MasterA

He wasn’t always like this. When I first took him on as my sub, he was hesitant. Raised conservative. Afraid to admit what he wanted—especially from men like me. He said all the usual shit: “I’m not into BB,” “I’ve never had sex,” “I just want to take it slow.” So I trained him. Slowly. Deeply. Rewired him.I used my voice. My hands. My cock. I opened his legs and gave him rules: No condoms. No negotiation. Only obedience. Last night I reminded him just how far he’s come. I didn’t give him a heads-up. Just had him on his knees when I walked in, cock out. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth and took it to the back. I used his throat until I was hard, dripping, ready to fuck. I bent him over and pushed in raw. No lube, no words. He grunted. Gripped the sheets. Took every inch. He’s learned that his job isn’t to be comfortable—it’s to be bred. And last night, I made sure he felt that lesson. Long strokes. Deep ballslap. I pulled out only after I flooded him with cum, then pushed back in, just to stir it deeper. When I finished, I didn’t clean him up. I made him keep that load in him. “Say it,” I told him. He looked up, shame melting into obedience. “This hole belongs to you and your dark cock, sir.” He’s not pretending anymore. He doesn’t top. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t resist. He’s a twink bred into submission. And I’ll keep pushing until there’s nothing left in him but obedience and cum.

He was 19. He was innocent. He was a virgin. He told me he wasn’t into risky play. He is a cute white twink. Raised in a conservative home where men like me were to be feared, never trusted, never touched, never worshipped. But deep down, he wanted it. You could see it in the way he talked. The way he needed a breeding top to take control. The hesitation that didn’t quite hide the hunger. We didn’t talk about condoms. He assumed one would appear. But when the moment came, I didn’t offer—and he didn’t ask. He lay back, legs open, body trembling with the kind of tension that comes from years of repression. I stroked myself slowly—thick, bare, ready—and pressed the head of my cock against his virgin hole. He stiffened. I looked him dead in the eyes and asked, “Are you sure you want it like this?” He nodded. That was it. Not a word about safe. Not a plea for protection. Just a silent, shaky nod—his whole body screaming for something his mind still didn’t know how to accept. So I pushed in. Bare. Hard. Deep. He gasped as my cock broke through—tight and untouched, and suddenly filled. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t push me away. Didn’t even blink when I pushed my raw dark cock deep in him, buried to the base. I pounded and bred him, like he was a whore. Because in that moment, he was. I moved slowly at first, watching his face shift—fear melting into shock, then surrender. His fingers pushing into the sheets, his thighs quivered, and his hole… God, his hole opened. Soft. Wet. Eager to be used. Like it had waited its whole life to serve a dark dick raw. And when I came inside him—deep, raw, no warning—he moaned like he’d just been unlocked. Later, I asked him if he knew what I meant when I said “are you sure you want it like this” and he thought I meant “are you sure about sex?” That he’d expected a condom. I told him the truth: His body gave me a better answer than words ever could. That was his first time. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t safe. It was rough and raw. And now, he doesn’t hesitate. He opens. He serves. He drips with cum. He knows. He was raised to say no. But his body has learned to say yes—especially to MEN of colour.