Kidnap II: Black Paradise

A BDSM Story by Harley Grant
© 2004 Harley Grant. Do not use without permission.

Chapter 1: Friday Afternoon

As I approached my office after class, I noticed the attractive black woman sitting just outside my door.  I bet I know what this is about, I thought.  I nodded at her and she stood, “professor, do you have a minute?” 

            “Yes, of course, please come in.”  I opened my office door, walked in and indicated the chair I had for guests.  She sat down, but not before she shut the door, a little unusual.

            “How can I help you?” I said.

            “Well, I wanted to talk to you about the article you wrote in the paper last week.”

            I wasn’t surprised; I’d already received a number of e-mails about it.  Entitled ‘The beauty of black women,’ it was a piece defending why white men might be drawn to black women.  It wasn’t just something I did out of nothing; it was a response to an earlier piece.  That article, stupid and crude, attacked white students who dated black students, especially male students who ‘went ghetto’ (according to the article) because they dated black women.

            “Go ahead,” I told her.  So far I was a bit nervous, I wasn’t sure if blacks would like it, they could easily take what I said the wrong way and think I was reducing women to objects. 

            She smiled, and it was quite dazzling.  “I just wanted to say thanks, it took courage to do what you did.”

            You’ll never know how much, I thought, because you don’t know how much I had to control myself.  I couldn’t risk revealing how much I crave worshipping black women.  “Thank you.  Yes, I’ve gotten some unpleasant e-mails.”

            “I bet you have, and I’m also sure that many who did notice and thank you will say nothing.  That’s why I’m here.  We feel that those who do something like you did should be thanked.”

            We?  Who is we, I wondered, or maybe it was just a way of talking.

            We, she and I, began to talk.  She brought up various points from the article and I tried to elaborate on them. I was being a bit careful; too much drooling in the presence of a woman about women isn’t cool.  And this woman was beautiful.  She had a trim, athletic body her expensive clothes did not emphasize, but did not conceal either.  She was pretty and her smile was wonderful.  She carried herself with dignity and grace.  I couldn’t remember if I’d seen her around campus before or not.  She might be a student; we had a fair number who had worked for a bit before coming to college.

            I was enjoying myself, but I was trying to keep things sophisticated and professional.  “Have you ever dated a black woman?” she asked me.

            Paying for hookers, bodybuilders and Doms probably doesn’t count, I thought.  “No, actually I haven’t.”  Was this a prelude to her asking me out?

            “Well, I hope you’d be open to that possibility.  I think many black women would find you attractive.”       

            I felt even more uncomfortable.  I didn’t know if she was a student, I couldn’t date a student, no matter how much I’d want to.  All her comments could just be general compliments rather than a wish that I kiss her, throw her to the floor and fuck her right there in the office, something I’d been thinking of for several minutes.

            “Well, thank you,” I said stupidly.  “That’s kind,” I smiled.  “Not all blacks are open to other blacks being involved with whites.”  What I wanted to ask was “would you date a white guy, a white professor, me?”  I’ve said she had a professional look to her.  I’d use the word elegant.  I loved it, but it was intimidating.  It spoke of a person who had it together, who was moving forward in life, who knew how to ask for and get what she wanted.  I was none of those things.  The truth was that while I did want to fuck her, what I really wanted was something more humiliating, something thrilling by how forbidden it was. 

            “That’s true,” she said and we veered back on to safer territory.  She seemed to start to loose interest in the conversation, had I refused an invitation?

            “You know,” I said, “you asked me if I’d be open to dating a black woman, and I don’t think I answered that.  Yes, I would.  I meant what I said in the article both personally as well as speaking for many white people.  Everything about sex and attraction is capable of being offensive to someone,” I began, I was going to take a risk.  Why?  Did I want to date her?  I knew I didn’t want the conversation to stop.  I tried to explain some of the dimensions of attraction.  “It is probably some leftover of racism, but I think that to whites, a type of black woman can have a sensuality, a sexuality that reconnects them to the earth, to essentially human feelings.”

            “But you’d agree that a black today can have any sort of sexuality?  Not just the primitive kind.”

            Shit, now I had her thinking I thought blacks were jungle bunny witch doctors.  “Of course, of course.  I didn’t mean that…”

            She interrupted me and put her slim hand briefly on my knee.  “I must apologize.  I do understand how careful a white person has to be about these things.  You are exactly right.  Some of my sisters are earthy in a really raunchy way that is quite attractive, even to more civilized types such as me.”  She smiled.  She was lesbian?  Nuts.

            She did that smile again.  “I like the variety of sexuality, gender, ethnic, roles.  It’s all a wonderful playground and it is so sad that we feel the need to limit ourselves.  You should be free to tell me everything.”  And she stopped.

            Gulp.  Everything?  Are you going to stay here two days?  I probably shouldn’t start with the two black mistresses pissing on me fantasy.  “You know,” I began, “it is a playground if you can find it.  I think the biggest problem I, and people like me, have is that you can’t just go to the phone book and narrow down the list to a few to consider.  Nor can you advertise openly all your interests.”  And the professionals, I didn’t add, are a decidedly mixed bag.

            “Not all of your interests would you like to advertise?”

            Such an elegant way of saying do you like being crushed beneath black pussy, being ridden by a black woman who takes her orgasm on your back.  “It’s seldom safe to express them.  One always keeps hoping.  I too love the whole variety.”

            “I’m glad to hear that.  As for finding a safe place, I think that having had the courage to write that article you may find things changing.  You would like things to change?” 

            “Yes I would.”  And I smiled directly into her eyes.

            “Change a lot, change radically?”

            I gulped.  “Yes.”

            “It may come quickly.  Would you be ready for it?  Accepting of it?”

            Who the hell was she to ask these questions.  But she had a manner about her, one that conveyed that she was wise enough to have the right to ask these real questions.

            “I hope so,” I said simply.  I was thinking of her, was she herself the quick change.  Should I go for it?  She’d said she liked the variety, said she liked women as well as men.  It was an invitation.  It took a second to think this through and the second was too long.

            “Well, look what time it is,” she rose, “I have to go.  Thank you so much.  We do admire you and your courage.  And I do think things will change for you.”  With that, she shook my hand, turned on her heel and left.  I stood there feeling stupid.

            If this were a movie, I’d have run after her, held her hands and poured out my desires.  But that’s not something us professor types are very accomplished at.

            I packed up my briefcase, turned out the light and dejectedly headed for home.  Our talk had carried us into the evening and the light was starting to fade.  I’d driven to work, but now wished I hadn’t, walking home would have been enjoyable in the late spring air.

            I got over to the parking lot at the edge of our small campus, and remembered where my car was.  As I approached the car, I saw a white van in the spot next to mine.  What professor had that, I wondered?  As I got closer the sliding door opened up and two black women got out.  More members of my fan club?

            “Professor,” one called to me.  These two were the “earthy” type.  Curvy like only black women can be, reeking of attitude.  Dressed just a little trashy, but not overdone.  Both had skirts that ended well above the knee, exposing quite a stretch of black thigh.  Quite a stretch of strong, shapely, powerful black thigh, I should add.

            I approached, they smiled.  Lots of people were smiling at me today.  “We just want to tell you how much we loved your article!” one gushed.  One had sort of climbed back in the van, the other stepped back toward the front of the cars.  I walked up to the driver side door of my car, the van on my left.  I said hello, the one outside said thanks again.  The one inside the van said something.

            I turned to look in the van and was struck in the back by something powerful, it pushed me over on the floor of the van, half my body still sticking out.  My briefcase went flying.  Before I could push myself up, the woman outside had gripped both my legs and lifted me off the ground.  The woman inside grabbed my upper arms and I went all the way into the van.  One arm was let go, the other gripped more firmly and I was rolled over on my back and the woman in the van sat down on my head, blocking my vision and my breath.

            All this had taken a couple of seconds and I’d had no time to react. Now I was ready to react but my mouth was up against the one girl’s panties and I could smell her pussy.  I could hardly breathe.  She gripped her thighs, squeezing my head and my ears started to ring.  I wasn’t really struggling, or rather I was struggling, I just wasn’t moving. 

            The second girl sat on my stomach and started to undo my shirt.  That done, the girls jumped up and before I could get a real breath had rolled me over again and ripped my unbuttoned shirt off.  A girl sat back down on my shoulders crushing me to the floor, but not before whipping a black bag over my head.  The other grabbed my hands and pulled them down behind my back and locked cuffs on them.  I could feel they were the heavy dungeon style.  Much better than the painful light ones they sell in dime stores.

            She put her hands under my hips, and yanked my waist off the ground.  That done, she reached under me and undid my belt.  In a few more seconds my pants and underwear were down around my ankles, then off completely.  I felt more cuffs being secured around my ankles.  They were connected by chain to my wrist cuffs. 

            They got off me and I lay on my back puffing, trying to figure out what was going on.   Before I could even figure out what to ask them one had grabbed my shoulders the other my legs.  They lifted me clear off the ground and muscled me deeper into the van.

            I heard more chains and soon a metal collar was being fitted around my neck, a lock clicked home.  The girls relaxed.  I was secured.  Cuffed hand and foot, neck in a collar that evidently was attached to a chain that I was just going to bet was secured to the wall. 

            “Ok, let’s get his stuff,” I heard one say.  Over the next couple of minutes I heard them go in and out of the van.  It sounded like, and I later confirmed, that they had gathered up all my clothes and my briefcase and put them in the trunk of my car, keeping only my keys.

            One got in the back, the other in the driver’s seat.  The doors were shut and the driver started the van and off we went.  After we’d been driving for a minute the one in the back took the bag off my head and I could look around.

            “You should have enough chain to sit up,” she said.  I worked myself to a sitting position, knees bent.  I looked a question at her.  “What have I done to you?” I said.

            “Oh, it’s not like that at all,” she said.  “Hi, I’m Lakisha.”  For a moment, I thought she might offer to shake my hand.  “And the driver is Tamara.  And you are the luckiest honky on the planet.”

            “Forgive me if that isn’t apparent right now.”

            “Come on, isn’t this what you’ve always dreamed about.”

            “No, I never fantasized about a van with shag carpet on the ceiling.”

            Lakisha laughed.  “You’re funny.  It’s what you’ve always wanted, to be the slave of some black women.”

            Now, this is interesting, I thought.  It is a fantasy, but I don’t remember telling it to anyone.  “I don’t think I said ‘do it this weekend.’”

            “Our leader said you were practically begging her to do it right there, if she’d said ‘down’ you’d still be on all fours.”

            “And who is your leader?” I said, but I think I knew.

            “You met her just now, Jennifer.”  The woman in my office.  I had begged her?  Had she read me that well?

            “So what’s going to happen?”

            “Bout’ what you expect.”

            “Meaning?”

            “Meaning this.”  She scooted over the van floor to where I was.  Grabbing me by the hair she pulled me over and down until my head was between her knees.  “Hope you can use that tongue on me as good as you did with all those words to Jennifer.”  With that she opened her thighs and pushed my head deep into her crotch.  She wasn’t wearing any panties beneath her short skirt.  I assumed my job was to lick, so I began.  The musky aroma of black pussy was all I could smell.  Her thighs were tight against my cheeks.

            She began to roll back and forth, taking my head and the rest of me on a precarious ride.  One of these days a strong woman is going to snap the neck of one of us guys.

            She was a screamer and began soon her climax of “o God, o mother fucking God!” that I could hear only muffled through all that flesh.

            After she came she rolled off me and across the van.  “Give me a fucking pro-fess-or every time!”

            The van pulled over and stopped.  The driver, Tamara clambered in the back.  “Crap girl, you want to keep all that to yo’ self.  You drive the fucking thing.”  Another lick session?  My tongue couldn’t keep up.  Fortunately, maybe, she had other ideas.  As soon as Lakisha got the van moving again, I had a chance to size Tamara up.

            The two girls were different.  Tamara was jet black, as black as you can get whereas Lakisha had been more chocolate brown.  Lakisha had big thighs but Tamara was a whole different deal.  She was both big and ripped and she moved quickly and violently.  She landed on my stomach with just barely enough time for me to move my hands out from the middle of my back. 

            She grabbed my chin in one big, strong hand and fixed me with a fierce grip.  “Fucking white boy, you are in a whole heap of trouble!”  She sat back and laughed.  “Look at you, naked, slave chains on, going who the fuck knows where with some crazy jumped-up nig’ras.  Next thing you know, you goin’ to be humming the music from Roots!  Take me back to my white plantation, or some shit.”

            She leaned down putting her whole upper body against mine.  I could smell her, her face filled my eyes.  “I am going to fuck you so hard you forget your name.  I am going to tie you, whip you, beat you, own the fuck out of you.  You is mine, boy.”

            I had no smart replies; my heart was beating furiously.  But my cock was getting hard.

            Sure enough, Tamara turned around and saw it.  “Well, looky’ here.  This peckerwood got a thing for being whipped for black pussy.  I guess we did get the right guy after all.”  She wrapped her hand around my cock and began to squeeze.  She stretched it, she gripped a finger and thumb around my balls, she turned it this way and that.  At every move she could so easily have snapped it off but didn’t.  I was arching my back in suspense at her next move.

            “Yo, Lakisha, this guy got a decent sized one.  Almost as big as a ten-year old black stud.”  She laughed again.

            “Hey,” Lakisha called from the front, “we’re just about there.  Put his bag on and try to look official.”

            “Shit.”  Tamara did as indicated and my world went black again.  I heard the van slow down as it turned off the highway and began bumping up a driveway.

            I was so happy.

[ On to Chapter 2 ]