The Best Job in
the World
"Jinigga!"
I bellowed, "Get your black ass in here, cunt!" My tall, big-titted house slave
arrived moments
later, dropping to her knees in front of me.
"I'm
expecting a new one, either today or tomorrow.
Get the room ready," I instructed.
"Yassuh,
Massa," the former attorney Lucille Belle Hayworth, Esquire,
responded. She
no longer
answered that name, of course; not since I'd changed it to Jinigga - a cross
between jigaboo
and nigger - a week after she'd been assigned to my case load.
Understand, I'm
not really a racist or anything; the name was intended only to degrade
and humiliate
her, and it wasn't as though I'd made her legally change it or anything. It
was just what she
was called now. As she turned to resume
her duties, her naked ass
peeked out from
underneath the starched, frilly maid's uniform, the wiggle exaggerated
by the six inch
spiked heels I made her wear. As I
watched, I couldn't think how
fortuitous it had
been for me to find employment as a Parole Officer. It was the best job
in the world.
Margaret Bell
Hayworth, Esquire, was just like so many others before her, a recently
paroled felon
assigned to my case load. With nearly 20
years seniority, I was a
supervisory
Parole Officer, and assigned clients to myself and my staff. My case load
was about the
same as everyone else's; a few less, because of my supervisory
responsibilities,
but there was one major difference. Many
of the women coming out of
prison are, to
put it politely, not exactly beauty pageant material. Not all of mine were,
either, but at
least none of them were dogs. Most were
fairly young - Jinigga, at 32, was
the oldest - and
all had relatively long sentences hanging over them. Most of all,
though, they were
susceptible to coercion and bordering on beautiful.
Most people can't
understand the power a Parole Officer wields.
With a single report -
whether true or
not - any of us can send a parolee back to prison, sometimes for the
rest of his or
her life. All one of us would have to
say is our client missed an
appointment,
wasn't home during an after-hours home check, or was seen drinking a
beer. When I thought there would be some noise
about it, though, I simply tainted a
uranalysis
specimen or planted drugs on them so there would be hard "evidence."
What happened
then was they'd not only have their parole violated, but new street
charges as well.
Jinigga was a
perfect example of how I worked it. A
former attorney, she'd made parole
after serving a
little over two years of a ten year sentence for embezzlement. She'd
been on my case
load for about four years, with four to go.
My state might parole them
early, but ten
years is ten years, whether in prison or on parole.
I can still
remember the day Margaret Belle Hayworth, Esquire, strode confidently into
my office. I'd already carefully read her case file -
divorced, two girls, aged 10 and 14,
BA from Stanford
and law degree from USF. Corporate
finances were her specialty,
and what got her
into trouble. Too greedy, got caught
with her hand in the till.
Disbarred as the
result of her felony, of course.
Although she appeared self-assured,
her case file
showed a different side. Two fights, for
which she'd served a total of 18
days in segregation;
nothing unusual there. The medical reports indicated both fights
were one-sided,
with she receiving the brunt of it. Her
Case Manager had noted that
she'd been
bulldogged out of her commissary purchases several times, and may have
been forced into
sex with other inmates. Again, nothing
unusual, except for her size
and
background. Lucille was somewhat of an
Amazon, standing 6'1" tall and 160
pounds. She had dark ebony skin - little, if any
Caucasian in her blood - and subtle
facial features. She was also an athlete, captain of her
university's women's Judo team,
and a Tae Kwon Do
instructor. She was large and had the
ability to defend herself, but
in prison,
apparently chose to submit rather than fight.
I hoped she'd do the same in
this situation.
I'd timed her
appointment so that she'd arrive about fifteen minutes before everyone
else left for the
weekend, then let her sit in the lobby for a half hour before using the
intercom to call
her in. Looking very professional and
self-assured in her tailored suit, I
saw through her
facade the moment she strode into my office.
Without a word, she
nodded at me and
sat down in the padded chair I kept for clients.
"I didn't
tell you to sit down," I growled quietly, glaring at her until she
stood. It was
necessary to make
that first impression. "Just stand
and wait until I tell you otherwise."
My latest parolee
did as she was told, her eyes glaring at me while I feigned reading
through her
file. Of course, I'd already seen it, but
she didn't need to know that. I
smiled inwardly -
not showing it, naturally - when my peripheral vision caught her hands
shaking slightly,
then saw that she'd lowered her eyes submissively. I let her stew for
ten minutes - an
eternity for her, I'm sure, before I set the file down. I leaned back in my
padded chair and
crossed my arms, glaring at her.
"Let's get
one thing straight," I said, as I stood up. As tall as she was, I still dwarfed her.
I was two full
inches taller and a good 80 pounds heavier, mostly muscle. I could see
she was
intimidated. "I've never had much
use for smart-assed lawyers, particularly
smart-assed
thieving lawyers. Or nigger lawyers at
all, for that matter." She visibly
recoiled when I
said that word, anger flaring in her eyes.
Oh, how I was going to enjoy
taking this one
down.
"I'm going
to tell you - just once - how things are going to be. If you step out of line just
once - hell, if I
even think you're thinking about stepping out of line - and your black ass
will be back in
prison so fast you're head will spin.
Not only that, but you'll never see
those two
little pickaninnies of yours again, I'll
see to that. They won't be adopted by
some well-meaning
liberal white couple, either; they'll end up in the hands of some big-
city pimp, who'll
have them spreading their legs for anyone with two bucks to spend.
You have no idea
how easy something like that is to arrange, Ms. Convicted Felon
Disbarred
Attorney." Like I said, I'm really
not a racist, but used those words simply for
the shock
effect. It worked, because I could see
the tears clouding her eyes as her
shoulders slumped
in defeat.
"Please
don't," she whimpered. "My
daughters..."
"You know
I'm perfectly capable of that, don't you?"
"Yes,"
she answered.
"Yes, what,
cunt?" I demanded.
"Yes, I
understand....sir?" she replied, more a question than a statement.
"I'm
assuming you think yourself to be a good mother, who looks out for the best
interests of her
children, who makes sacrifices for them?"
"Yes, of
course...sir," she answered.
"And a good
mother would do anything to keep her daughters from becoming whores
for some pimp,
right?"
"Yes,
sir," she whimpered again.
"She would - that is, I would...I mean, I'll do anything
you want, just
don't hurt my babies."
"Anything at
all?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, sir,
anything. It doesn't matter what."
"So if I
told you to get on your knees and suck my cock right now or go back to jail,
you'd do it,
right?" She stared up at me,
finally nodding slightly as tears filled her eyes.
She finally
realized that the horrors of prison life were only the beginning.
"Good. Now, for starters, you can drop that uppity
New York nigger accent. From not
on, it's not
‘yes, sir,' but ‘yassuh,' like a good house nigger." She stared at me, like she
was going to
start bawling again. "Do you
understand, bitch?" I asked harshly.
"Yes,
I...uh...Yassuh," she answered, a tone of defeat in her voice.
"Yassuh...what?"
I prompted.
"Yassuh...uh...sir?"
"Try again,
cunt. What would a good house nigger
have said?"
"Uh...yassuh...Massa?"
"Give the
darkie a watermelon!" I announced.
"You're not as stupid as I thought, it
would seem. So, let's see if you can follow some simple
instructions. You know where
the Starlite
Lounge is downtown?"
"Yes...uh...yassuh,
Massa."
"Good. Be there at nine o'clock tonight, in your
finest slutwear. You'll be..."
"Uh...pardon
me...uh...Massa," she interrupted. "Slutwear?"
"You know,
slutwear. Short skirt, low-cut top,
fishnet stockings, heels, slutty makeup,
no panties or
bra. Like a slut looking for someone to
fuck her brains out. If you don't
have any
appropriate clothing, go buy some. You
start your new job tonight as an
erotic
dancer. Get a girlfriend or someone to
watch the brats, because you won't be
coming home until
morning. You using any form of birth control?"
"Uh...nosuh,
Massa," she responded, sobbing.
"Well,
that's up to you," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Figure something out if you
don't want to get
knocked up, because my friends and I don't wear condoms. Nothing
permanent though,
because I might want to eventually breed you." I knew that would
get to her, and I
was right. She started bawling again.
"Oh, one
more thing. I expect to fuck a hairless
pussy tonight. It doesn't matter to me
whether it's
yours or one of your daughters', so you
can either present me with yours or
one of
theirs. Let's see...the youngest is
twelve, right? I like ‘em young, so I'll
take her
if you don't want
to shave that twat of yours."
"Y-y-yassuh,
Massa. Please don't do that to my baby!
She bawled, the tears flowing
freely now.
"So, I think
you'd better get your ass out of here and start getting ready for our date,
shouldn't
you?" I waited a moment, until reached for the doorknob, before
continuing.
"Oh, and
bring some cash. You'll be paying for
the room. It's $58 for the room, and an
extra five if you
want clean towels. Personally, I don't
care whether there are any
sheets or not,
since I plan on cleaning myself off in your slutty mouth and kinky hair
anyway."
She ran out of
the room crying, but I wasn't worried.
It was after five, and everyone had
made their Friday
escape already. I'd seen this before;
she might think of reporting our
conversation, but
it would just boil down to her word against mine. She'd capitulate, just
like the
rest. They always did. Oh, she might rebel, but I had a plan to head
that off.
I didn't meet
with her that night. Instead, I arranged
for her to get to know - in the
biblical sense -
a few of my biker buddies. They met up
with her just a couple of blocks
form her
apartment, forcing her off the road and then pulling her out of the car. After
roughing her up a
bit - just on general principles - they dragged her into a nearby
abandoned
building and repeatedly raped her. By
their account - she was so
incoherent by the
time it was over, she probably had no idea - she'd taken 41 loads of
cum in the next
10 hours. They finished with her at 7:00
a.m., and dropped her off back
at her
now-undriveable car. It had been
vandalized during the night - I had nothing to
do with that,
believe it or not - and now it was sitting on blocks, all four wheels, the
stereo system and
her purse containing her identification and money all gone. In her
stupor, she
didn't realize someone now had her name, address and the keys to her
apartment.
Lucille stumbled
back to her residence and found me waiting in her living room, casually
sipping on a cup
of coffee I'd made. Her children were
nowhere to be found; I'd had
them taken by
Social Services because, as I stated in my summons, their mother was
about to be
arrested for absconding from parole.
"Well,"
I said, "It looks like you had a fun time last night. Too bad you didn't meet your
Parole Officer
like you were told; it's back to prison for you." I grabbed the abused
woman's hands and
pulled them behind her back, quickly slapping the handcuffs on.
"I'll even
bet your piss test comes back positive.
What are you using, meth? Crack?
Yeah, you look
like a crack whore, I'll be that's what it was.
You went out looking to
score some crack,
and traded your worn-out fuckhole for it, didn't you?"
"No,
I..." she stammered before I cut her off.
"Stupid
cunt!" I yelled, whipping her around by the arm and pushing my face to
hers,
spittle from my
lips striking her. "Is that how
you're supposed to address me?"
"I...uh...please...I'm
sorry...it wasn't my fault..."
"Bullshit,
cunt! It's never your fault, is it? All you fucking convicts are alike. ‘I'm
innocent, I'm
innocent!'"I screamed in a falsetto voice.
"Bull-fucking-shit you are.
Anyone can see
what you've been off doing, all covered in cum.
Shit, you don't even
have the
self-respect to...fuck, what if your kids had been home? What if I hadn't come
here and found
you gone, and called Social Services? Do
you want them to see you
coming home
drenched in semen like this?"
"Oh, my
God! Oh, my God! My babies!" she cried, tripping as she
tried to run up the
stairs.
"They're
gone, cunt," I told her. "Just
like I said. They're at Social Services,
but as soon
as you go back to
prison, they're adopted. Hell, I even
have someone lined up to take
them. He likes young ones. White dicks being shoved up hairless black
pussies sell
well," I
said almost casually.
"Please,
no!" she screamed, falling to the floor and wrapping her arms around my
ankles. "Please! I'll do anything!"
"Not only
will you do anything," I said quietly, looking down at her with an evil
smile on
my face,
"You'll do everything. Everything I
say, without question, without hesitation.
Otherwise, the
brats get to learn all about fucking, first hand."
"Yes, I'll
do whatever you say," she sobbed, completely broken now.
"Are you
forgetting something? How did I tell you yesterday to address me?"
"Uh...master?"
"Almost
right, bitch. Let's hear it like a
proper house nigger would say it, though."
"Massa."
"Say it
again."
"Massa"
"Tell me
yes, properly, like a good nigger."
"Uh...yassuh,
Massa."
"Your name
is Jinigga. Tell me your name is
Jinigga, in a good nigger voice."
"Uh...I's
Jinigga, Massa?"
"Excellent,
Jinigga. And your two brats, their names
are Jigglet and Nigglet. Tell me,
like a good house
nigger would, cunt, otherwise they get a visit from my friend."
"Uh...my
chillin's be Jigglet and Nigglet," she replied, sobbing now.
"Good,
except your not to refer to yourself except by your new name. Try it again,
bitch."
"Jinniga's
chillins be named Jigglet and Nigglet, Massa."
"Very
good," I said, patting her on the head.
"Now strip off those clothes and go take a
shower. Make sure your whore's cunt and asshole are
completely clean, and brush
your teeth. I'm not sure which of your holes I'm going to
use, so get them all ready."
So that's how I
came to be in possession of my very own house nigger and my first full-
time slave bitch.
I've had quite a few others, but the
only one I've bothered to keep – so
far – is
Jinniga.
My favorite
parolees to mess with are the young mothers, particularly the single ones.
My favorites are
the young mothers. They not only fear
going back to prison, but also
having the little
bastards they whelped being raised in foster care. Like one of my latest
acquisitions, Lucille Cower.
"Juicy
Lucy," as I've come to call her, is a petite 19 year old with a possible
26 years
hanging over her
head for being caught in a stolen car with a trunk load of marijuana.
She claimed she
didn't know and was just hitchhiking, but the jury didn't buy it. The
judge was a
friend of mine, so after she'd served two years, I suggested a
reconsideration
hearing, His Honor remanded the felon to
my custody, knowing he'd
have the
opportunity to sample her wares for himself.
Too bad for her, not so bad for
me.
Anyway, Lucy is
5'6" tall, 128 pounds, with flame red hair, bright green eyes, and
freckles all over
her body. I know...I've seen them, both
in surveillance video taken
when she was
strip searched, and in person. With her hair in pigtails, wearing knee
socks and a short
dress, she reminded me of one of those haughty high school
cheerleaders ho
never even knew I existed. Very
cute. Nice, firm knockers with large
nipples that
easily harden. She used to have a curly
little bush, but I don't allow any of
my female
parolees to keep that part of their anatomy covered with hair.
I still remember
the day Lucy showed up in my office to check in for the first time.
While she stood
silently in front of my desk, I feigned reviewing her file, looking up
occasionally and
making little "tsk" sounds.
I'd already studied the file at length, and
had decided well
before she arrived that she was going to make a nice addition to my
stable. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been on my case
load.
"Hmmm,"
I commented, looking up at my new client.
"Based on your crime and risk
factors, I'm
surprised you made parole at all, Lucy"
She cringed...I already knew she
hated that
name. "So, we're going to put you
on an electronic leash, of sorts. I'm
sure
you're familiar
with ankle bracelets; I see you wore one while you were out on bond,
before your
trial."
"Yes,
sir," she answered meekly, AI know what that is. I promise, though, that I won't
run. My baby..."
"Yes, your
baby," I interrupted. "We'll
get to him in a moment, But first,
please take off
your shoe and
sock, and roll up your pant leg so I can appl the ankle restraint. You can
rest your foot on
the chair," I said, motioning to the plain wooden chair sitting in the
corner.
She did as I
asked, and what a cute little footsie it was.
The skin on her leg was smooth
and hairless, her
toes carefully painted an alluring gloss pink.
I made a mental note to
keep her in pink,
because that particular shade looked so sexy on her. I locked the
device in place,
and activated it.
"This one is
a little different that what you wore at county," I informed her. "This one has
GPS tracking, so
I can tell exactly where you are at any time of the day or night, just by
logging on to my
laptop computer. The anti-tamper device
is a little different, too. If the
strap is broken,
it will not only tell me that you're trying to remove it, but you will receive
a high-voltage,
low amperage shock. Not enough to kill
you, but enough to render you
unconscious." Pressing a button on my computer, I watched
while my client's body
spasmed in a
tonic-clonic episode.
"That was
fifty percent," I told her after five seconds. "You try to take it off, you get 100
percent until the
system realizes you're unconscious, and you keep getting zapped
every time you
wake up. Understand?"
"Y-y-yes,
s-s-sir," she mumbled, her body covered with sweat. What I didn't tell her was
that she'd get
much more than a shock if she attempted to tamper with the device. A
small reservoir
contained a lethal dose of medicinal quality heroin, which would be
injected via a
spring-loaded needle. She'd be dead of
an apparent overdose before she
could fathom what
had happened.
"Now, as to
the second issue...your baby. The one
you delivered while shackled to your
bed at County
General. Your jail baby, the one who was
inside that big belly you the
day you were
arrested. You want to get your baby back
from foster care, and you can't
do that if you go
back to prison, correct?"
"Yes,
sir," she once again answered.
"Then you'll
do whatever I tell you to do. Otherwise,
you go to back dykeville for
another 24 years,
and lose your little brat forever. He'll
be sent to some orphanage, or
maybe some
well-meaning Christian couple will raise him as their own, never telling him
that his mother
was a felon. Or maybe not. I could arrange for him to be told the truth
at, say, fourteen
years of age. That'd probably really
mess up his head. But you don't
want that, do
you? You want to raise him yourself,
right? So tell me what you're going
to do."
"Whatever
you tell me, sir," she hoarsely replied.
"Anything at
all to keep your brat?"
"Anything,
sir," she warily answered, rightly believing she wouldn't like where this
was
going.
"Good. So, from now on until your probation is over
or you go back to prison, whichever
comes first, you
belong to me. Lock, stock, body and
soul. You do what I tell you to do,
when I tell you
to do it. No matter what. You're going to be my willing, obedient
little
slut and
whore. You'll fuck when, where, who and
how I say. You'll be the best little
slutty whore
ever, because the result of anything less than perfect obedience is prison
and the loss of
your dear baby. Understand me,
bitch?"
"Y-y-y-yes,
sir," she whispered, barely audible.
"Good. So we understand each other. Now, time for your first test. You fail, you go
back to prison
this afternoon. Time for me to inspect
the merchandise, so stand up and
strip," I
commanded. She hesitated. They always do. So I zapped her. She fell to the
floor as a
ten second jolt coursed through her
body.
"That was
seventy-five percent, Lucy. Now, get up
off the damned floor and get those
fucking clothes
off so I can see that whore body of yours!"
This time she did
as I commanded, sobbing from the humiliation and knowledge of what
was to come. I made her stand there, naked, her legs
spread and her hands clasped
behind her head,
while I inspected her body. I squeezed
her young tits, pinched and
twisted her
nipples to see how large and hard they'd get.
I made her hold her mouth
open so I could
look inside, as though I was inspecting a horse for purchase. I spread
her ass cheeks
and peered at her wrinkled brown hole.
And, finally, I worked my hand
up and down her
hair-covered slit, feeling her wetness before I jammed two fingers
inside her,
causing her to flinch but not break position.
"You'll do,
Juicy Lucy," I announced, bestowing her with her name. "That's your name
from now on. Juicy Lucy.
Say it."
"Ju-ju-juicy
L-l-l-lucy, sir," she answered.
"Now, for
the rules. First, you go get a cell
phone. Make sure you get a plan with
plenty
of minutes,
because you're going to need them.
Second, as soon as you get home, you
go shave that
bush of yours. Third, no more panties or
bras for you, unless I give them
to you. Finally, from now on, you wear nothing but
short dresses and heels. Anything
that covers more
than the top four inches of your thighs is too long, and no shoes that
don't have a heel
at least four inches high. Stockings and
garter belts all the time,
except in the
shower, even when you go to bed. Except
for that, you sleep naked. In
fact, whenever
you're home alone, you're to be naked.
Keep your cell phone with you,
and turned on, at
all times. If I call and you don't
answer, you get zapped. Whenever
your phone rings,
you answer it by the third ring, saying, ‘This is Juicy Lucy, how many I
serve you,
sir?' Now, you say it."
"This is
Juicy Lucy. How may I serve you,
sir?" she sobbed. She'd still try
to escape,
but just once, I
knew. I'd been through this before.
"Well, Juicy
Lucy," I grinned sadistically, "The first thing you can do is get
down on your
knees, get that
slut mouth open and start sucking my cock."
She was an
adequate little cock sucker, but she had a lot of work to do if she was going
to earn me any
real money. Not to worry, she'd get the
practice she needed and would
soon be an
expert, I thought, as I grabbed her ears and forced my cock down her throat.
She gagged and
sputtered, and when my cum spewed out of the corners of her mouth, I
slapped her on
the side of the head, knocking her naked ass to the ground.
"Never,
never spit out any cum you're given, slut!" I yelled. "When a man decides your
mouth is nice
enough to cum in, you hold it until you're told to swallow. Now, get your
ass out of here,
get that phone and call me back within the next two hours with your
number, or you'll
be back in prison in time for dinner."
She scrambled to
her feet, grabbing the clothes scattered across the floor.
"You can
wear the pants and shirt, Juicy, but that's it.
No panties or bras, because I
haven't provided
you with any, and as punishment for not wearing a skirt, you go
barefoot. Go home, get a short skirt or dress on, and a
pair of sandals, then go get your
phone. Call me
when you have it."
I watched her
glare at me as she pulled her clothes on, leaving her undergarments,
shoes and socks
in the middle of my office floor. Once
she left, I picked them up and
stuck them in my
desk drawer, figuring I might have a use for them later. Checking my
watch, I saw that
it was time to close up for the day.
Maybe some home visits
tomorrow, I
thought to myself.
When I arrived
home, I was met at the door by my statuesque negress wearing nothing
but a leather
collar and stilettos. She greeted me by
opening the door and kneeling
while I took off
my coat. In the four years since I'd
owned her, my house slave had
turned into quite
the submissive.
"Hello,
Jinigga," I said. AI presume my
dinner is ready?"
"Yassuh,
Massa," the Ivy-league, former Wall Street attorney said in her best house
nigger
accent. "Jinniga fixed Massa's
supper jes' lak Massa said, suh."
"Well, if
it's any good, maybe I'll let you eat tonight." She hadn't been permitted to eat
dinner the night
before, and that was always her only meal of the day. She was
overweight when
she came to me as a new parolee, but now you could clearly see the
ribs
showing. She had access to food, but the
surveillance cameras throughout the
house recorded
her every move. She knew if she was
caught eating without
permission, she'd
be punished by a beating, followed by a week of hunger.
"Massa,
Jinniga needs to go pee from her nigger slit, please, Massa," she half-asked,
using one of only
three phrases she was permitted to utter without permission. The
others were to
ask permission to speak, and to shit.
"Fine,"
I answered. "Go get your
bowl."
Jinniga scampered
out to the back porch, returning with her combination food bowl /
water bowl /
toilet. My slave nigger used the same
bowl to piss, shit, eat and drink with,
and she was
permitted to wash it out just once a week.
I watched her set the bowl
down, then squat
over it with her knees spread widely.
"Massa, may
Jinniga piss from her nigger slit now, Massa?" she asked, still
embarrassed after
four years of slavery to be begging permission to use her toilet.
"Maybe in a
minute. Why don't you put on a show for
me? Stay like that, and show me
how a nigger slut
plays with her fuck hole? One hand
between your legs, the other on
your tits."
"Yassuh,
Massa, A my slave responded dejectedly, knowing I'd stop her just before she
was about to
cum. Her left index finger flitted over
her clitoris, causing little shivers of
pleasure to
course over her body, while her right hand was busy kneading her dark,
largish
knockers. I sat quietly, eating my
dinner, while the bitch worked herself into a
frenzy.
"Stop!"
I commanded, seeing that she was near orgasm.
"You may now piss, but make
it quick. Any splatters and you'll be licking them
up."
"Yassuh,
Massa. Thank you, Massa," the girl
replied automatically, moving her hand
from her crotch
and releasing her full bladder into the bowl.
When she was done, she
returned to her
knees, the urine-filled bowl in front of her.
I gave fleeting thought to
having her lap it
like a dog, but decided not to. I wasn't
angry at her, and usually left
things like that
as punishment. I told her to go take her
bowl outside and empty it.
I was finished
with my meal by the time she returned, so I snapped a short leash to her
collar and began
inspecting the house. Jinniga crawled
behind me, moving to a
squatting
position every time I stopped. She was
not allowed to rest on her hands and
knees. I was pleased with her work today, but still
needed to review the surveillance
tapes. My clothes were freshly washed and put away,
the sheets on my bed changed,
and the house
thoroughly dusted. Yes, Jinniga would get
dinner today.
As I was scraping
the remains of my meal into Jinniga's dish, my phone rang.
"Hello?"
I answered.
"Sir, this
is Juicy Lucy. How may I serve
you?" my latest slut replied.
"Very good,
Lucy," I said, looking at my watch.
"Fifteen minutes to spare.
Now, go find
yourself a skirt
so short that your ass cheeks peek out from under it. A matching halter
top. If you can't find one, a bikini top. Everything pink. Garter belt, fishnet stockings
and sandals with
heels at least five inches high. Do your
nails the same color as your
toes. Lipstick, same shade. Pigtails, lots of makeup, like a high school
kid trying to look
like a slut. Got it?"
"Yes, sir,
but..."
"No
buts," I interrupted. "Four
hours." I gave her my address and
told her not to be
late. She had no car, I knew, but the bus stop was
only a mile away.
"Sir,
please...I beg you..."
"What is it,
slut?" I asked impatiently.
"Sir, my
older son, Sir..I have no one to care for him."
"Fine. Bring him along. It's time he learn how his mother makes her
living, on her
knees. Maybe I'll have your little bastard suck my
cum from your holes after I fuck you."
With that, I
slammed the phone down. Shit. My desire was gone...for now. I'd have to
remember to take
it out on the bitch's ass later.
"Okay,
Jinniga, after you eat your dinner, you may bathe, and then use your vibrator
to
get yourself
off. I won't be using you tonight."
"Yassuh,
Massa," my house nigger replied, disappointed that she wouldn't be fucked,
but excited that
she'd been given permission to cum. I
seldom let her orgasm when I
fucked her.
I
absented-mindedly watched my house nigger lay in her corner on the living room
floor
and play with
herself, not stopping her after her first or even second orgasm. I didn't
really care how
many times she came tonight, because I had no plans to fuck her. Like
most women, she
was a much better piece of ass when she'd been denied, and I'd
already decided
this would be her last chance for the next month or so. Might as well let
her get her
jollies now, since I was going to keep her in need for a while.
Three and a half
hours had gone by when my doorbell rang.
My new slut was early.
Well, she'd learn
the meaning of punctuality. When I said
four hours, I didn't mean
three hours and
fifty nine minutes, or four hours and one minute, I meant exactly four
hours. She would just have to wait, but I did turn
the porch light on so she'd know I was
home. Fifteen minutes went by before I sent my
nigger out to give her a message. She
held the door
open while she spoke, her naked body clearly visible in the bright light to
anyone who might
drive by.
"Massa says
you to strip dem cloves off an' wait on yo' knees, bitch. You put dem
cloves in de
mailbox slot, cept'n fo' yo shoes. Y'all
waits fo' Massa until he ready fo'
you. You gotsta learn be on time, not early o'
late." The door slammed in Lucy's
face
before she could
respond.
"Very good,
Jinniga," I complimented.
"Thank you,
Massa," she replied. "Dat
shore one fine lookin' white bitch. Is
de Massa
gwanna let his
niggah have a crack at her, Massa?"
"Maybe
later, Jinniga. Go back to your corner
and leave me alone. Three more
orgasms, no more,
and off to bed."
"Yassuh,
Massa," my slave responded, smiling as she crawled back to her corner and
splayed her legs,
pointing her shaved cunt at me.
Yes, being a
Parole Officer was the best job in the world.
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