Young Nude Girl Models - Remarkable Website - Met Art Caprice Will Help You Get There

This is a x-post of my own story from /r/BDSMerotica She'd never fit in. She'd struggled, growing up as the child of immigrants in a small town where everyone else had pale skin and enjoyed the benefits of family roots that stretched back for generations. Instead, she found herself an outsider, required to rush home from school each day to help her parents in their little store. She sold junk food and sodas to her classmates and cringed whenever her father tried to make small talk with them in his embarrassing accent. When she looked in the mirror she saw different eyes, different hair, different skin. In her small town, different was bad. When they found her alone her classmates had teased her. She heard them imitating her parents' accent behind her back, and she heard the slurs, tentative at first then louder as she grew older. She seethed with silent anger when she heard slurs, most of all when they used words that didn't even apply to her ethnic background. Didn't they even know anything about the people they were mocking! What a silly thing to worry about, she told herself, and she kept her head down and did as she was told. She persevered and graduated from her local high school with straight A's. Her parents saved their money at the store and with some scholarship help they managed to put her through college. Her grades were near the top of the year, so when she graduated she had multiple job offers waiting for her in the nearest big city. She chose the largest corporation, the one with the household name, and she quickly learned to cover up her insecurity with a tough but professional veneer. Her work hours were long but she was successful, rising quickly through the ranks. Before age 30 she was already middle management, with a team of people beneath her, some a full decade older than their young boss. Her hometown newspaper interviewed her when she came back to visit. A big city weekly aimed at new immigrants featured her face on the cover as inspiration for other minority women. She spoke at conferences about achieving success as a young woman and a minority in a white man's world. She was living alone now in a spacious loft with a city skyline view, and when her parents visited they marvelled at her marble countertops and snapped photos to send back to their relatives in the old country, a not so subtle brag. But when it came to men, she still felt like the awkward teenager who didn't fit in. She was pretty — petite and slender, with dark hair and brown eyes — and she was asked on more than her share of dates. She accepted a few, sitting through awkward drinks with coworkers and other mismatches orchestrated by her friends. But the men all bored her. She didn't know what people were supposed to talk about on dates. She didn't know why she needed or wanted a relationship. After a while her parents talked her into dating the son of one of their friends, a young man from the same background. She could tell they really wanted it to work, as did he, so she went along with it for almost two years before things finally fizzled. She felt nothing for him. She dreaded sex with him. He seemed too young, his worldview was narrow, and worst of all, when she looked at him she she saw reflections of herself in the mirror. He was simply a reminder that she was the girl who didn't fit in. The truth was, alone at night in bed, when her fingers wandered between her legs, she found herself thinking about the boys back in her home town. In her fantasies they were now grown, business owners and construction workers, their blonde hair now set atop square jaws. They were still taunting and mocking her. Only now she was trapped by them, surrounded on all sides.Their arms were groping, poking, and prodding. She was pushed down to her knees, and then to the ground, finally naked and vulnerable in a circle of fully clothed men as laughter and epithets rained down. When her fantasy reached that point, she usually orgasmed. She finally met him online. A few months after breaking things off with her parent-approved boyfriend, to her utter surpise, she'd found herself developing a porn habit. At first she only looked at it now and then, guiltily, staring at a photo until she got wet and then rapidly closing the window, as if that made it okay. She needed to fool herself into thinking it was an accident. She'd just come across it by mistake! But later she'd think about what she'd seen, re-imagining the photos, analyzing and altering them in her mind as she masturbated. But as time passed, she got bolder, and her keywords more specific. She bookmarked some of her favorite sites and began checking them regularly. Finally, up way too late on weeknight, she saw the photo. It was a photo that changed everything. The photo showed a girl of her own race, with a similar build to her, and a similar hair style. The girl was tied up with ropes, hanging upside down from some sort of hook. She was stark naked with her legs spread wide open and her genitals shaved smooth. A white man in the photo was standing beside the girl. He was fully clothed, and he was penetrating her with a big rubber dildo. But what made her heart skip a few beats was the word written across the girl's forehead in lipstick.It was THAT word. That slur, the one she'd always heard behind her in a mocking voice. In an instant, something clicked, and she realized she wanted to be the girl in the photo. In fact, she NEEDED to be that girl. She glanced beneath the photo and saw there was a username. With a click she found herself on the profile of the man who had posted the photo, and with widening eyes, she noticed he was located in her very same city. Before she could even think about the repercussions of her actions she had clicked on the small email icon beside his name and, with shaking fingers, typed out a pleading message to him. The message began with the words "Dear Sir" followed by an emotional outpouring of her history, her needs, and her desires. She quickly clicked SEND. The message disappeared into the void. He responded the next day, a receptive but blunt response. They exchanged photos, and he was white, a little older than her, normal looking. He too knew what he wanted, and unlike her, he also knew that he deserved it. Clearly she had not been the first to contact him in this manner and he quickly took confident control She was happy to be swept along in something — finally! — that excited her. Two months after their initial meeting the routine was well-established. She knocked twice on his apartment door, then pushed it open. It was unlocked, as it always was when he had summoned her. Once inside she closed the door softly, locked it, and began undressing. She could hear him in the next room, his weight shifting in his favorite armchair, the football commentary on the television. She stepped out of her panties last, then folded them along with the rest of her clothes into a rough pile. A plastic bag was hanging on the inside doorknob, as always. She tucked her clothes inside it and hung it back on the knob. Stark naked, feeling ridiculous yet excited in the cool air conditioning, she tiptoed into the kitchen, opened the designated cupboard, and pulled out the plastic wash bucket filled with sponges and cleaning materials. The cupboard banged slightly as she closed it, and she cringed, hoping he didn't hear. If so, she would pay later. The chore list was on the counter. It wasn't too long today. Five items. First was the kitchen floor, then the bathroom, including the toilet. She began at the top of the list, as taught, and began the work. On all fours in the kitchen, scrubbing each tile to remove dust, spatter or hair, she remembered that she'd never done such a thing in her own apartment. She had a cleaning service that tidied weekly, like magic, coming and going while she was at the office. She wondered if her cleaning staff was all female. She wondered what race they were. She wondered what they would think about her, doing their job for free, naked, for a white man. After a long period of time — was it an hour? — the kitchen floor seemed clean. She looked back over it, using her analytic eye to look for flaws or missed specks of dirt. She couldn't see any, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. She was preparing to move on to the next chore, in the bathroom, when she heard the word. THAT word. That same slur, twice, coming from the next room. He was calling her. She pulled herself to her feet and stepped quickly into the living room, standing erect in the doorway, clasping her arms neatly behind her waist as taught. "Yes, Sir?" she heard herself say. Her voice was small, weak, tentative, the total opposite of how it sounded at work when she was dressed in her skirt suit, addressing her employees with authority around the board room table. He glanced over at her quickly, as if disinterested, then returned his focus to the television. "Beer," he said. "Yes, Sir," she said again, and then hurried back into the kitchen. She pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge, feeling them all first to make sure it was the coldest. She inspected the glass to make sure it had no prints or marks, then poured it with the correct amount of head. She tiptoed back into the living room. He ignored her as she placed the cold beer on the table beside him, centering it neatly on a coaster. On the television it was halftime, and commentators were animatedly debating a controversial play. Her task completed, she returned to the bathroom and resumed working through the chore list. She polished the sink, the counter, and the vanity, and the long mirror on the wall beside the door She replaced the nearly depleted toilet paper roll with a fresh one. Then she turned her attention to the tub. She was bent over at the waist, vigorously scrubbing at a layer of soap scum when he startled her from behind. "Nice asshole," he said, flatly, "do you get it waxed?" She jerked upright and turned around to face him. He was smiling, but it wasn't a friendly smile. She stood uncertainly, one hand limp at her side, the other still holding a dripping sponge. "Y-yes Sir, I get a Brazilian every three weeks. My last one was two days ago." She decided not to add that it cost her $60, and he was normally the only one who ever saw the results aside from herself. "Are you almost done here? I have plans. I don't have all day to wait around for a lazy cleaning girl." "Yes Sir, almost done. Just finishing the tub and then the toilet," she said. He considered for a moment. "All right then. You can have your reward now, then finish up after." He subtly nodded to the floor between them. She understood. Quickly setting her sponge on the edge of the tub, she lowered herself to her knees and shuffled forward a bit. She reach up for the buckle of his belt and fumbled to undo it before sliding down the zipper of his jeans. She pulled his semi-erect penis free and wrapped her mouth around it, swirling her tongue gently and waiting for it to harden fully before beginning to bob her head up and down, sliding his penis in and out of her mouth. She felt his hand on the back of her head, clasping her ponytail and controlling the pace of the sucking. After a couple minutes he groaned. "You're good at this, all girls like you are good at polishing toilets and cocks, aren't you?" he said. Not sure whether to reply properly, her mouth still wrapped around his penis, she simply hummed a noise of agreement. "What shithole country are you from again?" he asked. He pulled her mouth away from his penis momentarily and said the name of her parents' country, realizing it would be pointless to remind him that she had, in fact, been born nearby, in the exact same country as he was. He repeated the country name back to her, twice, pronouncing it incorrectly both times. "I've heard of it, couldn't find it on a map. Definitely a shithole. You're one of the lucky ones we let in here, aren't you?" She had already resumed sucking, so she simply moaned in agreement again. He laughed. "There's always work for your type here if you know your place. Are you ready for your paycheck now?" She stopped sucking and opened her mouth wide, extended her tongue, and waited. He used his hand to casually jerk himself off into her mouth, coating her tongue with semen. She waited until he was done and then swallowed it all at once. She then used her tongue to clean his penis before helping him tuck it back into his pants, zip up his fly, and latch his belt. "Finish your chores here, then you can go. I'll be taking a nap. I'll text you for next week, got it?" "Yes, Sir," she said, and then added, unprompted, "Thank you." By the time she pulled herself to her feet and reached again for her sponge, he was gone. The bedroom door clicked shut. She saw her self in the full-length mirror across the bathroom, her knees red from kneeling on the hard tiles, her hair messy and partially pulled from its ponytail. Even from there she could see the glistening wetness between her legs. The salty aftertaste of semen lingered. She quickly rinsed her mouth in the sink, then bent over the tub to resume her battle with the soap scum. If she did a very good job, she told herself, he would definitely ask her to come back next week. Wouldn't he? If you liked this story, please message me and let me know. It's my first one on this site. I will write more if the reception is positive. Selectivist