400 Days of Oppression by Wrath James White

it worked for him. He looked so handsome standing there like that that my own sense of wretchedness increased. I knew what I must have looked like in comparison.
    “Get below.”
    I crawled, dragging my chains. The iron collar around my neck cut deeper into my skin as the weight of the other chains attached to it dragged behind me. Blood from my neck dripped onto the tile floor I had just spent the last hour scrubbing insuring that there would be more work for me the next day. The humidity in the basement overwhelmed me after having been upstairs for even that brief period. It felt like I was walking through a wall of moist heat as I crossed the threshold. Kenyatta stood above me, watching, as I crawled. I knew that watching me crawl was one of the things that seemed to turn him on the most. He would have fucked me again, right there on the stairs if it wouldn’t have gotten his suit dirty and made him late for work. The stairs scraped my knees as I crawled down them. I began to moan and then to cry as I dragged my broken body down into the basement and across the hard concrete floor.
    “Back in your box now.”
    His voice was not angry or harsh but matter of fact as if he was merely giving direction to a child who needed to be reminded of such things, as if he was merely reminding me to brush my teeth or wash my hands before dinner. I crawled into the box and Kenyatta padlocked it and left without a word. He closed the basement door and both the heat and the darkness redoubled.
    I was constantly thirsty, constantly hungry, miserable from sunrise to sunset except for those brief moments when Kenyatta brought me out to fuck me or whip me or both. His cock inside of me was the only joy in my life now. Perhaps that was the other lesson he was trying to teach me, that I needed him.
    The lingering taste of Kenyatta’s semen recalled the vivid memory of the first time I’d taken his manhood between my lips. Kenyatta was the first man I’d given a blowjob to since my first blowjob. I had hated the act. When I was raped as a child, the taste and texture of my abuser’s semen, the stench of his unwashed testicles, had stuck with me for years. I would wake up screaming with that taste on my lips. The first time Kenyatta asked me to suck his cock, I had refused, repulsed by the very idea of it.
    “I-I don’t do that.”
    Kenyatta raised an eyebrow and stared at me curiously.
    “A woman who doesn’t give head is only half a woman. Show me a woman who doesn’t suck her man’s cock and I’ll show you a man who is looking for any and every opportunity to cheat on her. I won’t tell you, you’d do it if you loved me. Not because it isn’t true, but because it’s too cliché. I will say that if you want to remain the only woman in my life, you will learn to please me.”
    He leaned back in his chair with his eyebrow still cocked, a smug expression on his face, awaiting my reply.
    “Even if a woman is the best lover you ever had? If she does everything else perfectly, just the way you like it, but just doesn’t suck your dick, that isn’t enough?”
    Kenyatta smirked and shook his head, eyes still boring into my skull like he was trying to read my thoughts.
    “A woman who doesn’t give head could never be the best lover I ever had and she wouldn’t be my lover for long.”
    Kenyatta wasn’t a man given to threats. He said it as a simple matter of fact. If I didn’t give him head he would get it from someone else. The thought of losing him to some cum-guzzling slut almost brought tears to my eyes.
    “I-I don’t know how.”
    “I’ll show you.”
    Kenyatta was a patient teacher. He calmly stood and unbuckled his pants, unzipped them and let them fall to his ankles. He wore silk boxers, black, with little red and gold paisleys on them. He let them slip down to his ankles as well. He guided me gently to my knees with just the slightest pressure from his manicured fingertips on my shoulders until my nose was level with