Letter from Good Hope Road

Dear Shoeblossom:

Cymbeline really knows how to give a blowjob. I don't understand it, because she's such a committed feminist out in the real world, she's a lawyer for abused women, but when we're home, she's constantly between my legs, her dark head pumping away on my hard cock, as I reach down and twist and flick her nipples.

"So tell me about equal pay for equal work." I say, as I take my long, thin Malacca cane and whack her back as Cymbeline services me. "Tell me about how men don't deserve child visitation, I love that one!" Again I slam the cane down, but Cymbeline hardly moves a muscle, except of course for her jaw muscles.

No, when I come to see Cymbeline, she looks at me, kinda sadly. Her full breasts are generally poking out of whatever tart blouse she's wearing—she's not one of those ugly feminist types, thank God.

I nod and Cymbeline pulls her top off and takes one wrist in the other behind her back and I generally take my Lochgelly Tawse, an evil little whip, and land a few on her sensitive nipples, until I see those glorious tears.

Cymbeline is always silent—she knows not to annoy me. She makes few noises and lets me have at it against her breasts...I'm making up for the girls who wouldn't give it up to me in high school, probably.

Then I unzip my cock, as she's weeping and holding her welted bosom. I shake it at her, and she comes forward, excited about getting to service me...but I generally bat her away. "Why should I let you suck my dick, you filthy pig?" This is my favorite part of the whole deal. The "filthy pig" thing always makes me smile.

"P-please, Drayton..."Cymbeline begs, tears coursing down her cheeks. She's forgotten about the damage to her breasts from my Tawse. Perhaps I didn't hit her hard enough? I take up the Tawse again, my dick flopping around on the outside of my pants.

"Hands behind your back, NOW." I order, and Cymbeline grasps her wrists again, looking downcast. SLASH! The Tawse is a nasty leather thing, and it really does a number on Cymbeline's breasts. Now she has long red weals across those perfect areolas. My dick is getting quite excited as I stare at her.

Often then, I'll put it back in my pants, to Cymbeline's distress. I'll pick up another implement in my bag of tricks, a plastic curtain rod. Seemingly benign, the curtain rod can really cause pain without doing serious damage. I don't want to wind up in jail; you know...I've been there before!

Stepping closer, I nod and again poor Cymbeline clasps one wrist in the other, behind her back and I reach out and whack her across her left breast with the plastic curtain rod.

I am actually trying to find some steel ones on the Internet, they might be more fun, however, the plastics do make Cymbeline howl, just a bit...just a little pleasure for good old Master Drayton.

I reach out and whack both boobs at the same time with the plastic curtain rod. Cymbeline bites her lip and looks at the floor, trying not to make any sort of sound that might anger me. Because, of course then I'd leave and go home, and she wouldn't have been allowed to suck my magnificent black cock.

I swing the curtain rod again, this time hitting one of her hard nipples. "Did I give you permission for that nipple to become erect?" I pound the plastic rod on Cymbeline's nipple for a good thirty seconds until her breast is flat, as it should be...that's the way I like it!

I met Cymbeline at the Needle Point, Good Hope Road Township's sadistic pick-up meat market...where I happen to bartend, though I have an unusually good employee benefits package, because I am married to the owner! People often ask me if Ginger resents my amorous wanderings, and I always reply...that the day she's allowed to talk back, I might find out!

Ginger threw her considerable inheritance into BDSM bars and clubs right after she graduated from Smith College—she has four of them in the state, and it's made her quite a rich woman. Perhaps all the money, compiled with her good looks and high IQ makes Ginger feel guilty that she's got such a good package, and that's why she needs me to keep her humble? I'm not a psychiatrist.

Of course Ginger got into the BDSM thing long before she bought the bars—maybe she got sick of guys drooling over her curves and tumbled blond locks, guys richer than she was begged her to marry them from the time she was eighteen.

But apparently she was even bored by guys in the bondage scene, because she began writing me while I was across the country doing seven years for mail fraud—I'd been pretending to be a woman, and a dominatrix, and somehow getting men to send me all the family dough, and although that might not be illegal, the Man got me anyway.

As I have few other resources, I began writing stories for various spanking and bondage monthlies from my cell, making fifty to a hundred bucks a month, not much—and I was quite honest in my byline, using my name "Drayton Binks is a prisoner at Leavenworth...he'd love correspondence!"

I got a lot of interesting letters, in addition to my remuneration from the fans. But Ginger had some power, that girl did. We had a great exchange, and she helped me get a WAY early parole, and I came to work at her bar, and eventually we got married.

It is a jarring experience having a woman who's just sprung you from the joint requests "punishment" the first night out. I'd never really done the hands on, real time stuff. But I picked up the slack fast.

It was jarring, though. We were still just buddies—Ginger had picked me up at the prison and we were driving across country, Leavenworth's in Kansas, lots of roads—and we stopped in a motel.

Ginger got us a room with twin beds, but when I came back from using the commode she was kneeling on the bedroom floor, naked, and there was a long, evil looking whip on the bed. Ginger, unlike Cymbeline has small breasts and looks like she's about thirteen, but I went at it, and apparently I passed the test.

Then I met Amadeus, after the first few weeks making Long Island Iced Teas at the Needle Point. Amadeus is our beer supplier, and is quite a foppish guy, well dressed, Lexus, all that happy horseshit. "You have beautiful muscles, Dray." Amadeus told me in a startlingly sycophantic tone." I'd love to lick and kiss them—for a tribute, of course."

A tribute! Well, now. Five hundred bucks to visit Amadeus's house for an hour or two. I lay on his bed and he licked me and kissed me all over. Usually in the joint you really have to terrorize a new little white boy to get this sort of treatment, but I don't mind getting it in exchange for cash. I was a bit nauseated when he said I reminded him of Mike Tyson...there was a virtual shrine to Tyson all over the walls.

"I fantasize about Master Mike Tyson flexing his muscles and tying me down and whipping and sodomizing me." Amadeus told me with a dreamy look in his eyes. "I imagine his huge dick splitting my mouth, my very cheeks open as he skull-fucks me...Drayton?"

I reached down and grabbed Amadeus's ponytail (all these liberal white faggots have one) and shook his little head until his teeth rattled. "You ever sucked any big black dick, white boy...I gonna give you some a dis." My mother, a Classics scholar at Spellman College would have been horrified at my new attempt on the King's English...but money, you know.

I stood up and flexed my muscles at Amadeus, who looked at me as if I were the Wrath of God. I was still wearing my pants, and I pulled my belt off, and grabbed Amadeus, tossing him on the bed. WHACK! SMACK! THWACK! CRACK! Aah, it's good to get some exercise. Amadeus began sobbing copiously as the belt fell again and again.

I grabbed Amadeus's shoulders and shook him. "You're a sick little weird ass faggot. Suck my dick you honkey motha." Again, no black people I've ever met use the word "honky" but he wouldn't understand "ofay" and I had to terrorize him on his own grounds.

Amadeus weighs about one hundred fifty pounds soaking wet, and I am six foot seven, and tip the scales at three hundred, most of it muscle. He went at my dick like he was eating a burrito, and I shot my semen so hard it almost blew out the back of his head. The following week, he was dressed in pink and blue shortie pajamas with a drop seat in the back, and it was a truly sickening experience, but again I got paid.

Priscilla, one of the Needle Point's quieter patrons had very red hair and limpid eyes, and she approached me one day as I was about to go off my shift. "Say, Dray, I understand you do domination sessions for money."

I looked at her in surprise. Pris is the Science Editor for the Good Hope Daily Monocle and seemed more sensible, but no... Under my penetrating gaze Priscilla quickly looked at her shoes. "I-I'd like one, I think. Amadeus tells me you're really good."

I protested that I could wouldn't charge for such a pleasant young lady, but she insisted. "I know you're worth it, and I want to give you a tribute." I was beginning to really enjoy that word. I'd begun to notice that the difference between a crack addict and a crack connoisseur was how much money and what effort you had to go through to get it.

I was getting quite a stipend from Amadeus, and now Priscilla wanted to help out, too. Who am I to be insulted by their filthy lucre? In Priscilla's back yard, she had a small building that she called her Woodshed. She asked me to meet her there the next day at three o'clock.

Priscilla is in her late twenties, but she likes to look young!

When I opened the door, her long red hair was tied into pigtails, and she was wearing a frilly white dress, knee high white stockings and patent leather Mary Janes. She was licking a lollipop. Normally, Priscilla was very chic, so I had to put my tongue in the side of my mouth to keep from chortling.

Then she said "Master, I didn't memorize my Bible verse for Sunday school. You told me what to expect, didn't you?" Again, I was boiling to giggle, but there's nothing funny in business, right? I could save it for when I made my weekly call to my brother Lauder when we exchanged our what-did-the-crazy-ofays-do now stories.

I made my voice boom as I stared down at her, quivering in her ridiculous white crinoline dress. "Prissy, I told you to study the Bible, and I find you here with a lollipop. Master is deeply disappointed in you." I picked up a small plank from the floor. I could tell it had been used in this fashion before, as one end was whittled down to a handle.

Priscilla looked up at me, begging."Oh, Master, I promise not to do this again, I'll study real hard, Honest, I will!" But I was tapping the plank-paddle against my thigh, and then I commanded Priscilla to bend over a nearby carpenter's horse. "Now you'll get what you deserve. I can't believe I made the mistake of sparing the rod."

"I...please don't pull down my panties, I'm too old for that, too sophisticated, Sir." Priscilla looked up at me, and I smiled grimly, of course. I pulled up her dress, and pulled her panties down, revealing a curving and freckled buttock.

"You have lost all privileges towards maturity, Priscilla, and I have bared your bottom. Now be a brave girl so we can get this over quickly, for I am very disappointed in you." I swung the wooden paddle, and it crashed across her cheeks ten times, and I finally stopped because she was sobbing like there was no tomorrow.

I stepped back, just a little worried, but then she hopped off the carpenter's horse and took my arm. "Daddy, I want to apologize for having disappointed you, Sir. I want to make it up to you." And she pulled her white frilly dress off, and then busily unlocked her bra and stepped out of the panties which were tangled round her ankles...

My fame around the Needle Point as a part-time master grew, and I got quite a few proposals. Ginger wasn't happy with it, but in a way it added to her humiliation, and of course that made her hot—a win-win situation for me, no doubt about it.

Blonde and cheery, Jorling was from Europe, and had settled in Good Hope just for the summer, before she returned to Crete, where she was a banker of some sort. Jorling was much taller than my other submissives, about six two, but otherwise was quite compact, though her large breasts were quite lovely.

It was Jorling who introduced me to electrical play. "You sure this isn't going to damage you?" I asked, a wary parolee. But Jor just shook her head merrily, and I attached clamps to each of her nipples, both connected to some sort of device attached to a car battery.

It's a frickin' miracle she got this thing through Customs, but apparently Jorling took this around the world with her, finding Masters and Mistresses who wanted to try it out on her. Ginger watched jealously from a small cage I'd stuffed her in.

I pressed a button on the gadget that was attached to the battery, and there was a ZZZZTTT sound, and Jorling jumped, and would've grabbed her boobs, except that she was hogtied. I pressed it again, and she screamed, but then smiled through her tears.

Then I unhooked Jor, and untied her and helped her rise. She was just beautiful, and I stroked her breast tenderly, and Ginger, from behind bars, burst into angry tears. As Jor was relaxing with my caresses, I twisted her left nipple so hard she buckled over, and then grabbed her by her long hair and knocked her into the wall, not hard enough to seriously hurt, but just a little jolt.

I picked up Jorling's other little odd possession, her Fun Wand. This was electrically based as well, and I understood it was used by police in countries with weaker Constitutions than ours.

I touched Jor's boobs with the Wand and BZZZZZZZed it, and she screamed, and then I touched Jor's crotch and she howled again. Then I went over to Ginger's cage, and touched the metal with the Wand, and the entire thing shook, jolting the shit out of Ginger. Hey, you play with Dray, you play with fire.

Back I went to Jorling, who now had absolute terror in her eyes. "Take it easy, Drayton, I don't know if you're used to the power of the Fun Wand—"and as she said "Wand" I touched the Wand to her tongue and it kicked her into the wall like a rabid mule.

I turned the Fun Wand off, and tossed it on the floor, and snapped my fingers, ordering Jorling to arise. "I want my dick sucked, and I don't care if your tongue is sore." I snapped. I honestly think I may have cured Jorling of her interest in electricity!

And there are other strange clients. Phaedra, who dresses in hoopskirts and has this black-buck-who rapes-Missus-on the plantation thing, and Yvette, who likes having darts thrown at her bubble-butt.

Aisling likes it when I put out cigars on her small breasts, and Rochelle, a vulgar Jersey import, has this thing where I ride her like a "pony girl" Sometimes a buddy of mine, Master Herschel and I have races on our girls, and the loser gets a real flogging...

I guess looking threatening goes both ways, eh, Shoeblossom? I'm a big, frightening looking black man—no one would be able to tell that I read Little House on the Prairie books and cut out paper dolls with my sisters when I was as old as ten.

It's worked against me in the past—the judge really shouldn't have given me such a heavy sentence for mail fraud, he must've just been terrified by my 300 pounds of muscle Mike Tyson grimace—but now I dominate crazy white people who are constantly in a fever of begging for the great threat of getting it from the Black Master! Who knows?

Bay once told me that I was the nightmare every submissive needed, and that's an artistic way of putting it. Bay is a solar engineer and has a huge IQ, and also sells books of poetry. In a way I'm a bit intimidated by her—smart women have always scared me a bit.

But I hide it well—I get together with Bay and thrash her with my short dog-whip, and it pleases me to make her dance and scream. But I'm sure it takes her mind off her business pressures. Bay tells me often that she hasn't needed a therapist since we began our "work."

Pandora is a venture capitalist who only DOESN'T have a migraine, she says when I'm shooting rubber bands at her bare thighs and her soft pink nipples...when I'm making her dance like a stripper and a whore, and screaming at her sorry ass, Pimp style.

What's great about Pan is, she's such a tiny little thing, only eighty-six pounds...almost anorexic, except I've seen her scarf down a T-bone steak...but when I spank her, I can use my big, black hand and it completely covers her little buttocks.

A couple of whacks and she's sobbing and her butt looks like a tomato. And then I tweak her tiny breasts, and it just takes one or two twists with my thumb and forefinger, and her boobs are about to expire, but of course they recover quickly!

I also get a nice monthly check from an aging transvestite, who used to be an Air Force colonel, but now prefers to be referred to as "Queenie". A visit to Queenie's house is a trip, let me tell you.

I visit Queenie every fortnight, and between visits, he's kept in a chastity belt. I have the keys, and unlock them when I walk in, and believe you me, he's rarin' to go. If the visit goes well, I allow Queenie to jerk off onto my muddy boots and then clean the semen and the mud with his dedicated tongue.

He, or she as the case may be, dances and does little piano recitals. I am able to detect mistakes in his playing, and if he misses a note, or even if he doesn't I fetch the razor strop and pull down his pants and whip his bare ass and his cock and balls until Queenie's a'screamin.

Sometimes I stroke Queenie's cock until it's straight and trembling and then I whip it down into almost nothingness. And then stroke it again! As Queenie hasn't cum in fifteen days, it generally makes him crazy, because he's such a horny little fucker!

Joyously, Queenie is the best at performing fellatio, and my nickname for him is Velvetmouth. When my brother Lauder came to visit, I brought Lauder to meet Queenie, and Queenie made Lauder come so hard that Lauder practically asked Queenie to marry him! After all, we mustn't make gender our gulag.

What more can I tell you? I am a happy Negro with a good life, with these psycho masochist white folks. Shoeblossom, it's a booming industry. I'm cleaning up with visits, and you are with your column. Let's hope the result of warped childhoods continues to make us rich!

Best, Drayton Binks

Dear Mr. Binks:

Here's hoping that you're right. I just hope you don't go too far in your domination...hit too hard, and you might be re-voking that parole, but good luck,

Shoeblossom