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Picture this. It’s 1858, the place is a cotton plantation in the Antebellum South of Mississippi, America. As usual is been a sweltering day. The slaves work the field, singing their gospel hymns. The foremen, atop their horses keep watch, rifles in hand. In the distance, just outside the big mansion, the Master of the plantation, observes the progress and alongside him seated under an umbrella held up by a slave girl, is his wife. She drinks her Tea and biscuits, her eye on Kwame, one of the slaves in the field. The heat wont allow him to wear a shirt, his chest is like two mountains with a valley in between. His stomach, rock hard. His muscles ripple every time he throws the cotton into the big basket strapped to his back. The lady of the house shifts in her seat, she hatches a plan. A plan to quell the hunger in between her thighs. In the evening, when her husband has gone to the drinking dens, where their inebriation leads them to sample the bushy vaginas of the prettier slave girls, she sends her chamber maid to the slave quarters to call Kwame to come play the violin for her. When Kwame arrives and starts to play for Master’s wife, she stops his timid performance. She stands from her bed and unbuttons her night gown and stands there, nude as the day she ventured from her mother’s womb. Kwame immediately looks away. She senses his apprehension. She steps forward and tells him in that Southern drawl, “Make love to me or I will tell Massa that you climbed through the window and tried to have your way with me.” Kwame’s decision isn’t that hard to make. He puts aside his violin and removes his clothes. She is startled at the massive rod that hangs in between his legs, her lady lips moisten. Kwame’s dark staff is already engorged. He walks toward her and scoops her in his strong arms and puts her on the bed. With his left hand he parts her thighs and his right hand guides his dick into her aching hole. Kwame rams away at her pussy, tears have already started streaming down her face as wave after wave of orgams ripple through this Southern Belle. Fast forward 200yrs. The frozen foods aisle at Nakumatt Nyali, I’m there to pick a yogurt when a muffled moan draws my attention towards the Meats seaction. This  dreadlocked young black man is holding tightly onto a young white girl, his hand under her skirt. She is biting her bottom lip, struggling to keep her cool, but it wont be long before she loses it. I left them to their own devises. This was Mombasa after all, it was the most sane thing I’d seen all day. Its been 200yrs,from the cotton plantations to the beaches of Nyali, nothing has changed, it’s just evolved. One thing that remains the same though, is the love, no wait, lust that white women have for black dick. Every year they throng our beaches, befriend our local men and spend the nights satisfying their wanton desires. This cultural phenomenon isn’t relegated to the coastal area, even in the estates  you find young girls hand in hand with young muscular men, who are almost always deadlocked come to think about it! Why though, do these women travel thousands of miles to these shores? Are there no virile men in their home nations? I’m sure a whole nation can’t lack a few young men with strong backs who can fuck you unconscious. For one these respectable suburban belles desire anonymity. Away from prying eyes, they can screw as they please. the second reason, is less obvious to the casual observer. Allow me to take you back those two hundred years, let’s return to the plantation. The American South, is renowned for its gentlemen. Men of high moral standing who above all go out of their way to make a lady comfortable. In that era, and to an extent now too, they put their women on a pedestal. They adored them to a fault. Their women were not to be defiled. What they forgot though is that a woman has needs. Sexual needs. Yes they made love to their women  but only for the sake of producing heirs. The women couldn’t complain. Sex was dirty, no respectable lady would dare like it. In came the black slaves. Portrayed as savages from a dark continent. They must have seen and done more disgusting things than these pure white ladies would ever ask of them. That is exactly what they needed between their legs. A man to ravage them to an inch of their lives. The slaves were there to provide any service the household required of then. Servicing the Mistress of the house was only part of the job. That’s what most men forget today, that a woman needs to be objectified sometimes. They need to feel like sexual creatures, couple that with some tender love and care, and you have a woman in love. A few months back there was a story in one of our dailies, about a Dutch woman who married a guy from Mombasa. This guy couldn’t read a single word from a book. She had to read him his vows! Good dick will have you doing things like that! Another stereotype is that all black men are big dicked Lotharios. Is it right? Of course not! Not all of us are blessed with a donkey’s genitalia, but a fair number are. This stereotype had been handed down through the generations. The white women who indulged in some slave love probably came across some Mandingo dicks and now the rest of us have to live up to this racial typecasting! There are probably some white men who carry impressive tools in their boxers who won’t get some because of they got the short end of the stick in this stereotype business. Today this perception of Africans remains. That within our savagery lies wanton thoughts and deviant sex acts that would shock the world to learn about. Genetics have been kind to us of the darker complexion. The aggressive nature of our forefathers who were real warriors and had to wrestle lions, has been embedded into our genetic code. So when we fuck, for a brief moment, it’s like going to war.

No! No, no, no, no! Where had that sound come from? Why did she moan? She couldn’t be enjoying this! It wasn’t possible!!! No, no! She would give him the wrong impression. That she wanted this. She didn’t. Oh Lord! Was that his tongue? Oh Lord! How was he doing that? The sensations that came from her little nubbin, half pain, half pleasure. All she wanted to do was curl up and make it stop! She couldn’t, he’d made sure of that. So she lifted herself, reaching for him instead. Reaching for that delicious pain that begun at her centre, travelled all the way through her body and returned, more intense than when it left. A pleasure unlike any she’d felt before. She was half blind when she felt him enter her. One finger, then two. He knew just where to touch. Her body convulsed, her breath came in shallow gasps now. His fingers went in and out of her then curved upwards to caress that sensitive spot just after her entrance. One, two, three strokes and her world went black. Then blindingly white. Colours came after. Some she never knew existed. He legs felt warm and fluid. Her heart stopped. Her brain turned into mush and her pussy, oh how it tingled! When she came out of her orgasmic mini black out, it was to find him bone deep in her, groins touching and rubbing against each other. “Oh Lord!” She thought! Let him have protection! “Condoms” she mumbled against the sock in her mouth, staring at the table next to her bed into her goodies’ jar. It held all sorts of exotic latex, in all flavours available in the market and others. Some were even glow in the dark! Had he seen it? Had he thought to sheath himself first? He moved inside her and all the questions disappeared. He was leaning straight into her and in that position, with every movement, his groin rubbed against her increasingly sensitive button in the most delicious way! He was driving her crazy, this masked stranger. How could she fight when he turned her muscles into jelly with every touch? The only movement she could make was upwards to meet his thrusts. God! His dick fit so perfectly into her it was as if its mold had been cast in her vagina! He was panting now, on top of her, breathing heavily into her ear. Every breath teasing and caressing her earlobe, sent shivers down her spine to settle finally in that special place his hard dick touched with every movement in and out. He was magic and suddenly all she wanted was his lips on hers! How did he taste, her stranger? Did he still taste of her after the generous licking from before? She wanted, nay, needed, that tongue in her mouth. To suck, nibble on and dance an exotic dance with her own. “Kiss me.” She thought, “Kiss me!” Desperately trying to channel the idea through her skull and into his. They must have been telepathically linked because he turned towards her and took her lips onto his and took out the sock with his teeth. His eyes within the mask were pleading with her not to scream. How could she though, when he was still moving within her causing the most glorious of sensations to course through her entire being? The sock was out and she moaned. That moan, long and deep, had been trapped in her throat since his first touch right there, between her legs. She kissed him then. She’d never kissed anyone with such wantonness. He’d invoked a passion within her none ever had before. With that kiss, she submitted herself fully to him. She was his to do with as he pleased. Her tongue wrestled with his, each wanting to be first to explore the other’s mouth. He was inside her. She was inside him. Suddenly they were one, his body just an extension of hers, his pleasure coming from pleasing her and hers from eliciting sudden gasps in him with little contractions of her pussy muscles. Their bodies were so intertwined in that moment that they breathed as one. They didn’t have to break apart to catch a breath. He drew air from her lips, straight through her nose. And she did the same. It wasn’t long after this that their bodies begun to sing with pleasure. The tune building up into a powerful crescendo. Their organ orchestra so well balanced every hair on their on their bodies stood in silent applause. She screamed into his mouth when she climaxed. The violent shaking of her body, the shudders and shivers, shook the cum out of him in a sudden burst of light and colour, it was as if fireworks had gone off behind his eyelids. She kept on squeezing with her pussy until she was sure she’d milked him dry. He collapsed next to her after uncuffing her trembling limbs from the bed. The metal had cut into her skin a little from her struggling and he kissed each graze tenderly as he released her. She smiled warmly at him when he did this, then moved closer to him. She had her head on his chest, arm wrapped around his torso when she drifted off into sleep. Her final thought, “Is he handsome, under that mask?” She was alone when she woke up, naked, under her duvet. She was a little groggy but she remembered bits and fragments. Was it all a dream? The mild ache on her hands and ankles, and the empty throbbing of her satisfied cookie reassured her it wasn’t. She went back to sleep.