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September 24, 2018

Samantha's Chronicles: Who's your master?

I shift with surprise under the duvet. I never realised Eric could express himself so well on paper. The editor in me kicks in. I should probably offer him a column in my magazine. He is really good. Or @KevBosire is really good. I’m still not sure if they are one and the same person. 

Fine, the subject matter is slightly troubling when you are the muse, but that’s what writers do. They write about themselves or their friends, people they know and their experiences. It’s never totally random. It’s never totally fiction. 

That’s why you’ll find debates about whether or not Jay Z cheated on Beyoncé or they were just selling records. Why are the two mutually exclusive? Why not both scenarios, entwined together? Creating art, after all, involves drawing from the complex sea of emotion inside of us and pouring it into a form outside us. 

It can be cathartic. All great artists reach deep inside themselves to produce their best work. It’s what drives most of them stark raving mad or sometimes… Saves them. Eric writing about this insane sexual experience is therapeutic to him in some way. I’m not mad at him anymore. It’s actually quite hilarious, reading about it now. I continue. 

“Who am I?” she is asking.

“What?” Answering a question with a question earns me a lash. And I didn’t know this chick is this strong; it was like she was lifting up the whip to Mars and bringing it down on me. 

“I asked you, who am I?” Lash!

”You are Kabu… “ Makosa! But no whip comes. Butt clenching tu.

“You know you are my slave, right? So what does that make me?” I racked my brain… “My mistress?” Aiyaiyaiyai.

This was a life-and-death kind of test and I was failing every answer. Lash! Lash! Lash!

 “Mistress is a word for weak bitches. I’m your master. Say it!” I didn’t want to delay the answer, “You are my master.”

 “And what are you?” She was fiery. 

 “I’m your slave,” I was meek. 

I contemplated crying, fam. I actually thought of cryyyiiing but even my manly tears didn’t want to come out and get mixed up with this nonsense. My ancestors were in their graves thinking issa wrap… Our lineage has gone extinct. I could feel my son in my scrotum shaking his head like… “Tsk’, Dad’s a bitch yaani.”

I’ll just take it and it will be over soon. Then she went silent, at least the whipping and the questions stopped. Theeen something started vibrating. Waaah, this is the day I die. Now what is that? At this rate, it can even be a mini power saw! The vibration got louder, then I felt her touch my thigh, then something touched my family jewels. It was a vibrator. This situation was so bad that I was actually glad that there was a vibrator touching my jewels, fam. It could’ve been worse.

She took it round teasing me, going up and down. This bitch better not be trying to do something with my ass or I’ll break from these cuffs like Samson and square it off with her. But I was wise enough to keep quiet.

Still reading, I smile as I recall this part of the evening. I was on some sort of adrenaline rush at this point. Having a grown man tied up and at my mercy was intoxicating. I felt powerful. I enjoyed humiliating him. I enjoyed hearing him beg for mercy. I enjoyed, most of all, him calling me master. But his butt had turned colour despite his pigmentation, and I was wondering if I was taking it too far. Hence the decision to put the whip aside and opting for something else. A vibrator made sense. I have read in numerous books that a man’s prostrate gland is very sensitive and if stimulated leads to instant gratification. Should I go for it?

Poll of the day