You know, if I had a time machine, the first thing I think I would do is send myself back to a 1800s plantation, wearing nothing but lingerie, and immediately give myself away to the first black man or woman that I saw. Call it white guilt.
They would probably think it was some kind of trap at first, and I don’t blame them. I would sit in one of their shacks, wait for them to leave the fields, and greet them by the foot of their bed on my knees. Fuck it, I would bring whips and shackles with me as well. I would hold the whip in between my teeth, with my arms behind my back, and I wouldn’t even hide the fear in my eyes. Would he even care about my safe words, if he had witnessed a face like my own whip one of his friends, or even him, without mercy? Would he even receive sexual pleasure from whipping my fat ass, or would he just want to beat me to watch me in pain?
If he didn’t understand, I would tell him, “I want you to hurt me.” I might drop the whip if I had to speak, and if I did, I would push it forward along the floor with my nose, making sure it was laying at his feet. And I would kiss his ankles, and unless he told me to stop, I would clean his feet with my lips and tongue, and dry them on my cheeks.
God, he wouldn’t believe his fucking luck. He would go get his most trusted friends, especially if he still didn’t believe it, and bring them all back. One by one, they would inflict that searing hot pleasure upon my back. These men would all be strangers, afflicted with ptsd and God knows what else, and they would lash me how they were lashed.
No they wouldn’t… They would never want to inflict that kind of pain on another human, and I know this to be true. Not when some of their friends had been lashed all the way to death’s door, sometimes beyond. They would set the whip away, and unshackle me, I believe. They would guide me onto the bed, their strong hands making my skin come to life. They would be so tender with me, as much as I wanted them to get their retribution. They would know that I am not the one who had been hurting them.
While I expected them to take me all at one time, they would want to take me one by one. Sex was still sacred then, and I would be nothing but reverent as they all gifted me with their seed. I want to feel hot black sperm deep inside of me. My pussy has particular taste for it; it needs to be bred by an adonis like one of them would be. I want my barbaric, filthy, pox-ridden Saxon ancestors to weep from their heaven when they see their legacy willingly giving herself away to another tribe. Stopping their bloodline in its tracks.
I grew up in a housing project; all of my friends growing up were black. Someone once told me that I’m a white girl until I start speaking. Then I sound black. If I were a black girl, I would take offense to being called outside of my race, but I’m not. I’m a race traitor, and to me, that’s a compliment.
All of the spoiled black girls I talked to about dating black men told me that size didn’t matter. Yeah, when all the dicks in your life range from 7 to fucking 10 or whatever, size doesn’t matter. I don’t know if I could be with a white boy, to be honest. I’ve been on dates with them, sure, and I’ve slept with some, but they just seem so alien to me. When I’ve got a strong black man to hold me down, I know for a fact that I’ll always understand him, and what he wants. And he’ll treat me like a queen, no matter how many times I tell him to stop. No matter how many times I tell him I’m not worth it.
He’ll say some adorable dumb shit like “You don’t need makeup”. And then I’ll go without a drop of it for a weekend, just to prove him wrong, and he’ll go out of his way to fuck me twice as hard, twice as deep, and for twice as long. The fact that this musclebound stud wants anything to do with me— When I moan “Oh, God,” as his shaft just glides into my soaking wet cunt, it’s not just banter. His cock inside of a loser like me makes me want to believe again.
If I had a time machine, and I gave myself to a slave, I would realize that I had only two options. I couldn’t just leave after that; I would be just as bad as a slave master’s wife who took one of the bucks out for a ride. I would have to stay, and be his for the rest of our lives, or I would have to use my time machine next to end slavery altogether. But then, I wouldn’t have this wonderful white guilt to masturbate to… Maybe that’s why time travel doesn’t exist?
Last night, Mark slept in my bed, after I rode him right to sleep. In the morning, he got the jump on me, with his lips pressed against my clit. He was so close to giving off the impression that he knew what he was doing. So close, in fact, it felt good enough for me to let him continue without redirecting his efforts. He’s getting really good at having sex with me, these days. He’s gonna fuck around and end up getting cuffed. It’s so wrong; I’m almost thirty, and he was in high school just last year. My dildos and vibrators are collecting dust now, and they can all blame him.
Let me be clear: I am going to fuck this beautiful black boy all day long, or at least for as long as he can handle it. He’s not leaving this room (hopefully) at any point, for anything. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed. We’re probably going to smoke some weed too, at some point. It’s springtime, now. He’s going to fuck around and breed me by mistake, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop him… If I’ll even want to.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/62syen/if_i_had_a_time_machine