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Deconstructing the Professor

By: silkstockingslover



Deconstructing the Professor: A Novella

Summary: A proud black MILF is slowly dommed by a racist white co-ed.

WARNING 1: This story includes many politically incorrect words (such as nigger). If any such words or concepts offend you, please do not read any further

WARNING 2: Personal Reflection: I have many kinks. I love the thought of being seduced and used by a younger woman; I love the idea of submitting to a black man or woman (ideally both); I love the thought of utter submission. My point is twofold:

1. Fantasy is exactly that....what someone fantasizes in the dark subconscious kink of their inner being...it shouldn't be taken as a reflection of who the writer is.

2. Having naughty interracial fantasies does not make the fantasist a racist. Although I am expecting comments calling me a racist (I am not; if anything I am enthralled by the thought of submitting to a black man or woman). Yet I am telling this story from the point of view of a black woman using racist language and a sordid history, to create a vivid and, I hope, realistic downfall of a strong, black woman.

So please read this lengthy tale with an open mind, an open heart and an open libido.

NOTE 1: I have written a few fantasies about a younger black woman dominating an older white woman. I have been asked to write a story from the opposite point of view. So with the assistance of a fan who requested the story, this is my attempt to write a story about an older black university professor who is blackmailed into submission by a dominant white student.

NOTE 2: The story could fit a variety of Literotica categories including Lesbian (because the story is about a black woman who becomes a lesbian slave to a group of young girls), Incest (because there is a lot of implied incest early on and actual incest later), Group Sex (because later sex scenes include a variety of participants), Interracial (because it is a story about a black woman and a white Mistress), Mature (because the main character is a beautiful 40 year old MILF), Anal (because there is a fair amount of backdoor sex), Exhibitionist and Voyeur (because the protagonist is forced to do things in public, and in front of and for groups of people), First Time (because our lovely professor is a lesbian virgin when the story starts), NonConsent/Reluctance (because Felicia very reluctantly submits to the powerful white seductress), Toys and Masturbation (because throughout the story both are used), BDSM(because there are many levels of bdsm in the story), Fetish (because of its multi-layered kink: panty-sniffing, stockings, golden showers, etc ), Mind Control (because of the domination at the core of the story) and Novella (because of its length).

NOTE 3: A special thanks to Vanessa for the many e-mails exchanges that guided this story. A second special thanks to Estragon, who accidentally inspired the beginning by an e-mail he sent me with an article from a well-known academic journal.

NOTE 4: As always a million kisses and thanks go to my editors for this story as it went through many drafts and changes: Vanessa, LaRascasse and Estragon.

Deconstructing the Professor: A Novella

1. THE 'N' WORD...a prologue of sorts

Setting the tone of a class is critical, especially in college. Most students don't want to be there and in today's information-now-world a professor must not just be an old-school lecturer. We must be engaging, we must be controversial.

So a couple of weeks into my freshman class on Race and Ethnicity I usually drop the bomb on them by walking in and writing the word "Nigger" on the board. The response is always the same: gasps followed by utter silence. I wait, letting the word and the silence linger there. Finally I ask, a group of sixty freshmen, mostly white, with a few Asians and three blacks, "Who can say the word Nigger?"

Silence lingers throughout the room. Sixty students' eyes fixed on the 40-year-old black female professor who has just asked them the most controversial question possible.

When no one answers, I go through a lengthy history of the word in language and Black identity. I ask the question again, the history lesson now done, "Who can say the word Nigger?" I scanned the room, gauging the reaction of my stunned students.  

A black girl, Carrie, a jock on a basketball scholarship, finally breaks the lengthy silence, "Black people."

I smile, because that is always the first answer. I push, "Why only Black people?"

She responds, "It is clearly racist if any other race says it. But if a Black person uses it, it is usually ok."

"I see," I say, thoughtfully.

Mike, another black student, adds, "I'm Black and I would never use such a word. It is an insult to our race, our history and how far we have come."

"Interesting," I agree, but attempt to push the envelope, "but what about thoughts from our other races?"

Finally, Emily, a shy blonde girl puts up her hand and whispers, almost embarrassed to speak, "I could never say the 'N' word."

"Why?" I probe.

She looks around the room. "It would offend someone."

"But don't many words offend people?" I ask.

"I suppose," she whispers, clearly wishing she hadn't spoken.

I break eye contact with the embarrassed girl and continue, "There are many words that offend people. For example, who has used the word faggot?"

A few brave students raise their hands.

"Queer?"

A few again raise their hands.

"Dyke? Bitch? Whore?" I give them the list.

Miko, an Asian student who has spoken intelligently on almost every issue the first two weeks of class, speaks up, "Those are all offensive, but they are not race words, they are sexual words. If the 'N' word is offensive, which it is, what about the word 'Chink' or 'Gook'?"

I nod my head, "They too are offensive and could easily be added to this conversation. But for now let's stick to the one word, Nigger."

A student, who has never spoken before, a nerdy looking white boy, is the first to use the word, "It is 2012, and the word Nigger is just as offensive as the other words mentioned."

"Agreed," I say, but continue to push their thinking, "yet, no one refers to faggot as the the "F" word, although I guess there is another "F" that fits that isn't there?'' This gets a solid laugh from the group and seems to relax them just a bit. "My point is, the word Nigger has become a category of its own, hasn't it?"

Madison, a very pretty blonde, asks, "Professor Jefferson, isn't this conversation an insult to you personally?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, knowing full well what she means.

"Well, the use of the word Nigger," she says, her voice stressing the word, "is clearly offensive when said by a white person towards a black person, regardless of the context."

I smile, attempting to distance myself from the word. "I don't enjoy hearing the word used, even by fellow black people, or the way black stand-up comedians like Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy use it so liberally for laughs, but in a class discussion like this, the word takes on a different context. One where the word distances itself from the negative connotations it has historically symbolized."

I noticed an odd smile cross her face, one that I could not read. My answer seems again to lighten the tension in the room and the conversation opens. For the remainder of the period, the discussion goes on with a few more students responding and one more actually using the word. Most continue to call it the 'N' word and even then, they look down, avoiding eye contact with me when they imply the taboo word.

The conversation evolved into clothing and fashion and I pointed out, "There are two polar opposites of appearance and the impact it has on black image. For one, I dress a certain way to create a persona that will be taken with respect. A respect that is much harder to earn than if I was the same age, similarly educated and white. On the other hand, the rap culture, gangsta rap and the glamorization of thugs, pimps and hoes to the cultural mainstream manifest another image. In reality, the vulgarization of popular culture, and the sexual objectification and degradation of females, goes back through the history of blues, rock and roll and r & b."

After a few more minutes of frank discussion, as students debated who was to blame for today's excess sexuality, Madison asks another question. "Professor Jefferson, is that why you always dress so properly? To become more white?"

That surprises me, but I explain. "Not to be more white, but to be seen as an equal to whites. How one dresses defines, at least in some respects, who one is."

Madison reflects on this briefly before saying, "So how does what I wear define who I am?"

I pause, knowing the answer could be very judgmental. "Well as young adults you dress casually because in this school setting that is the norm and you are less likely to be judged."

"But you are judging me now," she points out.

"Touché," I reply, "but only because the question was asked. The point I am attempting to make is that how you dress is part of your culture. Students dress casually at school because that is the norm, yet these same students will dress much more provocatively when they go out to a party."

"Fair enough," Madison agrees, before adding, "but the stereotype you just created is not race based."

"True," I conclude, "but the end result, even in this faculty, is that as one of the very few black professors, I feel it is important to dress the part."

"Even though your husband doesn't?"

I look up, as did my class, unsure who said that. Unsure who it was, I explain, not liking the way this conversation has led to me personally, "Well first of all, he is my ex-husband, but we will not go into the details of that. Secondly, you have just made my point. As a white professor, and a male, Professor Hamilton doesn't have to earn the respect the same way I feel I do. I know that sounds sexist and racist, which I suppose is how it will be taken, but I am trying to be totally honest with you."

"But Conner doesn't try to make a statement, he is just who he is," the same boy explains. I recognize him as a player on our basketball team, a team my ex sometimes assistant coaches. I am immediately envious of the first name familiarity this student has with my ex. I try to brush the jealousy away, but my hatred for my ex bubbles just below the surface.

With only a few minutes left, I hear Emily arguing with Madison. I ask, "And what seems to be the problem?"

"My sister won't even utter the word Nigger, even after the conversation we have just been having," Madison explains, revealing a new piece of information to me. Although they both had the same name, their very different demeanors had me assuming they were cousins at best.

Emily, her voice slightly shaky, "It's not that I am incapable of saying the word. It's I refuse to say it. The word is offensive to many and thus I will not say it...ever."

Madison glaring at her sister, her tone suddenly angry, threatens, "We will see about that."

I smile at her stubborn morality; I respect it. She understands who she is and doesn't break when pressed by her clearly dominant sister. "Of course," I explain, "it is much bigger than that. I have met many people who are racist towards the black race or any race for that matter, even though they don't say the word. The word, like many others, has evolved into a derogatory term that will never change."

"Exactly," Emily agrees, glaring back at her sister.

Madison adds, "So if I say Nigger I am racist and if I don't say Nigger I may still be racist."

She is now liberally using the word Nigger, and I try to get a grip on the conversation. "No, that was not the message I was trying to get across. I was simply implying that racism is much bigger than the use of a derogatory word or not."

Emily, on a roll now, as if trying to stand apart from her overbearing sister, continues, "Plus, I like the way you dress Professor Jefferson. I don't see it being about race, but rather about respect and authority. You demand respect by how you dress. When a professor comes to class in shorts and flip-flops I have a hard time taking them seriously. All I wonder is why am I paying 400 bucks to take a class with someone who doesn't take their job seriously."

Madison, her face going redder, clearly not used to being contradicted by her sister, says, "So

Professor Jefferson is a better teacher than Mr. Hamilton because she dresses better?"

"Yes," Emily confidently says.

"So you are against using the word Nigger because it is racist, but you have no problem judging a qualified professor based on his dress? How hypocritical."

I break the sisterly disagreement. "I think we are getting off topic. And I definitely don't want to get into a conversation about the quality of our professors based on clothing. Regardless of our disagreements, I have no doubts about the competence of Professor Hamilton."

Madison, ignoring my attempt at closure, pushed the envelope, "If Professor Hamilton was not here, and there were no African American students, many here would have no problem saying Nigger. Some would even use it in a blatantly racist way."

"I wouldn't," Emily counters.

Madison keeps going, her words dripping condescending superiority, "Oh I know you wouldn't. But I know many in here would. I have heard the word used hundreds of times in my life."

Looking at the clock, I decide the point has been made and I wrap up my lecture. "Our time is almost up. I hope you understand the point of this lesson. Every one of us comes from different pasts, different histories, pasts and histories that have helped develop your values and beliefs. And as we move forward in this course, you have to be able to be aware of your personal values and respect others. The reality is the word Nigger will always be offensive when used in a derogatory context. But it is only through discussion and respect that we can ever move forward."

I dismiss the class and watch as Madison and Emily are arguing the whole way up the stairs. I consider intervening, but it is not my place.

When I look back now and try to pinpoint when my fall began, it always comes back to this lesson. I didn't know it at the time, but from this moment on Madison's respect for me changed. She always looked at me smugly and I always felt like she was assessing me in a way I could never fully explain.

Oddly on occasion, Madison would pop up in my dreams. I never remembered them completely, I never do, but it seemed she always was in control, always smiling smugly and always flaunting her superiority over me. Looking back now, clearly it was my subconscience warning me of what was to come...but I missed it completely until it was far too late.

2. A SHORT HISTORY OF ME

To tell my story, my unbelievable story, my fall from grace, my complete and utter humiliation, my loss of dignity and my ultimate complete sexual satisfaction, I must let you know who I am as a person.

My name is Felicia Jefferson, a name that goes all the way back to my ancestor's white master hundreds of years ago. I am 40, 5'6" tall and my figure is 38D-28-40. Obviously my breasts have been the center of attention since I was a teen. They are both a blessing and a curse. I work out regularly (have for decades), both for stress relief and to keep fit, so I'm firm and in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. Some sag and jiggle of course, with gravity and three kids, but I look younger than my age. Large brown eyes, naturally long lashes, prominent cheekbones, and large luscious lips that all my men have loved. I keep my hair straight, black (no tints or dyes), shoulder length (professional styles; not natural, but no weaves, braids, dreads, or curls). I have chocolate brown skin, smooth, few wrinkles but not many age wrinkles (just crow's feet), no stretch marks, dimples in all four cheeks (face cheeks and ass cheeks), and no cellulite. In truth, for my age, I am told I am still very attractive, although I hadn't felt very attractive after my second divorce and relatively long dry spell.

 The dry spell was for a variety of reasons, but the main two were my professional career and my upbringing had prevented me from being remotely outgoing. I was raised to be a prim and proper girl, a black girl living in a white man's world. My early blossoming in the chest brought me tons of unwanted attention and I won't even go into the details of the sexual harassment I endured from a very early age. I did learn to hide my body as best I could and focus on my studies if I was going to be successful. So I became a typical compulsive over-achiever, workaholic, with the tendency to take work and myself too seriously, always restless to test myself at something new, thus sacrificing my personal relationships. I always had to prove myself.

I'm a professor, specializing in gender and race/ethnicity studies. I also have a law degree, have worked both in the State Attorney's and Public Defender's offices, both briefly, as well as in non-profit firm, partnering with two other female attorneys, worked in my first ex-husband's law firm while teaching part-time at a small law school; got my Master's and Ph.D. in Sociology, and finally got tenure a few years ago. I now head the race/ethnicity division of the Gender Studies program, where my most recent ex still works, under me.

I am rather stern, prim and proper, and dress that way too for the most part. I wear business suits with matching jackets and skirts (rarely dress pants; not often pants of any sort; mostly skirts and dresses, none too short or tight) and mostly standard, basic colors (black, grey, tan or cream; nothing too bright or loud or garish). Even most of my undergarments are rather staid, at least by today's standards. Basic colors again, mostly white and black, a few mauve and lavender. Like my outerwear, no prints or loud or garish colors. I do have push up bras, and even some demi-bras, half-cup, shelf cup, I am embarrassed to say, mostly from ex-husbands or to cater to their tastes for lower cut tops or dresses and some cleavage revealed. Which was also the source of the few thongs I still own, along with two garter belts (white and black), and lace-top thigh-high stockings. I do hate pantyhose, I must confess, and have worn the stockings to avoid them when not going bare legged. I have some black slips and white slips (full and half) for my business suits and some dresses, but most of my panties are either white bikinis or white briefs (several "granny style").  Due to my stuffy professional personality, my actual sexual experiences as an adult have been very restricted. I was morally rigid and sexually frigid with both my husbands, with very limited dating before, between or since my marriages.  In retrospect such a standoffish attitude was at least partly to blame for the collapse of both my marriages.


Deconstructing the Professor



At 40, I had long accepted myself for who I was and didn't expect to change. I had tried to be more open with my second husband, I had tried to let go of my insecurities and my feminist ways, an odd contradiction I know; but in the end I had never been able to free myself of the invisible chains holding me back...and then came Madison.

3. OUT OF THE BLUE

I was teaching a class on cultural patterns in this country, about a month after my 'N' word lesson. The course analyzed many aspects of cultural diversity in an attempt to break down racial barriers and understand the difficulties that still exist in true equality, regardless of the civil rights movement and having our first Black President. The reality is we are still a far cry from equality and abolishing racism. Further into the first term, we get into the nitty-gritty of the course. For example, I talk about rape and the fact that it is not perceived as a crime the way it should be and that some countries actually encourage and justify rape, or at the very minimum turn a blind eye. I point out how defendants on trial for rape are generally better off with females on the jury because female jurors are more likely to subconsciously decrease their fear of rape by looking for things the victim did that put her at risk (where she was, who she was with, what she was wearing, all the "she asked for it").  I also teach about how rape of black females (or males for that matter) was not prosecutable from slavery through the era of Jim Crow laws until later in the 20th century, and still is reflected in even lower rates of prosecution for rape among black women than women generally.   The students' personal research papers, worth 30% of their final grade, are assigned half way through the course and due a month from the end of the term. The days after the papers were assigned, Madison Adams, a C student so far and one who had challenged my lectures ever since the 'N' word lecture, came to my office. Dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans, with her blonde hair in a ponytail, she asked, her tone implying her superiority over me, "Professor Jefferson, I want to do a rather intriguing, but potentially controversial topic."

I was curious, as I usually get the same generic essay topics. I asked, "What do you have in mind, Madison?"

"It is Ms. Adams, actually," she responded, a condescending look plastered on her face.

"Sorry, Ms. Adams," I apologized, slightly uncomfortable and threatened by the young confident white student.

"That's better," she replied, her tone still implying a class distinction between her and me. "I want to write her research paper on 'Visual Sexual Harassment'."

Unsure where she was going with this, I asked, "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

She explained, "After listening to all your lectures on sexual harassment, I have realized that many girls, especially young girls like myself, are disrespected based on our good looks and that staring, gazing, and leering constitute sexual harassment."

I was intrigued, thinking back to the way I was treated by men, mostly white men, ever since I was a young blossoming girl. I agreed, but warned, "Well, that is a very interesting topic, but quality research will be very difficult."

She shrugged, her tone still displaying the vaguest hint of superiority, showing the upper-class white-girl snobbish mentality I had experience my entire life. "I already have some research under way."

"Ok, go for it, Ms. Adams, I am looking forward to your research."

"I bet you are," she scoffed, and exited before I had time to process her implication.

After she left, I tried to figure out what had just transpired. Clearly she had treated me with a lack of respect. I wondered if it was because I was black. Deciding the thoughts of one student were not enough to bring me down, I reflected on her topic some more. It goes both ways, I reflected. There are a surprising number of pretty female students who wear jeans and t-shirts to class except on test days, when they come scantily attired in mini-skirts and low-cut tops, even for female professors and even when the tests are machine graded.  Setting heterosexual male professors aside, even for heterosexual female and feminist professors, it is difficult not to look.  Your eyes just gravitate to what is being so provocatively put on display. 

My thoughts were disrupted by another girl, Miko Mora, a light skinned Asian, who came and asked if she could do her project on power based by race and how it impacts the class system. Again, I was intrigued; knowing she was a very strong student and it would be a good read, of which I got very few. Miko was also one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen in person. An American-born Asian, with big eyes, big breasts and butt, rare in Asian girls, and long thick black hair. It was like she had the body I wished I had and the brains to go with it. She was also always smiling and oddly always sat with the rather dim-witted Madison, her polar opposite.

The very next day in class I saw a new Madison that continued over the next three weeks. Gone was the t-shirt and jeans she usually wore, except on exam days, and instead she was dressed in a micro-mini skirt and a low cut blouse that did nothing to hold in her clearly braless breasts. She also now sat in the very front row with her pretty girl posse (Madison, Miko, and Ashley Washington, a pretty, big busted brunette). As I lectured, I was greatly distracted by the constant crossing and uncrossing of Madison's legs and how she purposely let them part and thus gave me plenty of opportunities to look up her skirt and see her sheer white panties. 

I should note that I was not a lesbian or bi or even bi-curious in my first 40 years of life. I knew when a girl was pretty, or noticed when a girl dressed like a slut, but that was about it. In reality I was more jealous than anything. I was envious of girls like Madison and her 'I'm entitled' attitude; she got whatever she wanted, while I had to work my ass off for every little thing.

My resentment was mixed with the fact that she evidently thought flashing me would somehow bolster her power position over me. The resentment was actually more at how her condescending treatment of me brought flooding back my many levels of guilt. I have always had multiple layers of shame and guilt. Guilt and shame over any sign of increasing sag or jiggle. Guilt and shame as a feminist of being so body-conscious and competitive with other women: black women, white women, and young women in their teens and twenties. Feeling envious and jealous in spite of myself, about how I sized up against them as a sex object: breasts and butt, waist and legs, face and hair. This was ironic given my relative lack of sexual desires. Guilt and shame about the secret sense of pride I felt when a man noticed my body, and the vapid vanity and inanity of it all.

Lastly, although I tried to push her out of my dreams, a recurring dream of Madison treating me as her personal maid began to replay in my nights. It was always the same. I was dressed in a slutty Halloween maid costume and forced to serve food and drinks to Madison and her sorority girls. It had never been sexual, just a clear cut line between Mistress and Servant, white versus black, aristocrat versus serf.

On the day the essays were due, I rummaged through the papers and was surprised to learn Madison had not handed in her essay. I shook my head out of a mixture of 'I should have known' and disappointment, as I was curious to read her results. I read a few papers that first night and was about to go to bed when I reached Miko's. I wasn't going to read it, as it was already past midnight, but the title stunned me: My White Mistress: Understanding My Place.

Curiosity got the better of me and I flipped to the first page:

The history of female submissiveness in the Japanese culture is very clear. The woman is to be submissive and obedient to her father, her brothers and eventually her husband. The American-born Japanese girl lives in two very contrasting worlds. On the one side, the Japanese daughter is expected to be loyal and obedient to her Father and to show her worthiness by being successful in school. On the other side, the Japanese teenager attempts to fit in to American culture and fad, a culture where academics have become less important and shallow appearances are what defines success. Living in two very different levels of expectations, most Japanese young women end up moving to one of the two extremes. People assume that Japanese girls in America have evolved and moved away from such historical submission...but we have not. Instead the American-born Japanese girl ends up never really finding her identity in the world. They have grown up submissive, but, in today's America, the girl should be aggressive and confident. In some ways growing up in America has made me a girl without an identity or culture. I am no longer a stereotypical Japanese girl; yet, I am also not a truly American girl. The loss of identity had me struggle through my high school years. Attempting to fit into two worlds, but feeling that I was fitting into neither...and then I met my white Mistress. It was through the complete submission to my Mistress that I have come to grips with who I am.

The rest of the essay was a mixture of the history of Japanese submissive expectations and how such history made it impossible for her to not be a submissive as well...regardless of her American birth certificate. She alluded to her sexual submissiveness and how through such obedience she had found the equilibrium she had long searched for and with such equilibrium she has found her true identity.

As I read the lengthy essay, I couldn't help but feel my long-neglected vagina getting wet. I tried to ignore the temptation but felt my hand involuntarily going to my vagina. I continued reading the naughty admissions of my strongest academic student. She paralleled her Mom's obedient behaviour towards her Father with her own submission to her Mistress. In conclusion, she reflected that only through complete and utter surrender of her own sexual desires to her Mistress had she been able to accept herself for who she is.

Once done, I closed my eyes and brought myself to an intense orgasm, an orgasm that had Madison pop into my head just as the crest of pleasure waved through me. Suddenly ashamed by the impact that essay had on me and my weakness to submit to my wanton desire, I shook my head and decided I wouldn't assess the essay and write my comments until tomorrow.

I tossed and turned all night, my head reeling from the revelation that Miko was a submissive lesbian. That night the maid dream replayed in my head, only this time it ended with me on my knees massaging Madison's feet while she watched TV. I awoke in a sweat, mortified by the subservient dream that kept replaying in my head and even more mortified to feel a sticky wetness in my panties.

4. A POWER SHIFT

Once my class had ended the following day, I asked a still inappropriately dressed Madison to meet me in my office. She agreed, her condescending tone dripping with superiority, "Sure Professor, but not until after lunch."

I considered making a scene and demanding she meet me right then, but it seemed like a futile time to have a pissing match.

I went to lunch myself and was finishing Miko's paper a second time when Madison arrived.

Madison didn't knock, but walked into my office a little after three, much later than I thought we had arranged. She tossed me a paper and sat down on one of my two chairs.

I reached for the crumbled paper and shook my head. It was barely over a page in length, not typed and with no references. I tried to conceal by contempt for her sloppy work while I read it. After all her talk in class, and here confidence in her topic, this is the crap she brought in? I was just finishing reading the strictly opinionated and diva-centered paper when I heard a clunk. I looked up to see she had repositioned herself and now had her three inch heels on my desk and was leaning back in the chair.

I gave a look that could no longer hide my disgust at her behaviour and essay. Her smile faded in a heartbeat and she asked, "You don't like my paper?"

"Well, Ms. Adams, it really wasn't what we discussed."

"I won't say this often, as it is rarely true, but you were right," she responded, insulting me at the same time.

"Excuse me?" I asked, taken aback by her straightforward criticism of me.

Ignoring my shocked tone, she continued, "Finding litigation and case law focused on "visual sexual harassment" was very difficult to find. But there were a plethora of experiences I had during the time I was writing." I stood up, trying to regain the power shift that seemed to be swinging to the white girl's side. As soon as I did, I could see her skirt was so short, particularly sitting the way she was, I could see the top of her thigh high stockings. She seemed to notice my gaze, and smugly added implying I was visually sexually harassing her, "My evidence continues to pile up."

"Pardon?"

"You were checking out my legs, Professor Jefferson," she confidently claimed.

I stammered, trying to defend myself, even though I had no reason to be defensive, "I-I-I was not."

Smiling she quipped, her tone speaking to me as if I was a child, "Really, Professor Jefferson. I have noticed you checking me out since I tried this experiment."

"I have not," I protested adamantly.

"Don't worry, Professor Jefferson," she continued, ignoring my protest entirely, "You aren't the only one who has visually sexually harassed me." She let her heel fall to the floor. She asked, her tone that of a white Mistress talking to her maid, "Can you get that for me?"

Mortified, but not wanting to offend her, I walked over and reached down and retrieved her heel. I handed it to her.

"Could you put it on, please?" she asked her tone suddenly polite.

I don't know why, as I knew this was a complete power play, and that by obliging I was giving into her little game, but my body was moving while my head was still considering the consequences. I touched her stocking foot and an electric spark slid up my back, surprising me completely. I hastily put the heel back on and quickly moved back to my desk, a location where I felt back in my comfort zone. She smiled, "Thank you, Professor Jefferson."

"You're welcome," I replied trying to get back to the topic at hand, her essay. "Now back to your essay."

She interrupted me, "Professor Jefferson, I need an 'A' in this course and thus on this paper."

"How can I give you an 'A' based on what you have handed in?" I asked, assessment being the only power card I had left.

"I get 'As' in all my other classes and have always got 'As'."

Even though she didn't put it in her research paper, there was some basis for "visual sexual harassment" creating a "hostile workplace," including in the classroom.  But if I gave her an 'A', I was devaluing the work her peers had done when writing and researching their papers. "I can't give you an 'A' Ms. Adams, but I do think your topic has merit. I will give you another week to write a personal reflection paper."

She shook her head "no" and divulged, "Professor Jefferson, your staring, leering and panty-peeping has made me very uncomfortable in your class. Being treated like a sex object and drooled over by my lesbian teacher was very distracting and...."

"I am not a lesbian," I protested.

Madison snapped, "Don't interrupt me, Professor Jefferson. Trust me, you are a dyke. You haven't stopped staring between my legs since I started this experiment. I bet you have even dreamed about me at night, haven't you?"

My face flushed, luckily being black she couldn't notice, as I stammered, "I-I-I have done no such thing."

She mocked me, "Y-y-you haven't done no such thing. Nice cover, Professor Jefferson. The reality is that the real reason I didn't finish my paper was because you treated me like a sex object and I felt uncomfortable writing about you and your nasty thoughts."

Defeated and worried she could go public with her false but very damaging accusations, I ended up giving her a completely undeserved 'A'. "Fine, Ms. Adams, I will give you an 'A'."

She immediately stood up and proclaimed, "Thank you very much Professor Jefferson, I may reward you one day for your obedience."

Before I could respond to her last word, obedience, she walked out of my office. I left home early furious at myself for being manipulated by the stuck-up bitch. I replayed the conversation in my head and tried to see where it went all wrong. I decided I would make sure I was never alone with her again.

That night, I woke up in a hot sweat, my hand in my panties, the dream the same, but this time I was sucking Madison's stocking-covered toes while she told her friends about how I became her Nigger servant.

My dreams were getting more and more subservient and hearing her call me a Nigger in front of Miko, Ashley and her sister Emily was a mortifying new low. I tried to fall back asleep, but became obsessed with the humiliating way Madison was treating me in my dreams and in real life.

I promised myself I would have to talk with her and deal with this once and for all.

5. COLORISM

I spent extra time getting dressed for my planned confrontation with Madison. I wore a black business suit that was all business with matching black stockings and garterbelt. I felt both powerful and sexy; if nothing else, my confrontation with Madison had awakened a dormant sexuality.

Other relevant topics that come up in my classes include race and gender stereotypes, and cultural differences in how sexual promiscuity is viewed between racial and ethnic groups.  Also, there is colorism--the valuing of not only white over black skin, but also lighter over darker skin, which is virtually a cultural universal, common in Africa as well as North, Central and South America, and Asia as well.  In fact, common in families of mixed race, including my own, this has been a particularly frustrating power fight in my life with my three children. My students now knowing more about me as an individual, I discuss my children and our unique racial differences in color.

My oldest daughter LaKeisha (we all call her Keisha) is 25. Keisha just got out of law school, has just passed the bar and is working at the law firm with my first husband (she was a product of rape from a black friend of my mother's that I don't want to get into...but has played a pivotal part in my complete lack of trust or faith in the men I have loved or have supposedly loved me). She is very similar to me, both physically, with dark black skin, and in terms of personality. She has always been very studious and serious. She dresses relatively conservatively, and a bit older-styled, kind of stuffy, like me, compared to others in her generation. Keisha is taller than me at 5' 8" and slimmer and more athletic (was on the track team, then the tennis team, in high school). 36D bra size, and, though I'm not sure of her waist and hips, I'm sure narrower than me. "Bubble butt," like me. Both her tits and ass are "perkier" and firmer than mine, no matter how much I work out, just because she's younger and more athletic than me. She's very self-conscious about how large her breasts are, going back to middle school (she developed before most of her friends, and got embarrassed about bouncing and jiggling, even in sports bras, when running track or on the tennis court).

While Keisha looks and acts a lot like me, the twins don't. They are a lot less serious, and less driven than either Keisha or me. They are spoiled (much more so than Keisha ever was), always more than a bit "bratty," with an "entitled," presumptuous, rambunctious attitude, Nicole even more so than Nicholas (he's always been fine with being called Nick, though Nicole has for years insisted on her full name being used with family or friends). Both are 18, and, in contrast to me and their older (half) sister, are very light skinned with virtually all "white" (or Caucasian) features. In contrast to Keisha, who always went to public schools, the twins always went to private, almost exclusively white, schools, and were thought of and treated as "white" by almost everyone. In fact, there have been many awkward occasions through the years when the twins' teachers, friends and friends' parents were astonished to discover that their mother and/or older (half) sister were black, or mistook me for "the maid," or Keisha for some potential threat as if she or I were "from the ghetto" just because of the contrast between their skin color and racial features and ours, which was all the more ludicrous given the way Keisha and I typically dressed, acted and presented ourselves, looking and talking "white" in all respects but our skin color. The twins' father is Conner Hamilton, and he comes from big old white money and thus the twins have always lived a rather easy life. He treated Keisha well too, but Keisha always resented his white money and desperately wanted to make it on her own. So although it has never been discussed between my children, colorism has indeed played a major factor in my childrens' relationships in society and among themselves.




Deconstructing the Professor



The class had time to read an article and discuss it in small groups until class ended. I chickened out and didn't confront Madison and returned to my office to assess papers.

That afternoon Miko knocked on my door. I invited her in and she cautiously came in with a look of fear written all over her face.

I asked, "Miko, is something wrong?"

"No, ma'am," she quickly replied.

Curious why she was here and even more curious about her essay, I probed, "What can I do for you, Miko?"

See refused to make eye contact when she revealed, "My Mistress ordered I drop off a package to you."

Her response had me in a state of disbelief. I knew she had a Mistress based on her essay, but couldn't make the connection with me. Although deep down, I think I knew before I ever opened the package. "Mistress?" I questioned.

"Yes, ma'am," she whispered, her shame flaming red on her cheeks. She opened her bag and put a medium sized box on the corner of my desk. Still not looking up at me, "I have to go now."

"Do you want to talk about this?" I asked.

She shook her head "no" and bolted out of my office before I could probe any deeper into her shame.

I stared at the box for a few minutes, trepidation filling my soul. I had a hunch it was from Madison. Partly because of her behaviour, partly because of the way Miko was always around her and partly because I couldn't fathom from whom else it could be.

I tried to assess an insipid paper by some rather clueless boy, until the agony of what was in the box finally pushed me to the edge. I reached for the box and opened it. There was an envelope labelled, 'Professor Jefferson' and something else wrapped in tissue. I opened the envelope and read the letter.

Dear Professor Jefferson,

Your lecture today fascinated me. It proved all my theories about you true. You discussed earlier your reason for dressing as you do and I immediately assessed that theory as false. I knew then that the reason you dressed as you did was because you were attempting to be white; to distinguish yourself apart from the majority of your race. You are ashamed, and always have been ashamed, by your color and therefore jealous of white girls like me. You want the privilege and the respect that white woman get and you attempt to get it by spewing your racial jargon of equality and racial understanding. Yet, every time you see your two white children a piece of you burns in fury and jealousy at the privilege they get without any work, while you and your dark skinned daughter have had to work for everything you have.

The irony of it is beautiful. You talk about colorism, yet you are yourself wilfully unaware that you are a part of the problem, not the solution. You want to be white. You want to hide who you really are. So I got you a little present that I think will help you come to grips with who you are.

Your White Mistress

P.S.-I expect you to wear it to class tomorrow. Any form of disobedience will result in a punishment.

I was aghast. I was appalled. I was mortified. I was curious. I opened the rest of the box and was confused to see white stockings. I pondered the significance of these stockings. Obviously they were white. White stockings on blacks are seldom seen except in porn movies. By wearing them I was agreeing with this girl's assessment of my character. Anger burned inside me, at the condescending analysis of my character, particularly on a lesson that was supposed to point out the varying degrees of racism in society. I cursed to myself. No longer in the mood to assess papers, I went home.

That night, after I had simmered down, I tried to figure out what was happening. I was 99.99% sure it was Madison behind the whole thing, but until I was a 100% sure, I couldn't go to the Dean. Yet, just before bed, I felt my body going into my school bag, taking out the stockings and putting them on my chocolate-skinned legs. Once on, I looked in the mirror and was instantly drawn to the sharp contrast of my black skin with the white silk stockings. Unable to resist, I felt myself falling back onto my bed and my hand sliding down to my privates, which were surprisingly already wet. Why? I couldn't figure it out. I closed my eyes, and let go of all my questions and anger and pleasured myself. As soon as my eyes closed, it was Madison who emerged in my fantasies. She had the smug look on her face as she beckoned me to her. I brought myself to a quick, but powerful orgasm. Once I had come, I was furious with myself for being so weak again. I am a powerful woman. A mother who has raised three children, for the most part, on my own. A woman who has overcome adversity to get my Master's, my law degree, and am now a highly respected professor at a prestigious school. I was more determined than ever to deal with this once and for all. I pulled off the white stockings, the symbol of servitude, and tossed them in the garbage. Content with my resolve to end this silly charade, I finished getting ready for bed.

That night though my resolve could not resist the twisted dreams that overcame me. This one was different. I was wearing all white: white stockings, white heels, white skirt, and a white blouse. I had a collar around my neck and was on all fours on a leash, being led by a woman in black. I never saw the woman's face, but her voice, confident, condescending and ruthless was unmistakable.

6. PANTY-SNIFFER

In open defiance to the so-called order by my wannabe-Mistress, I actually wore dress-pants instead of a skirt. I arrived early and assessed a couple of papers before class. I was startled when I heard a knock on my open door. It was Miko. She was dressed all in white and looked sheepish.

I invited her in and she sat down and asked, "Professor Jefferson, are you wearing your stockings?"

"No, Miko, I am not," I replied.

"Oh," she said, a new fear beginning to build.

"Why does that worry you so much, Miko?" I asked, genuinely concerned.

"Mistress will punish me if you disobey," Miko informed, her eyes blazing with fear.

"Why?" I asked shocked.

"I don't know, but she made it very clear if I didn't make sure you were wearing white stockings today, I would be punished," Miko explained, never making eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Miko, I didn't even bring them," I answered.

Miko surprised me by going into her book bag and retrieving another pair of identical white stockings.

I asked, "How will she punish you?"

"I don't know ma'am, it is always different," Miko whispered, her shame clearly visible.

"Miko, I don't know what to tell you. I can't wear the stockings or Madison will think I am complying with her demands," I explained, throwing Madison's name in there to see if I was correct about my assumption of her Mistress.

Tears began to form in the lovely Asian's face. "It's ok, ma'am, I understand." She stood up to leave when I felt my heart breaking for her.

"I'll think about it," I promised.

She turned to me, a ray of hope in her eyes, "Thank you, ma'am." She hurried out as she had yesterday.

I looked at the stockings for a while wondering what to do. I knew deep down submitting to this task, no matter how small and trivial, was acknowledging my weakness and her strength. On the other hand, protecting Miko seemed important. I closed my office door and reluctantly put on the stockings. My subtle victory, my statement that I was not going to roll over, was by wearing pants. There was very little evidence of my obeying.

I had just finished putting my flats back on when I was again startled by a knock on my door. I opened it to see a wild-eyed Emily, Madison's younger sister. She walked into my room and closed my door. She immediately began, "Ms. Jefferson, don't wear the stockings today."

I looked down letting her realize I was already wearing them.

Even more frantic she continued, "Professor Jefferson, you have to take them off. They are a symbol. A symbol of her power over you."

"But you are wearing them too," I pointed out. She was wearing a very similar white outfit to Miko.

"I don't have time to explain, but all her slaves are wearing white stockings today as a symbol of their obedience to her."

"To Madison?" I asked.

"Yes, to Madison. She is our Mistress and her next target is you."

"But you are her sister," I pointed out, bewildered, the roller coaster ride of shocking revelations continuing.

"I know, I know, I don't have time to get into that now. If she knew I was here warning you she would punish me like she did when I questioned her in class earlier," she divulged, her body gestures showing her nervousness.

"What can I do?" I asked, meaning how could I help her.

She walked over to me, fear in her eyes and insisted, "You can take off the stockings. It is too late for me, but you still can be saved."

"But Miko was here earlier and said she will be punished if I don't wear them," I revealed.

She sighed, "Figures. We will all be punished if you don't obey, but that is our problem, we got ourselves in this irreversible mess, not you."

"How many are there?" I asked, curious.

"Too many," she vaguely answered. "Anyone you see wearing white stockings in this heat today is one of her slaves. She is pretty much unstoppable. But I like you Professor Jefferson. Once she gets a hold of you, there is no way to stop her, no way to save you. You will become a slave like me and Miko," she warned.

"A slave," I questioned, dazed by her frank prediction.

She glanced at her watch and pleaded, "For your own sake, Professor Jefferson, take off your stockings. Don't give in."

I opened my mouth to respond, but she opened the door and fled out of my office. Looking at the clock itself, I realized I had fifteen minutes until class. I closed my office door one more time and taking Emily's warning seriously, I took off the stockings. I felt bad knowing that Miko and Emily would be punished, but knowing that by protecting myself, maybe I could hopefully save them. As I undressed and dressed again, I wondered what being a slave to Madison implied. Was it just domineering or was it sexual, as I originally assumed. 'Madison would not have sex with her own sister, would she?' My brain muddled, I rushed to class and arrived a couple of minutes late. Sitting in the front row on each side of Madison, all in white, were Emily and Miko. Dressed all in black was Madison. Madison's eyes bored into me as I reached my podium. I hoped the podium and the dress pants kept her unsure of whether I had obeyed her command. I lectured for the day on the slow transition of women in positions of power. I discussed Mother Theresa, Margaret Thatcher, Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin and Michelle Obama among others. I talked about a future time when a female leads this great country and a time when women were paid the same as men in all professional fields. It was a powerful lecture and I purposely attempted to avoid eye contact with Madison. The four girls (Ashley was there too, dressed in her usual casual jeans and a t-shirt) were the only ones in the front row I realized and let out a gasp when I noticed that both Miko and Emily had their panties down at their ankles. I didn't think anyone else could see the exhibitionist act, but both girls' faces were ruby red and they were staring at me. I could see the pleading eyes of Miko and instantly felt guilty. I finally made eye contact with Madison who smiled and nodded her head in the affirmative, I assume implying I was to do the same, which was ludicrous and impossible. I quickly looked away, flushed, and stammered on about their assignment. Their assignment was to present on Monday (today was Thursday), a two minute presentation on a woman who has had a major impact in the world. Of course, they could not use any woman who I had discussed in class.

I dismissed the class and purposely refused to look in the direction of Madison and the girls while I bundled up my lecture notes. I pretended to be busy even as I heard the clicking of heels coming towards me.

I finally looked up and both Miko and Emily were in front of me, the rest of the room empty. It was impressive how quick a group of students could disperse from a room. I wondered where Madison went, but was grateful she was gone.

Emily came to my podium and dropped her white panties on my desk. "Mistress Madison thought you would like my panties." Her face was still ruby red and she whispered so Miko couldn't hear, "Good job, Professor Jefferson. She is furious and will redouble her efforts to get you on your knees begging to be her slave. So stay strong."

She moved away and Miko came to me. She also handed me a pair of white panties. "Mistress Madison insisted I give you my wet panties. She made me masturbate before class and come in them." Her humiliation burned through her very being and she quickly walked away as well. Once both girls were gone, I looked at the two panties, the only difference being Miko's had a pink waistband. I quickly grabbed the panties, surprised at how wet and sticky they felt and put them in my pocket. I rushed back to my office, my fear of being caught with student's panties dominating my thoughts. Once in my office, I put the panties in my desk drawer and pondered what to do next. I now knew Madison was definitely the Mistress, but I still had no evidence that she wrote the letter and there was no way her submissive slaves would rat her out.

I tried to get Madison and the girls out of my head by marking a couple of papers, but my eyes kept going to my drawer. A sweet scent lingered on my left hand from when I touched the dirty panties and it was tempting me in a way I had never been tempted. I was not a lesbian. I had never found a girl sexually attractive. Yet I wanted to smell Miko's and Emily's cum-filled panties. Knowing they came because of me somehow made the thought of their scent more erotic and more difficult to resist. Finally, figuring by smelling them I would be disgusted and I could move on, I pulled the two pairs of white underwear out of my drawer. I looked at them like they were alien objects. I finally took Miko's panties and placed them to my nose. Instead of a pungent scent I expected, the smell was sweet and enticing. Now curious, I grabbed Emily's cum-drenched panties, which were substantially wetter than Miko's, and took a big sniff. The aroma was so intoxicating I held her panties an inch from my nose. I allowed the powerful, erotic, sinful smell to linger in the air in front of me. I felt a subtle tingle down below, a slight spark I had long ignored.

I went back to Miko's and compared the two quite different, yet equally pleasant, scents. Suddenly, as if being pulled in, I wondered what their juice would taste like.

Emily's panties in my hand, no longer in control of my movements, I put them to my mouth. The taste a mixture of cotton and cum was surprisingly appetizing. Without even being aware, I was attempting to retrieve more of Emily's sticky juice from her stained panties. Suddenly aware of what I was doing, I dropped the underwear on my desk. What was I doing? Mortified, I put the tainted panties back in my drawer and took a deep breath. Desperate to clear my head, I went to lunch.

Throughout lunch, I tried to come to grips with what was happening to me. My dreams were pulling me deeper into Madison's grip. The panty-sniffing I had just done was a wake-up call to a weakness I had I never knew about. All that said, while I ate my overpriced soup and sandwich, I could feel a craving to smell those panties again. I continued to try to push the sinful thought out of my head, but it always crept back in, each time harder to push away, harder to resist. I considered taking the afternoon off, but was worried about someone, somehow finding dirty underwear in my desk drawer. I had to discard the girls' underwear, but was not sure how. I finished my lunch and headed to my Thursday afternoon fourth year class, which was a three hour, once a week seminar with twelve students. Today's discussion was 'Ending Poverty in America'. Surprisingly, my grad student assistant Eleanor was not in class, which was very strange. We were fifteen minutes into our discussion on how race is a major barrier to overcoming poverty in America, when the door opened and Eleanor came in wearing white stockings, her face flushed and her hair was tousled.

She apologized, "Sorry Professor Jefferson, I was tied up in a lunch meeting." She hastily took her usually seat right beside me at the round table. Seeing the white symbolic stockings on my nerdy grad student was one more stunning revelation. Eleanor was the epitome of shy nerd. She had big glasses, wore her hair in ponytails and always wore long flowery dresses. I imagined she had never even had a date before and now she was seemingly a slave of Madison's.

I also wondered how Madison had got the twenty-five year old to submit. It seemed more impossible than every other revelation I had learned recently. How did they even meet? They would never even be in the same circles; actually Eleanor didn't even run in a circle. These and a hundred questions more ricocheted around my head. The seriousness of my current predicament became more real.

"Professor Jefferson."

"Professor Jefferson."

"Professor Jefferson, are you ok?"

I felt a tug on my sleeve and I was brought out of my stunned stupor. I stammered, "S-s-sorry, I zoned out there for a bit."

"What were you thinking about, Professor Jefferson?"

"Nothing," I quickly retorted, and got the class back into our discussion. Although slightly distracted, the next hour went by fast and furious as the students bounced around idea after idea on ending poverty. I was rejuvenated by their passionate, exciting, and naively optimistic ideas.

I ignored the constant vibrating of my phone during our brainstorming session. Only my kids and Eleanor had my cell number so I assumed it was something trivial, like it always was with the twins. So once we had hit a lull in our brainstorming, I suggested we take a break and come back in fifteen to create a hypothetical strategic plan. The group all left and I checked my phone. When the first image popped up I dropped the phone. It was a picture of Eleanor tied up. I picked up my phone and slowly looked through the rest of the pictures sent by an unrecognized number. There was Eleanor kissing a black stocking-clad foot, presumably Madison's; a picture of Eleanor smelling a shoe; a picture of Eleanor with panties in her mouth; a picture of Eleanor naked, her breasts surprisingly large; a picture of Eleanor tied to a bed with a pussy straddled over her face, the black stockings in view, but not enough to finger Madison, with the text comment, "This is why she was late. She was all tied up!!!"

The class began to slowly make their way back into class chatting and checking their cell phones. Eleanor didn't arrive until the last second and she completely avoided eye contact with me.

Attempting to ignore the naughty images burned in my brain, I started the second half of class. Time seemed to stand still as the students worked in groups and I went back and forth between them. Eleanor assisted the two groups as well, showing not the slightest recognition of the naughty secret she had. The class ended and I asked Eleanor to stick around.

Once all the students had left, I went on the offensive, "Eleanor, how did you end up in this predicament?"

She looked directly into my eyes and played dumb, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

I pulled out my phone and showed her the pictures. She went as white as the stockings on her legs. She stammered, "I-I-I, oh my God, I can't believe she took pictures."




Deconstructing the Professor



"Madison?" I asked, wanting official confirmation.

She avoided answering the question directly, although her facial expression answered it for me, "Mistress disciplined me in her attempt to add you to her harem of subs."

"Harem of subs?" I repeated.

"Yes, I am sorry Professor Jefferson, but she is determined to add you," she informed me.

"How many of them are there?" I asked, trying to get the full scope of Madison's web of debauchery.

"I don't know, at least a dozen."

"A dozen," I gasped.

"Probably more," she added.

"What can I do to help you?" I asked.

Madison's voice interrupted our conversation, "Slut, get over here now."

Eleanor blushed and immediately rushed over to Madison. Madison winked at me and said, ignoring the obvious tension, "See you in class tomorrow, Professor Jefferson." She grabbed Eleanor's hand and led her out. I was left speechless. I also felt a damp spot in my underwear. I couldn't remotely understand what was getting me horny, but the slow burn was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

Just as I was getting ready to leave, Madison returned, startling me again. She tossed me a pair of pink panties that landed on the table in front of me. "I think you'll like Eleanor's soaked panties. Be a good girl and maybe you'll get mine."

"Madison, stop," I ordered, my voice sounding strong and determined.

She glared at me.

Realizing I had called her by her first name, and that I had already lost a bit of my power, "Sorry, Ms. Adams, this has got to stop."

Her cold glare faded and a devious smile replaced it. "Oh, Ms, Jefferson, we are just beginning."

Before I could respond, she was gone again and I was even more rattled. Not wanting soiled panties sitting on the table of a class I just taught, I grabbed them and was surprised at how wet they were.

Madison peeked her head in the door yet again, a smile on her face as she saw the panties in my hand, which I quickly dropped, and ordered, "And I fucking expect you in white stockings tomorrow, Professor Jefferson."

Just as quickly she was gone and I shoved the wet panties n my pocket. Conversely, I felt my own panties getting wetter against my will.

I returned to my office and pulled the panties out of my pocket. I couldn't resist, no matter how much I knew it was nasty and wrong, and pulled the wet panties to my nose and took a big sniff. The scent was not as pleasant as either Miko or Emily's, but it wasn't bad either. I sat back in my chair, pulled down my pants and began rubbing my burning pussy. I let out a louder than expected moan the second I touched my usually ignored pleasure zone. I found the wettest part of Eleanor's cum-filled undies and put them in my mouth. Wanting more, I reached into my drawer and pulled out the other two co-ed's used panties. My fingers never leaving my pussy, I took Emily's panties and took in her delicious nectar. I rubbed myself furiously, my head a cloud of forbidden sin. My senses were a tingle as I tasted Eleanor's sweet cum, I smelt Emily's seductive aroma and I gave myself pleasure I usually refrained from. It took only a couple of minutes for me to feel the crescendo of pleasure pulse through my entire body. Unlike what I usually did the rare times I masturbated, this time I kept rubbing my pussy through my entire orgasm. The sensations continued pulsing through me like an electric current of joy. When the last remnants of the orgasm dissipated, I tossed both soiled co-ed's panties on my desk and felt the sudden burn of shame. I was mortified at what I had just done. I quickly pulled up my pants and, desperate to get out of my office which had a lingering scent of my sinful deed, I grabbed the three pairs of evidence and tossed them into my bag.

All the way home, the guilt of what I done filled me with a shame I hadn't felt since I was married. When my first husband made me swallow his cum or fucked me in my ass, I obeyed because it gave him pleasure and thus gave me pleasure too. But as soon as the sinful slutty act was done, I felt an overwhelming shame. I was a dirty whore like so many others and I had to resist such temptations, no matter how good they made my body feel....

7. GOOD VIBRATIONS...a foreshadowing

I got home and put the three pairs of soiled underwear each in their own sealed bag and hid them under my bed. Home early, I decided to have a long shower, so I changed out of my soiled undies and after a lengthy cleansing I put on a clean pair. Thursday is my laundry day, so I went into my children's room and grabbed their laundry, like I always did. The first load was my nasty undies and the rest of my clothing from the week. I went upstairs, started supper, and dusting the house. Oddly, I have always loved cleaning. It is such a relaxing change of pace compared to my workday. I turn on some music and just clean.

When the first load of laundry was done, I went downstairs and put the wet load in the dryer, happy the incriminating evidence of my brief lack of control was now washed away. As I dumped the second load in, my daughter Nicole's, I felt my hand working on its own, pulling out my daughter's worn underwear. I had touched and washed her undergarments for eighteen years, but suddenly they were enticing, intriguing and intoxicating. I impulsively sniffed all five pairs of her dirty panties. The scent was similar in each pair, although one pair had a different scent that had my fresh panties getting wet. I kept the unique smelling white undies and tossed the rest into the machine. Once I had started the machine, I leaned back against it and lingered smelling my daughter's unique aroma. I realized the bouquet was a mixture of her juices and sweat, probably from working out. These were clearly her gym undies. As my pussy involuntarily rekindled the fire down below, I looked at the old drying machine, vibrating and humming like it always did, and felt my legs lead me over to it. Positioning myself so my vagina was making contact with the shaking machine, I leaned forward, closed my eyes and let the vibrating sensations pleasure my body while my daughter's sweaty undies were in my mouth and pressed against my nose.

As soon as my eyes were closed, visions of Madison popped up, her legs open in class, her finger beckoning me forward, her smile so sweet, her open legs so inviting. I saw myself walking over to her, falling to my knees. She opened her legs wider, allowing me clear visual access to her panty covered vagina. Desperate to smell her pussy, to taste her juices in her thin cotton fabric, I lean forward, but am stopped by her hand.

I hear her voice, powerful and unwavering, "Beg, Nigger."

The harsh word feels like a thousand daggers stabbing my body, yet the humiliation only seems to make my pussy wetter and my desire to smell and taste her stronger. I look up into her hypnotic eyes and ask, weakly, "Please."

She closes her legs completely and the treasure I was craving is no longer in view. "That is terrible. When your older daughter LaKiesha submitted to me, she begged like a good Nigger should. She panted like a dirty fat black whore. Like the Nigger slave she wanted to desperately be."

Hearing her talk about my eldest child in such a degrading way reinserted the daggers, and yet, most disturbing and disgusting, got my juices gushing all the more. I stammered, "M-m-my daughter?"

"Yes slut, your daughter is a good Nigger slave. She is a very obedient girl," Madison purred. Her eyes bore into mine until I look away out of utter humiliation. "Is your cunt wet, Nigger?"

I should have been furious at being called a Nigger, but instead my vagina got wetter. Ashamed to admit the truth, I remain silent.

Madison called, her tone condescending and arrogant, "LaKeisha, get your coon ass out here."

In seconds, my daughter, my 25-year-old lawyer, crawled out, completely naked, except for white stockings. Once she was beside me, not making eye contact with me, Madison ordered, "Slut, check to see if your Mammy's panties are wet."

"Yes, Mistress Madison," my stubborn daughter replied and moving behind me, roughly put her hands directly on my juice-filled panties. Her touch was so rough that some of my juices leaked down my leg. "She is fucking drenched, Mistress Madison."

"Of course she is, she is a Nigger slut just like you," Madison announced with confidence. I winced at being called a Nigger again, but my vagina continued to feel tingles of pleasure.

"Yes, Mistress," my daughter agreed.

"Now come and show your still-in-denial Mother what a good slave does." Madison opened her legs and I watched transfixed as my daughter crawled between the co-ed's legs and buried her face into Madison's panty-covered vagina.

Watching my daughter submit completely had my vagina bubbling to the brim and jealous that she was allowed the privilege of white pussy.

Madison looked directly into my eyes and explained, while giving soft moans, "All you have to do to come, Nigger, is admit you are mine."

The last Nigger shot was the final straw. My hot vagina, my wet pussy, my burning cunt, spoke for me as my orgasm burst, "Madison, I am yours, use me as your Nigger slave. Own me. Own Me. Own me. Own me."

My dream orgasm flooded into reality as I came hard all over my washing machine, my scream shaking the walls. I humped and ground as best I could on the machine, not wanting the intense orgasm to ever subside. The orgasm spread through every one of my pores and lingered for a few minutes. Once it subsided, I came to my senses and quickly stood up, my youngest daughter's dirty panties falling from my mouth. I opened my eyes and looked around, mortified at what I had just done, what I had just fantasized. I had just had the most amazing orgasm of my life humping my dryer while thinking of my eldest daughter and me becoming sex slaves to Madison. I got myself together, took off my second pair of soaked panties today and, realizing I had not started the second load of laundry yet, tossed my symbol of sin and my daughter's last pair into the machine and started the machine.

I had just recovered my breath completely when I heard the door open. I also realized my water for spaghetti was probably boiling over by now and rushed upstairs. Although neither my son or daughter noticed anything different about me, I felt like my sin was on full display, that they knew I had sinned in such a nasty way. It was an illogical thought, but it was the one that stayed in my head all evening and helped make sure I didn't return to the temptation again that night.

8. FUCKED UP FRIDAY

I woke up fresh and determined not to allow my weakness to overcome me again. I wore a black skirt and a blue blouse and, like every Friday, went bare legged (it was my version of casual Friday). I purposely did not wear the white stockings, determined now more than ever not to submit to anything the bitch might attempt to get me to do.

Friday's classes are always current event pieces and how they relate to the course. Students come to class with newspaper articles, internet postings, even tweets and we discuss their significance. Not wanting to have to deal with Madison by accident, I was late again by a couple of minutes. When I looked up, I saw that Madison was in her usual spot, dressed in a flowery summer dress and beige pantyhose, much more conservative than the past month. Miko, on the other hand, was again in white stockings and 4-inch heels, but wearing a leather black skirt, white almost see-through blouse, and a black choker. It was easily the most shocking thing someone like Miko could wear. Both Emily and Ashley, Madison's best friend, were not in class, which was odd.

Twenty minutes into class, Ashley arrived in jean shorts and a t-shirt and apologized for being late before she sat down. The class was uneventful; even Madison was not stirring the pot like she usually does, and I began to think maybe I had made my statement. The class ended, and everyone dispersed as they usually do on a Friday, lightning quick.

Finally relaxing after being tense all morning, I returned to my office and saw a line of three boys I didn't recognize waiting at my door. As soon as they saw me they scattered as if they had been caught red-handed, which I thought very odd. I opened my door to my office, which was unlocked which was also strange and was greeted with the most shocking thing yet. Emily was naked, except white stockings, tied to my chair and was sucking the cock of some really overweight student.

I said, "Excuse me, what the Hell is going on here?"

The chubby boy, jumped, pulled up his pants and stammered, "I-I-I'm sorry," and rushed out.

I closed my door and looked at poor Emily. Her face and chest was coated with cum and tears streamed down her face. I untied her and pulled her in for a motherly hug, not thinking about the cum that would transfer to my clothing. I let her cry and just be held before I finally said, "Emily, this has officially gone way too far."

Through sobs Emily blabbered, "I-I-I know, Professor Jefferson. But, but, there is nothing I can do."

"We can call the cops," I suggested.

"On my own sister?" she questioned.

"Well what kind of sister does this?" I countered.

"It was my fault," she defended Madison, like a typical abuse case.

"No, my dear, it isn't," I comforted. "You are a victim."

"But I, I, I like it," she stammered, tears rolling down her face again.

"You do?" I questioned. "What do you like?"

"I am submissive. Which means even though my mind hates me and throws society's morals at me, my body weakens and gives in to powerful people. Being told what to do sexually, being tied up and being pushed to do what I shouldn't or normally wouldn't do, is the only way I get...." she explained and quit in mid sentence.

"Get what?" I asked, oblivious of her meaning, though it should have been obvious.

"Get off. It's the only way I get off," she admitted, frustrated and embarrassed by her revealing the truth.

Having got off on such submissive, masochistic humiliation in my head yesterday, I understood her in a way I wouldn't have a day earlier. I continued to try and comfort her, "Emily, it is ok; I can help you get through this."

"Ma'am, it is too late for me. My relationship with my sister, my Mistress, is a love/hate one. I hate my sister with every fibre of my being. She is a selfish bitch; a sadistic diva; a ruthless Mistress. But, underneath all that, she knows exactly what I need. It is so frustrating that I need her, but I do."

She stood up and began to get dressed. She explained, "But you are different than me. You are a professor. You are self-assured. You are proud. And you're a good person with strong morals. I just was trying to protect you. Once you succumb there is no going back."

The compliments flattered and shamed me. If she only knew the dreams I had been having, or that I had got off smelling her stained panties, or that I had the greatest orgasm ever just yesterday while fantasizing of becoming her sister's slave. Just the thought of yesterday had my vagina tingling again. I tried to ignore the temptation to touch myself, to stay focused on our conversation. "Thank you, Emily. I always thought you too were a strong personality."

Emily smiled for the first time. "I used to be."

"What changed?" I asked.

"Madison's punishments can be pretty extreme," Emily admitted, now fully dressed. She added, "Like for example sucking cock after cock in my favourite professor's office."

"I am so sorry, Emily. There must be something I can do for you."

"There is."

"What can I do for you, Emily?"

"Don't submit. Be strong. If you can resist her, maybe one day I can too," she said, with a sigh so heavy that she had already accepted her fate was sealed.

"I won't submit," I confidently promised.

Emily's smile returned slightly. "I got to go. Madison will want full details of our conversation."

"What will you say?" I asked.

"I'll lie and tell her that I offered myself to you like she requested. That you threatened to expel me if I didn't leave immediately."

"You think that will work?" I asked, my undies getting damp at the thought of the very cute Emily pleasing me. I tried to push away the thought of her beautiful pale face buried between my dark legs.

"I doubt it, but it is worth a try," she shrugged. She took my hands in hers, looked into my eyes and said, "Good luck, Professor Jefferson. Be strong." She squeezed my hands and left me alone.

Rattled and undeniably horny, I decided to go for a walk, hoping the fresh air would calm me down. Replaying the week, I realized Emily was right. I was strong. Yes, I did succumb to my lusty hidden desires on a couple of occasions, but always in the privacy of my office or home. I had resisted the orders of a clearly powerful girl, who usually gets what she wants. Feeling precariously victorious and proud, I returned to my office, planning to finish assessing my final couple of essays.

When I returned though, all my pride vanished. On my desk, was another pair of panties and an envelope. I quickly closed my door, which had been locked, and collapsed into my chair. The new panties were also white, but had a red bow on the front distinguishing them as different from the other three I already had. I avoided touching the new pair of underwear while I picked up the envelope and noticed it was addressed to Professor Jefferson. I tentatively opened the envelope. Like the last one it was typed, although this time the tone was much different.

Professor Slut,

I thought it was made clear to you what was expected from you. You have disappointed your future Mistress and have already had not one, not two, but three punishments scheduled for you once you submit to me as my slave. If you don't want that number added to you will follow the instructions like a good little pet.

1. You will come to school on Monday dressed entirely in white, the color that you wish you were born and the color you have attempted to emulate your entire pathetic life. If you have to go shopping then do so. I expect white bra for those cow tits you have, I expect white panties to cover that fat black butt ass and coochie cunt of yours, I expect white stockings to hide as best you can those dark legs of yours and I expect a white skirt and blouse or a white dress to finish your race makeover. Any deviations from these instructions will add to your punishment when you succumb to me as your supreme White Mistress.

2. You will masturbate right now while sniffing your future Mistress's dirty panties. I came in them twice already today. You will soon be sniffing the scent directly from the source. Once you have come like the nasty whore you are, you will leave your cum-filled panties in your desk, where one of my other slaves can find them. If this task is not completed to my satisfaction, yet another punishment will be added to you when you eventually submit to me wholly as my personal black play thing.

3. Tonight and twice tomorrow, you will masturbate yourself to an orgasm without using your fingers or toys. I expect a detailed written summary of how you accomplished this task ready by Sunday at lunch. If this order is not fulfilled your White Goddess will add another punishment when you bow at my feet like a good slave.

4. You will go to church on Sunday without wearing any underwear. If you disobey this simple expectation another punishment will be added to you once you are on your black knees begging to smell my sweet white pussy.

5. Lastly, you will go to Mac's Diner after church and find as secluded a booth as you can. A slave of mine will meet you there to check your cunt and make sure you obeyed my command. She will also explain to your stubborn dumbass nutshell of a brain the consequences of disobedience to your White Mistress.




Deconstructing the Professor



A reminder since apparently following instructions has been difficult for you, slave. Each disobedience will be followed by a harsh and humiliating punishment. You are already at 3!!! You should know that no one has ever been able to refuse submitting to me and I doubt very much if a stupid ass Nigger like you will be the first.

Now accept your role as a slut and submit....

Your White Mistress

P.S.-Now get fucking yourself cunt!

Fury bubbled through me. How dare she make such ridiculous presumptions and demands of me? I read the letter a second and third time trying to find a passage that could be the proof I needed to prove once and for all it was Madison. Yet, as usual, she seemed to craft her obnoxious demands in such a way to make it clear to me it was she, but to protect herself as well. Furious, I threw the letter on my desk. I went to stand up, but felt myself bound to my chair with invisible restraints. My panties were so wet I could feel my juice leaking down my leg. My anger began to falter as my desire to come took over. Again, in a pattern that was becoming more consistent and alarming, I took Madison's stained panties in my hand and brought them to my nose. The aroma, much stronger than the previous scents I had lustily, dementedly sniffed, was also the most intoxicating I had smelt. It was heavenly and a powerful attack on my senses. I leaned back into my chair, pulled up my skirt and began to rub my fevered vagina. I closed my eyes, remembering my submissive acts when married and rubbed my clit frantically while attempting to retrieve any of Madison's remaining juices.

Madison walked into my office, closed the door and spoke angrily, "What are you doing with my panties, Nigger?"

I quickly took her panties out of my mouth and stammered, "I-I-I don't know."

Madison walked over to me, dressed entirely in black, grabbed me by my hair and pushed me to the ground.

Fear overwhelmed me and I stuttered, "I-I-I am sorry, Ms. Adams, I don't know what got into me."

She laughed harshly. "Fuck, you really are a stupid fucking Nigger. How the hell did you ever get a job as a professor? You did it because you are a slave. A slave for white pussy. You want to be my personal Nigger dyke, don't you?"

My pussy dripping wet, it was hard to deny it, but I tried to stay strong. "No," I weakly protested.

Her harsh laugh echoed through my small office. "You are too funny. You really believe you have some control in this situation, don't you?"

Her tone and self-confidence scared me and my own pride and confidence seemed to fade into emptiness. I feebly defended, "Yes, Ms. Adams. I am your professor."

I felt a hard slap on my face as she explained, "Shut up, Nigger. I am the professor now. The professor of discipline. And you are my student. My fat, stupid, black-ass Nigger student. Is that clear?"

My cheek burning in shame, I whimpered, "Yes."

"Yes, what?" she asked, her hand moving back as if she was going to strike me again.

"Yes, Professor," I replied, hoping that was what she wanted to hear.

Her hand fell to her side and she ordered, "Now come for me, you darkie. Come on all fours, like a good Nigger pet."

My vagina so wet, so excited, I obeyed and began to rub my cunt like a horny slut in front of my white student. It took less than a minute to feel my orgasm building and less than another minute for me to let out an inaudible scream as I came from my humiliating racist treatment.

My orgasm spread through me like a tidal wave of pleasure and, when the final soft waves flowed through me, I opened my eyes. I was in my office, panties in my mouth and somehow on all fours on my floor, like a dog.

Ashamed, I quickly took off the panties and stood up. A small puddle of my cum was on the floor. Mortified, I quickly cleaned it up and tried to get my bearings back.

What was happening to me? Why could I not resist the ridiculous order given by an uppity, privileged white girl? Why had I come so hard from being treated so inferiorly? Who was I becoming? And lastly, could I resist the inevitable fall that Madison had already implied?

I obeyed Madison's obscured order and placed my panties in my left hand drawer, my mind desperate to find a way out of this mess.

9. CREATIVE MASTURBATION

The drive home was hell, my mind seemingly playing tricks on me. Everywhere I turned I thought I saw Madison. Anxiety riddled me as I tried to figure out a way to end this once and for all. Between Madison's words and my naughty daydreams, I had begun to act in a way I had been critical of my whole life; a way that men had tried to treat me for years. The thought of falling further petrified me and I knew I had to stop this once and for all...yet that evening....

Around ten, I was getting ready for bed, having ignored as best I could the earlier memories of the day. I remembered that Madison's soiled panties were still in my briefcase. I went downstairs and grabbed a plastic sealed bag to keep the panties, when I should have thrown them away. When I pulled them out, the temptation was too strong and I tentatively took a quick sniff of her sweet sex sealed in her cotton undies. Unfortunately for me, it was all it took to shift my mind from proud black woman to horny eager submissive wannabe.

I grabbed the letter and read it for the umpteenth time. My first task was to cum tonight without using my hands or toys. Of course, I had no plans of following through with the orders set out for me, but my body had other ideas. Suddenly really horny, I scanned my room for something I could use to obey the order. Seeing my brush, which had a three-inch handle, I grabbed it and went to my bed with Madison's panties. Getting completely undressed except for my nightie, I lay on my back and put the white girl's soiled panties back in my mouth. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked with the white underwear in my mouth, but I didn't care at the moment, my only focus my needy vagina. The scent of Madison's vagina juice so close to my nose was exhilarating. I sucked her panties into my mouth, searching for any last remnants of the powerful white woman. Opening my black legs wider, I slid the brush handle easily into my damp vagina. I began to quickly pump the brush in and out of me, disappointed the brush wasn't longer.

Suddenly, I was transported back to my office, with a still tied Emily sitting on my chair. The events replayed exactly as they had earlier today, but this time instead of leaving she announced, "Professor Jefferson, Mistress insisted I could not leave your office unless I brought you to orgasm first."

My pussy tingling already from seeing the beautiful Emily bound a few minutes earlier, I suddenly was craving such attention. When I didn't protest or refuse the offer, Emily pushed me onto my desk and spread open my black legs. She quickly discarded my already damp panties and buried her pale white face between my dark lips. While she licked my swollen clit, she slipped two fingers inside my bubbling volcano. I let out an out-of-character scream the instant Emily buried her fingers inside me. Fucking me like a man, she pumped my vagina hard and fast, her mouth never leaving my clit. Soon my orgasm was brimming at the surface and one deeper penetration, which widened my vagina lips, an orgasm shuddered through me. Her fingers stayed in me, keeping my pussy lips stretched apart...holding me open while my juices flooded out of me.

The orgasm finally complete, I lay in my bed completely drained and sexually satisfied in a way I could not remember ever feeling. I looked between my legs and gasped. The brush was almost completely in me, far past the handle. I slowly pulled it out, wincing as the bristles pricked my now overly-sensitive vagina.

Completely exhausted, my legs numb, I didn't bother getting out of bed, instead falling into a blissful slumber.

*****

The next morning I woke up to an odd smell, slightly pungent, yet oddly appealing. As I opened my weary eyes, I realized my face was buried in Madison's panties. In one immense wave, yesterday came flooding back. My cheeks burned with shame at my weakness and what I had succumbed to. Luckily, no one had yet seen my growing number of indiscretions. My body already warming up, I knew I was going to be adding to that number. For some reason, remembering the clear instructions of the letter, I scanned the room again for something I could use. Unlike the brush yesterday, nothing was an obvious choice. I sighed, getting frustrated, my pussy pleading for attention. I stood up, my legs still Jello, and started searching my room. I had perfume bottles but the lengths were too short, and if the contents somehow sprayed in me that would not be good. I had a comb, but the handle was thin and rather flimsy; I didn't want to think what would happen if it broke. I continued scanning the room, getting more and more agitated. Finally, I noticed the remote control for my television. It was long enough, but the buttons were an issue. But my need to come taking away any logical reasoning, I returned to my bed. Worried my moans could wake my children, I shoved Madison's well used panties in my mouth. My vagina already well lubricated, I shoved the odd pleasure-stick in my vagina.

I was suddenly dressed in a cheerleader's outfit and Madison had me crawling on all fours while hooked to a leash. I was led to Ben Mauer, our all-star white quarterback. He was still in his uniform and dripping with sweat.

Madison said "Here is your promised Nigger." She pulled my chain until I was at his feet and handed it to Ben.

"Thanks, baby," said Ben suavely.

Madison sat down on a nearby chair and watched.

Ben quickly discarded his sweaty uniform and padding and presented his rock-hard, eight inch cock to me. He ordered, "Get sucking, bitch."

Excited and nervous, I opened my mouth and took his stiff cock in my mouth. I struggled to get into any rhythm and Ben finally grabbed my head and began pumping his cock in and out of my mouth. After two minutes of hardcore face-fucking, he pulled out and demanded, "Bend over, bitch. Time for the quarterback to get into the end zone."

I obeyed, like a good slut should, and felt his cock easily slide in my wanting vagina. He grunted, "Holy shit, Madison, this Nigger is tight."

Madison laughed. "Well enjoy it, she won't be for long."

He grabbed my hips and began to really pound away at me from behind. He asked, "How does the Nigger like white meat?"

I moaned, loving what he was doing to me, "I love white meat."

The hard fucking continued for a few minutes until I heard him ask Madison, "Where should I shoot my wad?"

Madison responded, "Your choice. You can spray your dominant seed up her cunt and right into her womb or pull out and spray your superior juice all over her face."

Both choices mortified me, but my orgasm was building, and I just kept enjoying the quarterback's white cock buried in me.

"What do you think, slut? Should I cum up your black cunt or all over your black face?"

I didn't want to be the one to choose, so I avoided it by trying to manipulate him with dirty talk, degrading myself even more, "I'm your slut, do with me as you please."

"Fuck, she is a submissive little slut, isn't she?" the quarterback said, seemingly impressed by my whorish declaration.

"This is just the beginning," Madison teased, her eyes staring directly into mine.

The quarterback grunted, "I'm coming Nigger, I'm shooting my seed deep in your cunt." The moment I felt his semen coat my vagina walls I too came, feeling his seed fill me completely. He didn't slow down as I shook and quaked through another humiliating orgasm.

I opened my eyes just as the orgasm fluttered to an end and was surprised to realize I was on my knees and the remote control was lodged deep in my cunt. I spat out Madison's panties and rolled over onto my back. I pulled out the remote control and looked at it, coated with my cum. I sighed, realizing what I had just done and lay on my back, depressed. As soon as I had recovered from coming, common sense came rushing back to me and I felt guilt and shame at what I had just done to myself and what I had just fantasized about. I took a long shower, attempting, like Lady Macbeth, to wash away my sins. Unfortunately, as with Lady Macbeth, the sins don't just wash away.

*****

I went grocery shopping, worked out, had a second shower and read a book. I did everything I could do avoid thinking about my obvious predicament. Doing a quick cleaning of the house, I ended up in my son's room and snooped in his dirty laundry. Finding a pair of his underwear, I looked at them closely and saw what looked like a semen stain. I felt myself put them in my pocket and returned to my room.

Reading the letter again, I knew there was no way I could go to church without panties. It was just far too morally wrong. I also knew that wearing all white, as she ordered, would give her even more power, something I could also not allow. I looked at the threat: three punishments. I pondered what they would be and I pondered how many more she would add when I didn't obey her orders again. Then I shook my head; the idea of her punishing me was preposterous. Yet, like every other time recently, I felt a tingle down below. I let out a sigh and, looking at the clock, figured I had an hour before I had to start making supper.

Oddly, even though I had no intention of following the other commands laid out for me, I decided, absurdly, to obey the masturbation order. I went to the kitchen and pondered what I could use. I found lots of potential pleasure sticks: a wine bottle, a Coke bottle, a turkey baster and then, remembering a sorority initiation task when I was pledging, I opened the fridge.

I grabbed a long, thick cucumber, similar to the cock I had fantasized Ben having, and walked, well, rushed in all honesty, to my room. I tossed my son's underwear and the cucumber onto my bed and quickly got undressed. Once on my bed, I rubbed the cucumber up and down my pussy lips, getting them nice and wet. The cucumber was wider than any cock I had ever had in me. I grabbed my son's underwear with my free hand and put it to my nose; a very different scent than the girls' panties, yet somehow just as intoxicating. I searched for the stain and brought it to my mouth just as I allowed the cucumber to enter me.

Suddenly I was at Madison's sorority, naked, in the center of the room, with a dozen white girls watching me fuck myself with a cucumber, like some nasty whore.

Madison, who had another unrecognizable girl between her legs, ordered, "Professor Jefferson, why are you fucking your coochie like a cheap hoochie mama, like a 2-cent whore, in front of my sorority?"

Other girls made lewd comments that only added to the humiliation, as did the whispering among each other. Shamed, I had no answer. I finally answered, "For you, Ms. Adams."

"For me? But you're fucking yourself in front of my sorority sisters in our sorority house. Are you auditioning? Maybe you aspire to be our sorority house Nigger. Is that what this is about?"

A part of me found it appalling and deeply galling to have this painful, shameful racial history invoked so callously by this callow, bratty white girl. Asking me, a professor of gender and race studies, if I 'ASPIRE' to be their 'sorority house Nigger'! I was so humiliated and infuriated, and yet my vagina was all the more juiced and agitated. I was speechless but felt my head nod up and down.

"But house Niggers were generally the light-skinned Niggers, the ones with white blood in them who were favored by whites because they were smarter and better looking, looked and acted more civilized, farther from the jungle, more human, less like apes and monkeys. The real darkies like you were generally field Niggers, weren't they?"

My God! The arrogant white girl had gotten me to agree that I 'aspired' to be her sorority house Nigger only to throw it back in my face and REJECT me for being too dark, telling me a 'darkie' like me that looked like an ' ape and monkey' would generally be a 'field Nigger'! Personally, this was bad enough, but professionally it was made worse by the fact that this was historically accurate, and that colorism is so historically obdurate as to be virtually universal culturally even to this day—insidiously inserting itself even between members of the same family, including my own. It was all too much for mind to handle, but my gushing gash had a mind of its own.

"Then again," Madison mused aloud, "house Niggers were more intellectual, at least compared to other Niggers, often learning how to read. And you are a professor, after all. Perhaps we can make an exception if you agree to be bred by lots of white men and boys, like you were with the twins, who look white and don't take after you at all. Do you agree to be white bred? Of course this was a privilege and house Niggers were known to be utterly loyal. Do you agree to be utterly loyal and white bred?"

I hesitated, humiliated, and yet felt my delirious head dumbly nodding again. Girls cheered and heckled as I continued to pump the long green vegetable in my vagina.

"Say it, slut?" Madison demanded.

My vagina burning hot, the cucumber widening my pussy lips like never before, had me in a delirious state, that I would agree to almost anything. "Yes," I moaned, my orgasm building.

"But you are a proud, black woman with a prestigious job?" Madison pointed out.

My orgasm bubbling closer to release, I proclaimed, "I don't care. I'm your slut. Your house Nigger. All the window dressing of how I am perceived is just a front. You saw past that, Mistress Madison, and to the real me. A Nigger slave eager to please their white Mistress."

Madison was pleased, "Come for me, House Nigger, come for your white Mistress. Come harder than you have ever came. Now Nigger. Now."

My whole body spasmed and quaked as another orgasm coursed through me my entire body. I lay completely spent on my bed, the cucumber still deep inside me. Each fantasy that penetrated my head became nastier, more submissive and led to an even more extreme orgasm. I hated myself so much for what I was becoming, what I was fantasizing, yet the pleasure that came with it was becoming more and more addictive. I craved it the way I used to crave nicotine when I smoked. Yet, my mind was now betraying me too. This fantasy was much nastier and the historical knowledge thrown in my face was bizarrely erotic and yet disgraceful. Worse yet, it was my own mind, not Madison, creating these humiliating historical shots. Why was my subconscious creating such derogatory scenes? Not to mention the implied reference to my two children. What was becoming of me? And more importantly, how could I stop this accelerating train that seemed to be picking up steam?

Looking at the clock, I cursed, realizing I needed to start supper soon. I had one more quick shower and was walking down the stairs when my son walked in, sweaty from a game of basketball.

He said he was going to jump in the shower and my first thought was devastatingly humiliating. 'I wonder what his underwear will smell like?'

10. SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY: Revelations

I dressed in my Sunday best, ignoring Madison's ludicrous request to not wear panties to church. It was actually this request that finally last night pushed me to ignore my growing temptations and stand tall, proud and defiant. Although being defiant to a 20-year-old college girl did seem rather pathetic.




Deconstructing the Professor



My kids had always attended church with me. But this time they resisted going to church, only giving in after I'd pleaded with them, almost whining. I wondered what this meant, nearly apoplectic about the prospect of my children finding out what I'd been going through and losing all their respect for me, maybe church could cleanse me of my sins and thoughts. I was sweating profusely the whole drive to church, alone in my car, the kids insisting on driving themselves over separately. The kids and I got to church just as the first hymn was playing.

As hymn after hymn played, I began to feel rejuvenated. I felt the old me coming back. The preacher gave a lengthy sermon on inner strength and resisting temptation. I felt as though he was speaking directly to me and my resolve became even stronger.

When church was done, the kids each went their own way, and I decided to tell this slave of Madison's that I was done once and for all. My resolve even stronger than when I woke up this morning, I was even more determined to end this silly charade once and for all. I arrived at the designated meet spot and found a semi-secluded spot in the back. I ordered a coffee, refusing to order food; I planned for this to be a short and sweet one-sided conversation. Five minutes became ten and I began to get frustrated; I had better things to do then wait for some slave of Madison's to arrive. I was just finishing my coffee when the elegantly dressed Mrs. Hart came in. Mrs. Hart, Jessica Hart, the Minister's beautiful wife, saw me and began walking towards me. Anxiety came flooding in, not because I thought she was the slave of Madison's, but because she might catch me in a compromising conversation with some whorishly dressed girl.

She smiled and asked very tentatively, "May I sit down, Felicia?"

"Of course," I responded politely, even though I desperately wanted to get out of there.

The waitress returned and topped me up and filled Mrs. Hart's empty cup. The silence deepened as I nervously sipped my coffee. Her smile disappeared and she said, in a whisper, "I am so sorry to ask this Felicia, but did you obey the letter?"

"Excuse me?" I responded, although I knew what she was asking. I just couldn't comprehend how she could possibly be the slave of Madison's I had been waiting for. It just was incomprehensible that the preacher's wife could be a submissive slave to a young college co-ed. I couldn't even begin to fathom how the two would ever meet, never mind how Madison could ever end up having Jessica Hart submit to her.

Her voice still a whisper comforted me, "It's ok, Felicia, I know what you are going through now. I have gone through it too; actually I am still going through it."

"But how?" I asked.

"It is a long story, but long story short, her parents are good friends of ours and over a few months she slowly broke me down," she explained, her shame clearly displayed in her blotchy red cheeks; she had not yet looked me in the eye since revealing her submission.

"But you are married!" I pointed out.

"Yes, I know," she sighed. "But no matter how much I attempted to resist her, I was just too weak. She is a very determined young woman."

Trying to stay strong, I confidently announced, "I won't submit to her."

"I hope you are right," she replied, although her tone hinted she doubted I would be strong enough. "But I have to ask, are you wearing panties right now?"

"Yes, I am," I proudly announced, showing my inner strength.

She looked into my eyes for the first time. "I am very impressed, Felicia, you are a stronger person than I am."

"You can be strong too," I suggested.

Her soft smile faded. "No, once you submit, there is no turning back."

I asked, curious, "What did she do to you?"

She looked away again and whispered, "I won't get into the details, but I think it is important you know the consequences of not submitting to her and then later submitting. I resisted her advancements for a long time, but once I gave in she tested my loyalty. One punishment is I must now orgasm during every church service. I also am expected to please her during every family gathering at some point, which is very risky and causes me extreme anxiety. She has also made it crystal clear I have one more punishment to come."

I looked up at her for the first time in a while, baffled by the sexual admissions of this, I thought, pure woman. "Why?"

"I couldn't resist," she shamefully admitted. She stood up and said, "I will be right back."

I sat stunned by yet another baffling revelation. How would I resist Madison, if a Preacher's wife couldn't? That said, after talking to her, I was more determined than ever to not submit. Her shame at what she had done was the strength I needed to stiffen my resolve to not submit.

She returned to the table, but did not sit. She apologized, "I am sorry to do this, but I will be punished if I don't." She handed me what I assumed was her panties. I took them and tears beginning to form on her face, "I am so sorry, Felicia. I have got to go."

I put them into my purse before anyone could see. Although I was confident that I would not submit, I was also suddenly horny. I left a twenty on the table and rushed to my car. My head was spinning with both my need to pleasure myself, and the new revelation of Mrs. Hart as a lesbian. I almost ran a red light, the distraction of my needy vagina itching for attention and my brain a complete whirlpool of confusion. At the red light, I pulled out Mrs. Hart's red panties and took a quick sniff. My pussy instantly pulsed, her musky aroma making me even hornier and more desperate to come. I looked out my window and saw a young blonde looking at me with disgust and my shame hit me hard. I dropped the panties onto my lap and looked away. Distracted, I didn't notice the light change until the car horn behind me beeped. Oddly, I felt a small discharge from down below and knew I had to get home soon. Three more red lights and three more intoxicating sniffs of the Preacher's wife's aroma and I pulled into my driveway and quickly went to my front door, where I fumbled with my keys way longer than usual. Once inside, I bolted up the stairs and into my room. Pulling my skirt up, I quickly discarded my panties and pulled out Mrs. Hart's thong. I put it to my nose as I had with all the others and began rubbing my clit like a wild woman.

Madison was in my office and sitting at my desk. Her panties were in her hand and I was on the floor. She held them above me like she would a bone to a dog. She ordered, "Beg, slut."

Instead of speaking, I whimpered like a puppy.

She lowered her panties onto my face and then back up. I reached for them, but was unsuccessful.

"Are you a good pet?"

I panted like a good puppy would.

She lowered the wet panties back onto my face and let them linger there. I took in the delicious aroma and whimpered when she pulled them away.

From my submissive position, I could see her naughty smile. My vagina was dripping wet and was on the verge of ecstasy as Madison continued her toying with me. She continued dropping her white soiled panties on my black face over and over, teasing me viciously. Finally, my whimpering becoming louder and more constant, she ordered, "Come for me, Nigger."

The word Nigger was the trigger and I came hard again, my pleasure not stifled but stoked, ignoring by the humiliation I should have felt. As the orgasm spread through me, I softly tapped my clit, adding a new sensation to my orgasm. Once completely spent, I fell asleep, the wet panties still in my mouth.

When I woke up a couple of hours later, I grabbed the Preacher's wife's dirty underwear and tossed it against the wall. My frustration at my weakness and at the growing number of people involved in Madison's apparent seduction of me was bringing me far past my boiling point. And why was being called the 'N' word the trigger that got me to sexual bliss? I was better than this...I had to be better than this.

Even after another sexual breakdown, I was still determined to end this once and for all. I refused, even when temptation returned, to masturbate again that night. It was hardly a victory, but it was a start.

11. MANIC MONDAY

I woke up confident, although a little worried about the format of today's lesson. It was an open forum style where I ask the simple question: "What do we do to end racism?" Usually this is a very open and thought-provoking discussion, but with Madison on her little power trip, I was a bit nervous. I considered changing the lesson, but if I let her dictate my lessons, I was letting her win. Again, I ignored the command of wearing white, instead wearing almost all black. I wore a black skirt, black stockings, black heels, and a black blazer. The only hint at color was the purple blouse underneath. In secret rebellion as well, I also wore black panties and bra. My confidence, even after all my indiscretions, was high. Today was the day I reclaimed my identity. Today was the day I reclaimed my color.

Now I won't get onto the details of what turned out to be a fascinating class, but the ideas flowed easily and by the end of the class, anything seemed possible. It went so well, the last week seemed like a bad nightmare that had never really occurred. The girls even were all dressed appropriately for class, in jeans and t-shirts, even Madison.

The class ended just as it used to do, with everyone leaving and I packing my things and going back to my office. I was checking my e-mail twenty minutes later when I heard a knock on my door.

I opened it and Madison was standing in front of me now dressed in a black leather skirt, black stockings, a red blouse and red four-inch heels. I stared at her, surprised by her outfit and the fact that I thought I had finally turned the tide. She walked past me and sat down...at my desk.

I closed my door and ordered, my tone sharp, "Get out of my desk, Ms. Adams."

Her first words to me were, "You are already at 6. Do you really want to hit 7?"

I sighed, "Madison I have told you before. This is going to end now."

She smiled, flipping her heels off, showcasing her perfect feet and her now pink toenails, and rested them on my desk. "Oh Professor, I do agree, this is going to end now."

"Good," I responded, relieved she realized I was not playing her game.

"You really don't catch on do you?" she asked, shaking her head.

The pretentious bitch was really beginning to piss me off. I sarcastically replied, "Oh do tell."

Her smile faded. "I wouldn't use sarcasm with me, Felicia."

I noticed her using my first name. Just one more level of disrespect added to the plethora already given.

I sighed again, "Just please leave."

Ignoring me she began, "Did you know I have been doing some research and have concluded that the Negro race was better off back before the end of slavery, the Civil Rights movement and Affirmative Action?"

I sat down in the visitor's chair, and asked "And how are you going to defend such a preposterous statement?"

"Well we could look at the higher rates of STDs and AIDS among blacks; black females in particular, here in America, but also in Africa for example. All stats, I recall, you presented to us at one point."

On the defensive, I argued, "Yes, that is true. But it was with the point that blacks have had a much more difficult time breaking out of poverty because of the institutionalized social and cultural legacy of slavery and white colonialism."

"And black women and girls went from being raped slaves and colonial subjects to ghetto gutter sluts and nigga hoes," she stated harshly, before adding, "While black men and boys thugged on their 'brothers' and pimped out their 'sisters'. Her tone then suddenly changed drastically, like she was speaking the gospel truth. "America and Africa since the 1960s. 'Free at last. Thank God Almighty, free at last!'" Her acidic, sarcastic quoting of Dr. Martin Luther King's 'I Have a Dream' speech was particularly searing.

My voice rose slightly. "Th-th-that w-was not the p-p-point at all...." I sputtered, my head too cluttered to think or respond articulately.

"Or, one could perceive it as one more example of the black race's self-destructive aspects and of those cultural-sexual patterns and trends that have always existed.  In fact, in terms of the degrading and harmful effects on blacks and on whites and society generally, a very persuasive argument could be made that, overall, blacks were better off before all this equality crap," she rather casually, but confidently, pointed out.

I opened my mouth and flapped my thick, parched lips, but nothing came out. I felt like a befuddled, dim-witted child.

Madison continued, "Thus I have concluded, blacks and whites were both better off under slavery and Jim Crow, and Africa was better off under white colonial rule...which leads me to you." Her voice suddenly shifted from knowledgeable to flirtatious.

"M-m-me?" I stammered stupidly.

She stood up and moved towards me, standing above me, "An argument can be made that blacks need whites to dominate and control them 'for their own good.' Just like children need parents to discipline and punish them and tell them what to do 'for their own good,' and just like pets need their human masters to train and discipline them 'for their own good.'"

Her hand touched my shoulder and I was mortified when her touch sent a chill down my back and directly to my special place. I tried to ignore the tingle, to fight the temptation to stoke the fire, my head spinning out of control.  When I didn't answer, she continued, "So you see, blacks are thus naturally more animalistic, more primitive and primal and more in touch with their 'animal nature'. Basically, they are driven by sex, with less moral boundaries. While whites, on the other hand, are more intellectually developed, more civilized and thus more successful.  It's cultural history, quite frankly, with such strongly established patterns of superiority and inferiority: test scores, educational and occupational achievement. In the end, it is all biological, genetic and evolutionary." Her hands squeezed my shoulders, before returning to my desk and my chair.

I was suddenly greatly intimidated by this white co-ed. Her theory, such as it is, is one that has been the driving force behind my repression and propriety all these years. I know my history. I knew that by allowing my sexual desires to control me, like so many of my ancestors had, I would never be able to break past the generations of stereotypes. This fear had kept me shackled to a straight and narrow life, where I resisted any temptation that would put me at risk of being the sexual deviant I knew was deep in me. But here, in my office, all those years of resistance, all those years of being above such weakness, were crumbling before my eyes.

I still had not spoken; she continued her philosophical assessment of my race and thus me personally. "You see Felicia, such sexual desires cannot be eliminated. Oh sure they can be channelled, contained and restrained, kept caged, so to speak.  But the reality can never be caged forever and you, my submissive, need to break out of your cage. Break out of your invisible shackles that have held you from feeling the pleasure, I am guessing, you have felt this past week."

Her stocking-covered feet were back on my desk and I couldn't believe how badly I wanted to touch them. To bow down to them. To cleanse them. I suddenly realize I had spent my whole life putting white girls like her on a pedestal. I viewed them as prettier and superior to me, my "better" in almost every respect. Thus I spent years trying to emulate their success by becoming like them in every way possible. Yet, at this moment, I know longer wanted to be like them as equals, but rather I wanted to be the black slave who always obeyed her Master and Mistress. I tried to stop such thoughts from dominating my head, my educated brain, my proud soul. Yet, with each sharp word that Madison stabbed into my heart, with every quick glance at her perfect white skin, I weakened.

"Tell me honestly, Felicia. Have you not once touched yourself thinking of submitting to me?"

I lied, acting all dignified, "I have not."

Her smile faded, her tone changed, "Don't lie to me, Felicia. I can tell by your facial expression that you are lying to me."

"I am not," I argued, although it was weaker than I planned it to be.

"Bullshit," Madison responded, calling my bluff, "I can tell by the look in your eyes that you are lying to me."

Humiliated, I began to stand up to leave, but she quickly grabbed me and sternly said, "We are not done here. Sit down, Felicia."

Flashbacks to my childhood and my Mom's stern voice came pouring back and I sat down obediently, still refusing to make eye contact with her.

"So I will ask you one more time, and if you are lying I will add yet another punishment to your already long list of disobedience. Have you masturbated about me?"

Just wanting this to end and the wetness down below betraying me completely, I admitted, "Yes."

"Good girl," she praised me, like I was her six year old child. "See was that so hard?"

I didn't say anything, my mind petrified of what might come out. My vagina was itching to be touched and I had to use every ounce of will power to ignore the burning desire.

"Are you horny right now?" Madison asked, her tone implying she already knew the answer.

I quickly lied, "No."

She chuckled, "Still lying to your future Mistress."

"You're not my future Mistress," I protested, but even I was beginning to not believe it.

I assumed she was smiling, but I didn't look to find out. "You're right," she agreed, surprising me.

Surprising myself, a wave of disappointment filled me, ignoring it as best I could, I attempted to be strong, "Of course, I am."

She stood up again, walked over to me and put her soft white hands on my tense shoulders. "Oh my, Felicia, you are very tense."

I again remained silent.

She began to massage my shoulders gently, my resistance instantly becoming more confused. Her touch sent waves of pleasure through my entire body. I felt her hot breath on my ear, bringing further sexual sensations. "You want to submit to me now, don't you Felicia?"

My heartbeats echoed through the room so loudly I actually felt I would burst. My head was spinning in so many directions, my years of fighting to be an equal was struggling to stay on the surface. Yet, the pleasure I had experienced the past week was overwhelming my history and my logic.

Her hot breath on my ear only made me more confused, distracted, out of my comfort zone. She whispered, her voice so seductive I felt like forbidden prey, "Submit to me, Felicia. Don't fight it. I know what you need. You know you want to submit to me. You need to give yourself to me entirely. You need to be free from this illusion you have had that you are to be dignified and proud and resist your sexual temptations. Be who you are. Be your history. Be my...."

Her next word, which I was hanging on like an obedient dog waiting for its bone, was interrupted by a knock on the door. The knock was like an endorphin killer, or like getting thrown in a cold shower, a harsh wake-up call. I frantically ordered, "Get your shoes on, Ms. Adams." Thankfully, she obliged my request and she sat down in the chair that she should have been sitting in all along.

I composed myself as best I could and opened the door. It was my department secretary with the agenda for the meeting scheduled to take place in an hour. Although I was flustered, I desperately tried to maintain pretence of poise and professionalism. She gave me a quizzical look, but didn't say anything as she handed me the agenda I had requested she type up for me. As she closed the door, I took a deep breath, relieved I had not been caught in a more compromising position. Yet, the near disaster was a wake-up call and I knew was a warning from above not submit to Madison.




Deconstructing the Professor



Once she was gone and I had closed the door, Madison instantly turned back on her dominant persona, standing up, "Now let's get back to where we were."

"Ms. Adams, this is over. I have a meeting in less than an hour."

Madison put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me slowly to my office floor. My knees weakened on her touch and although my mind was screaming 'no', my body gave no resistance to the gentle persuasion. Now on my knees, in the ultimate submissive position, she explained, "Felicia, I have always wanted my very own Nigger." I winced at her use of the 'N' word, yet my pussy's dormant flame quickly rekindled. Seeing my reaction, she continued, slipping her stocking-clad feet out of shoes again, "You see, Professor, I know exactly what you need. You need a white Mistress who makes all your decisions for you. You need a White Mistress to break you out of your prestigious wannabe-white bondage, to allow you to be who you really want to be...a good Nigger slave. Tell me, Professor Jefferson, Felicia, Nigger...tell me what you want."

She lifted her stocking feet to my face, her perfectly pedicured toes, just an inch from my big lips. I stammered, my head reeling from the reality that I suddenly knew she was right. My vagina juice was leaking through my panties and I desperately needed to come. I tried to stay strong, even when every fibre of my body disagreed, "I want you to leave."

"Really. I tell you what Professor. If your cunt is dry right now, I will walk out of here right now defeated and will never bother you again. Is that reasonable?"

I cursed my weakness, knowing it was a great deal, but a deal I could not win. "Ms. Adams, please just go."

She pulled me up, and moved her hand under my dress. I pushed it away, but was scolded harshly, her anger able to be triggered in a heartbeat. "Stand still, Nigger, don't you ever touch me unless you have my permission, understood you fucking cunt!"

Instead of freaking out at being called such harsh names, my vagina leaked some more, and I absurdly apologized, "I'm so-so-so sorry Ms. Adams, for touching you. It won't happen again."

She smiled and said condescendingly, "You may make an obedient little cunt licker yet." She moved her hands to my sopping wet pussy and concluded, "Well, I guess being my little Nigger slave does excite you doesn't it?"

I whimpered at her touch, giving away any last pretence I wasn't horny. My body was screaming inside to just submit unconditionally to this powerful, beautiful white Mistress. Yet, my mind was desperately struggling to resist the growing temptation. I knew, like Eve, if I took one bite of the apple, everything would change. I stammered, "N-n-no."

"Then why is your Nigger cunt so fucking wet?"

I had no reasonable answer to this question. So I again weakly pleaded, "Please leave, Madison."

The slap across the face stunned me. "How dare you address your white Mistress so disrespectfully? That is now another clear breach of your submission to me and will be punished, what number are you at now, eight?"

Panic spread though me and I quickly corrected her, "It's only seven."

She laughed harshly. "So you acknowledge you deserve seven punishments from your Mistress, Nigger?"

Suddenly realizing my error, I stammered, "N-n-no, I was just...."

A second slap burned my cheeks. "Shut up, Nigger." Her finger went under my panties and grazed my vagina lips. I let out an involuntary moan. The white co-ed asked, looking for the answer she was used to receiving, "Do you want to come, Nigger?"

"Yes," I whimpered, my head unable to think straight in this heated condition, and her fingers teasing me so well.

"Yes, what?" she asked.

"Yes, please," I replied, my breathing getting more erratic.

She moved her finger away. "You can't really be that stupid, can you?"

Wanting her finger back there, my vagina so close to ecstasy, I apologized, and finally used the words she had been waiting to hear, the words my inner soul had been dying to say for a week, even if my mind had not accepted it yet, "Yes, Mistress."

Her finger went back to my wanton vagina. "You understand, Professor," she sneered. "Once your Nigger cunt comes on my white finger, you are mine. You will do whatever I say, at all times."

"Yes, Mistress." I agreed, without hesitation, my body far too gone to resist the hypnotic sexuality of this white Goddess.

"What are you?" she questioned, her finger slowly parting my wet vagina lips.

"Your slave," I whimpered, wanting to be just that.

"What kind of slave?" she tested, her finger beginning to penetrate my forbidden tunnel.

I knew what she wanted me to say, but I hesitated. Such a final humiliation was too much and I paused.

She wiggled her finger in me; she leaned in, her hot wet breath on my ear, "Answer me slut, what kind of slave are you?"

She found my g-spot and my legs weakened, my orgasm bubbled and I began to come shamelessly all over Madison's finger. She instantly pulled her finger out and I collapsed onto the floor, weak from the ultimate orgasm that was now pulsing through me.

I hear heard her rant, "You fucking Nigger, how dare you come without permission! I guess saying the number of punishments coming to you being eight was fucking anticipating." I zoned her words out as the delirium from the orgasm overpowered everything. I was quickly brought back to reality, like a cold shower, when I heard the clicking of what I assumed was a camera.

I opened my eyes shocked to see Madison using her phone to take pictures of me. She smiled "Just in case you had thoughts of backing down after you declared your complete obedience to me. Now open your legs wide and let's see that wet cunt of yours."

"Please no," I begged.

"Now, Nigger slut," she exploded.

I shamefully obeyed and closed my eyes while she took more photos.

"Pull your panties down so I can get a good look at my new property."

Humiliated, as the concept of being property killed the last of the orgasm, I obeyed, knowing that fighting her while in this position was utterly hopeless. She took a few more pictures and she smiled, a smile nastier than the Devil, and she said, "You better get composed Professor, you have a meeting in a few minutes." Calling me Professor was like a cold shower awakening me back to the harsh reality of what had just occurred. I was supposed to be the adult, the professional. She walked out, leaving my door wide open with me still on the floor.

I quickly got up and closed my door. I collapsed back in my chair, exhausted, mortified and yet completely sexually satisfied. I knew I had taken a damn big bite of that apple and knew that my life had forever changed...and just like Eve...I had no idea what was going to happen next.

12. HEEL

Lust is a powerful emotion; like a drug though, once the high is done, the withdrawal is incredibly painful. All night, my head spun around with what I had done. I made myself feel better by the thought that all that had really occurred was she had masturbated me to an orgasm. It was very wrong. It was morally wrong. It was ethically wrong. But, it could have been so much worse.

This devastating weakness of mine now officially exposed to Madison was very troubling, but was balanced by the great news that my daughter Keisha had been assigned to work on a civil rights case with the NAACP. I had convinced her to come over tomorrow night for a celebratory supper and she reluctantly agreed (I must admit our relationship had never been really great, but that is another story). So for the first time since Christmas, I would have all three of my children in my home. It was so exciting and a great distraction from my sin. I went and grabbed a roast, potatoes and all the fixings for a grand supper.

That night, while I tossed and turned, my submission to Madison replaying in my mind, I contemplated my next move. Shames overwhelmed me as I knew I had been weak, but I also knew I now had to be strong. I convinced myself I was capable of such strength and that the pictures she took were unlikely to be too compromising...at least I hoped they weren't.

*****

Deciding I didn't want any confrontation with her, or at least to avoid or delay it as long as I could, I wore the white stockings. I was surprised how nice they looked on my legs, yet how ashamed I felt knowing I was wearing them strictly to not upset Madison.

I arrived at class slightly late again, a new trend of mine, and Madison's smile widened when she saw me and my obedient clothing submission. I tried to ignore her, but my eyes kept glancing back at her, my body yearning for her approval. It was frustrating and probably showed as I was very distracted during class. After finishing giving a historical lesson on the NAACP and telling my class, like a beaming proud Mom, that my daughter would be working for them, I let them go twenty minutes early, something I never, ever, did.

I high-tailed it out before Madison or anyone could talk to me, but half way to my car, my cell vibrated. I stopped to check and it was a text from MistressM. I sighed, how did she get my cell number, it wasn't even listed?

I clicked on it and read the text:

Tue 11:12 Mar 22 11

If I didn't know better I would think u r trying to avoid me, your WHITE MISTRESS. But I know my NIGGER SUB would never avoid me...would she?

A second text followed:

Tue 11:12 Mar 22 11

That would add a punishment and I can't imagine my NIGGER CUNT would want that...would she?

Then a third:

Tue 11:13 Mar 22 11

Or does my NIGGER BITCH like being punished...I think maybe she does. If she is not in her office in ten minutes...I will add another punishment...

As I lingered, frozen, a fourth text came:

It was a picture of me after my orgasm. It was not too revealing, but my facial expression could only be described as orgasmic bliss.

Realizing her blackmail intent, I cursed to myself and headed to my office. Once inside, I waited and waited and waited. I went from anxious and nervous, to frustrated and angry as an hour passed by. Finally, there was a knock on the door.

I called, "Come in."

No one entered.

I called a second time, "Come in."

Again, no response. I began to think I had been mistaken and the knock was the office beside me when a sharp meaning filled knock repeated itself.

This time, I got up and opened the door. A look that would melt ice bore into me when I opened the door. Madison, wearing a rather conservative flower-print sundress walked in and once I closed the door, reprimanded me. "Nigger, how dare you make me wait at the door?"

I began to speak, when she demanded, "On your knees, Nigger, you dare not disappoint me again today or the punishment will be your pictures on Facebook, understood?"

I dropped to my knees instantly, not for a second doubting that her threat was real. Once on my white stocking-covered knees, I also replied, "Yes, Ms. Adams, I understand."

She sat on my chair and put her thigh high boot on my leg. "Unzip me, Professor Jefferson."

I nervously and quietly obeyed the order, my hand shaking the whole time I unzipped the boot. Once unzipped, she ordered, "Take your White Mistress' boot off, Felicia."

I again obeyed, slightly surprised by the civil manner of Madison. Once it was off, Madison demanded, "Clean my foot, Darkie."

Darkie for some reason felt more insulting than the other derogatory terms she had used on me. Uncontrollably, and yet undeniably, I felt a tingle flow through me. I leaned forward, extended my tongue and began licking her stocking-clad foot. I started on the top and moved to her perfectly manicured toes. I took each toe individually into my mouth and pretended they were small penises. She lifted her foot up a bit and I began to lick the sole of her foot. A mixture of silk and sweat should have been disgusting, but instead was erotically sweet. I felt my vagina getting wet yet again.

"You like licking my feet, don't you, Nigger?"

The word and her condescending tone somehow made me wetter. I admitted, "Yes, Ms. Adams."

"I think it is time for your first punishment," she announced.

Trepidation filled me, but I remained silent.

"You told the class you were having a special supper tonight," she began.

"Y-y-yes," I stammered.

"With the whole family," she continued.

"Y-y-yes," I stuttered, worried where this was going.

She changed topics. "Are you horny right now?"

It was undeniable. So I answered honestly, "Yes."

"Yes, what?" she barked.

"Y-y-yes, I'm horny, Ms. Adams."

"Do you want to come?"

"Yes," I admitted, looking away.

"Look at me when you speak to me, Nigger!" she exploded.

I immediately looked into her eyes and grovelled, "I'm sorry, Ms. Adams."

Her softness returned. "Grab my boot." I did. "Take off your panties." I shuddered in anticipation of what was to come as I obeyed. "Go to your chair and lift up that skirt so I can see that black cunt." I obeyed again, silently, my body loving every second, while my brain attempted to reason with me.

"Spread those Nigger legs wide, I want to see that cunt I now own," she announced, like I was a prize show pony.

Tears began to well in my eyes, the humiliation getting even bigger, I begged, "Please, don't make me, Ms. Adams."

She laughed. "Oh, Professor, you needed me more than any of my other sluts. I knew it the first week of class. You have been living this fake life for years, this charade of civilized living. But I could tell deep down you are just like every other Nigger, a horny slut desperate to serve. Am I wrong?"

What a question. Of course she was wrong. I was a respected professor. A powerful black woman who had fought for every little thing I had. Yet, at this moment, all that mattered to me, was coming and obeying this white bitch. I wanted to look away, but instead, with tears now rolling down my face, I admitted, "You are right, Ms. Adams."

"And I assume, that right now you desperately want to come," she predicted.

"Yes, Ms. Adams."

"Take the lengthy heel of my boot, slut, and use it to fuck yourself."

"What?" I asked.

"You heard me. Fuck yourself with the heel of your Mistresses' boot. Now!!!"

Her tone change startled me and I quickly obeyed, inserting the thin heel inside my very wet vagina. Not surprisingly, it easily went in.

"How does that feel?" she asked.

"It feels good in my vagina," I honestly replied, as my desire to come took over.

"Your vagina," she cackled. "What are you, 12? You have a cunt! A fuck-hole! A Nigger pussy! Not a fucking vagina."

"Sorry, Ms. Adams," I moaned, now beginning to fuck myself with the boot. "My cunt is getting very wet, Ms. Adams."

"So back to our earlier conversation. You are having a special supper tonight."

"Yes," I whimpered, worried about what she had in mind, but more preoccupied with the boot heel in my cunt.

"Well, I think you are going to invite me to come and meet your family tonight," she suggested, in a tone that implied it wasn't a suggestion.

"But it is a special family supper," I defended, still fucking myself.

"Stop fucking your Nigger box," Madison demanded.

I reluctantly obeyed.

"All you have to do to be allowed to come in front of your Mistress is invite me to dinner tonight," she explained.

I let out a subtle sigh. I was far past horny and I knew if I didn't ask her, she would probably just show up anyway. So I reasoned that the best way to at least attempt to gain some control of the situation at all was to give in first. "Ms. Adams," I began all cordially, "would you please be so kind to be a part of my family's celebratory supper tonight?"

She answered, so civil that it was like we were two friends, "I would like that very much."

She surprised me, by dropping to her knees, between mine, and grabbing the boot. Without a word, she began pumping her heel in and out of my pussy. My moaning increased, even as I tried to keep it down so others wouldn't hear my throes of passion. With her white face so close to my pussy, I was a puddle of goo and after only a couple of minutes of her fucking me, I came, my juice flooding out of me. She continued fucking me with the boot heel until the orgasm was over and lightning quick, stood up and took a much more humiliating picture of me spread wide open with a boot in my pussy.

"Clean my boot, slut," she ordered.

I reluctantly took the boot out of my pussy and placed the heel at my mouth. I sucked off my juice like a dirty whore. The shame again waved through me, as it always did after I had finished coming and logic came flooding back.

She made me put her boot back on for her and just as she was leaving I asked, "Are you sure you want to come tonight, it will probably be pretty boring."

Her smile, as wicked as one can look, sent a chill down my back, "Oh, I doubt that very much." She gave me a wink and walked out the door.

I collapsed into my chair, wondering what she could possibly have in mind for tonight. Everything up to now had been very discreet and it seemed unlikely she would out me in front of my children. Pacified by that theory, I got myself back together and headed home early to prepare for my daughter's special supper.

13. MAID TO BE

I spent an hour deciding what to wear in the evening, realizing what I wore would make a statement to Madison. If I changed into something casual she might attempt to question me. If I stayed in the same white stockings I was implying I was still her sub. After bouncing back and forth, I decided to stay in the skirt and white stockings, desperate to not attract any sort of negative attention from Madison.

Supper was planned for six o'clock and when it was ten after six I began to relax. Maybe she wasn't coming. Keisha was dressed in a power suit, having come directly from work. The twins, on the other hand, were dressed in designer jeans and shirts, like they almost always wore.

I had just begun to serve supper after half an hour of polite chit-chat when there was a knock at the door. I let out a sigh and excused myself, knowing the kids weren't going to get off their lazy asses anyways. I took a long deep breath and opened the door. Madison looked beautiful as always. She was dressed to impress in a black skirt, just above the knee, matching black pantyhose or stockings and a nice flower print blouse. She smiled and asked, "You haven't started without me, have you?"

"I was just bringing the food to the table," I replied.

"Good," she smiled and after a second of awkward silence, "Are you going to invite me in?"

I stammered, "O-o-of course. Please don't let my children know about what I have done."

"If you behave today, my slut, it will remain our little secret...for now," she promised and yet hinted at breaking the promise...eventually. A chill went up my spine at the threat of future humiliation and potential revealing of my sins.

She sauntered in and I led her to the dining room. The look of each of my children seeing the beautiful white girl was interesting. Keisha's face expressed impatience and annoyance; Nicholas was one of horny male adolescence; while Nicole seemed a mixture of surprise and admiration. I introduced her to my children, "Keisha, Nicholas and Nicole, this is Madison, she is a student in my Race and Ethnicity class. We had made a previous arrangement to meet today to discuss her research project." It was a lie, a lame one at that, since Keisha would know, based on my invariable principles that I would never invite a student over...ever. And my class' essays were always done by now. On top of that, what student comes to meet their professor dressed so attractively? That said, it was all I had to cling to my fragile position.