My Life of Crime - Monique shows me why it is preferable to go straight. By Michael Elk My life of crime was short, and anything but successful. It had begun out of necessity because I couldn't stand my father (who was both physically and mentally abusive). I had left home at 17, and without support of a family, it had been all too easy to quit school. Society doesn't have many support systems for young, healthy, out of work teenagers. I'd had to learn to fend for myself, and stealing was the easiest route. For that reason I now found myself in a stranger's apartment, rifling through dresser drawers, looking for hidden valuables. Two months before, the thought of breaking and entering would have been foreign to my psyche, but the need to survive had forced my initiation into crime. I wasn't a professional by any means. I'd learned to pick the simpler locks and I knew a fence who would buy stolen goods, but my larcenies were hit and miss with no real strategy. However I would never get a chance to hone my skills, because on this, my third outing, my felonious career was about to encounter a bump in the road and come crashing to a halt. I was in the bedroom, engrossed in searching the drawers of a dresser, when I suddenly realized that I was being watched. Horrified, I quickly turned towards the doorway. There confronting me was a young, black woman, about 5'10", in shorts and tank top, blocking the entrance to the bedroom; and to my only exit. I had re-locked the door to the apartment after I'd broken in, but somehow I'd been absorbed in the job and hadn't heard the key in the lock, or the entry of the owner. Now I'm not prejudiced against color. I've had friends in school who were black. However my father was magnificently bigoted, and from the time I was small, preached the inferiority of other races; and some of his nonsense had sunk in. So I was relieved first to see that my opposition was a girl, who didn't appear overly robust, and secondly that she was black. I had little respect for black females, and therefore assumed they would have little respect for themselves, and thus would provide little opposition. "Get out of my way." I ordered in my most threatening voice, fully expecting to be obeyed. I quickly made for the door and escape, trying to hide my face with one hand, and assuming that the girl would retreat as I charged towards her. She hadn't yet uttered a word, so I couldn't read her state of alarm, and for just an instant I feared she was going to make a stand and fight. However at the last second, she stepped back into the living room and to one side of the doorway, providing the path I desperately needed for flight. I was so sure of my superior strength, and of her expected passivity, that it was a complete surprise when her knee suddenly swung upwards and caught me fully in the stomach. I was running at the time, and didn't see it coming, so that it felt like the knee came half way through my body. The pain was agonizing and doubled me up like an accordion. Bent over, I was vulnerable. She must have clasped her fingers together and hit me with both fists across the back of the neck. I've never been hit that hard in my life. And it was worse because I couldn't see the blow coming. The force of it drove me violently to the floor where my head banged solidly off the wooden surface. I was stunned and before I could recover, she was on my back, with an arm around my throat choking me. I tried to pry her arm from my neck, but I couldn't get leverage lying sprawled flat on the floor. Then I attempted to get to my feet, but that proved no easy task. I had to lift her weight as well as my own, and I was feeling dizzy and weak. With considerable effort, I made it to my knees, but for some reason my body would no longer obey orders from my mind. I remember watching a pair of long black legs encircling my waist, and a pair of white running shoes crossing and locking in place. Then it was like a curtain came down over my eyes. Everything went black, and though I was still aware of my surroundings, I could no longer see or move. After that I have no memory of events, and must have sunk into unconsciousness. ********* I was outraged. I'd come home from shopping to find a young white boy in my bedroom searching through my underwear drawer, and so engrossed in rummaging for valuables that he hadn't heard me enter. I was homicidally furious at the violation of my territory, and in that state, could really have killed. Fear didn't even enter my thoughts. My first instinct was to retreat to the kitchen to call the police. However before I had time to do anything, he looked up and saw me. He was slender, about my height, and appeared to be around 18. Confronting a burglar in one's apartment should have been a frightening experience, but my rage, along with the age of this boy and the shear panic on his face, made him decidedly unthreatening. His fear nourished my courage, and that allowed my anger to bloom and fester without hindrance. So when he charged the door in an effort to escape, and the reaction of a sane person would have been to stay safely out of his way, my only thought was of retribution. Perhaps I am an instinctive fighter. I reacted rather than thought. My knee was up and driving into his stomach without conscious deliberation on my part. Then when he was bent over, and his neck exposed, it seemed natural to swing my fist as hard as I could against the base of his skull. He went down like a stone and his head hit the floor with a sickening thud. I thought I might have knocked him out, but he was still moving, so I leaped onto his back and wrapped my right arm around his throat. Reaching around his neck, I grasped his left shoulder with my fingers and locked the hold tight. Then I squeezed with all my might, and concentrated on using my weight to hold him down long enough to choke him into unconsciousness. So far my attack had been based solely on an adrenaline driven response. I was so angry and so bent on bringing my violator to justice that I was beyond thinking. But my last boyfriend had been a police cadet, and had shown me where and how to apply a sleeper hold. I hadn't been interested at the time and had barely paid attention. But now, with my left arm free, I remembered, and pressed my thumb hard against the artery that sends blood to the brain. And it quickly produced results. My adversary managed to struggle to his knees, but his movements became progressively more sluggish as his brain cells ran out of oxygen, and in only a moment or two, he collapsed unconscious back to the floor. I ran to the bathroom and grabbed a roll of adhesive tape from the medicine cabinet. By the time I got back, he was coming around, stirring slightly and moaning. I quickly put him back into dreamland, and then began taping his arms together behind his back. It took time to wind enough tape so that he was secured to my satisfaction, and I had to use the sleeper on him twice more before I was finished. When I had first stumbled across the burglary, my objective was to keep the thief from escaping so that I could turn him over to the police. I'd been angry enough to kill. Now I realized that I could kill him, quickly and easily, simply by pressing my thumb against the side of his neck. The feeling of power was intoxicating, and I recognized that I was enjoying myself immensely. Now, the thought of releasing him to authorities became a real downer. I'm not a sympathetic person, and I've always had a mean streak that at times requires suppression. In other words, I can be a real bitch. Anger gave way to the excitement of dominating this boy. I wanted to personally mete out his punishment, to make him suffer. Shit, I wanted to beat the hell out of him. There was no way I was going to turn my prize over to the police now. I was ecstatic with joy and positively glowed with sadistic anticipation. ******* When I finally began to regain consciousness, I discovered that someone was sitting on my back and in the process of tying my arms behind me. No doubt it was the black woman who had knocked me out. My first reaction was one of disbelief, that a mere female could have beaten me so easily. Then came frustration at the thought of going to prison because of being beaten by a girl; and finally fear of the ridicule I would face when the story of my thrashing at her hands became known. I began to struggle in desperation, but it was quickly apparent that my arms were already bound pretty well, and that I couldn't get up with her weight full on my back. Suddenly she swung and clipped me alongside the head with a force that left me stunned. "Keep still." she hissed, and the tone left me in no doubt that she was serious. I'd had enough punishment; I didn't want more. The blow effectively quelled my weak rebellion, and she was able to finish securing my arms while I cowered passively beneath her. I felt her weight lessen, as she finally climbed off me. But then she grabbed my hair and began pulling forcefully upwards. "On your feet, Jerk" she ordered. She wasn't gentle and it hurt like hell. I hastened to comply in order to stave off premature baldness. Once up, she grabbed my ear and, twisting it painfully, steered me back into the same bedroom from whence I'd come. "On the bed and face down." she demanded. Now the last thing I wanted was to be bullied by a female, especially a black one. But my aversion to pain proved stronger, and I meekly got onto the bed and laid there, passive and frustrated, while my captor wound tape around each of my ankles and secured them to the metal foot rail of the bed. It wasn't a quick procedure because she used so many windings of the tape. I turned my head so that I could see what she was up to. It was the first time I'd really had a chance to observe her. She looked to be about 25, possibly a young 30, with strong, though not beautiful facial features. Her hair was done up in beads that hung down as far as her shoulders. I've always liked that style on black girls, and have always been curious about how many hours it would take to do, and also how the hair could be washed like that. The hair, along with an enticing cleavage that was conspicuous from my present angle, bestowed such an alluring presence on her that I had this desperate urge to escape, to overpower her, and to ravish her body; and it was tremendously frustrating to be utterly helpless to do anything. Her arms were not huge, but had some definition; and watching the play of her bi- and triceps as she worked, I could appreciate how she was able to hit me so hard. But I didn't just spend my time admiring my captor. Repeated apologies, pleadings for release, and sincere promises of reformation filled what otherwise might have been an awkward silence. If my whining didn't result in my freedom, it did appear to amuse my captor, and seemed to improve her mood. While I begged, she would occasionally interject with "Shut up", or "Button it up, buster", and finally "Jesus Christ! You're a worse baby than a two year old." "Lie there and contemplate your sins." she said, finally finishing with the tape, and smacking me solidly on the rump with an open hand. "I'll be in the living room while you reflect on your life of crime. Feel free to shout for help if you wish. These condominiums are supposed to be soundproof, but if you do happen to summon one of my neighbors, it will just mean that you face punishment from the law instead of from me. Your choice. I expect that their's might be less painful but would last a whole lot longer." ******* By the time I finished tying his arms behind his back, the boy was fully revived. However when I got him to his feet, he was quite unsteady. He'd taken a lot of punishment. I forced him into the bedroom, and then made him lie on the bed while I tied his feet to the iron bars at the foot. I used the adhesive tape because I had nothing else available. It was only about an inch thick, and leg muscles are a lot stronger than arm muscles, so I wrapped the tape from his ankles to the bed posts and back as many times as possible before the tape ran out. I would have preferred stronger bonds, but when I finished, I thought they looked like they would hold. Tied and at my mercy, my captive proved a regular coward. He pleaded so shamelessly and exhaustively that I considered gagging him to shut him up. However his pathos was comical, and I liked his weakness, so that my anger largely dissipated while he whined. A strong personality, or someone sullen and nasty would not have been appealing, and I would have phoned the authorities to haul him away. But this one suited my psyche, and his cowardice made him a keeper and sealed his fate. To discourage any efforts to escape, I insinuated that I was staying in the apartment. However I had to go downtown to make a few purchases, and it would take at least an hour. From the kitchen and bathroom, I grabbed every sharp knife and pair of scissors I could find, and put them in the fridge. If he did happen to break his feet free, his arms would be a lot tougher to extricate with nothing sharp to help him. Then I took my car keys from the hook behind the door and quietly exited the apartment. Once out in the hall, I wedged a doorstop (for use when hands were full carrying groceries or furniture) under the door from the outside, to keep him trapped if he happened to be wandering around inside with his hands still bound. The hardware store was my first stop, where I bought 3 rolls of duct tape. Then I scurried down the street to the local adult store, and purchased a few items (which were not traditional fare for nice girls), enduring a most lecherous leer from the middle-aged clerk who waited on me. When I got back to the apartment, I found the doorstop sitting by the door, but no longer beneath it. Thinking my prisoner had escaped, I was devastated. However I found him in the bedroom, still safely tied, and assumed that a neighbor must have seen the wedge under the door and, thinking he was doing me a favor, removed it. I immediately clamped a leg iron around the boy's ankle, and attached it by a short chain (using a pair of handcuffs) to the iron rung at the foot of the bed. Now I had something a little more solid than the tape to secure my prisoner, and I felt a lot more at ease. "Well? Have you had time to rethink your criminal tendencies?" I asked. "Yes, I was out of money, and needed food. But I won't ever do anything like this again if you'll let me go." "What's your name?" I asked, ignoring his plea. "Ryan" he said weakly. "Well, I'm Monique. Pleased to make your acquaintance." I plunked myself down beside him on the bed. "We're going to have a bit of a trial here to decide your fate, Ryan. I'll be the judge, the jury, the prosecutor, and the only witness. I guess that leaves you with the duties of defense council and defendant. Now I saw you standing in my bedroom, without permission to be in the apartment, searching through my dresser. I assume you were planning to rob me. That is the case for the prosecution. Perhaps you have some other explanation for your presence here? Do you have any comments? A defense of any sort?" "No. I admit I was looking for something to steal. I'm really sorry." "Hmmm..... It seems to me that you are admitting your guilt far too easily. The prosecution contends that your real purpose of being in my clothes drawer was a fetish for women's underwear. You are a pervert, aren't you Ryan. Come clean. It will go much easier on you." "No." he protested vehemently. " I was just trying to see if money or jewelry was hidden there. That's where a lot of people hide things." I'd been toying with him, but I sure hit a nerve. Why it was better to be a thief than to have a minor sexual weakness was beyond me, but there was no doubt that he was sensitive to any suggestion of deviation. I wondered if he really was after my undergarments. "Oh. So you've done this a lot. How else would you know where most people hide their valuables. You are hereby pronounced guilty. Now the judge and jury will adjourn to the living room for tea, and decide on your punishment. My guess is that the deliberations will take about one hour. That will give you time to contemplate your sins." ********* "Has the jury decided on the punishment? Execution, perhaps?" "Yes it has." I answered myself, moving the jury around to the other side of my victim for dramatic effect. Then, again as the jury, "We did think about putting this miserable excuse for a human out of his misery. But then we thought he might possibly respond to compassionate efforts at reformation. So he is to have 10 lashes with the cat-o-nine-tails that you purchased today. That punishment to be carried out immediately. Then he is to perform 2 months of community service - over the next two months of course-." "And how shall he perform this community service?" "Well, we thought, since he has violated the space and the sanctity of the plaintiff, that he should enter into the service of that person, to obey any orders she might deem appropriate, and to more or less be her slave." "Good. Well done. The jury is dismissed. That leaves you and me, Ryan, and the whip of course. Are you ready?" "No, please." he begged. "Now, don't be a baby. You can still opt to be turned over to the authorities. I expect that you'd get a hell of a lot more than two months. Then there's the ridicule you'd endure over the whupping I gave you. The pain from the whip will only last a couple of hours. Your humiliation could last a lifetime. No, you're much better off with my kind of discipline. But first we have to prepare the body." I ceremoniously ripped a strip of duct tape from the roll I'd brought, and approached Ryan. He knew exactly what I intended and began struggling frantically to get free. But the adhesive tape on his arms and ankles held and I was able to get two full wrappings of the duct tape over his mouth and around his head. With that accomplished, his option of yelling for help was gone. I didn't think he would yell, but part way through the whipping, he just might decide that he was better off with the authorities, and that would have spoiled my fun. Next, I took a pair of scissors, and began cutting his T-shirt down the sleeves and up the back. He didn't like that any better than the duct tape and again began flailing about in a fruitless effort to stymie my work. "Stop thrashing about, you dolt." I said. "You'll get cut with the scissors." Apparently he saw the wisdom in that and quieted down, then lay there passively while enduring the rest of the operation. He wasn't silent though. He made loud though unintelligible noises through the tape, and I assumed it had something to do with his dislike of having his clothes destroyed or with his abhorrence at the idea of the whip. Once I'd finished cutting up his shirt, I pulled the material from under his body and threw it in the waste basket. Next I reached under him, undid his belt, and worked it free from enough loops in his shorts that I could pull it all the way out. Then I repeated my scissor craftsmanship on the pants, leaving him clad only in his boxer shorts, shoes and socks. The latter two I would remove once I'd administered his initial punishment, and untied his feet. He could wear slippers around the apartment, and since it was summer, he would be comfortable enough in the boxers. I made a mental note to buy him a couple extra pairs the next time I went shopping. "You ready to take your punishment like a man?" I asked, trying to keep my tone steady and casual to hide my excitement. I'd never had such control over a human being. And I'd certainly never used a whip on one. The power was intoxicating. I could hardly wait to start the persecution, to hear him scream and beg. Well, perhaps I'd have to forgo the screaming and begging because of the tape over his mouth. There are elements of sadism in my personality, but it was so much more than that. Having this boy in my power, and disciplining him was a whole new sexual and erotic adventure for me. The thought of beating him had noticeably quickened my breathing, and my nipples were hard, firm and exquisitely sensitive against the material of my bra. I swung the whip moderately hard, without using my full strength, and was pleased to hear his muffled attempt at a scream, and to see the angry red welt that materialize across his shoulders. I wanted to hurt him, yes; but I didn't want to do permanent damage. I'd never used a whip and had no idea how much force to use. It had a real heft, and I had the feeling that I could do enough damage to kill if I so wanted. The first strike was a test, and appeared to produce the desired result. So I used that as the model for the next nine. I placed the first 3 blows across his shoulders from the left side. Then I moved over to his right for the next 3 so as to hit a different part of his body and not totally mutilate the flesh. Gagged, I didn't think my patsy could make himself understood, but it was clear from the muted noises that he was pleading for a mercy I wasn't prepared to give. Tears began streaming down his face after only two blows. A lesser person than myself might have relented and reduced either the number or the severity of the lashes. But I have standards. Before proceeding, I worked his underwear down to his knees, and delivered the last 4 hits to his plump and meaty buttocks. These blows were particularly satisfying because he had a nice muscular, sexy butt, and whipping it proved highly erotic, producing a pleasant tingling feeling in the area of my groin. Afterwards, I cut the tape from his mouth, arms and legs, leaving him attached to the bed with the chain only. Then I sat on his legs and rubbed salve over his damaged back and buttocks. "There now, its over. That wasn't so bad was it. You should be ashamed over the fuss you made. Why you were whimpering and crying like a baby. All you have to do now is put in your two months service and this will all be like a bad dream. When and if I eventually release you, perhaps you will have learned a lesson and forego your life of crime. I'm going to work hard at reforming you, but I suspect your discipline won't be easy. I'm not a vindictive person, you know, and I only have your best interest at heart. Whipping you is not something I enjoyed. Perhaps when I'm finished with you, I could become something like a parole officer and keep you on track. Why I'll even look into a half way house for you; maybe the John Howard Society, eh? What do you think?" ******* I had to sleep on my stomach for two nights. Monique didn't hold back on the whip, and I now have welts all over my body. I can see them without a mirror where the switch wrapped around my arms. But my back took the brunt of the beating, and is so sore that it must be a real mess. The worse part, though, was having my mouth taped, and the feeling of absolute helplessness. She could have killed me, and there would have been nothing I could have done to save myself. As soon as Monique had finished beating me, she cut the tape from my mouth, my arms and my feet. That left me attached to the bed by a leg iron and short chain which ran from my ankle to the metal bed post. That assured that I wouldn't soon take flight. Even without the restraint, she could have controlled me, because the whipping had taken all the fight out of me. I was forced to remain in the bed for most of the next two days. My captor seemed to want me healed before I was allowed up. For washroom breaks, Monique would place another leg iron, with a longer chain, on my other ankle and lock the chain to the water pipes under the sink in the bathroom. Only then would she release me from the bed. The system worked quite well and gave me enough freedom that I could even take a shower. She had two or three of these chains so that eventually I would be allowed to move freely about most parts of the apartment. With the freedom, one might think there would have been opportunity to take her by surprise and to overpower her. However that wouldn't have been a smart option because she always kept the keys out of my range, and would only bring one key at a time near me while keeping me shackled with two locks. Had I overpowered her, I wouldn't have been able to free myself and might not have been able to summon help. I might have remained manacled to some immoveable object in the apartment and met my end right there, regretting my folly. It wasn't a pleasant thought. ******* After a few days, Monique and I got into a kind of routine. I would rise at 6:00am, cook breakfast, do the dishes, wash the floor, clean the bathroom, make lunch, etc. etc. Monique would have a list of jobs for the day, and I was expected to get them done. Apparently she is a free-lance writer, who has written two books, and is presently working on a script for a TV show. At least that's what she says she does; and although she appears to spend most of the time lying on the couch reading, while I do all the work, it at least explains how she can stay home for most of the day in order to make my life more miserable. She rarely ever goes out, and when she does, I am shackled to the bed with at least two restraints. Monique is not a nice person. She is like some evil black demon, sent to make my life wretched. Most of the time, she's a real bitch, demanding and miserable. Then I have to be careful not to cross her. On rare occasions, she can be in a good mood, and then I get to see how pleasant and likeable she might have been had God favored her with even a morsel of charity. But I can't blame anyone else for the mess I'm in, because I broke into her apartment, and I was incompetent enough to be overpowered by a female. It was just my bad luck to select a real shrew. I still find it hard to believe how easily she subdued me. I'm athletic, and reasonably strong; but I just wasn't expecting her aggression, and that was my downfall. Now, each and every day, I feel amazing frustration at being imprisoned like this. And the frustration is of a decidedly sexual nature, because being dominated by a female, however loathsome, has an decidedly erotic flavor. I desperately want to get free. But I also continually fantasize what I would do to my captress if I could only turn the tables on her. ******* It was on the 5th or 6th day of my captivity that I made the mistake of rebelling. It was mid- afternoon, and after doing my usual chores, making breakfast and lunch, washing the floors and cleaning the bathroom, I was ordered to scrub out the oven. Well the grease had to be an inch deep, black and burned. It was obvious it hadn't been scoured for months, and would take hours of scrubbing. Although I hadn't been treated well by my parents, they had never required me to help around the house, and I wasn't accustomed to housework. Nor did I like doing it. So the oven was the last straw, and I told Monique that I wouldn't do it, and that I was finished working for her. I don't know what I expected. I should have been used to her aggression, but again it took me by surprise. She came at me snarling like a cat, and I reacted by retreating before her savage onslaught. "Oh! You don't like to work, eh? But those are the conditions of your sentence! That was our understanding." She spat out her words with venom, her face thrust forward and inches from mine. She was nearly as tall as I was, and by then my back was against the counter and she was forcing me to lean backwards to avoid her nose gouging into mine. Though her tone was belligerent and hostile, it was also excited, and I realized that she was reveling in the confrontation. "Well I guess we'll just have to change the conditions Ryan." I lost the war before I even had a chance to fight. The meek might inherit the earth, but they weren't likely to dethrone Monique. Her fierce offense took the battle directly to my troops and found them woefully unprepared. I'd not expected her to attack like she did, and so had no plan to cope. And when I noticed her hand sliding between my legs and taking hold of my vitals, it was far to little and far too late for any effective action on my part. I wore only boxer shorts, and I was open and vulnerable through the thin material. With a triumphant and wicked smirk, she began to squeeze. The pain was sudden and terrible. I fell to my knees and almost wretched, but she maintained her grip as I went down. Then, with her free arm, she reached between my legs from the rear and carefully switched hands so that she could move behind me. "Crawl, you worthless piece of shit." she gloated, her voice exhilarated from her triumph. "Act like a dog, then walk on your knees. You cross me and I make your life hell." Then squeezing hard enough to keep me in pain and in control, she forced me into the bedroom, berating me on my foolish revolt, mocking my masculinity at being trounced by a girl, and calling me names that she didn't learn from her mother. And the jubilant pleasure in her voice did nothing to lessen my pain or humiliation. Once inside the room, she made me climb onto the bed face down, and cuffed all four of my limbs to the head- and foot rails. For punishment, I was forced to endure 10 more lashes, and I was terrified that she wouldn't stop and would kill me. Afterwards, I was made to lie prone like that, without food, for 24 hours, with breaks only for the washroom. The next day, when I was released and given the option of resuming my household duties, you can believe that I performed them willingly and with gusto, even though my back was painfully sore and stiff. But now Monique frightened me. She was learning to like sadism, and my rebellion provided her an apprenticeship. From that day on, she carried a hard rubber truncheon, and was prone to lay it on my legs or buttocks whenever I displeased her. It hurt like hell, and I didn't like it one bit, but I was too frightened to challenge her again. Monique wasn't adverse to its application, though, and studiously sought excuses to use it on me. ******** I was discovering that torturing Ryan was like a narcotic. The more I did it, the more I craved the thrill. Whipping him produced a sexual high, and I often found myself breathing hard, with nipples erect, while I punished him. My mood was euphoric, and hurting him was so enjoyable that I had to force myself to control the strength and the number of the strikes. Ryan had refused to clean, and I'd punished him for it. But his rebellion was not unexpected, and I'd been ready when it came. In fact, I set him up. I purposely worked him hard, and was a real bitch to him, endeavoring to force a mutiny so that I would have an excuse to discipline him once again. After this last beating, and as Ryan resumed his work about the apartment, I used his revolt as a reason to carry a rubber baton on the pretense of keeping him under control. However I would shamelessly use any obscure deficiency or error on his part as an excuse to strike him, simply because I enjoyed watching him cower before me. I was ecstatic that I could frightened him so much and I did everything I could to encourage his fear. I also enjoyed his visible frustration at his impotence. I would hit him about the arms and legs, or on his back or buttocks. And within days, his body bore the brand of my zeal, with numerous elongated bruises of varying color where the truncheon had met his flesh. Don't get me wrong. I didn't dislike Ryan. In fact the more I intimidated him, the more I found myself attracted to him. He was young, and relatively good looking. But it was his personality that captivated me. Psychologically, he was weak and malleable, easy to bully and simple to dominate. He meshed perfectly with my psyche, my sadism and my desire to control. It was my increasing use of the rubber baton that eventually led to another altercation and to a singular alteration in our relationship. One day I simply hit him once too often, and he snapped. His revolt didn't completely take me unawares, and perhaps I had even been encouraging it. However he got hold of my wrist, the one holding the baton, and attempted to force me to drop it. He was strong, but he wasn't a fighter. I brought my knee hard up into his groin, and watched him crumble to the floor in agony. On the way down, I managed to hit him two or three times with the baton. With arms over his head for protection, he tried to get up. However I pushed him back down with my foot, and reached down to seize the chain that was attached to his ankle. I grabbed it about 6 inches from his foot and lifted with all my might. I'm quite strong, and I managed to lift his leg as high as my chest. I could only hold his bum an inch or so off the ground, but it made it impossible for him to get up and gave me complete control. While I held him, I flailed at his body with the baton, hitting him time and time again across the arms, legs and shoulders. Soon he was crying and begging me to stop. The fight was already beaten out of him, but for good measure, I stepped on his left arm and pulled sideways on the chain, so that he was forced to roll onto his side and expose his back. Then I methodically flogged him there five or six times. I could have broken bones, but I only wanted to hurt and bruise him, and to teach him exactly who was boss. I'd beaten Ryan badly enough that he had nothing left. He was so weak that I could now have easily thrashed him with my bare hands. I helped him up, and led him back into the bedroom. He was wobbly on his feet, and meekly climbed onto the bed. There I confined him face up by cuffing his legs to the iron rungs at the foot. I wasn't exactly sorry for what I had done - I got too much of a rush from doing it - though I did feel a bit of guilt. However beating him had aroused me beyond belief. I needed sexual relief, and not the self-gratification type that I had used other times after abusing him. I stripped slowly in front of Ryan so that he would know exactly what I intended. He watched but didn't completely comprehend until I was naked and began to move towards the bed. I consider myself quite attractive, even if I don't possess the most pleasant of personalities, so it was with some annoyance that I found my quarry protesting verbally and attempting to resist. However I had him straddled before he could do anything. He tried to sit up, but I seized his wrists and forced him back down. I'd purposely not cuffed his hands so as to give him a chance to defend himself, and to give me a challenge as well. I wanted to completely dominate this boy physically while I raped him. He did struggle, but I held him down easily; and turned my head vigorously from side to side, causing the beads in my hair to strike hard across his face. He didn't like that, and quickly got the message. After that he quieted right down, and took his medicine like the weakling he was. Perhaps it was the beating he had received, or a dislike of black girls, or perhaps even a dislike of black girls raping him, but it took him a long time to get erect. I didn't want to release his hands to fondle him, because my hold on his wrists embodied my power over him. I did straighten my arms and lean way back in order to study my victim - the pleasing definition of muscle in arms and shoulders; the handsome, youthful and fearful visage; and the smooth hairless chest - before lowering my body onto his and beginning to feast. He wouldn't have anything to do with kissing me, so I was forced to nuzzle his neck and feather my tongue over his skin in an attempt at encouraging an erection. But it was not until I seized a nipple and sucked vigorously that I heard him gasp and detected the first signs of interest on his part. So I worked on first one, then the other nipple, rasping with my tongue and nibbling with my teeth, until I could feel his penis, huge and hard against my stomach. Then I moved forward and forced my sexual fissure against the tip. I was so horny that I was quite moist, and the head slipped easily inside. Working him all the way in took a firm push and patience, but there was no rush. He wasn't going anywhere.. I rode him slowly and lazily, working my body leisurely back and forth over his, and delighting in the marvelous sensations I felt below. But I wanted the feeling of power to last forever. The world was reversed. It was female raping male, brains over brawn, black enslaving white. Feeling him inside me was pure carnal domination. The temperature was warm, and sweat glistened off our bodies. My eyes never left his face as I worked, and I was pleased when he couldn't meet my gaze. I delighted in his initial resistance, his first reluctant pleasure, his increasing rapture, and his ultimate surrender, as I drove him mercilessly towards orgasm. Myself, I took a little longer, but he remained adequately erect, and in a few minutes, I was able to get satisfaction as well. Ryan, of course, was fully sated as I brought myself on, and so became a very embarrassed observer to my lascivious rutting. I loved his bashful, humiliated reaction. It was the icing on the cake, and my favorite part of the rape. ******* My emotions take me from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of despair, and then back again, often in the breath of a single afternoon. Last Saturday, I was viciously beaten and then raped by Monique. That should have left me bitter and angry, and full of hate. However, unlike females, the male has a sex drive not directly fused to ideas of love and tenderness, but more immediately reliant on the presence of someone attractive and the condition of one's penis. The only orgasms I had ever experienced were self-inflicted, and so I was totally unprepared for the erotic frustration of being overpowered by a female, and for the agonizing pleasure she forced upon me. That rape produced a transformation in our relationship. Up 'til then, Monique had been ill-tempered and belligerent, and my treatment had been vicious. Afterwards, she mellowed considerably, and occasionally gave me the impression that she liked me. Although I still did all the cleaning, she began to work along side me in preparing meals and doing dishes, and we would chat more or less as equals. At such times it was easy to accept her as a confidant and to forget that I was her prisoner and that she had beaten me soundly on several occasions. However the greatest alteration in our relationship and in our lifestyle was in our sleeping arrangements. After that first sexual encounter, Monique stayed in the bed with me and spent the night there. The next morning, I was awakened with a hand around my sex, encouraging an erection, and required to perform once again. Once the sexual barriers were overcome, I discovered that my captor was an enthusiastic devotee of the sport. From then on we shared the same bed, and she would insist on sex several times each evening and once or twice during the day, sometimes tying me down, and sometimes not, but usually taking the superior position. She was experienced and inventive, and quickly taught me the artistry and pleasures of various artificial aids, unusual positions, and oral sex. I have to admit that I became hooked on this carnal gratification. I had never been with a girl before, and it was like giving candy to a baby. I savored the pleasure, and eagerly anticipated our sessions. One minor problem was that her libido was healthier than mine. I couldn't keep up to her, and occasionally wanted to say " No, not tonight. I've got a headache." However things were going so smoothly, now that I was the main instrument of her sexual needs, that I didn't want to rile the monster and spoil our rapport. I was still more than a little afraid of her, and well knew just how mean and miserable she could be when vexed. ******* I have no idea what will happen in two weeks when my sentence is complete. Here, I have free room and board, and something of a family life and stability for the first time since I left home. Monique has a caustic tongue, and is not wont to use it if I displease her. So my anxiety at offending keeps me fearful and forces me to be unnaturally timid. Being a submissive was far from my expectations even two months ago, but being submissive to a black girl was not even in my universe. However I don't look forward to returning to the street where I will have to search for food and a place to sleep each night, and probably return to my criminal pursuits. As well, I have grown addicted to the physical pleasures that are now an integral part of my existence. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking, but I hope that Monique will ask me to stay. No! That is not her style. I know that she is satisfied with our arrangement, and enjoys our libidinous pursuits and her domination of me. But she will never lower herself to invite me to move in. Rather she would find some fault with my penance or my performance and would order an extension of my sentence. I pray that she will do just that. However if it doesn't happen, and if it should appear that I am about to be returned to the streets to fend for myself, it will not be beneath me to suggest an extension of our arrangement. And of course if that doesn't produce results, there is always the possibility of begging and pleading, and prostrating myself on the ground before her.