FROM DEANNA G. DODGE

 

I discovered much of the story you will read here accidentally, but once you have read it I suspect you will understand my motivation for the copy I downloaded to my flash drive and took home with me, and why I secured the rights to it and I am publishing it here.

My original plan was to destroy it, especially the final section-but Erik Astor said I shouldn't shirk away from the truth so I have left it in.

Here is how it started for me:

I was alone in a strange room in a bed with tangled sheets. Looking over at the clock through squinting eyes I saw the clock read 10:40 a.m. I stumbling though the strange house picking up the few pieces of my clothes that I could find. My head was pounding, I ached in a dozen different places, and each step brought sharp pain from my muscles, especially the inside of my thighs.

I touched my pussy. It was raw, and my pubic bone felt bruised. At the same time it felt empty-and I swear I could stop for a second and think about it and still feel a cock going in and out of me. I felt like I had been fucked all night by a group of big dicked aggressive black men. But then again I should, because that was exactly how I had spent the last 14 hours.

I ran my hand through my hair and felt strands stuck together and stiff. My mouth was dry and felt as if I had a mouthful of cotton. I had to pee, and as I sat down on the commode without turning on the light, it burned when I urinated. I closed my eyes trying to focus on getting up, turning on the light and washing my face. That would help some, and then I would fumble through the medicine cabinet for pain killers. That was my plan, followed with strong coffee.

I turned on the light. My makeup was smeared, mascara smeared on my face, my lipstick gone, and a couple of bruises on my upper chest and one shoulder. My breasts were covered in hickeys, some red, some already turning blue, and two spots that were not hickey's but bruises. I touched my nipple and it was tender to the touch.

Staring into the mirror I washed my face, and saw the tangles in my hair were spots of dried cum. I moved into the shower and washed my hair, letting the water wash over me as hot as I could stand. I wrapped the towel around me and padded into the kitchen for coffee.

The apartment was wrecked. There were empty beer cans, half-filled drinks, and empty condom wrappers scattered about. One used condom was hanging on the edge of the trashcan, with a half-dozen others inside. The dank apartment smelled of liquor, stale sweat and sex.

"This was my graduation party," I said to myself. "I am now a full-fledged black cock slut."

Leonard and Tremont had left-I remembered them saying they had to get out this morning and wouldn't be back until early afternoon and to let myself out unless I wanted to hang around another night. I knew I wouldn't be hanging around-I wasn't physically able to go through that again.

I saw a dozen empty liquor bottles on the kitchen counter and almost retched. Fighting that I searched for anything to put in my turning stomach, finally finding a few slices of bread, a few swigs of 7-up from a large green plastic bottle, and with one slice in the toaster I found a little butter in the sparse refrigerator and finally was able to pour myself a coffee. The bread popped up, and I smeared it with butter, put a paper towel underneath it. I felt lightheaded.

The kitchen table and chairs had all been pulled into the living room, and the only seat close by was a bench under the built in kitchen desk where a desktop computer sat. The medicine cabinet had been bare of pain killers, and I checked the desk drawer where I found a small bottle of ibuprofen and washed three down. I had laid my toast on a paper towel on the keyboard in order to pull out the seat, and when I did the computer screen popped up. It had been on but asleep. The pressure on the keys had restarted it.

In the lower corner was a word document icon called "Deanna." Curiosity got the best of me and I opened it. As I read it I went to the bottom to see how many pages-and it was then I realized that he had been describing what had been done to me the night before-and his thoughts about it.

Leonard was keeping an online diary. I knew he had to be posting it online somewhere too, and I wanted to find out where. I went to his favorites and among the listing of sports sights I saw a couple that seemed likely blog spots. I saw a folder marked "Hoes" and opened it.

There was a bowl on the desk with flash drives in it, most with logos from the various companies he did business with, and noticing two duplicates, I put one in the USB port and opened it. It was nothing but a press kit. I put the other one in, and it had the same thing. I erased the press kit, and saved the word files/diary to the flash drive. I added some of the urls of Leonard's favorites, and started to remove the flash drive, but something made me pause. There was a pictures folder, and when I opened it, the file folders had a couple of the images on each icon from within the folder. There were five different folders in which I could recognize myself. I started downloading them, and as I opened a half-dozen others I realized that this was a photographic history of Leonard's sex life. There was a dozen or so different white women represented, and there were videos too. I added them to download to the flash drive. I was shocked to see it was estimated to take an hour.

I got nervous then, not expecting that Leonard would like it were he to come home early and catch his white lover downloading the contents of his computer-but considering the contents held a lot about me, including photos, I felt justified.

While the downloading continued I gathered up my things, meager though they were. A thin shirt I found. The lacy bra I had worn underneath it when I arrived was missing. As I buttoned it realized that three of the top buttons were missing. I knotted it under my breasts. I found my black yoga pants, sandals, some make-up and a hair brush, travel toothbrush and toothpaste I had learned to always carry with me. I washed my face again. I had worn panties -they were not to be found. I surmised one of the men from the previous night had taken them as a trophy.

I poured and drank a second cup of coffee, staring at the hourglass on the computer screen, and at last seeing the "transfer complete" screen pop up. I placed the flash drive in my purse and taking one last glance around the wrecked apartment walked out into the bright sunshine.

My car was still in the parking lot, and I dug for my keys and sunglasses, and started for home.

My husband was out of town for a trade show, but once home I sat for a half hour in the hot tub and then went back to bed for a nap. In mid-afternoon I awoke and figured it was time to more closely check out the contents of what I had downloaded.

Rather than paraphrase what he had written, I will instead paste here what he wrote.

I had no idea Leonard is the member of a group of black men whose stated purpose is the seduction and sharing of white wives. I have no idea how large the group is, but it is large enough that the older members thought Leonard would be the man to write a guidebook for the younger members.

I pass this "guidebook" along for public interest, and for other white wives who may find themselves in my shoes. Whether what is written here is a warning or an outline of erotic things to come for white wives depends on the black lover and his intent. Where Leonard's book falls in those categories is up to the reader.

In this guide Leonard tells the true story of how he changed me from a shy faithful housewife into a black cock slut willing to be shared with whoever my black lover might choose, but it is not just my story, but the story of several other women as well.

 

LEONARD'S BOOK

A MANUAL FOR THE SLUTIFICATION OF WHITE WIVES

BY Leonard Taylor

 

INTRODUCTION

 

My name is Leonard Taylor. My friends call me Leon or Lee. My close friends will call me "L" sometimes too. I am a bull. I am a black bull. My hobby is owning white wives, and turning them out. Of course that is not what I tell them when I start, but they find out how it goes eventually.

No, I am not a white slaver. I don't own them body and soul, I don't have the responsibility of feeding and clothing them, or the other maintenance requirements of anyone's wife-I leave that for the husbands. Nor do I want to take any of these wives away from these husbands. Why would I? The husbands can have all of them except for a singular thing-- their sex, the emotional part of their brain that houses their sexual desire, and especially their pussies, asses, tits and mouths, plus any other part of their bodies I want to see or display for sexual enjoyment. My sexual enjoyment. I own those parts of my white wives that I want to own for use, loan, pleasure and yes, sometimes even the sale of their pussies.

This is not something I own by force, or intimidation or fear. The ownership of their pussy is given to me by them willingly, with the reward on their end receiving a level of sexual excitement and pleasure they have never imagined-at least that is what every single wife has told me once she got into it and accepted things for what they were.

Why would a woman, a woman with a husband and family do that? Well I guess that is what I am writing down here. The President of our Black Men 4 White Wives club has noticed my success rate and has asked me to pass along the how-to and inside methods I use for the seduction and eventual turning-out of white wives for the benefit of our members and for some of the other 15 such clubs around the US.

I am not a writer, in fact I'm using one of those damned headset things that you talk into and it puts the words into the computer-so if the grammar is off, if it is not proper English where you live, my apologies. It's the way I talk.

I will also include some case-studies with details of wives who serve as prime examples of what I outline here. But before we get to that, let's go over some basics.

 

THE BASICS

 

First of all as a black man wanting to own white pussy, you need to use what you have to your best advantage-that is a woman's natural curiosity, in particular the curiosity of what it would be like to fuck a black man. If they are over 40, you have the taboo aspect of it aiding your goal, not to mention she is probably getting close to a time when the children will be leaving home and she and her husband will have a freedom to explore that they couldn't with children around.

If you want to invite a white wife you have met out to lunch to begin her seduction, and she is reluctant, you can always ask, "It is not because I am black, is it?" There is no way a white women can say "no" at that point-because in today's political correctness if she says "No" it is conclusive proof her denial is racist. No woman wants to admit that, especially directly to someone that is black. The only way to prove her turn-down is not racially based is to actually go to lunch with you. Use whatever is predisposed by society to help you for your goal. This is only one example.

If you get a white wife out to lunch with you alone and can't start closing the deal, you deserve to be staying at home Saturday night alone surfing porn on the Internet.

Your goal, the ownership of white pussy, has three distinct stages, with several steps as a part of each. The time to complete each step will vary with each woman. I will talk about each as we go along.

 

WHY WHITE WIVES?

 

Before I get any further there might be someone who would butt in here and ask "Why?" If you have to ask why then I question if you are truly a member of the Black Men 4 White Wives group and you must have obtained this through some other unauthorized means.

Okay, beyond the standard, "Why the hell not?" With a white wife it is much simpler to get to ownership. With a single girl you have a woman who thinks that pussy between their legs is solid gold, and to be utilized to manipulate some hard working man into tying himself to her for the rest of his life. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying anything against marriage-for someone else. For two people who love each other, want to spend their lives together, raise a family, it is a wonderful thing.

All of which has nothing to do with what we are talking about here. We are talking about black men nailing white pussy, and getting to the ownership level that will allow us control over that white pussy as long as it amuses us. You will know when that time comes-and how we do after that will go into a later chapter.

Fucking a married white woman has other advantages-she will not make a fuss when it is over, she will not want a scandal. She will be discreet for the same reason.

But I will go one step beyond to answer the question "Why?" which is this. "There is nothing in the world quite as fulfilling as a black man owning himself some white pussy." If you do know this already you understand what I mean. If you don't-well that is what this guide is about.