2 comments/ 21224 views/ 3 favorites Angry By: kylewhitney That night, we went to bed angry. We laid each with our back turned to the other, both unable to sleep but unwilling to continue the fight. I felt her shift and fuss--stressed, like me, and unable to relax. For several minutes she was still, but then she slipped out of bed and abruptly walked out of our bedroom. I listened for sounds from the bathroom, but heard nothing. I sat up, straining to hear any noise. Was she crying? I laid back down, deciding I didn't care what she was doing. I closed my eyes and several long minutes passed. What the hell was she up to? I got out of bed, taking care to do so silently. I tiptoed to the doorway and listened again. I held my breath. There was something, it was coming from the living room. I moved down the hallway, shifting my weight carefully, avoiding the places where the floor might squeak. Just shy of the threshold to the living room I leaned out away from the wall and could see her lying on the couch. Apparently she didn't want to sleep in the same bed with me. Fuck her, then. I was ready to return to my bed when I noticed movement. She lowered her knees, and by the faint moonlight I could see that her hand was down the front of her pajama bottoms. Her arm jerked vigorously as she masturbated. But this wasn't the sensual, teasing way she used on those occasions when she allowed me to watch her. This was purposeful and almost brutal. My cock grew stiff instantly. I felt suddenly bad that I had driven her to this, but at the same time I couldn't turn away. I pulled my cock out of my boxers and watched her. She worked her hand rapidly between her legs, breathing quickly, but not moaning like she did when putting on a show for me. What I was witnessing was purely for her. She attacked her pussy, seeking relief, needing to give herself something that wasn't about or for me. She knew how much I loved to watch her touch herself, and she was taking satisfaction from denying me this. Or so she thought. She stopped suddenly, then punched the sofa pillow. For a moment I thought that she had heard me. I froze. My pulsing hard cock in my sweaty grip. She pulled off her pajama bottoms, threw them aside, and unbuttoned her top. I could just barely see her roughly pinching and pulling at both her nipples. Harder than I would ever imagine doing. I continued stroking myself. She licked the two middle fingers of her right hand and reached back down to her pussy. Her hand circled there a few times, then she stretched her arm in a way that told me she had pushed those two fingers inside her. Instead of the slow, tender motions I anticipated, she began pounding at herself. Her whole body clenched as she repeatedly slammed her fingers into her pussy. Her relentless pace increased and she fucked herself even harder. I couldn't believe how intense she was. The heel of her hand slapped hard against her clit, making a noise that I would have been able to hear from the bedroom. She wanted me to know she was pleasuring herself. She wanted to torture me with the knowledge that she was naked, and masturbating, and fucking herself without me. I wanted to go to her then. I wanted to say I was sorry and plunge my cock into her swollen, wet cunt. I wanted her to take me into her mouth while she furiously fucked her fingers. I wanted to be a part of her angry, spiteful passions. But I held back, not willing to give her the satisfaction. Instead, I would take what I wanted from her, use her self-serving display for my own pleasure. I jerked my cock with one hand, and cupped by balls tightly with the other. She pulled her knees up toward her shoulders, her feet in the air. The slick, sucking sounds of her pussy were exquisite. Still she beat away at herself, just as quick and as hard as she could. She pulled her fingers out and slapped her cunt, then slapped it again, even harder. I had never seen her do this before. It was amazing. After a few more quick smacks, she put all her fingers together, and slipped them into the opening of her pussy. She strained and arched her back as she pushed her fingers farther and deeper. Her hips turned toward me for a moment and I could see that she was slowly forcing her entire hand into her cunt. Her face was contorted with effort and pain. Why was she doing this to herself? She rolled back and with one last effort buried her hand up to her wrist in her cunt hole. She writhed and rocked, humping her hand with a look of pure ecstasy now on her face. Oh my god, I had never been as turned on by her as I was at that moment. Her other hand was now down there as well. Her fingers pressed against her clit as she rubbed it fast and hard. She emitted a series of sharp gasps. She was close to coming. She frigged herself more and more aggressively, lifting her ass up off the sofa and thrusting violently. I could see every muscle in her body convulse and tighten at once and she struggled to noiselessly ride out what had to be the most intense orgasm I have ever witnessed. At that same moment my balls clenched. I looked down and watched the head of my cock swell just before a spurt of cum shot out. I hunched over my hand and filled my palm with hot semen. I looked up and saw that she had collapsed back onto the sofa. Her hand was no longer crammed in her cunt, but still it lingered down there. She continued to finger herself lightly and I watched her body quiver as she almost casually coaxed one delicate orgasm after another from her abused pussy. Finally she relaxed, spent and limp. I crept back to the bedroom with my hand full of spunk. I pulled a shirt out of the hamper and wiped myself clean, then slid into bed. It was several minutes before she returned to the room and climbed in next to me. We were both silent. Each intimately aware of the other's wakefulness. I resisted, but as the images of her punishing her pussy played over and over again in my head, something inside me caved. I turned, and cautiously wrapped my arm around her. I felt her body tense with my touch, and for a moment I thought she would reject my apologetic gesture. After a moment, she took my hand and raised it to her nose and sniffed. There where the scent of my spent load was fresh and strong. She relaxed then, knowing she had won. Her tongue glided across the palm of my hand, and she followed this with a soft kiss where minutes ago I had held a pool of my own cum. She nestled my hand atop her breast, and a I settled in against her back, matching the contours of my body against hers. That night, we went to sleep, no longer angry. Angry Birds They looked gorgeous. Hotter than the filling of a toasted jam sandwich, yet more dangerously streetwise than a bunch of alleycats. I'd been to see them a dozen times: The Luscious Ladies toured extensively and every show of female domination was crazier and more intense than the last. They were always exceptional: two "slaves" - one male and one female - dressed only in red masks were led onto the stage, and then the five ladies performed all manner of perversions onto the lucky individuals, having them screaming for withheld mercy. My favourite was Lady Heather: a blonde haired, latex loving bitch of perfection. She had stolen my heart and attention from the moment I first saw her lattice a screaming slave's rear into a bloodied mass of excruciating pain. Then there was Lady Heidi: the diminutive German wearer of black leather and fishnets while furiously pegging a young man's arse as she cried triumphantly. Is there anything hotter than her reducing a six-foot bodybuilder to a blubbering wreck with her leather paddle, her nipple clamps and her eight-inch dildo strap-on? I went to see all five of the girls work their magic and their malevolence, and longed to speak to them. I'd tell them how much I loved their work, how I'd bought all their merchandise and how I'd love to visit their dungeon. Two minutes was all I need, just 120 seconds. Alas, the adult venues that hosted their debauched shows didn't tend to encourage audience interaction, but I'd have done anything for their autographs on a Luscious Ladies branded leather paddle. I'd even brought it with me, desperate to have an opportunity for them to sign it. I wanted to speak to them, and pondered ways of getting access. But alcohol always clouds judgement, and by the time the intermission had started I was feeling the foolhardy side of brave, and poor judgement reined supreme. I decided to knock on their dressing room door and ask them; surely they'd love to hear from a devoted fan? Slipping past security was easy, finding the courage to knock was much harder; I could hear their sadistic laughter from behind the varnished wood, and listened intently, pressing my ear against the oak door. It swung open slightly, barely making a sound as the five women drank bottled water and Lady Heather changed; she was even more gorgeous naked. I was spell-bound. Stopped in my tracks by her poise and her nakedness. The gorgeousness of her curves, sliding elegantly along her beautifully tanned body, snatched my attention; I forgot everything at that moment in time: my name, my address and even my reason for being there. She was sheer perfection: an erection causer at a thousand paces and a delightful minx of sheer maleficent beauty. I adored her. Which when she saw me, ogling her nudity and poise. Her glowing smile disappeared as her eyes locked on mine: staring and scowling on me. I was startled and shocked, blurting nonsense incoherently as I heard steps from behind me. My mouth motored as my brain panicked; I pleaded for their autograph as I held the paddle while the imposing boots thumped closer and closer. The unfettered goddess stopped them with a wave of her hand as she crossed her arms over her bare breasts; they were obscenely perfect. Every part of her was, as she demanded an explanation. I was talking to Lady Heather. My mind could not believe that she was speaking to me, as my stomach whirled itself into a knot and my feet shifted nervously. "This is our private time," she explained calmly; her voice never boomed loudly, but she made me feel a few inches tall as her companions and herself glared angrily at the anxious pervert. "And you've come to peep." "Peeping Tom, string his fucking balls up," Lady Heidi barked. "No respect for us." "I do have respect," I cried, glancing over my shoulder at three burly security men who were waiting to tear my flesh from my bones in front of five women who wanted them to. "I think you are all amazingly wonderful and I'm so sorry, but I just wanted to get your autographs as I've been to twelve of your shows and you are just the most incredible people and I dream so much of you and I'm ..." I trialled off, as Lady Heather's outstretched finger touched the top of her lip, to demand silence. "You have a domme?" She enquired, waiting for me to mumble. My ex-girlfriend and I used to play, but Lady Heather's smile broadened as she asked for a red hood. "Maybe if you are such a fan of the show then we could find a part for you." She licked her lips, carefully, slowly and with a menacing grimace. I recognised that look. I had seen the glint in her eye dozens of times, as she planned the torment she was about to inflict. She sized me up, just like she sized up her victims on stage before launching a tidal wave of pain through them with devastating slashes of her weapon. It sent a chill through my body. But I was ushered into a tiny adjacent room containing two naked people and had a red hood thrown at me. "Get naked," Lady Heidi demanded. "We are going to beat into you some respect." I gulped: suddenly very scared and aware of my surroundings. "All I wanted was an autograph," I muttered to the two "slaves"; they were younger than me, and shrugged, watching as I turned away to disrobe. What had I let myself in for? My BDSM play was limited in the extreme, and Luscious Ladies fuelled my fantasies not relived my experiences. If they did a tenth of what the two people with the reddened skin and bloodied bottoms next to me received then I would be screaming for release in no time. But arousal and excitement is powerful and it rode roughshod over any sound judgement I had. I was out of my depth, but it was the world I had dreamt of joining for years. I wanted it. And unlike the boys who dream of playing Premiership football, I was about to line up at my Old Trafford, only it wasn't a devil with the trident, but five evil sadists. A bang of the door was accompanied by some yells, as I slipped the red hood over my head. I felt hands lace it for me and muttered thanks as I stumbled forward into the bright light. The ladies looked incredible, yet again. The latex of Lady Heather, the fishnets of Lady Heidi, the minimalist armour of Lady Georgina, the red leather of Lady Pauline and the long dark cloak of Lady Jasmine. They looked scary, divine and had my loins a-trembling. I loved them; at that moment, I loved every inch of them. Looking up into their imposing frames, my insides quivered and my heart pounded. Walking barefoot to the stage was intense; not a word was spoken and the atmosphere was foreboding. I was about to step towards my destiny and I knew everything and nothing what it contained. I could see the range of equipment on stage and froze as we approached the wings. I felt my right hand taken from my side and Lady Heather clipped a small button onto the end of my index finger. "Press that and we'll feel it," she whispered. "We may slow down, we may not." I gulped as she glanced at the stage; her companions were striding onto it, shoving their slaves in front of them. "Any limits we should know about?" I spluttered, looking into her emerald eyes of evil, strangely reassuring me. "Don't ... know." "We'll hurt you, we'll break you but we won't destroy you," she promised, as she grabbed the back of my neck and flung me onto the stage. I was expecting them to announce my arrival as a peeping tom, but Lady Heidi just announced that I needed to be taught a lesson and the Luscious Ladies were going to give me one. It was blind faith. I was totally trusting the pro-dommes as one of the ladies, tugged me towards the St Andrews Cross, shackling my hands and feet to the X frame, my face looking at the back of the stage while the hundreds of punters were staring at my arse. But I wasn't concerned about them; they didn't factor into my thinking at the time. I was restrained, yet almost relieved to be so. From this moment on, I couldn't wimp out. I was ready for whatever they wanted to give me and the decision was no longer mine. "Let's look after his nips," a voice cried into the microphone. Fingers roughly tugged at my skin as clamps were applied, biting angrily into my nipples and sending pain tearing through my consciousness. My body boiled with sheer agony; it was unlike anything I had experienced. It was intensely overpowering, hearing myself yell with desperate cries. "Get 'em off, get 'em off," I pleaded. The lady cackled, crying out to the crowd. I recognised their baiting: "should we get 'em off?" She mimicked cruelly. The crowd jeered, just as I would have done if I was sat in my seat. They never did give respite; we all paid good money to see twisted evil and we wanted to see every last drop of pain inflicted. My fellow perverts did to me, what I had done dozens of times previously: they demanded sadistic torture and they got it, as my fingers clawed at the X-Frame and tears welled. Yet, as I begged for a release from the constant burning of my nipples, the button never registered as an option. I wanted it, but I couldn't take it. I felt as though my nipples were being ripped from my body, but in practice, two clips were tight against my nerves. That was all. My yells continued: Lady Heather's paddle found my displayed arse a welcome target and the first strike landed with an echo, pelting my white skin with a roaring slap. It was too much, causing me to yell again, begging for mercy to gleeful delight of the dominatrices. They weren't going to torment me with just pain, but their words punctured my soul: this was just the "warm-up" and I was being a "big baby." They asked the crowd if I deserved mercy and when the baying mob of perverts offered me none, Lady Heather began a volley of pelts with her wooden weapon. I was bombarded; my arse suffered as I felt more alive than at any point in my life. Every nerve sizzled with sensation, every pore burnt with the smacks of the paddle and every inch of my soul cried for mercy as I lived my deepest fantasies. I was being tormented by the ladies I masturbated over every night. I was being tortured by my dream in public, as I struggled to be free of it. Only it wasn't a dream, but a nightmare: I was hating every hard smack of the paddle against my raw bottom, but I loved their control. I needed it, I needed to see their act through to the conclusion, and I needed the Luscious Ladies to continue with their debauchery. I wanted more. I wanted the twisted, evil deviants to plunge their depraved imaginations and drag me into their world. And I got my wish. For as my bottom glowed with pain, Lady Georgina, slashed a bullwhip against my shoulders, tearing stripes of red-hot pain into my back, and making me fill the soundsystem with my desperate yells. Lady Jasmine unfastened me from the St. Andrews Cross and restrained me onto a bench, introducing searing hot wax onto my front. They laughed at my erection, teasing my size with searing insults. My cheeks burnt as much as my rear, rubbing against the rough fabric of the bench as I wriggled with shock and pain as globules of hot wax splattered onto my thighs. My yelps entertained them: almost as much as the inflamed, desperate cries from the other slaves. The ladies seemed to love the competition: the volume of our tormented pleas as our senses were overloaded with pain, and the spidering tingling of the angry wax, landing onto my thighs were insignificant to when Lady Jasmine played with her candle and my cock at the same time. I had the wax spanked from my thighs, my anus penetrated with a ponytail butt plug, my balls stretched and my face pushed onto the dusty boots of Lady Heidi. They took me further and further. Until the end, when all the ladies donned strap-ons. I whimpered, they were bigger than I had remembered, but Lady Heather stood behind me and slowly removed the butt plug. I toyed with the button, this was too far, but the erection pressing against my abused skin told me I wanted them to, and the restraints digging into my wrists told me I had no choice. My bud yielded to her toy as she pushed; the voices of the taunting grew louder and disappeared as I became only aware of what was happening to me. I was being fucked, taken on stage in front of a horny, drunk crowd. I felt the rub of her phallus against my prostate, the stretch of my anus to accommodate her toy and the bawdy screams of their psychological torment. I knew I was being taken, but I was loving it. The glow of arousal spreading from my loins and engulfing my cock as pre-cum poured from it. It was covering my skin, soaking my body as Lady Heather rammed her thick cock into my rectum. As I settled into the rhythm: rough and passionate pounding into my soul, Lady Heidi grabbed hold of my cheeks and pulled my face to one side, before filling my mouth with her black cock. My humiliation was complete: spit-roasted in public with every part of my body glowing in pain and dozens of degrading words pelting my every pore. It was awesome. The ladies bowed at the end, leaving us restrained to the equipment as the curtain fell and they walked off stage. They left us for a further ten minutes, squealing and begging for release until two of them came back and freed us, laughing as they did. "You good?" Lady Heather asked cheerfully as I massaged my aching body. I smiled, although she couldn't see it behind the hood. "Incredible. But will you please sign my paddle now?" I begged, shivering on the cool stage as Lady Heather picked at her gloves. "No," she replied with a smirk. "We're still annoyed with you. You can come back in the intermission tomorrow! I'll give you free tickets to the show, but we'll sign the paddle tomorrow night when you've earned it. If you're brave enough to come back that is." Suddenly, I felt as though I was in their world. And that was exciting. Angry Black Woman I come home from work after a long and gruelling day. You see, my boss is being a sexist pig, my co-workers think that the only way a pretty blonde-haired white woman like myself can succeed is if she sleeps her way to the top and to top it off I'm getting ugly naked pictures sent to my work email by some weirdo loser who thinks that because we studied in a training seminar together that we're bonded for life lol! I'm tired, I mean really tired and drained with hearing people talking crap in my ear and having to rush around all day and play the sweet innocent Barbie broad. I finally get home to see you waiting for me, my sweet Tamara. My gorgeous, butch Black woman. You look gorgeous as ever. You always look gorgeous, your skin glows with a beauty that a million tanning creams could never come close to. The curves of your body are like a symphony, they fill the room with emotion. Even though you are wearing a simple T-shirt and panties, your breasts and your ass redefine the horizon and demand my eyes attention. You make anything look good, I'm so jealous but I'd never openly admit it. You are the Black goddess. I am only Joelle, your loving mistress. I'm now really tired and a little bit moody, all that I want is to have a quiet night and de-stress from the day. I sit down on my couch and kick off my shoes. I look to you for some support "Tamara, can you be a sweetheart and give my feet a rub? You know how much I enjoy it." All of a sudden, I'm faced with a barrage of abuse... "Why the fuck have I got to rub your feet? Who the hell do you think I am? I'm not your slave, I wasn't put here to serve you, why don't you go and fuck yourself you stupid stuck up white bitch!" I'm shocked but not surprised, everything with you is always a struggle. Just because you know that you're sex-on-legs you like to flaunt your attitude in my face and test my limits. "Tamara, please not now. I just want to relax." You give me the finger and turn to walk out of the room. I don't know why, but that enrages me. It annoys me more than my boss, more than my co-workers, more than the pictures sent from Mr. "shrivelled dick" weirdo. I feel the anger build up inside of me ready to explode. I pull out a tub full of lube and grab a chunk of it in my hand. I then run around the house to look for you. You're in the bedroom, sorting out some clothes and laying them neatly on the bed. I can hear you still swearing under your breath, full of attitude and swagger: "Who the hell does she think that she is? Dumb slut, I'm not going to do a damn thing for her..." Within the blink of an eye: I run up behind you, push you face forward onto the bed, rip off your panties and shove my fist up your ass! It's so lubed up that it slides in as easily as a finger would in a pumpkin pie ;) You moan with both shock and fear combined and your knees instantly buckle, leaving you sprawled out on the bed with your backside in the air. With no remorse, I start fisting you violently. In and out, in and out, in and out, with increasing speed and power until I shove it in as far as it will go. I can feel your ass trying to contract around my wrist, your hands are grabbing the bed sheets and your legs are trying to crawl away to create a tiny distance to allow you to get your breath back. You're panting like a dog. I pull out my fist and feel you recoil with the sudden emptiness. Then quick as a flash, I grab both of your arms and handcuff them behind your back. I also put ankle bracelets on you and secure them to the bedposts. It was just in time, because by now you are starting to recover with your usual annoying attitude. "What the fuck are you doing JoJo? How dare a little white girl like you tie me up like this!! When I get free, I'm going to make you pay!" I stare at you laying there: tied up like a christmas turkey, your T-shirt is damp with the sweat pouring down your back and there's lube still dripping out of your wonderful ass. Even after being anally assaulted, you still look fine, but I won't admit this to you.... "Shut the fuck up Tamara!! I'm sick of your shit. You're always annoying me with your irritable butch ways, well I'm tired of it! Tonight, you're going to do what I say. I'm going to make you into my slave, you're going to assume your natural role and serve me for a change" I crawl on top of you and rip your T-shirt off. I watch your legs wriggle with the bracelets and your hands pull against the handcuffs. As I remove your final piece of clothing, you raise your pathetic arms as high as you can and with your last ounce of strength you give me two middle fingers and whisper the words "White bitch!" That's the final straw for me! I run to my special wardrobe and bring out a "huge cat o' nine tails" whip, my strap-on and a huge dildo. I put on the strap-on and lift up the whip: "You stupid fucking slut" I say calmly, "You're going to apologise for that! I'm going to beat you like a dog" Crack!! The whip comes down on your exposed ass and you holler with agony "Aaaargh!" "What was that Tamara? I can't hear you!" Crack!!! It causes you to arch your back to diffuse the pure pain. "Aaaaaaah!" Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! By now the intensity is too much, your wrists strain against the handcuffs, your mouth is open but it makes no sound and there are tears streaming from your eyes. You're now a blubbering wreck. "I'm sorry Tamara but I still can't hear you..." Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!!!!! "I-I-I-I...I'm sorry" "What was that?" Crack! "I said that I'm sorry" "Say that you're sorry for being a stuck-up black bitch!!" "B-b-b-but...." Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!!!!! "Say that you're sorry for being a stupid stuck-up black bitch!!!" "I-I-I-I I'm sorry for being a stupid stuck-up black bitch!!!" Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!! Crack!!!!! Your eyes are clenched closed, I can hear the racing of your heart and the gasps of your lungs as you fight to remain conscious. I'm towering over you with the look of a deranged madwoman. You can't see me as I put down the whip and begin to lube up the dildo and my strap-on. "Now my dear sweet Tamara, I want you to tell me that you are a slave to the white goddess..." "But I can't say that..."you plead pitifully, "If you don't say it... I'll call up all your subs and get them to come and witness how pathetic their black goddess Tamara really is. I'll tell them how your attitude is only a pretence and that you beg to lick my ass and deep down you constantly dream about grovelling before me. Come on Tamara, I'm only getting you to admit what you already know in your heart... Just Say it!!!" You're too tired to fight it and besides you know that my words have a ring of truth about them. Still, the fear that your subs might find out about your own addiction to humiliation is something that you can't risk. So you pause and slowly clear your throat... "I'm a slave to the white goddess" "Louder & say my name!" "I'm a slave to the white goddess jojo!" "Louder bitch!" "I'M A FUCKING SLAVE TO THE WHITE GODDESS JOJO!!!" And with that, I plunge my strap-on into your pussy and the lubed dildo into your ass simultaneously. You come like a rocket. Flashbacks of all the pain and humiliation dart across your mind. You see white lights in your head and your body convulses with each wave of pure overwhelming joy!! I untie you and you immediately give me a hug. You're like a child who's had a terrible nightmare. I cradle you in my arms and rock you back and forth. I place one of my breasts in your mouth and watch you suck it like a newborn baby. You look gorgeous, even after all that I've put you through, you still look gorgeous. I'm so jealous, but I'd never openly admit it. Then we sleep a good sleep. Angry Black Woman Syndrome Hey, there. My name is Guillaume Mathieu but my friends call me Guy. I am twenty five years old and hold a Master's degree in Business Administration from McGill University in the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. I work for the Quebecor Media Corporation. I made four hundred and seventeen thousand dollars after taxes last year. I drive a Mercedes Benz. But my good fortune isn't what this tale is about. I'm a young Black man with a rather unusual story to tell. I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Northern Haiti, but raised in the Quebec region of Canada. I was adopted by a wealthy French-Canadian couple, Arthur and Adelaide Mathieu. I guess I have much to be thankful for. I love my parents, and I love my family. However, I am in the middle of an identity crisis. I'm starting to wonder what does being a young Black man in North America mean to me. Seriously. This is about my search for answers. I recently visited the North side of the island of Haiti where I was born. I thought I would feel like I belonged. However, I was wrong. The island is beautiful, and the people are fascinating but I'm different from them. Must be how Superman would feel on Krypton after being raised on the planet earth if he could ever make it back to his doomed home world. There is a hole in my life. Growing up as a young Black man in a wealthy white community wasn't a bed of roses. Even though my loving parents tried to protect me from racism, they couldn't. one day, I was driving my father's bright red Mercedes through the streets of Quebec City when a policeman from the provincial police force stopped me. He asked me for my driver's licence. I gave it to him. He called me all kinds of names when I told him that the car belonged to my family. He actually booked me, and I spent the night in a prison cell because he thought I had stolen the fancy car. My parents were mad as hell. They sued the Quebec government and the police officer personally. Three months after the scandal made national headlines, officer Sylvain Tremblay was fired from the police force. He did apologize publicly to me for what he did before he got fired but that wasn't enough for my vindictive parents. They wanted his hide, and since they're wealthy and powerful, they got what they wanted. I was only eighteen at the time of the scandal, but it marked me for life. I enrolled at McGill University. A truly beautiful school. I spent the next few years learning the ins and outs of the business world. I had professors from America and England and they were the very best in the world. While at McGill University I met a beautiful young woman named Madeleine Saint Hillaire. A six-foot-tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed gal who simply took my breath away. Her parents are recent immigrants to the Province of Quebec. They come from the region of Marseille in the South of France. Madeleine attends the University of Montreal, and she's one of the most brilliant gals in their criminology program. I was smitten with her from the moment we met, and the feeling was mutual. I've always dated white girls, and my parents approved. I had few Black friends growing up. The few Black guys I befriended while enrolled at Saint Joseph Academy in Montreal told me that they found me weird. Apparently, I talked like a white guy, and I dressed like a nerd. I am a firm believer that business casual is the best style a man can sport. Anytime. Anywhere. It's appropriate for almost every occasion. I've never once felt right in my entire life. Seriously. And I knew the fact that I was raised by a white couple had something to do with it. Somehow, I was missing a certain element of Blackness and Black folks could sense it about me the moment they met me. They knew I was different. I couldn't hide it. And I hated it. For I never really fit into the wealthy white world of my adoptive parents either. One day, I was walking through the streets of Ottawa, Ontario, when something amazing happened. This young Black woman was walking around, talking on her cell phone. She crossed the street without looking and this car came barreling toward her. Without hesitation I leapt into action and pushed her aside. We landed harshly on the pavement, but were otherwise unhurt. I helped the young lady to her feet. She looked me up and down. I smiled and introduced myself. When she didn't respond, I figured she didn't speak French so I addressed her in English. I speak several languages, including Spanish, Portuguese, Hindi, Mandarin Chinese, German and Japanese. I grew up among the sons and daughters of the wealthiest people in the Confederation of Canada. Picking up languages was easy. None of that was helping me deal with the pretty young Black woman who stared at me, stunned. I figured she was in shock and gently shook her. She batted my hands away. I bit my lips. What the heck? The young woman told me not to touch her. I told her I was just making sure she was alright. She told me she was fine, then she stalked off. Walked away without saying thank you. Wow. I went home that night, not believing what just happened. The young Black woman's ingratitude puzzled me. Would it have killed her to say thank you? I don't know. I was staying in Ottawa for a three-day conference. I stayed at the Comfort Inn hotel. It was alright, I guess. I missed my darling Madeleine but she assured me I would be fine without her for a couple of days. I went to the Rideau Shopping Center for a quick bite after some really boring meetings with Japanese businessmen, and guess who I ran into? The young Black woman from the other day. She sat there with three other young Black women. They were having an animated discussion. I sat near them, gently eating the Manchu Wok plate I had just bought. The young Black women's discussions were really loud and kind of fascinating. They were going on and on about Black men, about how lousy Black men were. They dismissed all Black men as simple brutes and thugs. Also, they complained that Black men had zero interest in higher education. A tall Black guy in a business suit walked by with a red-haired white lady also clad in business attire. I recognized the red-haired white lady as Kristen, a classmate of mine at McGill University. I had no idea she worked in Ottawa. Interesting. I waved at Kristen but she didn't see me. I continued listening to the young Black women's conversations. Upon seeing Kristen with the Black businessman, they scoffed and rolled their eyes. They called that Black guy every name in the book...behind his back of course. The words 'sell-out' along with 'white bitch' and 'colour-struck fool' kept coming out of their mouths. I shook my head. Wow. The young Black woman whose life I saved the other day seemed the loudest of them all. She really seemed to hate Black men in general, particularly the ones with white girlfriends. To me, Kristen and the Black guy she walked with seemed like co-workers rather than boyfriend and girlfriend. I seemed to remember Kristen passing out flyers for the GLBT club at McGill University so I was reasonably sure she wasn't totally heterosexual. Maybe she was a gay white woman having dinner with a Black male co-worker. Of course, those thoughts would never occur to the angry young Black women at the Rideau Shopping Center food court. When a and homeless-looking chubby white guy in his sixties walked by with a Black woman half his age, the young Black women at the table cheered her on. They hooted and hollered, congratulating the sister for 'moving on up' and getting herself a white man. I sighed, and decided that I had enough. I rose, and approached the loud young Black women's table. The one whose life I saved blinked when she saw me. She looked at me and asked me if we knew each other. I could feel her girlfriends eyes on me, assessing me. I knew how I looked. A six-foot-three, well-built young Black man in a twelve-hundred-dollar business suit. I had a McGill University class ring. And my black leather briefcase costs more than the average Ottawa government worker's weekly salary. I introduced myself as the Black gentleman who saved her from the speeding car in whose path she foolishly walked the other day. Her girlfriends gasped in surprise, and I knew that she'd told them about me. I told her that I heard every word of her conversation with her angry Black girlfriends. I shook my head in disgust, then continued. I think I understand the game now. When a Black man walks around with a white woman, Black women seethe with anger and curse them. When a Black woman walks around with the most crusty-looking white man, other Black women cheer her on. The white man's character, his income, his level of education, his views on racial issues, his way of treating women of any color, his health status, his parental status, none of these things ever came into play in the minds of Black women. All the saw was his white skin color, which made him a god in their eyes. Not even white women viewed white men as pure and perfect deities. Black women were really living in a world of illusion. The young Black women at the table stared at me angrily, but they knew I was right. Besides, I was definitely on a roll, and there was no stopping me now. I told them that I worked for the Human Resources Department of the largest media company in all of Canada. My job was to tell insecure WHITE MEN the magic words 'you're hired' and the doomsday words 'you're fired'. Myself I couldn't get fired even if I wanted to because my wealthy WHITE parents, multi-millionaires that they are, own large shares of the company stocks. Also, they're good friends with the owners. And now for the coup de grace, I showed them a necklace with a picture of me kissing my darling BLONDE fiancée Madeleine. The young Black women's eyes narrowed. They pursed their lips. I smiled and shrugged. If white women want these eternally, absolutely hateful, totally dreadful witches...they can have them. All I know is that a woman who hates the men of her race probably has something against all men. And she will eventually turn against the man who lets her get too close to him. No matter what color he is. His skin color and all the 'positive mythologies' about him won't shield him from her wrath. Hate begets hate, not love. Anyone who can readily turn against their own can't be trusted. Especially not by those for whom they betrayed their own. Having said those words, I casually walked away. I took a flight from Ottawa International Airport to Montreal that same afternoon. I couldn't wait to see my darling Madeleine. My future wife. The mother of my future sons and daughters. My white goddess. I am thankful to God that I was raised by a white family. It enables me to compete successfully against angry Black women and racist white men...just like my idol Obama. I think I understand my so-called brothers and sisters now, and I understand the white world inside and out. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. Against the forces of hatred, I am simply who I am...invincible.