The Forbidden Fruits Of My Fantasy Island

[M/f, BDSM, nc, bondage, inter-racial]

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(c)2005 Ingrid Hawthorne

"What do you consider taboo? One of the challenges and joys here is to not judge what another finds sexually arousing. We all have our limits and you as a performer get to state them in your Questionnaire. But a limit and your own taboo I think are two different things."  - Miss Honey (BDSM Library Academy)

I thought I was going to have real trouble answering this question. Recently, I had to write a piece of fantasy for an ongoing role-playing story on the subject of 'snuff'. It was an emotionally draining experience, although I am pleased with the way I was able to write a piece that was able to capture the horrible essence of the scenario set up by another writer, from a first person perspective too, I should add, without directly having to deal with the subject. But that's not my taboo for this assignment.

The Forbidden Fruits Of My Fantasy Island

It's been a long time since I even thought about this, but I've always been uncomfortable with inter-racial scenarios. I don't consider myself to be the least bit racist, so this isn't the issue. What I think it is and why I consider it a taboo for me is I spent a number of years growing up in the Caribbean (used to be an colony of Britain - that's all I'll say) and we had black men and women as servants. I actually adored my nanny and there was a houseboy who would do our laundry. He was very sweet too, but I was never allowed to play with him. I never had any direct contact with any of the men who used to work for my parents, so this fantasy isn't going to be about any of them. Let's just say it's an amalgam of several people, not necessarily all black but black for the purposes of this fantasy. It begins with my return to the island as an adult revisiting my past.

The passing of years hasn't changed many things I remember. Things like the coconut trees that grow right out and hang down over the pristine white sands of the beach near where I grew up. The ocean is more beautiful even than I remembered - crystal clear and stretching like a shimmering pane of blue glass to the horizon. It's wintertime and so the island temperature is still close to 90 degrees, but it feels much colder because the humidity is very low.

While most of the surroundings are familiar, what has changed is the friendly atmosphere of the place. I notice it the moment I step off the plane at a small airfield not far from the small city center. The women still wear their brightly colored floral dresses and headscarves. The island men still wear floral shirts and white trousers torn short roughly at the knee. All this is as I remembered, but there is a noticeable air of resentment. Not from everybody, of course. Just from some people. Men, mostly. The children, however, still swarm around and offer to carry my suitcase just as I remembered them do to my parents whenever we arrived back on the island after our summer vacation in cooler climes.

There is a small line of beaten-up old, ex-London Taxis outside the small corrugated iron structure that constitutes the island's 'international airport'. I approach the first driver who is stands leaning against the front fender of his vehicle with his arms folded across his chest. He makes no moves to assist me with my heavy suitcase, although he does take it from me once I've dragged it as far as the trunk.

Throughout the twenty-minute journey across the island he eyes me in the rear-view mirror. His eyes are large with dark black pupils and the whites are kind of bloodshot and sallow. He doesn't talk much except to make the occasional comment about how blonde my hair is and how white my skin. 

The road out to the tip of the peninsular and my old childhood home is still rutted with deep grooves and potholes that the driver navigates at reckless speeds. The last part of the road winds through thick jungle with a canopy that makes day almost seem like night. We're almost at the end of it when the driver makes an unexpected turn into an even narrower muddy track. I mention the fact he's made a wrong turn, but he ignores me. I can see his eyes staring back at me and he appears to be grinning.

"Just a little detour, Missus," he says.

He makes some excuse about the road we were on having been washed away during the summer hurricane season. I don't believe him.

The track eventually opens out into a small clearing around a swimming hole. I remember it well from my youth, as well as the small wooden shack I used to play in with my siblings when we were little kids. He stops the car near it and steps out. The mild panic I had been feeling is now one of abject fear. I beg him not to hurt me and cower in the back seat. He reaches in and grabs both my wrists with one of his large, strong hands. I'm dragged from the car and over to the shack.

Inside the shack is an old, rusty metal bed. It's a single bed with a ragged mattress made of canvas and stuffed with horsehair. He throws me on my back on it and forces my arms up above my head. I struggle and resist with all my strength, but it makes no difference to him. There are old steel manacles attached by chains to the metal bed head. I remember seeing ones just like them when I was young - a reminder of the island's history of slavery. There are two more manacles ready for my ankles at the foot of the bed.

After he spreads me like this on the bed, he begins ripping the clothes from my body. I watch helplessly as his hands grab the front of my blouse and tear open the cotton fabric as easily as he might rip a piece of paper. I think I scream at him, but the terror of the situation is so great I can barely raise the breath to do this. My light cotton dress also is shredded from my body and then my underwear.

His cock, when I first see it, alarms me more. It is easily the length of my forearm and as thick as my wrist. It is entirely black like the rest of his skin, except for the head, which is so light in color as to be almost pink. It rises up from his loins and stands poised ready to ravish me.

"Suck Master's cock!" he says as he climbs onto the mattress and straddles my chest.

He forces himself into my mouth and then proceeds to explain in graphic and vulgar terms how I am now his slave. This continues for a long while during which time my jaw starts to ache from having to accommodate the hugeness of his cock. With my head effectively nailed to the bed by his cock, there is nowhere to look except directly up into his face. He's grinning as he watches me struggle beneath him.

After several more minutes of this, he withdraws his cock from my mouth and repositions himself between my spread legs. There is no foreplay or anything to prepare me for his penetration. I'm not moist enough and his cock feels like it is tearing me up inside as he inches it in. The friction of every little movement burns inside and I become desperate for my juices to flow. I tell him how he's hurting me, but this seems to encourage him to fuck me harder.

Once he settles his cock fully inside me, he begins to slowly drive it in and out. Each deep stroke hits me deep inside and knocks the breath out of me. It's not a vicious fucking, but it is hard and at the brink of my pain threshold. It continues relentlessly and eventually, once I stop thinking about it, they juices do flow and lubricate his cock inside me.

It pushes me into a dreamy state where I think about how helpless I am lying there. The heavy manacles around my wrists and ankles draw my attention to my spread position. In some respects, I feel like I'm being punished for the misdeeds of my forebears - and I deserve it.