The African hotel

(…) I let you go home, for now

The days have passed, I've left you at your home recovering. But you receive the message, direct, with the authority that only I, your Master, have over you:

—Get ready. I want you elegant, shirt and pants, clean shoes. You're going to a luxury hotel. When you arrive, ask for the "African party". There, obey everything without hesitation.

You don't dare answer more than a "Yes, sir". You spend hours getting ready, trembling inside, reviewing every detail in front of the mirror: your hair combed, your clothes impeccable, your perfume just right. Everything you do is because I order you to, because you know there's no going back.

As you cross the lobby, the floor shines and the attention of the receptionists intimidates you; but your desires are stronger.

—Excuse me —you say in a low voice—, I'm here for the African party.

The receptionist smiles, dials a number, nods, and calls a bellboy. He takes you through carpeted hallways to a suite at the end. The door opens, and the heat, the smell of sex and male sweat, hits you immediately, denser than any expensive perfume.

In front of you, fifteen men, subsaharan Africans of different ages and bodies, all enormous, shiny black skin, completely naked, their cocks and balls hanging, some semi-erect, others already hard just by looking at you. Laughter and exclamations resound in several languages. They look at you like a served dish, and one of them, taller and stronger, gives the order in English:

—Strip. Take it off. Now.

Your fingers tremble as you unbutton your shirt, your clothes fall to the floor, and your pale skin is exposed to that chorus of laughter, shouts, and expressions of hunger. A pair of them grab you by the arms and place you in the center of the carpet, surrounded, completely vulnerable. You feel the gazes fixed on your body, the monstrous size of those cocks around you.

One of them puts his thumb in your mouth, stretching your face, looking at the others:

—Look at this whore. Ready to swallow us all.

Without warning, two of them kneel in front of you and start hitting their enormous cocks against your face, violently opening your mouth, forcing you to suck and run your tongue over those thick veins that suffocate you from the start. The skin of their balls hits your chin, while you feel the sour and salty taste under the mixture of sweat and accumulated excitement throughout the day. You can't close your mouth or ask for a truce: one of them holds your nape, the other grabs your hair, and they fuck your throat one after the other, taking turns, while the others cheer with shouts and punches on the wall.

You feel the pressure of enormous hands on your hips, they put you on your knees with your legs well apart. An African spits on your hole and opens it with two thick fingers —“Let's see how tight ...