Love is the Boss

Love is the Boss,

by Skorpio

MAKE A GENEROUS CONTRIBUTION TO SUPPORT NIFTY STORIES. IF YOU ARE A TRUE SUBMISSIVE, MAKE THIS HAPPEN. GIVE UP THAT CASH AS QUICKLY AS YOU SURRENDER YOUR MOUTH AND ASS.

Part One: Chiaroscuro

The curtains and blinds were drawn. The room was dark except for the glimmer of half a dozen tall black candles. The aroma of Egyptian musk spiced the air. From a stereo behind cabinet doors played a sultry jazz saxophone solo, Harlem Nocturne by Illinois Jacquet. The music was haunting, compelling.

Like pharaoh on his throne, a young brother of medium height and bantam weight sat in a large, upholstered armchair. His back was straight, legs apart, and his palms rested on his knees. He was shirtless, wearing only loose-fitting cargo shorts and size ten Timberlands. His taut, ripped physique had not an unnecessary ounce of body fat. Nipples like Hershey's Kisses adorned his broad chest. Below rippled six-pack abs.

Soft shadows flickered on the brother's flawless flesh, the color of molasses. Feline eyes glittered in the candle light. A smile flickered on his generous lips, revealing large and perfect teeth. Any psychic or clairvoyant would have been dazzled by the golden aura which radiated outward like a force which cannot be suppressed. Malcolm Rush was twenty-three years old.

Before him kneeled an older white man, naked save for a leopard-pattern loincloth tied to his waist with a narrow band of rawhide. Stuart Witherspoon was thirty-five, built like a quarterback with broad shoulders and a beefy, hirsute chest. Crew cut, thick eyebrows, big blue eyes, snub nose, and square jaw.

Encircling his thick throat was a leather collar. As if that alone were not enough to mark him as an owned slave, there were words in capital black letters tattooed across his upper back that left no doubt: "MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND."

"You know what to do," Malcolm commanded. His voice was deep and rich like molasses. A voice that took obedience for granted. The clear and unmistakable voice of a Master who knows what it is to own and dominate an inferior. One gives the orders, the other does what he is told.

Stuart tugged off his Master's boots and set them to the side. He gazed with abject, desperate longing at the young man's bare feet for a moment before planting moist, worshipful kisses upon each dark brown instep. Malcolm smirked with total satisfaction. Closing his eyes as Stuart's tongue did its work, Malcom thought back to how it all began...

Part Two: Past is Prologue

One year ago to the day, Malcolm and Stuart met at a bar called the Salt and Pepper Club. Malcolm was already on his second Tanqueray and tonic when Stuart walked through the door. Their eyes locked, and for a spellbound moment time seemed to stand still. It had to be love at first sight. They danced for hours under the glittering disco sphere, beguiled like long-lost lovers reunited against all odds.

After the bar closed at two a.m., known as "hotel/motel time," they strolled through the labyrinthine city streets, talking and sharing, lingering in the shadows to kiss. A romantic night neither would ever forget. A few days later, Stuart took Malcolm to dinner at a five-star seafood restaurant, afterwards a movie. Later, they made love in Stuart's bed, a fusion of body and soul. Amorous words were exchanged and impulsive vows were sworn without thought or hesitation.

The two men fell asleep in an embrace as if they had done so a thousand times before. The next morning they made love once again. They could not bear to be apart. Within a few passionate weeks, Malcolm moved into Stuart's apartment.

Malcolm was a junior at the local state college, majoring in political science with a minor in criminal justice. Academic expenses were covered by a scholarship so he pulled nights as a security guard at a factory to make ends meet.

The young brother had a sexual fantasy. When Malcolm hit puberty, he became enthralled by the old Bomba the Jungle Boy flicks which came on TV every Saturday morning. There was something about a muscular, half-naked white boy living in the jungle that fascinated him no end. Malcolm longed to be best friends with a brawny whiteboy like Bomba. They would be faithful companions, sharing adventures, fighting evil doers, and sleeping side by side under the stars.

It was not long before Malcolm started fucking girls, but whenever he was home in bed, feeling horning, he jerked off to thoughts of his fierce white Jungle boy. He fantasized about rolling the muscular lad on his stomach, lifting his loin cloth to reveal plump, ivory cheeks, and taking him like a woman. More than once Malcolm woke from a recurring wet dream in which Bomba kneeled before him, lips parted, gazing at his crotch.

When Malcolm was seventeen, he was approached in the men's room at the mall by a balding, bearded, middle-aged caucasian who came right out and offered to give him head. When Malcolm balked, the fellow offered him a hundred dollars. No way could Malcom turn down that! And the incredible blowjob which ensued was like nothing he had ever before experienced.

Malcolm decided if all cocksuckers were that skilled, not to mention generous with the benjamins, then to hell with chicks. He returned to that restroom again and again, night after night. There was no end of white men, from every walk of life, from bankers to brick-layers, lurking about, willing to pay for a taste of his black dick.

That action was great, and the cash was better. But there was something missing. Malcolm wanted more from a man than to be treated like a prostitute, no matter how profitable. He was still very much interested in the opposite sex, and could not imagine not getting married someday, fathering sons and daughters. At the same time, deep in his loins, he knew a longing to be with a submissive white man as soul-mates, as life-force partners. One who ruled and fucked, the other who obeyed and received.

As for Stuart Witherspoon, he too was somewhat reticent to acknowledge his sexuality. Growing up, he idolized girls and got along with them surprisingly well, better than he got along with most guys. At twenty-one, Stuart married his college sweetheart, a girl of mixed heritage named Tamara. Her mother was white, father Black.

Long story short, their honeymoon and marriage went unconsummated. Six months later after a fairly amicable divorce, Tamara informed Stuart that he should seriously consider the possibility he might be gay. This set Stuart to wondering. He loved girls, the way they dressed, the way they talked, but he did not desire them. The idea of making love to a woman seemed like a beautiful notion, but the physicality, the act of taking a woman, appealed to him not in the least.

Despite all that, Stuart resisted identifying as queer. He could not see himself that way. Homos were sissies. Effeminate. Stuart considered himself a man's man. He played football in high school and college, worked out, and enjoyed sports of all kinds, including hunting and fishing. No way could he be gay.

One night Stuart found himself drowning his sorrows in a seedy bar across from the train station. He was quite drunk when a black man about his age, sitting to his right, struck a conversation. They talked and drank. Before long, Stuart was inside a cab with this stranger, which took them to a motel room where what transpired was an experience that Stuart, inebriated as he was, would never forget.

That night, he sucked cock and took it up the ass for the first time. He gave in to all his desires. That's the magic of alcohol. When daylight dawned Stuart woke to find himself face down on the bed, alone, naked, with a hangover. His jaw and rectum were extremely sore. Sitting up, he saw a half-full fifth of bourbon on the dresser beside a handwritten note that read: "Thanks for showing me a good time, chump! Left you cab fare."

That's when Stuart found his wallet on the floor and discovered all that remained of two hundred dollars was a twenty dollar bill. It must have been a set up from the beginning, which meant Stuart was indeed a chump. He got played by a black man with a big cock because he could not help himself.

What was the Black man's name? Charles? Carl? Carlton? Stuart could not remember. No more than he could recall the Black man's features. However, if asked to describe the stranger's genitals, Stuart could have painted with word a precise picture. But not the Black Man's face. That was a blur.

It was humiliating at first, and yet deep down Stuart was thrilled by the thought of being used and robbed. From that day on whenever Stuart saw a Black man of a certain height and build with a vaguely familiar aspect he wondered if that was the man who took his virginity.

Over time, Stuart had many raw encounters, mostly one night stands with masculine men of color, often homeless brothers who fell (or saw through) his offer of booze and weed. Sometimes he left his wallet out deliberately before falling asleep (or passing out) as an irresistible temptation. More often than not his pickups took the bait. He came to enjoy being used and treated like a hole, hustled, and kicked to the curb. But as the years wore on, the white slut longed for something more, something deeper and more lasting.

Part Three: Terms of Endearment

From the outset of their relationship, Stuart deferred to all of Malcolm's wishes, wants, and whims. Desperate not to lose this catch, he spoiled the stunningly handsome, virile young black man with gifts. Recognizing his younger lover was in many ways more practical than he, more mature and certainly more decisive, Stuart often turned to Malcolm for advice.

Malcolm, who was aggressive and self-confident by nature, took charge, and Stuart went along. It was Stuart's responsibility to perform the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and shopping, while Malcolm focused on his studies. Some lovers become rivals, letting envy and competition erode their physical and emotional bond. Not Malcolm and Stuart. They fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

When it came to sex, Malcolm determined when and how often they made love, and when Stuart was simply required to get him off. The young black man's testosterone levels were commensurate with his youth and racial heritage, making his libido the more demanding of the two. He was always in the mood to fuck, at least once a day if not twice.

While watching porn together and reading erotic stories on the internet, Malcolm and Stuart discovered a mutual interest in authoritarian themes, particularly bondage. It was Stuart who asked Malcolm how he felt about fucking him with wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts.

"Or you could my hands behind my wrists when I suck your cock. You always say I use my hands too much, that I need to work on using just my mouth."

"I'm down with that!" nodded Malcolm with a smile that masked an even deeper satisfaction. The mental image of his white bodybuilder boyfriend physically restrained, at his mercy, sent blood coursing to his dick.

Malcolm went on: "There are times when I feel like spanking you. Really hard on that plump ass you got, so you feel it. Like punishment, I guess. I don't want to hurt you, but... I want to treat you like a slut, sometimes."

"Maybe I do need to be punished," suggested Stuart, unable to relinquish that scenario. Punished for being a slut. It made him feel dizzy and weak.

"Are you down with that?" said Malcolm. "You know how much I love you, but punishing you does turn me on, I gotta be honest. When I get really horny, I want to say things, I want to talk nasty to you. I want to treat you like a slut. Tnat's what you are to me. Can you handle that?"

"Baby, you should know by now. I'm YOUR slut. I want to please you. Serve you! Call me any name in the book. I deserve it! Whatever turns you on, turns me on. I know that you love me, now I need you to use me. Don't you know I'm begging to be used?"

"Mmmm, then kiss me, you fucking slut," Malcolm growled. He gripped Stuart's head in place with both hands as their lips met. Contact was electric, like energy flowing from Stuart into Malcolm.

Malcolm pulled down Stuart's dress pants and bent him over his knees like a child. He ran his large palms across the firm white fleshy ass, like pewter, so cool to the touch. This was going to be good. He liked the way the muscular white man's exposed ass quivered like jelly.

Stuart's mind flashed back to when his Sicilian step-father disciplined him in this fashion. Stuart was thirteen years old when he received his first bare-ass spanking. He got it for daring to talk back. So brutal was that beating that Stuart could not sit down for several days.

"I'm gonna teach you to respect me, boy!" Mario raged. "I'm the fucking MAN in this house! I'm your father now! I'm not gonna coddle you. You will learn to obey me."

Stuart never again talked back to his step-father, still it seemed he could not do anything right. Rarely did a week go by without Stuart getting spanked, sometimes with Mario's leather belt which stung even more than the palm. To add insult to injury, Mario insisted that Stuart thank him after every beating. This went on for years.

When Stuart was seventeen, full grown with hair on his pubes and pits, a few curls sprouting on his chest, being placed across his step-father's knees for a raw, bare-ass spanking was unbearably humiliating.

In high school Stuart avoided getting undressed in the locker room or showering with other guys lest they see the bruises on his buttocks. No one could ever know what transpired at home on a routine basis. This was Stuart's deepest, darkest secret and a source of everlasting shame, leaving emotional scars that would never heal. He loved being spanked.

"I'm not gonna be gentle," Malcolm warned, his voice stirring Stuart from his submissive fantasies. "Are you sure you're ready?"

With a shudder of excitement, Stuart replied: "I'm always ready." His soft white ass cheeks tensed with anticipation.

"Relax that booty, bitch!" Malcolm demanded, drawling that last word into two syllables, before bringing down his hand upon Stuart's buttocks with a resounding whack. Then, again and again. He spanked that white booty ass twenty times until it glowed scarlet and Stuart begged him to stop.

"Had enough?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir!" Stuart pleaded.

"I don't think so," said Malcolm.

Twenty more whacks ensued, each one harder than the last.

"Unnnhh, ohhh, unh-unhhh, noo-ooo, ohhhhhhh, yessss, ohhhhhh, unhhhh," Stuart bawled incoherently, convulsing with each strike.

He was an adolescent once again, at the mercy of his step-father's brutality, consumed by shame. He needed to be punished, but the searing pain was more than he could take.

"No more, please, please" he pleaded. "Thank you, thank you, Sir. Please, I can't take no more."

"I think you can," said Malcolm, coldly.

"Nooooo....," Stuart moaned.

"I don't wanna hear that! Tell me you want more!"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir," Stuart sobbed. "I need to be punished. I'm sorry. Spank me harder! Hurt me! Beat me!"

Twenty more swift blows followed. Malcolm was enjoying this immensely. He liked inflicting pain. It made everything real. No games. No bullshit. He needed to see how much Stuart could handle before breaking into pieces.

"Thank me, bitch!"

"Ohhhhhh, yes, yes, thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir," babbled the thirty-two year old reduced to seventeen again, reliving the torment he suffered at the abusive hands of his step-father's.

Malcolm ordered Stuart face down on the floor. Spreading Stuart's glowing cheeks, Malcolm drove his huge, dark brown dick between them, forcing his tool without mercy, pushing inside, making Stuart groan with exquisite pleasure.

"You feeling me? Feel my dick inside you? I'm gonna fuck you like a whore! I'm gonna fuck you rough and hard because I love you, bitch. I wish that I could rape yo' ass because I know you want that. They say you can't rape the willing, but by the time I get done, you gonna feel raped."

Malcolm thrust his wrought-iron black pole into the white muscle slut's tight, hungry pussy, moving slowly at first, in and out, inch by inch, before accelerating his thrusts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder.

Stuart groaned loudly, unable to distinguish incredible pain from pleasure. It felt so good having this big black cock inside him, pummeling his guts, the incredible fullness of its length and girth, the relentless, driving, jackhammer rhythm, the wild, hard, constant pounding.

"Oh, yahhhh, yahhh, your pussy feels so good!" Malcolm cried.

"Fuck me, fuck me!" begged Stuart like a bitch in heat.

"Take it, slut! Work yo' cunt. Work it!"

Stuart was totally under his young Master's control. He needed this. He needed to be fucked.

"Take it, take it!" growled Malcolm. His nuts churned. He worked his big dick, thrusting harder and harder with a vengeance. He did not skeet until Stuart was in tears.

Part Four: Proposal

Malcolm and Stuart's interests advanced to BDSM, leather hoods, handcuffs, ball-gags, chastity belts, and nipple clamps. What they shared transcended sex. There was more to this dynamic than being top and bottom, dom and sub. It was a big black dick and a tight white hole in perfect harmony.

"We've come a long way, boo," said Malcolm after dinner one night. He remained at the table while Stuart stood at the sink, washing dishes. "I'm getting into this bondage and discipline stuff," Malcolm went on. "It's really hot, and I know you can't get enough."

"That's an understatement."

"Yeah, I know, right? Let me ax you something. How do you feel about taking this to the next level? I mean, it's not really about sex anymore, it's about us."

"What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is, I don't just want to be a dom in the bedroom. I want to be your dom all the time, in every way."

"Isn't it like that, already?"

Stuart wiped his hands on a dish towel. He filled two stemmed glasses with Cabernet and joined his handsome, muscular lover.

"It is like that. Already," Malcolm nodded. "Maybe I just want to make it official, know what I'm saying?"

"Then, it's official," Stuart confirmed.

"Kiss me, bitch."

Lips met, tongues touched as Malcolm slipped a large brown hand beneath the white man's short-sleeved shirt to tweak a rubbery nipple. Stuart moaned, surrendering. Two things got Stuart instantaneously aroused. One was coarse sex talk. The other was having his big nipples pinched and twisted.

"Ohhhhhh, unhhhhh, ohhh God, please don't stop," Stuart winced in ecstasy.

"I will get back to your tits, bitch," said Malcolm, letting go. "Right now, I got something else for you."

Malcolm set a ribboned cardboard box on the table.

"For me?"

"For you. Open it."

Inside was a black, leather collar with a silver buckle.

"This is my way of proposing, baby," said Malcolm. "If you were a female, it might be an engagement ring. I thought this would be more appropriate."

"I don't need a ring," said Stuart. "That's for breeders. You don't know how long I've waited for this moment."

"I want to own you, boo. I want you to be mine. Will you wear this collar?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"You understand what this means?" asked Malcolm.

"Yes, Sir. It means I belong to you."

A grin illuminated Malcolm's face. This was the very first time Stuart addressed him as Sir. He liked the sound of it.

"That's one way of putting it," he allowed. "But you don't just belong' to me. Snap, we belonged' to each other since the day we met, am I right? But this is different. This is the next step. This is what we both want. I own you now. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Sir." Stuart hung his head, looking at the floor.

"Do you really?" Malcolm lifted Stuart's square chin with a finger so that their eyes met. "If you're not comfortable with this, we don't have to take it any further. I just want to make you happy."

"Yes, Sir. That IS what I want. I want to serve you. I love you so much. I would do anything for you. I want to give you everything."

"And you will," said Malcolm. "I love you too. That's never gonna change. From now you're mine, aiiight? I used to worry we might break up someday. Everybody does, sooner or later. But not us. Not with me in charge. I will never set you free. You gonna love me until the day you die. That's our destiny, baby."

"Thank you, Sir."

Hot tears of joy welled in Stuart's big blue eyes.

"I like it when you call me Sir," said Malcolm. "That shows respect. You can call me Master, too, since I am the Master of the house."

"Yes, Sir," said Stuart. "I mean, yes, Master."

"Beautiful. Now let's set some ground rules. If you got any objections, let me know. I'll hear them out. It's not like you don't got a voice. Of course, I will always make the final decision. Are you OK with that?"

"Yes, Master Malcolm."

"You are too perfect, baby," murmured Malcolm, leaning forward to kiss his lover on the mouth. "I'm the head of this relationship, but you're the heart."

`Yes, Sir," Stuart agreed. "That's so true!"

"Rule Number One," said Malcolm. "You don't make any decisions without coming to me first. You've been doing that for a while now, but I want to make it official. I am in control now. I tell you what to do. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir."

A weight was lifted from Stuart's broad shoulders, relieved to rely on his dominant, self-assured Black lover.

"Rule Number Two," Malcolm went on. "I want you to continue looking after all the household chores like you been doing, but I expect you to work harder at it. You've done a good job so far, but I know you can do better."

"I can do that," Stuart eagerly complied.

"Rule Number Three: you're in great shape, but you been slacking. I want you working out for an hour every night after you wash the dishes and scrub the bathroom. You're not getting any younger, you know. You've got to keep that body in perfect condition for me. Work on those abs and glutes."

"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!" Stuart gushed. "I've been wanting to get back in shape. This is the motivation I've been needing!"

"Don't think of it as motivation," Malcolm frowned. "Think of it as doing what you're told!"

"Your wish is my command."

"That's more better! That should be your mantra! Say it again. Say: Malcolm's wish is my command!"

"Malcolm's wish is my command!"

"Once more. Louder!"

"MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND!" Stuart shouted.

"Rule Number Four," decided Malcolm on the spot. "Every morning when you get up, and every night before you go to bed, that's what you're gonna say: Malcolm's wish is my command! I want that to be your fucking mantra.

"MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND!" Stuart cried.

"Good boy," said Malcolm, patting the white man's head he would a faithful hound. "Now, let's go over your sexual duties. Basically, you're going to continue doing what you've been doing, only better and more often. I want your cunt-hole ready at all times. But if I snap my fingers, that means drop to your knees and suck my dick! Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir, I understand. I won't let you down."

"That's my boo!" Malcolm grinned. "There's one more thing we have to talk about. It's crucial to our life together."

"What is that?"

"From time to time I'm gonna discipline you. I don't expect you to be perfect 24/7. There are bound to be times when you mess up. When that does happen, I don't want to hear no excuses. You will be punished."

"If I disappoint you, I want to be punished."

"I know you do," said Malcolm. "That's just one of the things I love about you. That's why I'm gonna discipline you just for the hell of it. Because I am the Boss!"

"You can punish me right now, if you want to."

"I've got a better idea."

Malcolm snapped his fingers.

Stuart collapsed to his knees and sucked Malcolm's dick for almost an hour until hot sperm flooded his throat.

Part Five: Epilogue

Malcolm assumed the role of Stuart's King, Pharaoh, and God. His white boyfriend needed to serve and suffer. Malcolm liked being worshipped, also free to pursue his dreams while Stuart worked to support them both, the way a whiteboy should for his Nubian Master. On their first anniversary Stuart got his broad back tattooed with the words: MALCOLM'S WISH IS MY COMMAND.

Malcolm never shared Stuart with another brother, although plenty were interested in tapping that whiteboy's booty. Stuart never desired any other dick but Malcolm's, never remotely felt curious about any other Black Man. That is how much in love they were. They took to heart a song sung by Diana Ross: Love taught them both WHO WAS THE BOSS!

THE END