EXTRACT FOR
Their Fantasy Made Real
(Rafael Menton)

    

    Prologue

    

    Waiting for her husband, this after he'd grudgingly succumbed to her insistence he try on the chinos he'd selected rather than just paying for them and trusting to luck and the accuracy of the maker's sizing that they would fit before disappearing into a changing cubicle, the well-heeled and still svelte and attractive woman in her mid-fifties with pixie-cut blonde-hair looked on curiously and with a certain morbid fascination as the only other customers in the upmarket men's outfitters in the St Austell's High-Street interacted.

    One of them a plus-size woman she put in her late-thirties whose English, fluent as it appeared to be, gave out enough clues in the way it was delivered to lead the older and less formidable looking English wife to guess - given the darkness of her skin - that she was of African descent and had not been in the country that long.

    The woman was not only plus-size but tall also. Not fat, but certainly large with an unremarkable face which, just the same, had a perfect and unflawed complexion. She was also tall. Standing at around six-feet or over, as compared to her own five-three, she had at least she had at least seven or eight inches on her observer and around three on the man with her. 

    Dressed simply but smartly, she wore a cinched at the waist black dress that revealed strong and bare legs with skin that, like her face, was the complexion of black-coffee and just as flawless boasted pronounced muscle development at the calves. Together with wide hips and full breasts the dress itself seemed under no small pressure in its efforts to contain the body beneath it.

    The overall effect, the watching older woman could do no more than admit to herself was, and in a way she found compelling somehow...

    Imposing.

    However, if her face was a little fleshy and on the unremarkable side, then that wasn't the case when it came to the man she was bullying along as if he were an adolescent in her care.

    And with far more assumed authority and good nature than she herself used to guide her own husband when it came to practical matters such as shopping.

    If, that is, she told herself, the very good-looking man in what she assumed was his early to mid-forties was her husband at all.

    An assumption she doubted, and not simply because of their opposing ethnicities, though what their relation was to each other she couldn't even hazard a guess.

    There was though, she decided, something... entitled ...in the way she directed him.

    Almost as if the man were...

    Shaking her head, she chided herself for her fanciful thought but finished it just the same.

    "Almost as if he was her flunky," she muttered under her breath.

    Fanciful or not, the woman's next words had a finger-snapping brusqueness to them that drew a raised eyebrow from even the young male assistant waiting on them:

    "Hurry along, and try on the trousers, Kieran," she said in a tone that had more in common with an exotic bark. "I need to finish my shopping and meet Amobe at the restaurant."

    The spectating woman, whose name was Katrina, watched as the man scuttled off obediently to do the African woman's bidding, but not before she noted his reddened cheeks and how his eyes could not return her fleeting look before he entered the cubicle next to the one in which her own husband was changing.

    It was, she thought, becoming curiouser and curiouser.

    "And who is Amobe?" she asked herself before realising the large African woman was speaking to her now that the assistant had taken himself off to take care of the customer who had just entered.

    "Sorry?" she asked, meeting the woman's stare and immediately feeling...

    What?

    Later, Kristina would describe to her husband that the way she felt under the woman's scrutiny was "intimidated", and told her mocking partner she understood how the browbeaten man who had just been sent scuttling off to the changing-cubicle might feel the same.

    "They are like small children and need the hand of a strong female to guide them," the woman told her.

    Forcing a small and totally unfelt laugh, Kristina gave agreement that was not, in this instance, totally ersatz - after all, had she not made the same observation to her own female friends on many occasions.

    "Yes, I suppose they are," she said as the woman stepped closer and offered a hand.

    "I am Tambara Nwadike," she said formally, handshake firm but not crushing, though Kristina sensed with certainty that it could be if she so chose.

    "Kristina," she said less formally, adding another forced smile, for reasons she couldn't explain to herself not wanting this rather overwhelming woman to know her surname as she enlarged upon the woman's statement concerning men in general. "If your husband's anything like mine he'll stay a child forever."

    The woman laughed and revealed a set of perfectly even and stunningly white teeth.

    "You think I am with my husband?"

    "Oh, sorry," Kristina quickly apologised, knowing what a minefield personal descriptions of the kind had become in the past few years. "I should have said 'partner'."

    "And would still have been wrong, my dear," was the somewhat patronising response from a woman who was some fifteen years her junior.

    Hiding her irritation and wishing her own husband would hurry, Kristina could only say; exaggerating her own well-enunciated middle-class English in the normal English way of showing someone their place without being too obvious about it:

    "My apologies. You have me at a disadvantage, hmm..."

    She feigned and attempt to recall the woman's name.

    "Tambara," the totally unfazed woman told her, something that was amused and at the same time annoyed in her expression telling Kristina she was aware of how the older woman was trying to assert herself. "And your apology is accepted. We have only just met and you are not to know that my man is neither husband, partner, lover or friend."

    For some reason, the description: "my man", disturbed the older woman at a level of which she had no understanding, yet thrilled and spiked her imagination at the same time.

    A lack of comprehension that was not helped any when the woman of African descent named, "Tambara Nwadike" concluded.

    "The reason I brought him inside to shop with me was to choose a new uniform for him to wear."

    "U-Uniform?" the English wife heard herself gasp, before realising the man was the woman's chauffeur.

    Only to be proved wrong once again when the woman answered her unspoken thought in a way that somehow managed to thrill her again.

    Thrill and arouse.

    "That is right," she said. "A uniform. After all, it is only fitting that the manservant of a woman should be dressed appropriately..." 

    



    One

    

    The name she went by was Uwargida Babangida - the word "Uwargida", in the Hausa tongue she shared with her hostess and her stepbrother when not speaking English, being: "Mistress".

    The honorific a deserved one given that she was the creator and administrator of a female-led website that had made her a small fortune and paid entirely for her home on the Gulf of Guinea on the beach to the east of Port Harcourt in one of its most desirable and sparsely populated residential areas.

    An expensive and secluded beachside home in which she was served by her very own German bondsman who also featured on her website as a testimony to her abilities to achieve what she promised for those who could afford to pay her.

    Namely?

    To school those women who shared her ethnicity and had the necessary passion, seriousness of intent, and money, the secrets of dominion over certain white and European males.

    A woman in the form of her host who she was convinced - after much communication between them - was of a likemind and determined to own the white Englishman of her choice.

    With her help and - paid for - assistance of course. 

    Thoughts drifting to Axel, the white and German chattel she had left back in Port Harcourt, the Uwargida Babangida (given name: Daraja) felt a stirring at the apex of shapely legs covered by a tight-fitting skirt as it clung to a capacious derriere below equally imposing breasts whose deep d�colletage was revealed beneath a white linen shirt.

    The lips in an unremarkable face - some might describe it as ugly and, indeed, the handsome and stereotypical German blonde whose life she now considered her property had once said as much - curled into a slight smile as she recalled the night before their departure and the ritual she had insisted upon in her bathroom that she might, again, reinforce her authority over him before leaving for the UK.



***



    ...He was waiting for her as she entered the bathroom attached to his quarters at the side of the house, the heels that were here sole concession to clothing clicking on the ceramic tiles and adding to an arousal and anticipation at what he knew was about to befall him.

    Both of those reactions of a kind he would once have believed impossible for him to feel.

    No longer. 

    This Nigerian lady with the toothsome face in her late-forties had turned his once carefree life upon its head after having purchased his gambling marker from the local thug with whom he had spent a drunken night of stud-poker.

    "Stud", the lady had assured him, being something he would never be again.

    How could he be? Given that she not only had possession of his Passport but also had the wallet containing his credit-cards and what was left of his cash. As well as fear of recrimination from the local gang-boss should he ever displease the woman who was now his.. 'Uwargida'.

    And now, over a year into his stay with her, his attitude was virtually unrecognisable to that of the swaggering and cocksure visiting businessman he had cultivated upon his arrival in her land to buy tribal artefacts for his Dresden antique emporium.

    Before, that is, he went missing without a trace and ended up in an emporium that was the Uwardida's alone; all attempts made to locate him by his wife and their respective families back in his "Fatherland" reaching the same dead end until he was declared either dead or missing and the attempts stopped in their entirety. 

    As the Uwargida entered she could see him kneeling with head lowered but with eyes taking in the sight of her naked legs as they approached.

    Nor did she miss the convulsive leap of his cock-cage as he took in her scarlet nails through the open-toed shoes he had only that morning buffed to a shine.

    With his tongue.

    Instinctively, his head raised to try and drink in the dark patch between her legs to which, once dismissive of, he was now addicted. 

    In terms of the visual, in terms of taste, and in terms of the olfactory - and that despite him originally stating a distaste for using his tongue to please the same orifice from which a woman pissed.

    An attitude the Uwargida had not only changed but, in her dogmatic and totally unwavering way, but taken to its polar opposite.

    And not just for her piss-slit alone.

    "Has my little farar bawan kare behaved like a good boy for you, Omolara" she asked, directing her words to the huge, menacing, and equally naked woman who stood behind the kneeling European, knowing that he would be familiar enough with their Hausa tongue to realise he had just been described as her 'white dog slave'.

    "He not dare be anything else," confirmed the housekeeper who was his 'sitter' whenever the Uwargida was required away from the home and would be 'sitting' him and supervising his day to day while she was seeing her client in the UK, answering in the decent but halting English in which all three conversed when either his input or a need on their part to shame and verbally diminish him was their intent.

    The large woman's joy in controlling a white and superior looking white-man of her own age almost, her employer considered, a match for her own.

    Almost.

    The Uwargida nodded to herself, relishing as she always did these times when she asserted her total authority over her chattel in the knowledge that not only would he make no attempt to prevent her from doing so - and his certainty of how savagely his 'sitter' would punish him if he did was no small deterrent - but that against all his instincts he was becoming so inured to the authority of his Uwargida that he could not help but feel a certain... base ...joy whenever she used him.

    It was, she often told herself, the true triumph. 

    "Then let us begin," she said to Omolara with a smile, but not before noting the expressive nipples jutting from breasts that were almost twice the size of her own yet, at the same time, did nothing to dilute an awesome and fear-inspiring musculature that was the result of much physical exertion on her part and was all the more impressive for not being show muscle.

    The Uwargida - and her 'farar bawan kare' - knew from engrossed spectating on her part and acute physical discomfort on his - the kind of strength the poorly educated but willing to learn village woman could bring to bear if she so chose.

    The village woman in question immediately barked out a command and was so excited herself that she barked it in Hausa, forgetting that the farar bawan kare had only a limited command of the tongue and knew only those words useful for making him... manageable:

    "Ka ?auka matsayin da mai gidanka zai yi maka alama kafin ta tafi."

    Slave Axel made no move to obey and the Uwargida could not help but laugh before explaining in Hausa to Omolara:

    "I do believe you are so excited to see our slave be anointed by the piss of a superior Hausa woman, my dear Omolara, that you forget just how little he knows of our tongue."

    It took a moment to sink in but then the monstrously sized woman with the coal-black epidermis laughed; though in truth it sounded more like a bark.

    Devoted as she was to her Uwargida, Omolara was not blessed with the intelligence best able to house humour.

    More sternly, as if it were the fault of the kneeling man that she had not been understood, she repeated herself in their shared English:

    "Take the position," she commanded, "that your owner might mark you before she leaves.".

    That "owner" watched, her own excitement mounting, as her chattel lowered himself from a kneeling position and placed himself face-up on the cool ceramic floor tiles.

    The shaking from head-to-toe, she knew, having little to do with the cold of the tiles upon his skin.

    Then, as she placed her feet in their open-toed shoes either side of his head, Omolara stepped forward to place a naked black foot between his legs and bring it up to jiggle the ringed scrotum and caged cock above before barking, this time with a one-word command in Hausa:

    "Bude!" 

    The man's mouth opened instantly and both women were thrilled at the look of horror mixed with anticipation dominating his handsome Teutonic features, knowing that he was about to be marked in the time honoured way common to many ancient civilisations going back to the shoguns and beyond.

    Knowing also that no Shogun would consent to remain alive after experiencing the indignity of being marked with the urine of a mere woman.

    Forced upon him or not.

    Neither, the prone man thought to himself while knowing his self-castigation would change nothing, would said shogun dishonour himself by taking in that same female's cunt-juices, squirt of arousal, or urine. 

    A "gift", under pain of a beating from the fearsome Omolara he had experienced and found himself in a condition of terror at even the insinuation it might be repeated, he was expected to keep in his open mouth as a show of respect until he received permission to swallow.

    "Tilt your head back," came the order from his Uwargida and no sooner had he complied than he saw her arse above lowering itself until it straddled his head and her pussy with its matting of black hair settled over his mouth while his nose and face were only inches away from the crack of the stygian flesh covering the soft buttocks and the anus at its interior he had yet to be ordered to serve and worship.

    "That," she had told him, "will not happen until I am certain you have given yourself to your black owner completely."

    His thoughts at the time had been along the lines of: "Never in your black fucking life!"

    Thoughts, in the interim and in the face of her conditioning and domination of him, that had undergone a marked sea-change.

    The prospect of running his tongue around the puckered rim of her shit-chute, he now confessed to himself with the warring emotions of shame and need, was something he was coming to see as an...

    Aspiration!

    It was then, as the foot of Omolara continued to jiggle the denied scrotum full to the brim with his pent-up desire and his cock strained painfully against its restraints in the face of his own shaming, that his Uwargida let out a sigh and sent a hot stream of her piss cascading into his wide open mouth for it to quickly fill and begin to spill out and down his cheeks to the bathroom floor beneath his head where it pooled around his neck.

    Breathing through his nose for what seemed an eternity with the acrid scent of her urine dominating his senses, he watched as his owner let out another sigh and rose to her feet to stare down at him with a look of such transcendent radiance it almost made her unwholesome and toothy features beautiful.

    Then, joy in her command of him unmistakable as he lay below with a mouthful of her liquid waste, came the word in Hausa he had been waiting for:

    "Hadiye!"

    Without hesitation, feeling lightheaded with shame and the arousal he took from being used in such a way, he began to swallowed her piss carefully in order not to choke and prayed that after they were finished either she or Omolara would unlock him from his chastity and allow him to masturbate by hand, against their leg, or by rubbing himself off against the bathroom floor.

    Anything so long as the overpowering need to empty his balls was granted.

    For now though, he knew he still had work to do as his Uwargida turned from him and moved away.

    Knowing she had seated herself on the toilet bowl, and as Omolara removed her foot from his bursting balls and anguished cock to step away from him, he raised himself up and arranged himself upon all-fours.

    Without being told, so used to the marking routine was he, the former Axel Vogts, husband and businessman from Dresden, crawled across to where his black owner waited upon her lavatorial throne and waited between her legs as the menacing form of Omolara came to stand at his back while laying a hand upon his shoulder that might have been meant to be calming but had the opposite effect upon him.

    Staring into the pussy of his owner, still wet with the piss that hadn't made its way into his mouth, Axel Vogts waited for the word of command and again felt shame as he realise he was actually looking forward to the hearing of it.

    He was not made to wait long as the order in their native Hausa made its way past the plump and mocking lips of his Uwargida's housekeeper and his 'sitter'.

    "Mai tsabta!"

    It was not a second later that the servile and tamed tongue of her white-chattel made contact with the urine-moist labia of his Uwargida and began to...

    Clean!