing else.

"AAAAAARGH!" I cried.

"Shut the fuck up. You deserved that. You insulted me by getting hard." said Rachael, and sat back down on her black boyfriend's knee. His big hands immediately started to massage her heaving breasts. The girls were all laughing hard.

"Do you bring the ping pong bat, Rach?" asked Sara between giggles.

I think I've got it somewhere." Rachael giggled. "Do you really think he'll need his nuts paddling after Caroline has been to work on him with that nasty cane?"

"Mmm. He might" said Sara, twisting her pretty stockinged foot absent-mindedly. "It depends how well behaved he is."

"WHO TOLD YOU TO STOP DANCING, BITCH BOY?" asked Caroline's black boyfriend, an evil mother fucker with bulging muscles and six-pack abs whose name I later learned was Reefer J.

Terrified, my balls throbbing painfully, I stumbled to my feet and redoubled my efforts, despite the fact that Caroline's shoes were digging into my skin. I carried on dancing as the fertile, pretty white girls soul kissed with their muscular black mates. They all looked so fucking hot I couldn't believe it. The room reeked of sex and I knew their pussies were all primed, slick and ready to be fucked by black cocks at the sight of my total humiliation.

Caroline broke her soul kiss and looked at me. "You ready to come to the garage with me Darren?" she asked. "We've got things all set up for you down there you know. We've been waiting for this day for a while, especially Sara."

I glanced over at the obscene site of my slutty wife writhing on Masta D's black finger, which had slipped into her knickers as she stroked his hard rod through his slacks.

Rachael stood up, arching her breasts proudly, the thin 'slut" T shirt stretched even tighter around them. "Well I want to go to the garage and maybe play ping pong with Darren." she said. "C'mon everyone, I want to see him suffer."

"Yes, come on Sara!" urged Caroline, flexing her long cane. "You know it will be much more of a turn on if you're being fingered while I whip the flesh off his sorry white ass."

Sara smiled and stood up, smoothing down her dress. "I guess you're right Caroline." she said. "Let's head for the garage guys!"

"Nooo pleeeaseee!" I pleaded but to no avail.

The three black men roughly dragged me towards the door, while the girls looked on, giggling. I struggled, but was no match for three big guys, who slapped and kicked me as they dragged me out of the room.

Inside the garage was a vaulting horse with straps on its legs. In front of it was a sofa and chairs. All three girls sat down on the sofa, crossing their shapely legs. Still naked except for Caroline's high-heeled shoes, I was forced over the horse by the men, and my arms and legs tied securely.

"Do you know what this is, Darren?" said Caroline, standing in front of me, flexing the cane again and stroking her nipples. "This is a caning horse, and you're going to get caned."

"Really. Fucking. Hard." she added.

"It's what happens to criminals." said Rachael, licking her lips and arching her breasts again. The bitch was obviously in heat.

"Yes darling!" piped in Sara, her breasts also heaving. "And if you show any disrespect or make any noise other than thanking Caroline, you're going to get your balls paddled by Rach too."

I noticed that Rachael was clutching a ping-pong bat, slapping it absent-mindedly against her thigh as she gazed at me.

"Mmmmmm... Darren, after every stroke, I want you to say "Thank you ma"am, please may I have another?"" Rachael explained. "Say that and nothing else, and you'll be spared a ball-paddling."

"But... but..." I writhed but the straps were secure. Then one of the black guys slapped my ass, hard, with the palm of his hand. "AAAAgh!" I yelled.

"No, darling. Thank him." said Sara. "Say "Thank you sir, may I have another?""

"Oh god...er.....thank you sir, may I have another?" I said, with tears in my eyes. I was realising that I should play along with their game if I wanted to get out of this situation with my balls intact.

CRACK!

"OWWWW!" I yelled.

"That's two strokes of the bat you're due already, Darren, for making a noise." said Sara matter-of-factly. The dirty bitch was well-settled in next to Masta D and they had already resumed their foreplay, my wife stroking her lover's cock-bulge and nibbling his pecs. Caroline stood up and swished her cane. "OK bitch boy. You ready for this?" she said. She swished it again harder.

"Don't hold back Caroline." said Rachael, fingering her bat. "Make him scream for me baby. I want to paddle bitch boy's balls later."

Caroline walked behind me and for a minute all I could hear was the swish of her cane as she practiced a few strokes in the air.

Then it came.

CRACK!

"AAAAAARGGHHH!" I yelled, an impossibly-painful stroke landed square on my ass. "Jeeesus CHRIST Caroline. AAAAAGH. You BITCH!!"

"Thats three paddles." said Rachael. "I'd better start keeping count."

Rachael then glanced up at me and put on a pair of 'sexy secretary' glasses, producing a pen and pad. She pouted and wrote something down. "Carry on Caroline." she said matter-of-factly.

CRACK!!!!!!

"AAAAARGH!!!"

The second stroke hurt even worse than the first. My ass was in agony.

"That's four paddles on your balls then!" said Rachael, licking her lips.

I was in tears. "For gods sake, how many strokes are you going to give me? Please, for god's sake no more. Please!! I'm in agony. Sara!!!" I pleaded.

"How many was it Sara?" Caroline said from behind me, a little breathless from her exertions.

"Enough blood for our bitches to be tagged." Masta D said. "We need to tag our bitches good."

"Our men gonna tag us for the black-cock only bitches we are!" said Sara, stroking her big tits. "Our men wanna write on their bitches. Our tits gonna say Black Only. Big and red for all to see."

"In your blood, wimp!" added Rachael spitefully, glancing up from her notepad. "We bitches gonna be tagged with the blood from your fucking sad ass!"

"Whip him harder, Caroline." Sara said. "Really give it to him."

CRACK! CRACK!

Each stroke seemed to hurt more and by the tenth stroke I was screaming. Caroline was a strong woman and she was putting her full efforts into the caning. After fifteen strokes I was almost delirious, tears pouring down my cheeks, begging and pleading for the agony to end.

All the while Rachael and Sara just watched, seemingly entranced by the merciless beating I was taking.

CRACK!

"Sixteen. Thank you ma'am. Please may I have another?" I sobbed. "Why of course!" said Caroline seductively.

CRACK!!!!!

"AAAAAAGH!" I screamed. "God it hurts!!!"

"What do you say Darren?" asked Rachael.

"Seventeen, ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Please!!"

"Please what?" Asked Sara.

Please...please...I'm in agony...please..."

Rachael then stood up, looked down at me pitifully, then walked behind me and scratched her long, painted fingernails across the deep, swollen welts on my ass.

"AAAAAGH, JESUS RACHAEL!!!!!!" I screamed, as her nails ripped the skin from my ass.

"You've been a bad boy." giggled Sara, snuggling up closer to Masta D. "It's only natural for us to put you in your place. It's what you deserve."

The beating continued and after thirty, unbelievably painful strokes Caroline walked in front of me holding her cane. It was a dark-red colour.

"Kiss it bitch." she said.

I began to kiss the cane as Rachal walked behind me and started to run her pretty fingers softly over my sore ass again. After a few minutes she strutted back to the sofa, topless. Her SLUT T-shirt had been discarded and her bare breasts were emblazoned with two words in red. "BLACK ONLY!" She sat down, crossing her pretty legs.

"Your turn Caroline." She said.

Caroline put the cane in my mouth. "Keep hold of that. I might still need it." she said.

Caroline then strutted sexily behind me and whapped my ass, hard, with the flat of her hand.

"AAAArgh!!!

Ooh, plenty of blood now!" she said. After a moment she strutted sexily back in front of me. Her bare globes emblazoned with the motto "BLACK OWNED!"

"Your turn Sara!" said Caroline.

Sara was obviously reluctant to stop her hot scene with Masta D because it took her a full minute to extract herself from him. When the bitch finally managed to move her dainty hands and mouth from his muscled, studly body, she raised herself and looked me square in the eyes.

"Masta D's so much better than you, Darren." she said sexily. "Everything about him is better. He even smells better. I'm so grateful that I'm his bitch."

She then sauntered behind me, swinging her full hips for the benefit of Masta D and the other black guys present. Then I felt her nails on my aching ass.

"Hold on," I heard Sara say. "I don't know if there's enough blood for what I want to write."

"What you you want to write Sara?" Asked Rachael

"I want to write MASTA D's BLACK COCK WHORE," Sara replied. "And there isnt enough blood."

"Noooooooo!" I pleaded, the cane still in my mouth. "Please Sara. I've had enough now, surely?"

"Do you want me to whip him some more?" Rachael asked. "Cos I will, gladly."

"No thanks Rach." Sara said.

I breathed an inner sigh of relief.

Sara walked back in front of me, looking immaculate and flushed in her clinging pink dress. She looked me in the eyes, pouted, and licked her lips.

"No offense Rach, but I want Masta D to cane him good and hard. I'd love to see the damage a black muscled stud can do to this wimpy ass."

"NOOOO, PLEASE!!!!" I renewed my struggling, but the bonds remained secure.

"OOOh, yes!" chirped in Caroline, her nipples big and erect. "Masta D, will you show the wimp what happens when he messes with the black man's bitch?"

"Oooh yes!" added Rachael. "Yes, please Masta D sir. I want you to whip him so hard he'll carry your mark for life. Like a tattoo!"

"Or a brand." she added.

Her bare tits were heaving too, the nipples like tent pegs.

Masta D stood up, towering over me as I continued to plead and struggle. I was terrified that I simply would not be able to take the pain if Masta D started to cane my tormented ass, which was already bloody and covered in welts.

"You ready bitch?" he snarled, grasping the cane, standing before me as Sara ran her hands up and down his leg.

Then, as the girls looked on, Masta D walked behind me and began to cane me with impossibly hard strokes in quick succession, one after the other. I shrieked, and didn't stop shrieking until I mercifully passed out.

When I came to, I found I had been released from the caning horse and was sitting naked on the sofa. Reefer J and Rachael's hot-shot lawyer boyfriend were holding my legs wide apart, and my hands were cuffed behind my back. Rachael was kneeling in front of me, bare chested, holding a ping pong bat, the words 'Black Owned' clearly visible in red on her chest. Behind her Sara and Caroline were also bare chested, Sara newly annointed with the words MASTA D's BLACK COCK WHORE across her heaving tits.

"Wake up Darren." Rachael said. "You've been a bad boy."

"NOOOO!!!" I pleaded, my backside in agony. I tried to struggle but felt searing pain every time my ass moved against the sofa.

"You've been such a bad boy that we don't think you should ever be allowed to make babies." Rachael continued. "Never ever."

"And guess what?" she asked, innocently, caressing the bat with her painted fingers.

"OH GOD RACHAEL PLEASSSE!" I yelled. "NOOOOO!"

"I'm going to destroy your pathetic balls." she said.

"Now, are you ready?" she said, raising the bat high.

"NO, PLEASE, RACHAEL, I"LL DO ANYTHING. PLEASE!! SARA!!!"

Sara just looked on, rubbing her cunt through her panties. "Shut the fuck up, wimp." she said. "Your pathetic dick's no good to any woman anyway."

"Hold his cock out of the way Caroline", Rachael said. "I want to get some good shots right on his ball-sac."

Caroline roughly grabbed my cock, and pulled it at an angle to my scrotum. Rachael then squeezed my testicles hard in her fist, allowing my engorged balls to protrude from the fist she had made.

"Now, let's see...Mmmmmmm." she said, raising the bat and looking me in the eyes. "You ready Darren?"

"PLEASE, MERCY!" I yelled.

"No." said Rachael and slapped my balls with the bat as hard as she could.

CRACK!

"AAARGHMFFGHH!" I screamed as white pain spread through my body.

"Bad boy!" Rachael said.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The pain was unbelievable as Rachael methodically smacked my balls again and again. Eventually I drifted into unconsciousness, but not before feeling both testicles rupturing as the bitch systematically destroyed my means of reproduction.

Epilogue

Mercifully the beatings over the past months have not been as bad as that first night but the memory still lingers. I fully know my place now, and do my best to entertain and work hard for Sara and Masta D. I clean their shoes daily, prepare their meals, and dance and strip for them and their friends. While I will never be able to make babies, my backside has healed somewhat, and I take care never to incur their displeasure as Sara will send me to the caning horse at the slightest provocation. My wife is now pregnant, but still noisily sexes her lover in our marital bed every night. She also hasnt stopped flaunting her body inches in front of me, making me drool, almost challenging me to touch her, but I know better. I have now learned the hard way the consequences of 'messing with a black stud's bitch'. I fully accept that my Sara is 'breeding up' and 'breeding black'. And that's the natural order of things.