Zarina the Dominatrix

Zarina the Dominatrix

A Tale from the BNWO

 

Jeffery Banks has been a bad boy,

Zarina makes him pay for it, and pay for it, and pay again!

 

Serena Steele Monroe

 

© Copyright 2025 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

Zarina the Dominatrix

A Tail from the BNWO

 

This happened long, long ago, in a place far, far away called California.

 

Back then, I called myself Jeffery Banks. I was a single dad of three teens, and for the first time in months, they were with their mother. It was supposed to be a weekend of freedom. The only thing I had planned was a trip to the park with a bag of breadcrumbs for the ducks. Being a single father had chased women away, or it made them desperate for a ring. None of the lovelies were interested in playing my games.

 

I strolled through the park with my mind on a dominant woman and my head in the clouds. That’s when I spotted her—a tall Afro-American goddess in a black, flat, brimmed, equally flat, crowned Stetson and two-toned riding pants. Her tight, pullover Victorian man’s shirt clung to the firmest pair of breasts I had ever seen. She wore point-toed cowboy boots with five-inch spiked heels and clutched a riding crop.

 

Her dark skin was rich and stunning against the green of the grass. Honestly, I couldn’t help but ogle her every inch as my eyes worked their way up from those impossibly sexy boots. She smacked the crop into her gloved right hand and snapped at me.

 

“What are you looking at, maggot?”

 

“Nothing, ma’am, I’m sorry,” I stuttered. Even as my cock twitched and I came close to embarrassing myself.

 

She changed position, planting the toe of her left boot into the ground and tapping it repeatedly, digging a hole under the toe. All the while, she scowled at me like I was a freak or a pervert. I wanted her, but at forty-five and out of practice, I didn’t stand a chance with someone like that. I slinked away, barely holding it together.

 

The further I got from her, the more my chest pounded. My cock was still straining, and my heart still beat fast. What did a pathetic loser like me think I could do with a woman like her? Even if she was interested, what did I imagine would happen right here in public? I felt myself squirm as I continued toward the pond.

 

I sat on a bench, opened the bag of breadcrumbs, and several ducks swam in my direction. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She was young, beautiful, and commanding. I tossed some bread into the water, wondering how many husbands or boyfriends she might have.

 

“Fucking pathetic,” I muttered to myself. Pitiful me wanted to talk to her, but I couldn’t bring myself to take the chance. Then I saw her standing by the edge of the pond, beautiful and frighteningly dangerous. I didn’t dare look at her. Maybe if I ignored her, she’d forget how pathetic I was and walk away. I sat frozen, but she remained there. She probably had a stable full of willing slaves.

 

I kept tossing breadcrumbs and heard the click of her heels on the stone pathway.

 

Once I convinced myself she wasn’t going to push me into the pond and drown me, I heard a sonorous, sensual voice.

 

“What’s with you?” she asked.

 

“What do you mean, miss?” I managed to studder out.

 

“I mean, you look fit. You’re middle-aged, yet alone and lonely. I could see it in your eyes,” she replied.

 

“Are you that certain?” I asked, trying to sound as if she were wrong.

 

“I can spot a pathetic loser from a mile away,” she said, placing her hand on my shoulder. She squeezed hard.

 

“Loser, that’s a harsh word. But I’ve been divorced for six months, have custody of my three daughters, and haven’t gotten my feet under me on the whole dating thing,” I said as she continued, squeezing my shoulder with a brutal clutch that drove her fingernails in.

 

“You lost her because you were passive, and she wanted a man. A real one. Don’t worry, sweetums, I specialize in losers.” There that word was again, boring to my mind, nerves, and sending a single to all the way to balls and prick. Bending down so that her lips nearly brushed my ear, she whispered, “Now, if you’ve finished feeding the ducks, come with me,” then released my shoulder.

 

I have a real thing for black women. Especially strong, tall, muscled black women. I watch them in tennis, women’s basketball, gymnastics, and track and field. I imagine them in my fantasies, slapping my face, jerking me from here to there, and doing every nasty thing possible to me. And this woman frightened and thrilled me, my favorite combination. After all, as a wealthy, privileged, white man, I owe it to the black race to let their women take out any and all frustrations on me. If only I had the nerve to do so.

 

I kept tossing breadcrumbs. Unable to think or breathe as my mind spun in a hundred different directions. Was she real? Was she actually speaking to me? Was she going to make my dreams come true?

 

Was she going to humiliate me and crush my wretched soul? I wanted her so much that it hurt. I wanted everything she could give me, and at the same time, it was impossible. The breadcrumb bag crinkled in my sweaty hands. The ducks swarmed to the edge of the pond. I heard the clack of her heels as she started to walk away.

 

“Well, your loss,” she said.

 

I stood, dumped the remaining breadcrumbs onto the ground, turned, and ran a few steps before following her at a measured pace, careful not to get too close. I watched her beautiful, tight ass sway as she walked. No, not walked, strutted. Her head turned slightly as she gave me a side-eye smirk.