A cuck-hubby based in New York City who especially is looking forward to my return to the States wrote me a lengthy piece to showcase his love and desire for how he'd love me to take charge of his home, especially his wife, when I drop by his home. None of this is from me, so enjoy . . . and imagine that you're in his shoes.
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My wife will know nothing of Master Shango or what he plans. All she knows is that a writing colleague is coming for dinner. She has dressed accordingly, her five-foot-seven-inch, athletic frame tucked in a business-type white blouse, the top two buttons open; she has small breasts so there is no cleavage to conceal. She is wearing black slacks that hug her full black ass, an ass that gets catcalls from black men on the street. She is wearing high heels. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders framing her gorgeous late-forties face. Her makeup is minimal. This is, after all, a business meeting.
When Master Shango arrives, he fills the apartment with his presence, his smile, his sure and powerful walk. My wife does not see how I withdraw slightly; not physically but in all other intangible ways. I am making room for Him. The conversation is easy, casual. He is pleasant to the point of charming toward my wife, slightly aloof to me. In my own mind, the woman to whom I have been wed for twenty years shifts from being ‘my wife’ to being ‘my white wife.’ As she serves us and as dinner progresses, another change settles upon the room like a fine mist as, in my perception, my white wife begins to be enwrapped by those mists in a new role: His black cock slut. I find it difficult to concentrate as these changes occur in my head.
While he and I talk, while my submissive role is subtly but quickly, firmly locked-in, Master Shango does not stare at my white wife but I notice that his eyes take her in with laser sharp snapshots. I seem him inhale through his nose. He is enjoying her scent without it being obvious. He is a Great Predator in the tall grass and she is the prize to be won. He does not touch her. There is no seemingly off-the-cuff hand-on-hers, no faux-intimate touching like one sees in the vanilla world. From his inaction, I know that when Master Shango makes his move there will be no hesitation, no tentative start.
When we have chatted and eaten, my wife goes to clear the table. Master Shango tells her that I will do it and he asks her to show him around the apartment. She seems surprised by his directness and confidence but, the good white hostess, she agrees. She leads the way from the dining area. They stop in front of the living room sofa to check out the view of Manhattan. She’s about to move on and he orders her to stop there. She seems surprised but does as she’s told. She looks at him quizzically. He suddenly flops down on the leather cushion and tells her to stand in front of him. Master Shango had never represented himself as an equal, but he had never asserted himself with her. Until now. She turns to me in the kitchen as if to ask, ‘What the hell is going on?’
I am just staring at them. I have no personality; not really. I’m a cipher waiting for the handwriting and imprinting of Master Shango. She has never seen me like this and doesn’t know how to react.
Master Shango tells her to take a step back. She does so mutely, almost dumbly. He commands her to disrobe. She shudders like a weakened flower petal from crown to knees, visibly. I notice that but am fixated on what he said: disrobe. The word is power. He did not say strip. He wants her naked before him as if she’s going to take a shower, as if she’s going to be examined by a doctor. She asks why.
So fast that she doesn’t have time to step back, Master Shango rises, slaps my white wife hard across the face, and says, “Because I told you to, white wife. Do it now.”
Master Shango sits comfortably once more, the storm having passed instantly from his manner. My white wife senses she is about to become the property of this Black Man in a way she doesn’t quite yet fathom but somehow senses. She looks to me again and I come into the living room. I feel like I’m drifting, not walking. My heartbeat is driving me forward with slams the likes of which I have never felt before. Master Shango informs her that I will not be helping her. He doesn’t have to tell me to drop to my knees: I do so, well away from them both.
My white wife was not expecting that and gasps when I go down. She is beginning to understand. Master Shango is not only going to take her, I am offering her to him. She takes a calming breath and steps out fo her her shoes. She stops, planting her feet with what she feels is a show of finality, as if to say this is all you get.
Master Shango stretches out an arm and she flinches, expecting a slap. It doesn’t happen. Instead, he hooks powerful fingers in her waistband and yanks her forward so hard her head actually snaps back. She doesn’t fall because those strong fingers steady her, his knuckles against her belly. He releases her. She does not ‘disrobe’ but she does not back away. Master Shango undoes her pants. He does not do this to help her but to affirm that he is in command. I can’t see the front of my white wife but I know what has happened because I see the tautness of the fabric give a little around her clenched ass. A thrill runs through me like a hot flash. He is about to expose my white wife to himself…and to herself.
He tells her to step out of her pants. She does, moving like a robot at first. When the black cloth is a heap around her ankles she starts to tremble, not from fear but from a lingering trace of feministic defiance. But that doesn’t protect her thong from his eyes, from his will, from what is going to happen. Master Shango tells her to stand where she is and remove her blouse. She hesitates just a heartbeat, but it is a moment too long. The powerful hands of Master Shango rise to a point between her breasts, grab the fabric tightly, and rip the blouse open with a single tug. My own chest responds with a shudder as I imagine the black hands on the white cloth. Buttons fly, incongruous little beads that once protected my white wife’s soon-to-be-wiped-out modesty.
“Off,” he says. “Now.”
The blouse comes off in a few shrugs. With a gesture – because I am not worth speaking to -- he orders me to come over, on my knees. With another gesture he commands me to reach up and undo her bra. I obey. How often I have done this, I think. Yet it’s as if this is the first time. I see her back knowing that this is a view to which I must become accustomed. The snaps seem to part in slow motion. I am processing what I am giving to Master Shango: my white wife’s tits. Those small, precious breasts I will never again play with – unless, I smile as it occurs to me, it’s to suck or lick or finger His cum from them. And then I won’t really be playing with them, will I? I will be serving him through her.
My God, I can barely breathe!
Her bra drops on top of her pants. Her tits are exposed. I begin to back away but he holds up a palm to stop me. He points to the thong. I know what to do. I use my fingertips to pull them down; to put my fingers under the bands would be too intimate for my new role. I smell the familiar odor of her cunt as I kneel there, working them around her ass. I draw it deep into my lungs. It is the last time I will smell it pure, just her scent. Soon it will bear His odors, the smell of his body, his sweat, his cum. And it occurs to me that is not all: he may bring other Black Gods to the apartment to use her. I can’t conceive of all those smells, those glorious aromas piled on top of hers, mixing Black with that of a taken white wife.
I don’t realize I’m knee walking backward. I’m already trained to act involuntarily; it’s as natural as breathing. I see Master Shango looking up at her eyes, not her pussy. That’s his way into her, his control mechanism. Eyes helped by voice assisted by slap. It is a perfect machine.
He moves a finger at her and my white wife steps out of the pile of clothes, naked now.
Master Shango looks at me. I feel privileged that he has momentarily broken the connection with her. He tells me to strip in a corner and come back to him on my knees. I back off and pull away my clothes eagerly, quickly, clumsily. I do not disrobe, as my wife did; I shed, like a molting bird, becoming my true little self without the trappings of so-called normal society. I feel the air on my naked body. Do I really have so little body? Am I so small? I begin to wilt before the heat of the scenario being played out before me. I waddle back on my knees. I am aware of my boi cock wagging to and fro between my legs, the head batting my thighs. That’s the cock’s new home: my own thighs. My own hand, if I’m privileged to use it. I am not only content with that, I welcome it.