After a couple of days or so of silence, Master Ahmed's Twitter account was suddenly bursting with activity, posts of photos and video from the Black Lives Matter demonstrations in Washington D.C. that he and my wife, Marisa, were attending. The posts from the daytime were innocuous enough, photos from the day's protests, images of African-Americans and their allies marching on the Mall and in front of the Capitol. There was one photo of Master Ahmed with an arm around my wife, both their fists raised in Black Power salutes. The posts from later in the day, especially after nightfall, took a darker, more violent turn. There were videos of protesters scuffling with police, setting fires, breaking windows. One video depicted Marisa, a balaclava concealing her face, hurling bricks at police cars. This was my formerly sedate suburban wife, mother to my sons. She had been radicalized, introduced to extremist black political activism by the same man who had taken control of my life, locked me in chastity, and run off with my wife. It was exciting beyond imagination seeing the changes in Marisa, thrilling to know that I was less important to her than this violent black stranger, his big, dominant cock, and his open contempt for the white race.
I scrolled excitedly through Master Ahmed's feed, savoring every image of him and my wife. In one, he and a handful of other black men attacked a white man who had been carrying an American flag, beating him savagely, leaving him bloody and unconscious as they laughed and ran off. In another video, he and Marisa set fire to the what appeared to be that same flag. As it burned, Master Ahmed took out his heavy cock and pissed all over it. When more police arrived, bricks and bottles were hurled at them, including by my wife, who called them pigs and fascists as she attacked them. I worried about her safety, but I was intoxicated by the sight of this side of her. Master Ahmed had awakened a passion in her that I had never even imagined.
I read every news account I could find of the demonstrations. There were several arrests made that night, but as far as I could determine, Master Ahmed and Marisa were not among those apprehended. There were a number of police officers injured, some seriously. I wondered if Tommy and Wayne's mother had been among those to inflict the injuries. I imagined Master Ahmed and my wife in the throes of sexual excitement generated by their night of Black Power activism, him fucking her velvety, pink pussy with the physical manifestation of his inherent genetic superiority. Were it not for the cage Master Ahmed made me wear on my cock, keeping me chaste, the cage to which only he had the key, I would have jacked all night to images of my Master and my wife fighting for racial justice.
Over the next few days, Master Ahmed's Twitter grew quiet. Neither he nor Marisa contacted me, and I dare not contact them without permission. Checking the balance on Master Ahmed's Visa account, which it was my responsibility to pay, I learned that he had taken a hotel room in South Beach, Florida. I could only assume that my wife was still with him, enjoying the beaches and clubs and shopping of Miami Beach. I wondered when or even if I would ever hear from her again. I needn't have wondered long.
That very night, I was awoken at 4am by a notification on my phone. I had a video call request. I logged on expecting Master Ahmed. Instead, I saw Marisa's smiling face greeting me. "Hello, piggy!" she said, using Master Ahmed's name for me. Did she have no respect left for me whatsoever? "Marisa," I said, "thank God! I've been so worried. Are you okay?"
"I've never been better, piggy," she giggled. "Never." She looked different: she had highlights put in her short, dark hair, and her lips appeared somehow fuller. She must have noticed me staring, because she explained, "You like them, piggy? Ahmed had me get a collagen treatment this morning. He says white girls lips are too thin, and he's so right. He likes the way my new pillowy lips feel on his enormous cock. So, do I!" She pursed her full, red lips, and made a smacking sound. She looked for all the world like the porn stars I used to jack off to in interracial videos back when I still had the use of my little dick.
"I need you to do something for me, piggy," Marisa instructed. "I need you to look in the top drawer of my nightstand, tell me what you find." I reached over to her side of the bed. I opened the drawer, and immediately a wave of fear and excitement washed over me. There were my wife's birth control pills, right where she had left them. What was she trying to tell me? "Piggy. I want you to take those pills right now, and flush them down the toilet. I have no further use for them."
"Marisa...honey...are you saying that you're...?"
"Flush them, piggy! Now!"
I flinched at her tone, but complied as she knew I would. The contempt in her tone was commanding. I scurried to the master bathroom with the pills in one hand, my phone in the other. I dropped the pills in the toilet, and flushed. "Good job, piggy," Marisa said. "And don't call me by first name. From now on, I think you should address me as Mistress just as you address Ahmed as Master. Got it?"
"Yes, M-m-mistress," I agreed.
"Now, I want you to do one other thing for me. I know this will be hard for you, but it's important."
I nodded my head, obediently. "Yes, Mistress," I responded. "Whatever you say."
"Remove your wedding ring, David," she said somberly. "Remove it. Drop it in the toilet. And flush."
A sob escaped my throat. "Marsia, please, I..."
"Do it, faggot!" she hissed. I obeyed. The ring swirled around for a moment as if it might not go down, and then with a whoosh, it disappeared forever.
"Good, piggy," my wife rewarded me, condescendingly.
"May I ask, Mistress...where...where's your wedding ring?"
"Oh, that sad old relic of white morality," she laughed. "Ahmed had me drop it down a sewer grate the same afternoon we first left town. It was so liberating. I almost had an orgasm doing it....Oh, and to answer your question, piggy: no, I'm not carrying our Master's baby, not yet. But I will. He allows other black men to use my mouth and my ass, but until I'm knocked-up with his child, no one else has access to my pussy."
She lowered the phone to her crotch, slipping off her panties. Her beautiful pink pussy was now shaved completely smooth. Her cunt lips were red and raw from all the fucking, her clitoris swollen and distended. With two fingers she pulled her lips open, and a glob of thick, white semen bubbled out. I felt myself salivating, responding like a Pavlovian dog to the temptation of fresh black nut. She was right to have me flush my wedding band, I was no better than the lowliest, most debauched faggot. I watched as the globule of Master Ahmed's ejaculate dripped from her parted lips, dangling by a thin thread of moist ooze.
Marisa raised the screen back to her face, her new, puffy, collagen-thick lips fascinating me. "Just so you know, it was my idea that Ahmed should be entitled to half your income. I suggested contacting your boss and arranging the direct deposit into his account. You did the right thing in not resisting the new...arrangement."
I had no more shame. "I'd do anything for you, Mistress, for you and Master Ahmed." I slumped to the bathroom floor, my back against the toilet down which I had just symbolically flushed my marriage.
"And for our baby, too, I hope, piggy," my wife corrected me. "After all, you'll be expected to help support and raise our progeny."
"Of course! It would be an honor! I'm sure that Tommy and Wayne will be thrilled to have a new brother or sister."
"Who? Oh, the piglets. Yeah, about them: things are going to be different when I return, piggy. I really can't be bothered to waste my time mothering two white boy losers anymore. Two genetic mistakes. Since it's too late to abort them, taking care of them is all on you. It might be best if we send them away to live with your parents. I really don't like the idea of wasting time and money that rightfully belongs to Ahmed and his offspring. Don't you agree?"
My wife was casually plotting to give away our two sons so that she could better devote herself to Master Ahmed and his babies. My parents lived several states away, and were devout Christians. I wondered how I could possibly explain this turn of events to them. But I simply replied, "Of course, Mistress, I'm sure my parents would be happy to take Tommy and...uh, I mean, the piglets."
"Maybe," Marisa mused. "Or maybe it'd be good to keep them around, to make certain they grow up knowing their true place in the New World Order. I wouldn't want your parents filling their stupid piglet heads with delusions that white lives are worth anything. Hmm, Ahmed and I will have to discuss the best thing to do with your sons. You know, piggy, I truly regret not aborting them when I had the chance. If I only knew then how useless white men are...! Oh, well..."
I had the feeling that Marisa was purposely toying with me, goading me, trying out her new persona as a kind of performance. Whatever it was, I found myself excited by her words, by the utter contempt she displayed for the white race in general and our own white piglets in particular. "I want you to remember, piggy," my wife said to me, "that whatever little worth or value you have is dependent upon how useful you are to Master Ahmed, how good an earner you are for him. You let him down, you let us down, and we'll have no further use for you."
I lowered my head, fighting back tears. "Of course not, Mistress. I...I wouldn't expect you to."
"My man and I will be in Florida for the rest of the week. In the meanwhile, I expect you to move all your shit out of the master bedroom. That's no place for a faggot like you. You can sleep in your study, but the master bedroom is reserved for real men, for black men."
I nodded in agreement. "I understand, Mistress."
"You can go back to bed now, piggy," she told me. "I want you to dream about your Master Ahmed fucking his beautiful, superior black offspring into your wife's race traitor womb. You're the one that brought him into our lives. You're responsible for all of this, David. I hope it's everything you imagined." She broke the connection, leaving me sitting there weeping like a little girl on the floor of our bathroom.
She was beautiful and terrible and cruel. There seemed to be no point of connection to the woman I had married, who just a few weeks ago had been making sandwiches for our sons' lunches, and making sure I had pressed shirts for work. Any love she had for me, for our sons, appeared to have been driven from her by Master Ahmed's prodigious cock, his corrupting influence, and his domineering personality. He effortlessly eclipsed the decade of marriage that Marisa and I had shared. If I were going to remain anything at all to her, it was only insofar as I was of use to him, my Master, her lover. The man who was going to replace our sons, our piglets, with superior offspring of his own.
I couldn't wait to tell Ron all about it.
The following night, over beers, I did just that. The boys--my sons Tommy and Wayne, and Ron's son Danny--were sound asleep. Ron and Danny were sleeping over so that Ron's wife, Jill, could spend the night with her latest lover, eighteen-year old Luke, a black basketball player from the high school where Jill was an English teacher. Although Ron was a cuckold like me, he and Jill were not black owned outright as I was. Our situations were similar, but not identical.
Ron was shocked when I told him about Marisa's demand that I flush away my wedding ring and her revelation that she was intentionally trying to get knocked up. "Wow," he responded, "this has gone way beyond just kink and fantasy for you, hasn't it, David? Are you...are you sure that you're okay with all this?"
In a short time, Ron and I had shared a lot, including sucking black cock at an adult video store. I struggled to express my reaction. "It doesn't matter how I feel about any of this, Ron. I'm white; I'm inconsequential. You and I: we're obsolete. Our sons may well be the last generation of free white boys. I really believe that we are seeing the beginning of a New World Order, and it's a world in which whites like us...we have no place. We are vestiges of a racist past that is being swept away by the superiority of black men and women. The evidence is clear. If we are to have any purpose, it will be in a life of service."
"Jill and I, we've been looking at the Black Supremacy and the New World Order websites you recommended," Ron told me. "Jill is really excited by them. She's been sharing them with Luke. She told me that they...that they fantasize about white ******** now when they...when they fuck." He squirmed a bit; talking about his wife's infidelities so openly still leaving him a bit uncomfortable. "But the thing is, David, if it's all true, if we are obsolete, as you say...if we have this itch for extinction, well, why don't we just, y'know, dispose of ourselves?"
"I've thought about that, buddy," I confided in him. "I really have. The truth is: I think that a quick, easy death is too good for us. White men have reparations to make first. As Malcolm X said, our roosters have come home to roost. There are no easy outs for us, nor should there be. We need to live to see our wives and ********* fulfilled and happy in the arms of black men, our sons doomed to be cuckolds and eunuchs, maybe even slaves. Marisa said that I would be put to use helping to support her children with Master Ahmed. I can't think of a greater honor." I was repeating Black Supremacy propaganda that I had read on websites Master Ahmed introduced me to; it struck me how much I had internalized their messages.
Ron sipped his beer, and looked contemplative. "I haven't had sex with Jill over a year, now. Sure, she let's me jack off when I'm eating her out, but that's the closest I get to her pussy. My dick doesn't get near it, and I doubt that it ever will again. Maybe...maybe I should cage it like you."
"It's tough, Ron, I won't lie to you. The desire remains, you just can't do anything about it. Well, anything beyond leak pre-cum like a broken faucet. Master Ahmed has the keys to my cage, and he's hundreds of miles away. I'd be honored if you'd join in me in chastity, but it's a decision you should leave to Jill. Or even Luke. As a white male, you should not make such a big decision on your own. That's their prerogative."
"I guess you're right, David. Damn, I'm so glad I have you to talk things over with. This is all so new and scary to me. You seem to adjust to it so easily."
"It's not easy," I told him. "Some defiant part of me sometimes wants to resist, to stand up for myself. For my sons, for my race. But I know that even if I tried, I'd just lose. Master Ahmed is a real man. My boss, Mr. Jones, is a real man. I'm a weak, white loser. An empty bank account, a faithless wife, a caged, useless cock: these are all the things I deserve."
Ron nodded his head. "Me, too, buddy. Yeah, me too."
After getting Ron settled on the sofa in his study, I retired to the master bedroom. I was apparently fated to not have many nights left in this room that I had shared with my wife for the past decade. I was to be banished, treated as a guest in my own home. The very idea of property rights for white men was something that I knew Black Supremacists found objectionable. By once presuming we could own people of African descent, whites had abrogated our very right of ownership, according to this philosophy. That is why Master Ahmed did not spare a moment's thought before he drove off in my SUV or when he demanded that I sign over half my weekly paycheck to him. Any rights I continued to enjoy were at the sufferance of Master Ahmed, my owner. As I drifted off to sleep, I took comfort in knowing that I was black-owned, that everything I did, every dollar I earned was in service to the superior race.
I dreamed of Marisa that night. She came to me, straddled me as I lay in bed, her belly swollen with Ahmed's child. In the dream, my small cock was uncaged, but even after Marisa mounted it, she begged, "I can't feel anything, piggy, I can't feel your cock at all. Are you in there, honey, are you in my pussy?" I thrust into my wife, but she remained unsatisfied. Nothing I did provoked a response. Just then, Master Ahmed rose behind Marisa, his strong, black hands grasping her milky white breasts. I could feel Master Ahmed's cock push against mine, replacing me in Marisa's pussy. My cock shrank away to nothingness as Marisa finally responded, moaning as Master Ahmed filled her with a real man's love in a way that I could not and never had. Her stomach heaved, and I could see their baby moving inside, waiting to be born, to take its rightful place in the world. I awoke with the bedsheets soaked in ejaculate. Even caged, my flaccid cock had spurted its weak, watery slime as I dreamed of my wife filled with a black man’s child.
By the time I had arrived at the office that morning, I had forgotten some of the details of the dream, but the overpowering sense of inferiority and worthlessness remained. When the executive manager of the company, Benjamin Jones, summoned me into his office, I assumed it was so that the powerful black man could drain his bladder into my mouth, something that was becoming an almost daily routine. As revolting as I found the act, it still gave me pleasure to be of service to a man like Mr. Jones. With Master Ahmed so far away, it provided me with a purpose to drink my boss's urine or suckle on his heavy, black cock, to provide service to the superior race. I scurried obediently to the executive wing of the office building.
Mr. Jones's executive assistant, Clyde, gave me a knowing smirk, as he motioned for me to entire the boss's suite. I was a bit shocked to find that Mr. Jones was not alone. Keisha Powers, a young black woman from Human Resources, who I'd met on occasion, sat across the desk from Mr. Jones, turning when I entered the office. "Ah, David," Mr. Jones said, motioning for me to step forward, "please, come in. You'll want to close the door behind you." I obeyed. "David, I have had a...troubling report about you."
"Sir?"
"Is it true, piggy, that you spoke with your wife last night? That you chatted with her...without your Master's permission?"
I nodded nervously, confused by Keisha's presence in the room, at being called piggy in front of her. "Yes, Sir, I did. But, but, Sir, she called me."
"I know, piggy. But Master Ahmed was most irate. He says that your wife and he are on a much needed vacation in South Beach after a busy week of fighting against white oppression. He feels that you had no business speaking to her without his okay. He wants me to...punish you...piggy." I began to object, uncertain what this punishment might entail, but believing that it was unjust, uncalled for. I had done nothing wrong, I began to protest. "Shush, piggy," Mr. Jones told me. "Don't worry. I explained to your Master that I am not some mere plantation overseer to be handing out punishment at his say so."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sir. I am so sorry that you got dragged into this, I---"
"That is why I asked Ms. Powers here to join us. While it is beneath me to sully my hands by inflicting corporal punishment on another black man's property, Keisha is under no such constraints. As my representative, she will administer your discipline."
The petit, shapely, young black woman looked at me, a trembling white man, and grinned with satisfaction, anticipation. "It'll be my pleasure, Mr. Jones," she said. "White boys like this, they all have it coming."
Mr. Jones stood up from his desk. Thickly muscled arms packed his blue Tom Ford dress shirt, under a grey vest and gold Gucci tie. "Drop your slacks, piggy, and give Keisha your belt," he instructed, removing his cell phone, apparently to record my humiliation and punishment.
"Sir," I began to object. In one smooth, unexpected movement, Keisha stood and struck me across the face with the back of her hand. "He said drop them, white boy!" she yelled. Taken by surprise, I obeyed, unfastening my pants and passing my black leather belt to Keisha's waiting hand. My slacks dropped around my ankles. "Briefs, too, faggot," Keisha hissed. I complied.
"Now, bend over the fucking desk, piggy," Mr. Jones told me. "And no more shit, boy."
I did as instructed, my pale, bare ass jutting upward, as I bent myself over Mr. Jones's large mahogany desk. "Your Master suggested ten lashes," Mr. Jones explained. "But I think twelve is advisable for our...trouble. Don't you agree, Keisha?"
"Oh, I certainly do," Keisha responded pulling the thick belt between her hands with a crack. "And I expect to be thanked for each fuckin' lash, white boy."
"Yes, Ma'am," I replied.
"This one is for being white," she said, as the belt sliced through the air, landing on my bare buttocks with a loud crack. I let out a yell at the sharp pain. "Don't forget to thank the lady, piggy," Mr. Jones reminded me as he recorded my punishment with his phone.
"Th-th-thank you, Ma'am," I responded, fighting back tears.
"This one is for being a faggot," she hissed as the second lash landed. I remembered to thank her this time.
The beating recalled the one time that my parents had inflicted corporal punishment on me. My mother had walked into my bedroom to make certain that I was awake and ready for church when she caught me playing with myself under the covers. She told my father, who proceeded to whip my behind with his belt, no less harsh than Keisha was doing now. After that humiliation, it was months before I touched my little dink again, and then only behind locked doors.
"This one is for your white privilege! This one is for disrespecting your black owner! This one is for producing more racist white boys!" Her litany continued, each one followed by the stinging slash of the belt and my expression of gratitude. Mr. Jones was clearly enjoying the sight of his white employee being beaten so harshly. I watched across the desk as he massaged the growing bulge in his dress slacks. After ten lashes, she was breathing hard.
"This one is for taking up Mr. Jones's time," she hissed as she administered the eleventh blow. "Thank you, Ma'am," I whimpered, no longer able to hold back my tears. "And this one...is just cause I hate you white boys so much!" she laughed as the final blow ripped across my flesh.
"Very well done, Keisha," Mr. Jones commended her, as he stopped recording and put down his phone. “Now get that phat ass of yours up on the desk. After seeing piggy get a thrashing like that, I need to fuck, and fuck hard.” Keisha squealed and dropped her skirt, jumping up on the desk, as Mr. Jones came around it and unleashed his thick, black fuckstick.
“Eww,” Keisha said, “I don’t’ want this white faggot looking at me and getting himself all excited!”
“Hmm, good point,” Mr. Jones agreed. “Piggy, go stand in the corner, facing the wall. Don’t go anywhere, though: you’ll be needed for cleanup.” I scurried off the desk and took my place in the corner of the office, my slacks still around my ankles, my well-beaten ass red and sore. I listened to the handsome black couple fuck for the next twenty minutes as if I wasn’t even there. Keisha’s exuberant yells must have been heard in the entire executive office suite. As Mr. Jones fucked her, he told her how hot it made him to watch her whip my white ass, how much he despised white men, how excited he was that the white race was embracing extinction. I stood facing the corner silently, like a recalcitrant schoolboy being punished for his misbehavior.
When they finally finished, Mr. Jones ordered me to clean his cock. I licked thoroughly around the shaft and inside the foreskin, careful to suck any splooge that I found in his pubic curls. He and Keisha chatted casually as if I were not there, on my knees, with my face plastered to his genitals. I proceeded to perform the same service for Keisha; she giggled as I buried my head in-between her thighs, and immersed my tongue in her rich, brown pussy, slurping the thick nut out of her well-fucked snatch. “Well, I guess white boys are good for something, after all,” she remarked with scorn.
Back at my office, I allowed myself to weep openly, as much over what I was punished for as for the punishment itself. Master Ahmed was now prohibiting me from even conversing with my wife without his express permission. I wondered if he instructed her to contact me last night just so he could arrange to have me punished. Now that Keisha was aware that I was black owned, that my wife had run off with my black Master, that I regularly serviced our boss, Mr. Jones, I knew that the entire company would learn of my status. What little dignity or respect I clung to was quickly evaporating. This went beyond merley demonstrating respect and submissiveness to black people by holding open doors or offering them my seat. This went beyond publicly submitting to black men and women during a demonstration, to kiss their shoes in front of a crowd. This even went beyond the payments and tributes of reparations I paid to a violent, young black man, who advocated the extinction of my very race. This was an acknowledgement that I had been willingly enslaved. I would be seen as “piggy” to everyone in the office, to people who had once been my equals, male and female, white and black alike.
Ron was right: this had gone way beyond kink or fantasy or cuckoldry. I had willingly sacrificed my finances, my marriage, the future of my children to Black Supremacy, and to a future in which the white race would be subjugated, perhaps even eradicated. If it was possible for me to have any claim to pride left, it was that I was proud to have betrayed my heritage and my race.
I scrolled excitedly through Master Ahmed's feed, savoring every image of him and my wife. In one, he and a handful of other black men attacked a white man who had been carrying an American flag, beating him savagely, leaving him bloody and unconscious as they laughed and ran off. In another video, he and Marisa set fire to the what appeared to be that same flag. As it burned, Master Ahmed took out his heavy cock and pissed all over it. When more police arrived, bricks and bottles were hurled at them, including by my wife, who called them pigs and fascists as she attacked them. I worried about her safety, but I was intoxicated by the sight of this side of her. Master Ahmed had awakened a passion in her that I had never even imagined.
I read every news account I could find of the demonstrations. There were several arrests made that night, but as far as I could determine, Master Ahmed and Marisa were not among those apprehended. There were a number of police officers injured, some seriously. I wondered if Tommy and Wayne's mother had been among those to inflict the injuries. I imagined Master Ahmed and my wife in the throes of sexual excitement generated by their night of Black Power activism, him fucking her velvety, pink pussy with the physical manifestation of his inherent genetic superiority. Were it not for the cage Master Ahmed made me wear on my cock, keeping me chaste, the cage to which only he had the key, I would have jacked all night to images of my Master and my wife fighting for racial justice.
Over the next few days, Master Ahmed's Twitter grew quiet. Neither he nor Marisa contacted me, and I dare not contact them without permission. Checking the balance on Master Ahmed's Visa account, which it was my responsibility to pay, I learned that he had taken a hotel room in South Beach, Florida. I could only assume that my wife was still with him, enjoying the beaches and clubs and shopping of Miami Beach. I wondered when or even if I would ever hear from her again. I needn't have wondered long.
That very night, I was awoken at 4am by a notification on my phone. I had a video call request. I logged on expecting Master Ahmed. Instead, I saw Marisa's smiling face greeting me. "Hello, piggy!" she said, using Master Ahmed's name for me. Did she have no respect left for me whatsoever? "Marisa," I said, "thank God! I've been so worried. Are you okay?"
"I've never been better, piggy," she giggled. "Never." She looked different: she had highlights put in her short, dark hair, and her lips appeared somehow fuller. She must have noticed me staring, because she explained, "You like them, piggy? Ahmed had me get a collagen treatment this morning. He says white girls lips are too thin, and he's so right. He likes the way my new pillowy lips feel on his enormous cock. So, do I!" She pursed her full, red lips, and made a smacking sound. She looked for all the world like the porn stars I used to jack off to in interracial videos back when I still had the use of my little dick.
"I need you to do something for me, piggy," Marisa instructed. "I need you to look in the top drawer of my nightstand, tell me what you find." I reached over to her side of the bed. I opened the drawer, and immediately a wave of fear and excitement washed over me. There were my wife's birth control pills, right where she had left them. What was she trying to tell me? "Piggy. I want you to take those pills right now, and flush them down the toilet. I have no further use for them."
"Marisa...honey...are you saying that you're...?"
"Flush them, piggy! Now!"
I flinched at her tone, but complied as she knew I would. The contempt in her tone was commanding. I scurried to the master bathroom with the pills in one hand, my phone in the other. I dropped the pills in the toilet, and flushed. "Good job, piggy," Marisa said. "And don't call me by first name. From now on, I think you should address me as Mistress just as you address Ahmed as Master. Got it?"
"Yes, M-m-mistress," I agreed.
"Now, I want you to do one other thing for me. I know this will be hard for you, but it's important."
I nodded my head, obediently. "Yes, Mistress," I responded. "Whatever you say."
"Remove your wedding ring, David," she said somberly. "Remove it. Drop it in the toilet. And flush."
A sob escaped my throat. "Marsia, please, I..."
"Do it, faggot!" she hissed. I obeyed. The ring swirled around for a moment as if it might not go down, and then with a whoosh, it disappeared forever.
"Good, piggy," my wife rewarded me, condescendingly.
"May I ask, Mistress...where...where's your wedding ring?"
"Oh, that sad old relic of white morality," she laughed. "Ahmed had me drop it down a sewer grate the same afternoon we first left town. It was so liberating. I almost had an orgasm doing it....Oh, and to answer your question, piggy: no, I'm not carrying our Master's baby, not yet. But I will. He allows other black men to use my mouth and my ass, but until I'm knocked-up with his child, no one else has access to my pussy."
She lowered the phone to her crotch, slipping off her panties. Her beautiful pink pussy was now shaved completely smooth. Her cunt lips were red and raw from all the fucking, her clitoris swollen and distended. With two fingers she pulled her lips open, and a glob of thick, white semen bubbled out. I felt myself salivating, responding like a Pavlovian dog to the temptation of fresh black nut. She was right to have me flush my wedding band, I was no better than the lowliest, most debauched faggot. I watched as the globule of Master Ahmed's ejaculate dripped from her parted lips, dangling by a thin thread of moist ooze.
Marisa raised the screen back to her face, her new, puffy, collagen-thick lips fascinating me. "Just so you know, it was my idea that Ahmed should be entitled to half your income. I suggested contacting your boss and arranging the direct deposit into his account. You did the right thing in not resisting the new...arrangement."
I had no more shame. "I'd do anything for you, Mistress, for you and Master Ahmed." I slumped to the bathroom floor, my back against the toilet down which I had just symbolically flushed my marriage.
"And for our baby, too, I hope, piggy," my wife corrected me. "After all, you'll be expected to help support and raise our progeny."
"Of course! It would be an honor! I'm sure that Tommy and Wayne will be thrilled to have a new brother or sister."
"Who? Oh, the piglets. Yeah, about them: things are going to be different when I return, piggy. I really can't be bothered to waste my time mothering two white boy losers anymore. Two genetic mistakes. Since it's too late to abort them, taking care of them is all on you. It might be best if we send them away to live with your parents. I really don't like the idea of wasting time and money that rightfully belongs to Ahmed and his offspring. Don't you agree?"
My wife was casually plotting to give away our two sons so that she could better devote herself to Master Ahmed and his babies. My parents lived several states away, and were devout Christians. I wondered how I could possibly explain this turn of events to them. But I simply replied, "Of course, Mistress, I'm sure my parents would be happy to take Tommy and...uh, I mean, the piglets."
"Maybe," Marisa mused. "Or maybe it'd be good to keep them around, to make certain they grow up knowing their true place in the New World Order. I wouldn't want your parents filling their stupid piglet heads with delusions that white lives are worth anything. Hmm, Ahmed and I will have to discuss the best thing to do with your sons. You know, piggy, I truly regret not aborting them when I had the chance. If I only knew then how useless white men are...! Oh, well..."
I had the feeling that Marisa was purposely toying with me, goading me, trying out her new persona as a kind of performance. Whatever it was, I found myself excited by her words, by the utter contempt she displayed for the white race in general and our own white piglets in particular. "I want you to remember, piggy," my wife said to me, "that whatever little worth or value you have is dependent upon how useful you are to Master Ahmed, how good an earner you are for him. You let him down, you let us down, and we'll have no further use for you."
I lowered my head, fighting back tears. "Of course not, Mistress. I...I wouldn't expect you to."
"My man and I will be in Florida for the rest of the week. In the meanwhile, I expect you to move all your shit out of the master bedroom. That's no place for a faggot like you. You can sleep in your study, but the master bedroom is reserved for real men, for black men."
I nodded in agreement. "I understand, Mistress."
"You can go back to bed now, piggy," she told me. "I want you to dream about your Master Ahmed fucking his beautiful, superior black offspring into your wife's race traitor womb. You're the one that brought him into our lives. You're responsible for all of this, David. I hope it's everything you imagined." She broke the connection, leaving me sitting there weeping like a little girl on the floor of our bathroom.
She was beautiful and terrible and cruel. There seemed to be no point of connection to the woman I had married, who just a few weeks ago had been making sandwiches for our sons' lunches, and making sure I had pressed shirts for work. Any love she had for me, for our sons, appeared to have been driven from her by Master Ahmed's prodigious cock, his corrupting influence, and his domineering personality. He effortlessly eclipsed the decade of marriage that Marisa and I had shared. If I were going to remain anything at all to her, it was only insofar as I was of use to him, my Master, her lover. The man who was going to replace our sons, our piglets, with superior offspring of his own.
I couldn't wait to tell Ron all about it.
The following night, over beers, I did just that. The boys--my sons Tommy and Wayne, and Ron's son Danny--were sound asleep. Ron and Danny were sleeping over so that Ron's wife, Jill, could spend the night with her latest lover, eighteen-year old Luke, a black basketball player from the high school where Jill was an English teacher. Although Ron was a cuckold like me, he and Jill were not black owned outright as I was. Our situations were similar, but not identical.
Ron was shocked when I told him about Marisa's demand that I flush away my wedding ring and her revelation that she was intentionally trying to get knocked up. "Wow," he responded, "this has gone way beyond just kink and fantasy for you, hasn't it, David? Are you...are you sure that you're okay with all this?"
In a short time, Ron and I had shared a lot, including sucking black cock at an adult video store. I struggled to express my reaction. "It doesn't matter how I feel about any of this, Ron. I'm white; I'm inconsequential. You and I: we're obsolete. Our sons may well be the last generation of free white boys. I really believe that we are seeing the beginning of a New World Order, and it's a world in which whites like us...we have no place. We are vestiges of a racist past that is being swept away by the superiority of black men and women. The evidence is clear. If we are to have any purpose, it will be in a life of service."
"Jill and I, we've been looking at the Black Supremacy and the New World Order websites you recommended," Ron told me. "Jill is really excited by them. She's been sharing them with Luke. She told me that they...that they fantasize about white ******** now when they...when they fuck." He squirmed a bit; talking about his wife's infidelities so openly still leaving him a bit uncomfortable. "But the thing is, David, if it's all true, if we are obsolete, as you say...if we have this itch for extinction, well, why don't we just, y'know, dispose of ourselves?"
"I've thought about that, buddy," I confided in him. "I really have. The truth is: I think that a quick, easy death is too good for us. White men have reparations to make first. As Malcolm X said, our roosters have come home to roost. There are no easy outs for us, nor should there be. We need to live to see our wives and ********* fulfilled and happy in the arms of black men, our sons doomed to be cuckolds and eunuchs, maybe even slaves. Marisa said that I would be put to use helping to support her children with Master Ahmed. I can't think of a greater honor." I was repeating Black Supremacy propaganda that I had read on websites Master Ahmed introduced me to; it struck me how much I had internalized their messages.
Ron sipped his beer, and looked contemplative. "I haven't had sex with Jill over a year, now. Sure, she let's me jack off when I'm eating her out, but that's the closest I get to her pussy. My dick doesn't get near it, and I doubt that it ever will again. Maybe...maybe I should cage it like you."
"It's tough, Ron, I won't lie to you. The desire remains, you just can't do anything about it. Well, anything beyond leak pre-cum like a broken faucet. Master Ahmed has the keys to my cage, and he's hundreds of miles away. I'd be honored if you'd join in me in chastity, but it's a decision you should leave to Jill. Or even Luke. As a white male, you should not make such a big decision on your own. That's their prerogative."
"I guess you're right, David. Damn, I'm so glad I have you to talk things over with. This is all so new and scary to me. You seem to adjust to it so easily."
"It's not easy," I told him. "Some defiant part of me sometimes wants to resist, to stand up for myself. For my sons, for my race. But I know that even if I tried, I'd just lose. Master Ahmed is a real man. My boss, Mr. Jones, is a real man. I'm a weak, white loser. An empty bank account, a faithless wife, a caged, useless cock: these are all the things I deserve."
Ron nodded his head. "Me, too, buddy. Yeah, me too."
After getting Ron settled on the sofa in his study, I retired to the master bedroom. I was apparently fated to not have many nights left in this room that I had shared with my wife for the past decade. I was to be banished, treated as a guest in my own home. The very idea of property rights for white men was something that I knew Black Supremacists found objectionable. By once presuming we could own people of African descent, whites had abrogated our very right of ownership, according to this philosophy. That is why Master Ahmed did not spare a moment's thought before he drove off in my SUV or when he demanded that I sign over half my weekly paycheck to him. Any rights I continued to enjoy were at the sufferance of Master Ahmed, my owner. As I drifted off to sleep, I took comfort in knowing that I was black-owned, that everything I did, every dollar I earned was in service to the superior race.
I dreamed of Marisa that night. She came to me, straddled me as I lay in bed, her belly swollen with Ahmed's child. In the dream, my small cock was uncaged, but even after Marisa mounted it, she begged, "I can't feel anything, piggy, I can't feel your cock at all. Are you in there, honey, are you in my pussy?" I thrust into my wife, but she remained unsatisfied. Nothing I did provoked a response. Just then, Master Ahmed rose behind Marisa, his strong, black hands grasping her milky white breasts. I could feel Master Ahmed's cock push against mine, replacing me in Marisa's pussy. My cock shrank away to nothingness as Marisa finally responded, moaning as Master Ahmed filled her with a real man's love in a way that I could not and never had. Her stomach heaved, and I could see their baby moving inside, waiting to be born, to take its rightful place in the world. I awoke with the bedsheets soaked in ejaculate. Even caged, my flaccid cock had spurted its weak, watery slime as I dreamed of my wife filled with a black man’s child.
By the time I had arrived at the office that morning, I had forgotten some of the details of the dream, but the overpowering sense of inferiority and worthlessness remained. When the executive manager of the company, Benjamin Jones, summoned me into his office, I assumed it was so that the powerful black man could drain his bladder into my mouth, something that was becoming an almost daily routine. As revolting as I found the act, it still gave me pleasure to be of service to a man like Mr. Jones. With Master Ahmed so far away, it provided me with a purpose to drink my boss's urine or suckle on his heavy, black cock, to provide service to the superior race. I scurried obediently to the executive wing of the office building.
Mr. Jones's executive assistant, Clyde, gave me a knowing smirk, as he motioned for me to entire the boss's suite. I was a bit shocked to find that Mr. Jones was not alone. Keisha Powers, a young black woman from Human Resources, who I'd met on occasion, sat across the desk from Mr. Jones, turning when I entered the office. "Ah, David," Mr. Jones said, motioning for me to step forward, "please, come in. You'll want to close the door behind you." I obeyed. "David, I have had a...troubling report about you."
"Sir?"
"Is it true, piggy, that you spoke with your wife last night? That you chatted with her...without your Master's permission?"
I nodded nervously, confused by Keisha's presence in the room, at being called piggy in front of her. "Yes, Sir, I did. But, but, Sir, she called me."
"I know, piggy. But Master Ahmed was most irate. He says that your wife and he are on a much needed vacation in South Beach after a busy week of fighting against white oppression. He feels that you had no business speaking to her without his okay. He wants me to...punish you...piggy." I began to object, uncertain what this punishment might entail, but believing that it was unjust, uncalled for. I had done nothing wrong, I began to protest. "Shush, piggy," Mr. Jones told me. "Don't worry. I explained to your Master that I am not some mere plantation overseer to be handing out punishment at his say so."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sir. I am so sorry that you got dragged into this, I---"
"That is why I asked Ms. Powers here to join us. While it is beneath me to sully my hands by inflicting corporal punishment on another black man's property, Keisha is under no such constraints. As my representative, she will administer your discipline."
The petit, shapely, young black woman looked at me, a trembling white man, and grinned with satisfaction, anticipation. "It'll be my pleasure, Mr. Jones," she said. "White boys like this, they all have it coming."
Mr. Jones stood up from his desk. Thickly muscled arms packed his blue Tom Ford dress shirt, under a grey vest and gold Gucci tie. "Drop your slacks, piggy, and give Keisha your belt," he instructed, removing his cell phone, apparently to record my humiliation and punishment.
"Sir," I began to object. In one smooth, unexpected movement, Keisha stood and struck me across the face with the back of her hand. "He said drop them, white boy!" she yelled. Taken by surprise, I obeyed, unfastening my pants and passing my black leather belt to Keisha's waiting hand. My slacks dropped around my ankles. "Briefs, too, faggot," Keisha hissed. I complied.
"Now, bend over the fucking desk, piggy," Mr. Jones told me. "And no more shit, boy."
I did as instructed, my pale, bare ass jutting upward, as I bent myself over Mr. Jones's large mahogany desk. "Your Master suggested ten lashes," Mr. Jones explained. "But I think twelve is advisable for our...trouble. Don't you agree, Keisha?"
"Oh, I certainly do," Keisha responded pulling the thick belt between her hands with a crack. "And I expect to be thanked for each fuckin' lash, white boy."
"Yes, Ma'am," I replied.
"This one is for being white," she said, as the belt sliced through the air, landing on my bare buttocks with a loud crack. I let out a yell at the sharp pain. "Don't forget to thank the lady, piggy," Mr. Jones reminded me as he recorded my punishment with his phone.
"Th-th-thank you, Ma'am," I responded, fighting back tears.
"This one is for being a faggot," she hissed as the second lash landed. I remembered to thank her this time.
The beating recalled the one time that my parents had inflicted corporal punishment on me. My mother had walked into my bedroom to make certain that I was awake and ready for church when she caught me playing with myself under the covers. She told my father, who proceeded to whip my behind with his belt, no less harsh than Keisha was doing now. After that humiliation, it was months before I touched my little dink again, and then only behind locked doors.
"This one is for your white privilege! This one is for disrespecting your black owner! This one is for producing more racist white boys!" Her litany continued, each one followed by the stinging slash of the belt and my expression of gratitude. Mr. Jones was clearly enjoying the sight of his white employee being beaten so harshly. I watched across the desk as he massaged the growing bulge in his dress slacks. After ten lashes, she was breathing hard.
"This one is for taking up Mr. Jones's time," she hissed as she administered the eleventh blow. "Thank you, Ma'am," I whimpered, no longer able to hold back my tears. "And this one...is just cause I hate you white boys so much!" she laughed as the final blow ripped across my flesh.
"Very well done, Keisha," Mr. Jones commended her, as he stopped recording and put down his phone. “Now get that phat ass of yours up on the desk. After seeing piggy get a thrashing like that, I need to fuck, and fuck hard.” Keisha squealed and dropped her skirt, jumping up on the desk, as Mr. Jones came around it and unleashed his thick, black fuckstick.
“Eww,” Keisha said, “I don’t’ want this white faggot looking at me and getting himself all excited!”
“Hmm, good point,” Mr. Jones agreed. “Piggy, go stand in the corner, facing the wall. Don’t go anywhere, though: you’ll be needed for cleanup.” I scurried off the desk and took my place in the corner of the office, my slacks still around my ankles, my well-beaten ass red and sore. I listened to the handsome black couple fuck for the next twenty minutes as if I wasn’t even there. Keisha’s exuberant yells must have been heard in the entire executive office suite. As Mr. Jones fucked her, he told her how hot it made him to watch her whip my white ass, how much he despised white men, how excited he was that the white race was embracing extinction. I stood facing the corner silently, like a recalcitrant schoolboy being punished for his misbehavior.
When they finally finished, Mr. Jones ordered me to clean his cock. I licked thoroughly around the shaft and inside the foreskin, careful to suck any splooge that I found in his pubic curls. He and Keisha chatted casually as if I were not there, on my knees, with my face plastered to his genitals. I proceeded to perform the same service for Keisha; she giggled as I buried my head in-between her thighs, and immersed my tongue in her rich, brown pussy, slurping the thick nut out of her well-fucked snatch. “Well, I guess white boys are good for something, after all,” she remarked with scorn.
Back at my office, I allowed myself to weep openly, as much over what I was punished for as for the punishment itself. Master Ahmed was now prohibiting me from even conversing with my wife without his express permission. I wondered if he instructed her to contact me last night just so he could arrange to have me punished. Now that Keisha was aware that I was black owned, that my wife had run off with my black Master, that I regularly serviced our boss, Mr. Jones, I knew that the entire company would learn of my status. What little dignity or respect I clung to was quickly evaporating. This went beyond merley demonstrating respect and submissiveness to black people by holding open doors or offering them my seat. This went beyond publicly submitting to black men and women during a demonstration, to kiss their shoes in front of a crowd. This even went beyond the payments and tributes of reparations I paid to a violent, young black man, who advocated the extinction of my very race. This was an acknowledgement that I had been willingly enslaved. I would be seen as “piggy” to everyone in the office, to people who had once been my equals, male and female, white and black alike.
Ron was right: this had gone way beyond kink or fantasy or cuckoldry. I had willingly sacrificed my finances, my marriage, the future of my children to Black Supremacy, and to a future in which the white race would be subjugated, perhaps even eradicated. If it was possible for me to have any claim to pride left, it was that I was proud to have betrayed my heritage and my race.
