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The Minister for Equality is submissive to a Black Mistress

The Minister for Equality is submissive to a Black Mistress

Mason stepped out of No 10 into the glare of the cameras. Journalists were shouting at him for comment, photographers trying to catch his attention. He paused for a moment on the steps, waved and then stepped forward.

“Good afternoon,” he said and the moment he spoke the media fell silent. “I know there’s been some problems with The Equality Ministry in the past that my predecessor tried so hard to correct. I also know there is something of a gap between what the people of this country expect to see from our Equality Agenda and what they are seeing on the ground.”

He paused, looking at each journalist quick succession. The statement, hastily scribbled on his phone as he sat waiting outside the PM’s office, required a degree of drama.

“I want the people to know that I am going to work tirelessly to ensure every person, no matter what their background or origin, is treated respectfully and with dignity. I want to see an end to the cultures within our country that restrict opportunity on the basis of a person’s gender, sexuality, race, religion and any other irrelevant factor that allows one person to say, ‘you are not the same as me.'”

The pause was longer, making sure there was enough time for an edit before stepping back. At that moment the shouting and questions began again and he waved as he turned, heading for the exit into Whitehall.

The day rushed past in a whirlwind of meetings. He made sure he met all of the team at the Ministry, not difficult given how small it had become. There was also a meeting with the Cabinet Secretary, making sure he was clear on protocol and of course a meeting with his new boss, The Justice Secretary. It would have been unbearable had his assistant not kept a step ahead, preparing briefing notes for him for the next meeting.

“What would I do without you, Precious?” he asked her as he settled down on his sofa.

“Struggle,” she said without a hint of humour.

He smiled and allowed himself an overly long glance at her. She wore a somewhat plain trouser black suit with black leather trainers and a white blouse buttoned to the neck. Her black hair was held back in a loose ponytail and her makeup was understated, complimenting her dark complexion rather than overwhelming it. Her demeanour was pleasant and professional, never straying from an almost clinical precision in her use of words, which always came out with a hint of the Nigerian she picked up from her mother. The only hint there was anything other than the professional political assistant about her were her hands: beautiful french manicures that left her nails white and shiny and the word “miss” tattooed across the fingers of her right hand.

“Equality Minister? Ironic, isn’t it?”

His cheeks flushed a little and he loosened his tie.

“Well, maybe a little.”

“Ha!” she laughed, removing her jacket and placing it over the back of a chair. She placed her heavy laptop bag on the same chair, unzipping it. “A white, middle class male made ‘Minister for Equality’!”

Awkwardly he shuffled forward on the sofa, placing his glass of orange juice on the low glass table. He watched her come closer, kicking off her shoes and unfastening her belt. The trousers fell to the ground and were left behind, exposing her strong shapely legs and the black herringbone pantyhose that covered them. She half straddled him, one knee resting on the sofa by his crotch, the other leg supporting her weight. Her hand wrapped round his tie, pulling his chin up and forcing him to look into her deep brown eyes.

“Well, ‘Minister’,” she said, almost spitting the words. “We both know what you really want, don’t we?”

“Precious,” he started to say, only to be cut off when she lifted her hand, dropping her fingers so he could see the word printed across them.

Confusion held him for a moment. He was tired from the meetings, but elated by the power he’d acquired. He wanted to celebrate and enjoy his moment in the limelight, no matter how long it lasted. But when he saw that word different feelings started to take over. More so when he looked at her and saw her beautiful African features waiting for him. Gently he took her hand and kissed it softly, enjoying the warmth and softness it offered his dry lips.

“Yes, Miss Precious,” he said quietly.

She pulled him closer, inspecting his bright red face and distracting him enough not to realise she was unbuttoning her blouse with the hand he had kissed.

“This changes nothing between us, understand?”

“Yes, Miss Precious,” he repeated.

She backed away and he was left stunned on the sofa. He stayed there for a second or so, looking at her, but not really processing how she prowled across the floor back to her bag or bent over the chair back to reach inside it. Then something clicked and he started pulling at his shirt and tie, removing them with practiced speed, folding and placing them on the floor under the table. His socks, trousers and pants followed and he knelt naked on the floor before her, bowing his head and placing his hands in the small of his back.

At the edge of his vision he saw her drop high heeled shoes onto the floor and push her feet into them. The white blouse fell and then there was a short pause before she turned to face him. All he could see were her motionless feet and he felt himself start to tremble.

“Look at me,” she commanded.

His eyes snapped upwards and he heard himself gasp. Black cotton panties gave way to a blue corset that tucked her waist a little and pushed her breasts together, lifting them to form a deep valley of cleavage. Her hair, now free of its ponytail, cascaded in loose curls around her shoulders and her lips, a darker, brighter red than before, were twisted into the cruel smile that preceded his suffering.

“You look beautiful, Miss Precious,” he said weakly.

“I know. You look like the stupid white man you looked like yesterday. Don’t you?”

He nodded and said, “Yes, Miss Precious.”

In her hand was her lipstick, the base of which she twisted to expose more of the red. She bent down, making sure he could see plenty of cleavage as she wrote on his hairless chest. He felt her pressing into his skin and tried to keep track of the letters. When she was done she stepped back and placed her hands on her hips.

“Well?”

He thought for a moment, retracing her words through his mind.

“White slave, Miss Precious?”

“As in…”

“I am your white slave, Miss Precious.”

She laughed.

“The Minister for Equality is my white slave. I should capture this moment.”

His mouth went dry as she went back to her bag and returned a moment later with a mobile phone. He knew it well enough, first to call her about the researcher’s job, then to offer it and repeatedly afterwards until she became his assistant and someone decided she should have a secure phone. It had been that phone he’d sent the texts to asking her out, and that phone she’d used to confess her time as a Professional Dominatrix and how it was still a part of her and she wasn’t sure if being together was a good idea. He’d called her to tell her it was fine and confess his own need to submit to her. It was to that phone he’d sent the message agreeing to her terms if they were to be together.

Now she pointed it at him, directing the camera at him as knelt on the floor scrawled with her declaration of ownership.

“Well, Mr Minister,” she said, mocking him, “how does it feel to be Minister for Equality?”

“I’m honoured,” he said, falling over his words a little. “I’m honoured to serve my country, Miss Precious.”

“And how will you serve it?”

“I’ll fight to make the country more equal,” he said weakly. Then the statement came back into his head and with more confidence he said, “I want to see an end to the cultures within our country that restrict opportunity on the basis of a person’s gender, sexuality, race, religion and any other irrelevant factor that allows one person to say, ‘you are not the same as me.'”

She laughed.

“Fine words, Minister, but we both know the truth, don’t we?”

He bowed his head in shame and muttered, “Yes, Miss Precious.”

She reached down, lifting his head up and tapping the camera lens with her finger. He looked straight into it, knowing there was no escaping her.

“You act so politically correct in public, but we both know you crave the dominance of Black Women.”

The truth of her words and the beautiful strong voice she used to mock him cut deep into him.

“Yes, Miss Precious,” he confessed. “I do.”

“Tell me, slave, tell me how inferior the white race is.”

His face was burning now and he was shaking wildly.

“We’ve lied and cheated our way through history, Miss Precious. When we can’t win the argument we imprison and enslave and oppress.”

As the words came out the politician in him heard them and screamed for him to stop. It begged him to get to his feet, snatch the camera and end this nonsense. It created all manner of scenarios where this could end now and he could recover his career, albeit after a short stint on the back benches.

“Tell me, slave, why and how you worship my Blackness.”

The politician screamed “stop”. The slave continued, drawn ever deeper into its submission.

“You are beautiful and powerful, Miss Precious. Your ebony skin is flawless and your physique so strong and overwhelming. You’re a Black Goddess who commands and deserves the respect of all white inferiors.”

He was panting, driven into a whirl of excitement by his confession.

“What does that make you?”

“Your white slave, Miss Precious. A white piece of meat whose only purpose is to serve you.”

Spit hit the left side of his face. Realising his mistake he straighten up and opened his mouth wide, stretching out his tongue and waiting. He listened to her building up the phlegm in her mouth, anticipation growing until finally she spat at him again. A thick streak of spittle hit him across the nose and mouth, more splattering against his cheek.

“You stupid white fool,” she snapped at him, slapping him across his cheek. “Think you’re so big for saying all that racist shit? Think that impresses me?”

“I don’t say it,” he pleaded with her. “I mean it. Black women are superior to all whites and you are the most superior of all, Miss Precious.”

She hit him again, this time with enough force to knock him backwards. He nearly tumbled, but managed to catch himself on one hand before he hit the sofa.

“Please, Miss Precious, please let me prove it.”

When she moved to hit him again he didn’t flinch or try to back away. Instead he held himself ready, even lifting his chin a little so as she had a clear strike. Only she didn’t.

“Please let me prove I’m truly your slave, Miss Precious,” he said. He could feel himself calming down a little.

“You’ll wear my collar,” she told him.

There was a moment of doubt. He was a minister with responsibilities and would be seen on camera. He couldn’t hide in the relative obscurity of his constituency office any longer.

“In private you will wear a dog collar, even if you’re sat at your desk working. In public you’ll wear a small gold chain with a padlock on it to remind you of your place as my white slave. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss Precious,” he said.

She held the camera closer to him and he looked straight into the lens. With growing pride he said, “Thank you for making me your white slave, Miss Precious.”

One last time she gripped his face and held it up for the camera to see.

“If you EVER piss me off I’ll send this little video to the press and then we’ll find out just how inferior a white man can be. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss Precious,” he said, suddenly reminded of how vulnerable he was.

“Good. Now I’ve been on my feet all day for you, so you can massage them for me.”

“Yes, Miss Precious,” he repeated.

She went to the sofa and sat down, kicking off her heels and putting the phone by her side. Like the dutiful slave he’d become he crawled to her and, taking her left foot in his hand, started to ease away her aches and pains.

This was what he truly wanted, he told himself. He wanted to be enslaved to a beautiful black woman who could destroy him on a whim.

Carver turned away from the monitor and smiled to himself. The good stuff was over for now, but he’d let it keep recording for posterity’s sake. And it was “good stuff”.

“Well?” Asked Danes. She was holding two mugs, one of which she passed to him.

“Better than we hoped,” he said.

She looked at the monitor. Mason had a foot in his mouth, eagerly sucking toes while he massaged the other. Precious was still filming him on her phone. That or on Facebook.

“Quite a find that one,” said Danes, slipping into her seat. She tapped out her password and started hunting through personnel files.

“We lucked out,” he told her. “He found her and we didn’t have a chance to get at her properly.”

“Ah, former escort it says here. Interesting choice for an assistant at that level. Still, he’s a single guy so the ‘affair with PA’ slant won’t work.”

Carver switched the recorder over to manual and changed to another camera.

“No,” he said, “but we’ve got something much better than that.”

About Razz

I'm a creative dominant type with a love of BDSM and fetishism. This blog is an outlet, so don't take anything you see or read too seriously.

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Training Her White Slave

What would you do if you worshipped a woman so completely she told you to end your marriage?

Training her White Slave is a tale of BDSM that focuses heavily on race play, sadism and humiliation. It's not for the faint hearted or easily offended.

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