The Taming of Nikki Kim

Stepping out of the shower, I forced myself to set aside the question of how all of this had happened. Instead, I decided to focus on the question of what to do next.

It wasn't hard to figure out what I should do. Nina was right that I was putting my family at risk, and that was something I couldn't ignore. No matter how fun or exciting or dangerous this thing was--no matter how I'd felt during those first wakeful moments--Johan's brazenness and lack of discretion could blow up my family at any moment. One way or another, I needed to end this immediately, before anyone else found out.

With these thoughts swirling inside my head, I toweled myself off, walked over to my dresser, and opened the top drawer.

"Ugh, goddammit," I muttered, shaking my head at the all-but-empty drawer in front of me.

Although I'd managed to take my Ambien back from Johan, I'd completely forgotten about the fact that he'd also stolen virtually all of my underwear, leaving behind a single set of matching lingerie. The set consisted of a black demi-bra made of gauzy, see-through lace, accented by pink straps and a little pink bow in between the cups. The matching bottom was a tiny, black-and-pink thong made of a similar material.

The day before, I'd refused to wear this set, choosing to rewear the same underwear for a second straight day rather than let Johan "pick" my lingerie. Today, however, the idea of wearing the same bra-and-panties for a third straight day was so gross that I couldn't resist the allure of fresh underwear. So I unwrapped the towel from my naked body, reached into the drawer, and retrieved the set of matching black-and-pink delicates.

As I pulled the thong up and slipped my large breasts into the lacy black cups, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted beside my bed. False modesty aside, I had to admit that the effect was extremely flattering. The thong was so thin and transparent that it really served to frame my pussy rather than covering it. The bra cupped my breasts seductively, pushing my golden curves together to form a soft, mouthwatering valley.

Why hadn't I worn these more often, I wondered. I'd bought them as a surprise for Steve's birthday a few years earlier, but I'd only put them on once or twice since then. Did I think that sexy lingerie were unbecoming now that I was the mother of a teenage son? Or was it that Steve and I had become so used to each other that I'd begun to think of him as more of a life partner than a romantic one?

Whatever the reason, I'd forgotten how good I looked in lingerie, not to mention how good it felt to wear something sexy. Checking myself out in the mirror, I couldn't help but admire the way the black lace accented my honeyed skin and hugged the contours of my body. Without realizing it, I found myself posing for the mirror, twisting at the waist as my fingers wandered along the edge of the lace, enjoying the sumptuous curves of my freshly washed body.

It was as I looked over my shoulder at the thin strip of fabric that barely concealed my ass that I noticed something unfamiliar on my lower back. At first, I thought it was a smudge on the mirror, but then I realized it was actually on my skin. As I backed towards the mirror, the smudge became clearer, and then--

"Oh my god," I gasped.

It wasn't a smudge after all. There, on the small of my back, were three words, stacked one on top of the other, written with a Sharpie in clumsy block letters: "BWC MILF SLUT"

"Oh my god, oh my god," I said, panicking.

I rushed back into the bathroom and grabbed my loofah. Quickly, I soaked it in water and soap, and then I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking over my shoulder and frantically rubbing at the tawdry words marking my lower back.

"C'mon," I pleaded, begging the words to disappear. "Please--come on--"

When had this happened? I had no memory of letting Johan write on my body. That meant that either I'd forgotten some of what we'd done the previous night, or that Johan had done things to me after I'd fallen asleep in his bed. I wasn't sure which possibility was more terrifying.

"Please--please just disappear," I moaned, trying to wish the words away. "Just go away!"

After a few minutes of this, I staggered out of the bathroom and slumped down on the bed, my arm aching from the exertion of trying to wipe away my shame. I'd succeeded in getting the words to fade considerably, but they were still discernible if you knew what you were looking for.

I felt like I was going completely crazy. How could Johan do this to me? And why? What kind of sick game was this twisted younger man playing with me?

The thing that made me the most panicked was how easily I could have overlooked the words. Johan had deliberately written them in a place that was almost impossible for me to see. It wasn't hard to imagine how I might not have noticed them for several days.

What if I'd been getting changed in front of Steve? How I could I possibly have explained this to him? I didn't even know what "BWC" was supposed to mean, but based on the other words that Johan had scrawled on my body, I was certain that it wasn't anything respectable.

I did know one thing, though. Nina was right: Johan was a threat to everything I held dear. His recklessness was a danger to my marriage, my family, and my life as I knew it.

Silently, I vowed to protect these things, no matter the cost.

...

I knew that I needed to extricate myself from Johan's clutches in order to protect my family, but I was still unsure about exactly how to make this happen.

Although he was only 19-years-old, Johan had proven himself to be a formidable predator and a canny manipulator. His arrogant and aggressive nature made him trouble, but it was his ruthlessness and lack of scruples that made him truly dangerous. He'd been utterly shameless in his attempts to coerce me, as if he had no moral compass at all.

As I got dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting blouse, I considered my options.

Part of me was scared, angry, and spoiling for a fight. After he'd had the gall to mark my body with these shameful, disgusting words, my emotional instinct was to march down to the in-law unit and confront him.

But the rational part of my brain reasoned that this was a bad idea, that to go down to the in-law alone again would be walking into a trap. No matter how much I wanted to stand up to him, I couldn't keep delivering myself to his doorstep.

Perhaps the safer approach was to put some distance between us. This had been my original plan: get out of the house during the day, run some errands, and return home in the evening when Steve and the kids would also be there. This would minimize the amount of time that Johan and I were home alone together.

But Johan had already exploited the flaw in this strategy. The shower in the in-law unit wasn't working, so Steve had given him a key to the main house, which he had taken as free license to go through my things when I wasn't home. The last time I'd left him home alone, he'd stolen my Ambien and most of my underwear, which he then used these as bait to lure me out to the in-law unit. If I left him home alone again, I had no idea what else he might discover, and I was terrified of how he might use it to his advantage.

This left me with just one very unappealing option, which was to hole up in my bedroom until it was time to pick Danny and Riley up from school.

The indignity of allowing myself to become a prisoner in my own home offended me deeply, but it was hard to see how the other options were better. Johan could let himself into the house, but his key wouldn't gain him entry into my bedroom. As long as my bedroom door stayed locked, he couldn't get to me or any of the more intimate items I kept in here away from the boys.

So despite my misgivings about this plan, I snuck out of my room and walked furtively through the house, gathering some supplies for the next several hours. Quickly, I grabbed an apple, a bag of granola, a cup of yogurt, a bottle of water, and my laptop. Then, I scurried back into my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

This is absurd, I thought to myself, but it's the safest way. As long as you're in here, he can't get to you. If you don't engage, you can just wait him out. You have more patience than some 19-year-old boy.

For the next hour or so, I sat on my bed, snacking on the food I'd brought in and passing time by browsing the internet for recipes. This should've been very peaceful, but it was hard to relax knowing that Johan would eventually leave the in-law unit and come up to the main house.

But there was also something else on my mind that I couldn't quite let go of.

What did "BWC" mean? And why had Johan written it on my back?

As I scrolled through cooking sites, I could barely concentrate on the recipe steps or the grocery lists because these questions continued to nag at me. I told myself that I really didn't want to know, that I had enough context to know that it would be something shameful or humiliating. But perversely, these thoughts only served to make me more curious.

I was alone in my bedroom, but even so, I took a look around before opening up a private browser tab. Then, I typed "bwc" into the search box.

The initial results that appeared on the screen were very benign. I saw a NASDAQ listing for a company called Blue Whale Acquisitions, followed by several links to government websites for workman's compensation.

I took a deep breath. Are you sure you want to do this? Just close the window and go back to browsing recipes.

Instead, I toggled the SafeSearch filter off. Then, I typed "bwc slut" into the search box.

This time, there were no publicly traded companies on the results page, and no government websites. Now, the very first result was a page on Reddit called "Built for BWC."

Suddenly, I remembered something that Johan had said to me in his hotel room in Sydney. He'd been shit-talking Steve, insisting that what my husband really wanted was for me to fuck a white guy, and he had mentioned Reddit in passing.

"I've seen a lot of Asian couples on Reddit," I remembered him saying. "The husbands, they like watching their hot Asian wives fuck hung white studs..."

Hearing his voice inside my head again gave me chills. How had this college boy burrowed so deep inside my psyche?

But it couldn't be a coincidence. Johan had talked about going on Reddit. Then, he had written "BWC MILF SLUT" on my back. Now, here was a page on Reddit called "Built for BWC."

I had to know. I just... had to.

I clicked the link, and as soon as the page loaded, my heart began to race.

There on the screen in front of me were dozens of images and videos. They were all different, but also, they were all the same.

Beautiful Asian women, naked and moaning, with a white man's cock in their face. Or buried inside them. Or both.

But these were no ordinary men. They were all embarrassingly well-hung, obscenely long and indecently thick.

In short, they were just like Johan. They all had Big White Cocks. Because of course they did.

Go back, I thought. You got what you came for, didn't you? You know what it means now.

But something kept me from clicking the back button. Something kept my eyes glued to the page.

All these young, pretty Asian women, down on their knees or on all fours... they looked hot. More than that, they looked excited, even satisfied.

These women didn't look like prisoners. They didn't look embarrassed or ashamed.

They looked aroused, overheated, ready to explode. And seeing them made me wonder...

Is this how my sister looked back in high school when she snuck out of the house to go driving with white boys?

I felt my breath getting shallower and I realized that my nipples were poking through the gauzy fabric of my lacy, lingerie bra.

Is this what I looked like with Johan last night?

I scrolled down the page, reading the titles of the posts, unable to tear myself away.

"Asian girl can't resist BWC"

"Hot Asian slut vs two BWCs"

"Sucking BWC = Asian girls happy place"

"Asian wife submits to college BWC (VIDEO)"

That last one stopped me dead in my tracks.

I couldn't scroll past it. My fingers moved with a mind of their own. Suddenly, I heard a moan escape from my tinny laptop speakers, and although I was alone, I rushed to lower the volume as the video began to play.

In the center of the screen was an Asian woman, kneeling on her hands and knees on a hotel bed. The upper half of her face was covered by masquerade mask that obscured her identity, but you could tell from the lower half of her face that she was very pretty.

She had a pert nose, good cheekbones, and full lips that were parted to reveal straight, white teeth. She had long, shiny black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail behind her. Her mask made it hard to say exactly how old she was, but her body was lithe and youthful, unblemished by wrinkles or stretch-marks. I guessed she was somewhere in her late-20s or early-30s, but if she'd taken good care of herself, she could've easily been my sister's age.

Standing next to the bed was a tall, muscular white guy, his broad chest covered by a thin layer of dark hair. You couldn't see his face--he was too tall, the frame cropped him at about shoulder-height--but what you could see was the enormous, veiny tool anchored between his legs.

With his right hand, he was stroking himself slowly, the tip of his cock just inches from her face. His left hand was gripped around her ponytail, and he using it to gently guide her head towards his cock. Then, when her face was finally close enough, he grabbed his cock by the base and slapped her with it.

I heard him say something, but the volume was so low I couldn't make it out. I turned it up a couple of notches.

"You like that?" he said, slapping her face again with his meat. "You like that?"

"Yesss," I heard her mewl.

"Tell me what you want, slut," he sneered.

"I want your cock," she moaned softly. "I want your big white cock..."

"What d'you wanna do with it?" he said, slapping her with it a third time.

"What--whatever you want..."

"What d'you wanna say to your husband?" he barked, yanking her ponytail roughly, pointing her so that she was facing the camera.

"Baby, he's so fucking big," she squealed, looking directly at the camera. "I love you... I'm sorry--"

Then, the man pulled her head back towards him, and instead of slapping her, he pressed his cock against her lips. Without hesitation, she parted her lips for him, her eyes looking upwards and out of frame as he began feeding his tool into her mouth.

I watched in stunned silence as his inches disappeared into her throat, my bedroom filling up with the wet, guttural sounds of her gagging. The video continued for a few more seconds, until miraculously, she had somehow swallowed his entire sword.

In the final frame, you could see her gazing up at the man buried in her throat, a sense of pride and a desire for approval each etched across her face. The way she was looking at him revealed the degree of control he had over her. She was in thrall to this man, utterly and completely, yet she seemed totally at peace with this fact.

"Holy shit," I whispered softly as the video ended. I clicked the back button on my browser, which returned me to the landing page.

This video... it was just one among probably hundreds, perhaps thousands of similar posts, maybe more than that. I scrolled back up to the top of the page. There, something else caught my eye.

Next to the page description--"Hot Asian Sluts absolutely Built for BWC"--it said that this page had 41,580 readers. I blinked twice, staring in disbelief at that number.

This one page had more than 40,000 readers. This one page--which existed solely to promote and glorify the idea that Asian women were sluts whose purpose in life was to pleasure well-hung white men--had enough readers to populate a small city. And if one page like this had that many readers, then there were probably other pages like it.

My head started spinning. How many people out there were turned on by videos like this one? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? More?

And then another thought crossed my mind as I realized how warm my body had become.

Was I one of them?

Quickly, I shut my laptop and leapt up off the bed, pacing the floor anxiously, trying to distract myself from the feelings that this video had stirred up inside me. But what I'd seen had shaken something loose.

In the past, Steve and I had occasionally watched porn together to get in the mood, and I've mentioned before that Steve had sometimes put on videos where an Asian woman had sex with a white man. But these videos were all very obviously staged. Many of them had silly storylines and moderately high production values. The people on screen were clearly professional adult film stars, and although the sex was real, you could tell that they were playing roles that they'd been assigned.

But this video seemed totally different. The Asian woman on screen didn't seem anything like the porn stars I'd watched before, and it didn't seem like she was acting at all.

To the contrary, everything about the video made it seem homemade. The single, static camera angle could've been shot from an iPhone mounted on a tripod. The hotel room was dim, lit only by ceiling lights, with no evidence of any additional fixtures. And there was no music playing in the background, just the sounds of her gagging as she swallowed him whole.

As for the woman herself, she seemed entirely too real. She was obviously attractive, but she didn't have fake breasts, a spray tan, or a face full of professional makeup. In fact, she'd worn a mask to hide her identity, something that wouldn't make sense if she were actually an adult film star.

Everything about her suggested that she was a normal, ordinary Asian woman, just like me. Well, almost everything.

A normal, ordinary Asian woman wouldn't let a white guy slap her across the face with his huge cock. She wouldn't get naked and beg for his cock on camera. She wouldn't let him film her as she sucked him off. And she certainly wouldn't do all of that if she had a husband.

Would she?

As I paced back and forth, the part that I couldn't stop thinking about--the part that I couldn't get out of my head--was when the white guy had turned her face to the camera and instructed her to address her husband. I had so many questions about this moment.

Was her husband there with them in the room? Was he the one operating the camera? Was he watching her submit to this hung white stud in real life?

Or were they filming it all because her husband wasn't there? Was he going to watch the video later? Did he know what his wife was doing with this oversized white wolf?

Or maybe the video wasn't for her husband at all. Maybe the video--like the woman herself--existed entirely for this hung white man's personal pleasure. Maybe he demanded that his conquests come with trophies for his collection. Maybe he liked it better when his trophies came at another man's expense.

But no matter who the video was for, there was no doubt in my mind that woman on screen was really married. There was something in the way that she'd said those final words--"I love you... I'm sorry"--that struck a chord deep inside the core of my being. Because as a woman, and as a wife, I believed her.

I genuinely believed that she loved her husband. And I genuinely believed that she was sorry.

But I also believed that she couldn't stop herself from submitting to this big-dicked white man. Because it was true. He was so fucking big.

Then, suddenly, I heard a knock against my bedroom door.

"Open up, Nikki," Johan said from the other side. "I'm here."