Black, Lesbian, Dominant!


Sometime ago, I was brought to this site by white woman who wanted me to read a story that she found, in her own words, “interesting.” She had sent me a link to my email one day and, before I knew it, there I was gazing upon the erotic stories from so many.

Well, I read the little story she wanted me to read. Since then, I have thought about adding my own “real life experiences” … and, let’s just say that I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time now.

Only, I wasn’t sure if anyone would consider them “erotic,” per se. At least from a sexual standpoint. Many may even consider me to be more of a “bitch,” which I gladly admit to being from time to time. Regardless, I will try this and see if anyone else really wants to read more.

My name is Alisha. I am 20, black-african and brazilian decents, beautiful, lesbian and dominant. Yes, dominant! And, I have always been this way. I was raised this way, and yes! I am very glad that I was.

The one thing that always truly “bothered” me about most beautiful people is that they try so hard to be modest and humble about it. They continually act surprised and thankful when someone tells them they are beautiful, and they try to absorb these compliments to their obvious beauty as if it were something unexpected. Not me.

Although it may sound “conceded” to many, I know that I’m fucking beautiful! In fact, I am fucking gorgeous! I know it and everyone that looks at me and “looks my way” knows it too. Why deny it? Why deny the obvious? Why should I even try to pretend “not” to know what an absolutely beautiful, ravishing and feminine creature I am?

I imagine describing myself is the best way to start.

I am petite at 5’1″ tall and 105 lbs., with a 32c-22-33 figure. My small body is toned to perfection, femininely athletic and proportioned just right for my size. My smooth, medium to darker mocha-brown skin is absolutely “flawless” and captures the perfect, pure beauty of my African Ancestry. My lips are full and pouty, my breasts firm and supple, and my cute little “booty” is one that would start wars. Even my small size 5 feet are perfectly-shaped and stunningly-beautiful. Truth!

My face is, perhaps, even more beautiful! I have only “modeled” for department store catalogs at this point in my life, but that is by choice! I am smarter than most and I find that career path less challenging. My hair is like pure silk. Women of all races are so jealous of this fact, and I like that! As a matter of fact, there isn’t even a single centimeter on my entire beautiful body that anyone would consider less than gorgeous!

These are all factual statements. It’s really that simple.

I am lesbian. Sorry men. I just am! And, I am also quite bossy and dominant too. My beauty has always allowed me the privileges of getting what I want, when I want it and how I want it. It has always had both men and women “tripping over their own feet” to be at mine!

Simply put, my natural beauty as a black woman has been a tremendous source of great power for me – and I am not apologizing to anyone about it, either.

It is in my Kurtköy Escort nature and my birth right as a young black woman to be a leader to rule, to dominate. Don’t blame me. It’s simply the truth of how things are and they way I was raised to understand this.

I was fortunate to be the youngest of 3 daughters to my beautiful black mother. My two older sisters were two and three years older than me, respectively, and my mother was quite young when she had us. We were born to the same father who had left just months before I was even born. I never knew him.

Yet, my mother still raised up to be proud black women who had a birthrite as the ruling class in society. As diffiuclt as it is to believe, she did. She was, and still is a classy ebony woman not yet approaching 40 who still maintains the perfectly-toned 5’4″ 120 lb. sculpted frame she had as a young woman. She is beautiful. Both my sisters are beautiful black women too.

My mother wasn’t even 24 when I began to really notice how things were around our home. Here she was – a beautiful single black-african woman already raising 3 daughters and working a 30-hour work week as an assistant manager at a department store. Yet, we lived in an expensive home in a more than predominantly white suburb with two family cars.

Well, one car was her “personal” car, a red Mercedes convertible and the other a modest, but very nice-looking grey metallic Honda.

She dressed very well too. Her nails were done weekly and she had the finest clothes and shoes any woman can dream of. Yes, my mother was quite the “polished” one … as I am today. A black woman who others would casually describe as “high maintenace.” Looking back, I’m sure this made no sense at all to the neighbors, or to any one else for that matter. If they even knew, that is! What I didn’t know then and what I do know now, makes perfect sense to me!

It was the presence of Emily.

Emily was an older white woman in her late 40’s or early 50’s, perhaps 47 or 48 when I first began taking notice. She didn’t live with us, but she was always around – and I do mean always! She was statuesque at 5’10” tall and had a nice figure for a woman her age. She was around 145 lbs., I would guess and always dyed her hair blonde. Certainly, I could tell from the slightly-greying roots she would have from time to time.

Bit, one could easily see that she either “had” money, or she “came from” money since she gave that appearance of someone who once had something more. It was as if she was a former-beauty Queen from years passed.

To us growing up, this older white woman had always been a “friend” of my mothers and “a friend of the family.”

But, Emily was not like most “friends” or anyone who would use that term. I use it rather lossely. She was always around doing things. She cooked our meals, cleaned up around our home and did all of our laundry. She drove us to school and picked us up everyday. She even helped us with our homework most days and ran every single errand for our household – not most of them – but all of them.

Basically, Emily did Kurtköy Escort Bayan everything – including serving us our breakfast at the kitchen table and our evening meals at the dinner table.

Even when I tried to pick up my plate and bring it to the kitchen sink after dinner, my mother would literally take it from my little hands and place it back on the table.

“Honey, put that down and go into the livingroom and turn on the television. Emily will take care of that.” she’d say.

“Emily!” she’d say with a firm tone, turning to the older white woman with a look of disdain.

Emily’s face would turn so red when my mother used that tone when speaking to her.

“Yes, Ma’am. Yes, let me take care of that right away.” Emily would answer.

We never did have to lift a finger. Not my mother or any of my sisters, nor I. Never. Emily was always there to do everything – and to do everything my mother told her to do. It was ongoing and constant.

“Emily, we’re almost out of orange juice!” my mom would say.

“Oh, my. I’m sorry. Let me run to the store right away then, Ma’am.” Emily answered.

“Emily, I’m going on a small trip with the girls tomorrow. Is there enough fuel in my car?” she’d say.

“Yes, Ma’am. I did it refill it. Let me check on that, Ma’am.” Emily answered.

“Emily, this coffee isn’t fresh is it?” she’d ask.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It isn’t. You’re right. Let me make a fresh pot for you.” Emily answered.

“Emily, these clothes don’t smell like you used the fabric softener I wanted.” she’d say, sternly.

“No, Ma’am. I think I forgot that. I’m very sorry. I will re-do the laundry now.” Emily answered, then scurrying off to do all our laundry again.

There are virtually millions of other examples of this, yet I shall spare many of you the details of “how things were.” Basically, my mother’s “friend” Emily always did everything she told her to do. Everything!

Sure, it was all discreet. Nothing extreme. My sisters and I certainly didn’t know any better at such a young age. To us, it was quite simple. We had this statuesque, older white woman “friend” of the family being nice to us and always doing everything for us, especially my mother.

We had no chores. We didn’t have to do a damned thing, actually. Emily was always around doing what my mother “told” her to do – and she never complained. Not once. And, this continued on and on as I was growing up.

I reasoned that my mother had known Emily for quite some time, too, or at least since the time she was 18 or 19 when she had me and my father had left. There were some “references” to that time table all through my adolesence. But, that friendship of some sorts began taking hold of my mind as I began high school, or should I say taking hold of my mind to an even greater level.

That is when I, essentially, became my mother – or more like her. Much, much more.

After Emily would pick us up from school and my sisters sauntered off to their bedrooms, I would go into the kitchen and sit at the center counter.

“Where’s Escort Kadıköy my fucking chocolate milk, Emily?” I’d ask her.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. Let me get that for you, Alisha.” she answered.

Emily knew that I always liked a glass of chocolate milk right after school and when it wasn’t there I grew irritable.

“It’s pretty fucking stupid of you not to have it here when I want it, ya’ know.” I’d lash out.

“Yes, Alisha. Yes, you’re very right about that. It was stupid of me. I’m sorry.” Emily would answer, fetching my milk.

I suppose I was merely “testing the waters” to another level. I mean, really. What else was I supposed to do? When you’re used to being served, it is something you not only expect every single time – but something you demand!

I sure demanded a lot back then. Even more so now.

By the time I reached 18 years old, I was already in college and everything was coming into focus. I had put the years together in my mind and figured it all out – maybe I did years before that, too – but, for the sake of rational thinking I will say that now I was 18 and more curious about the tall, statuesque, attractive older blonde woman and “friend of the family” we called Emily.

My two older sisters had decided on colleges away from home and had been gone for a couple of years. Sure, they returned in summer and for the holidays but it was mainly my mother and I living in our home now. My college was only 14 miles away. And, I had a bright new silver sporty Honda Civic in the driveway the day I started college – the same as my two older sisters had on their first days of college, but a different color.

I suppose I had to know.

“Why is this older white woman always around doing stuff for us?” I asked myself.

“Why doesn’t she just live her and why doesn’t she ever stay over at night? Where does she go?” I continued asking myself.

One day, I watched as Emily left for the night. It was usually past our bedtime early on in our lives, but now I was staying up a little later than past 11. As I watched this now 58 year old white woman leaving our home I wondered where she would go. To my surprise, she simply walked right across the street into her own home – one that was equally as impressive as ours.

“Hmmm. How curious.” I said to myself.

Putting it all together, there was only one conclusion that I could make, and it is one that so many reading this probably would never want to hear. But, the truth of the matter is that Emily was my mother’s “bitch.” Her “white bitch.”

In fact, she had always been – or for at least the past 18 or 21 years. My sisters and I had never known any other life but to have Emily as the family friend and my mother’s so called “friend.” It intrigued me and I wanted to know more.

By this time, I was still a virgin. I never liked any of the boys who came sniveling around me. I often fantasized about other women pleasuring me orally and never the other way around. Basically, I knew that I was a lesbian. I had known for years. I just never did anything about it.

But, as I probed to gain more information about Emily I decided not to ask my mother – not in the beginning. I didn’t want her to know that I was beginning to know about her “personal” life and all. She may not have answered me, anyway.

That’s when I decided to approach her – Emily!

The End of chapter one.

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