Over the next few weeks, the protests and violence that erupted after the horrible killing of an unarmed black man by police continued. My wife, Marisa, and I followed much of the chaos from home, watching reports on the news. Our eight-year old son, Wayne, watched some of it with us, occasionally asking questions about the protests. We tried our best to explain that black Americans were rising up, fighting against racism, tired of their mistreatment by the police, the complicity of white Americans. “I hope they win,” he said simply. Marisa and I were happy to hear that. “So do we, Wayne, so do we.”
We had not heard anything from our ten-year old, Tommy, who had run away to live with his friend Jimmy and Jimmy’s horribly racist father in their white trash hovel. His name had hardly come up after Wayne and I gathered many of Tommy’s favorite toys and clothes and donated them to the nearest black church to distribute to the children of their congregation. If Tommy was going to be a racist, I was no longer going to support him. I wouldn’t have his poison in my home, polluting my ******.
At night, once Marisa had gone to bed, I would view some of the more violent videos from the protests on-line in my home office. It excited me to watch white men being brutally beat down by gangs of black protestors, dragged out of their cars, smashed with bats, pounded by fists, left bloody and broken. There was something beautiful in this primal fight for freedom, this revolution, in which white people like myself were at last being held responsible, paying for our countless sins against the black race. I was becoming a committed race traitor.
Recently, there had been only silence from my black, findom Master. He was out on the streets, I knew, fighting whitey, the police, centuries of systemic racism. He was a soldier in a war that was a long time coming. I prayed for his safety even as I waited patiently to hear from him. In just a few short weeks, I had grown lost without his instruction. Even without orders, I submitted tribute to him via PayPal, $50 a day, certain he could use the money in his righteous struggle. I prayed for his safety, silently directing my thoughts to Allah, the God of my Master.
Throughout the country, many businesses were aligning themselves with the struggle against racism, knowing it was the smart side to be on. They were proclaiming their support for the protestors, donating money to black causes and organizations, some even replacing their power structure with more high level black management. One afternoon, at my own company, I was called into the office of our new regional manager, a very handsome black man about my own age, mid-thirties. “David,” he said, “please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” I was a bit nervous as there had been shakeups and restructuring throughout the industry in the wake of the protests. Thus far, I had only met the new manager once, briefly.
“Please, David, call me Benjamin. It has come to our attention…well, this is a bit awkward. Here, let me show you.” He swiveled the monitor of his computer around to face me. My mouth dropped open to see myself on the screen crawling along the ground, bowing before a group of black-clad protestors, taking an oath to their cause, and kissing their feet. I had done all this at the city park at the Juneteenth celebration. I knew it had been videoed, but was ******* that it had been shared on social media. My son, Wayne, and wife, Marisa, followed my lead on the video, crawling, pledging, kissing. “Mr. Jo--uh, Benjamin, sir, I can, I can explain….”
Mr. Jones smiled at my reaction. “No need, David. What you did here, well, it’s very…inspiring, very woke. You have set an example. And in doing so, you’ve caught the eye of a lot of the higher ups. Our PR people are hoping to make use of this video to demonstrate what the company’s stance should be in race relations going forward. With your permission, of course. They want to make it part of a training package for our employees, as well as a selling point for our clients. What do you think?”
I was astounded. “It would be an honor, Benjamin. Anything I or my ****** can do to further the cause of racial justice, well, it would be a great honor.”
“We’d have to edit out your other…son, of course,” he explained. “He seemed to find the whole thing…objectionable.”
“Of course. The little piglet, uh, he doesn’t even live with us currently,” I informed him. Benjamin smiled at my indiscretion of referring to Tommy as a piglet as Master Ahmed does.
“Glad to hear it, David. His kind, young as he is, they have no place in the future we’re building. Well, I’ll have some releases sent to your desk for you to sign. We can touch base on other things you might do to help the company take the right stance on these important issues of the day.”
“That would be wonderful, Benjamin,” I said, getting up to leave. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Oh. David. Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said, standing, and sliding a foot forward. I looked at his Bruno Magli dress shoes. Did he want me to…do what I had done on the video? I hesitated for a moment, then steeled myself, certain I was doing the right thing. I bent to my knees before him, lowered my head to his feet, and pressed my lips to the toes of his expensive shoes. “Thank you, sir,” I said.
Benjamin smiled down at me, condescendingly. “Good boy,” he said. “You know, David, on second thought, call me Mr. Jones, after all. Or sir. That would be for the best. No pretension of equality, right? That will be all. You can go.”
Were my cock not locked in chastity at Master Ahmed’s insistence, I would have jacked off the moment I got back to my office; submitting to Mr. Jones that way aroused me so much. Master Ahmed had awakened a submissive streak in me that I had barely even been aware of. That this growing submissiveness coincided with the rise of the Black Supremacy movement was fortuitous. It meant I might have a place, a way to serve whatever power structure rises out of the current turmoil. Mr. Jones was correct: those like my son, Tommy, like Jimmy and his racist ***, they had no place in the coming world, at least not if they stubbornly refused to acknowledge our inherent inferiority and bow to our genetic superiors.
I walked into the house that evening elated at the day’s events, eager to tell Marisa about my meeting with Mr. Jones. I opened the front door, only to be greeted by the sight of Master Ahmed, the twenty-one year old radical black Muslim who had taken control of my life over the internet, sitting before me on the living room sofa. We had never met in person, yet I recognized him instantly. He wore white basketball shorts and a Laker’s t-shirt, his dreadlocks were pulled back and tied off, his muscular, tattooed arms were spread wide, resting on the back of the sofa. “Hey, Davey,” he greeted me with a smirk. “’Bout time you got home.”
I stood in the doorway stunned, shaken. “How did you, what’s going…where’s Marisa? Where’s Wayne?”
“Now, piggy,” Master Ahmed addressed me sternly, putting one of his feet forward and nodding to it in a manner reminiscent of Mr. Jones earlier that afternoon. “Is that any way to greet your owner?” Unnerved, I closed the door behind me and dropped to my knees, looking around carefully. I lowered my eyes submissively, as I’d been learning to do, and crawled across the living room floor until I knelt before my Master. Barely able to believe this was real, I bent my head to his feet and pressed my lips to the toes of his sneakers. I quickly realized that they were the very Air Jordans I had purchased for him a few weeks ago. I moved my mouth to his other foot, and applied a kiss to that one, as well. “Master…,” I started.
“Shhh, piggy,” he shushed me. I glanced up at him. He was in complete control. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about your sow or your piglet. They’re fine. They are my property by extension, piggy. I never damage my own property…unless it leaves me no choice.” He reached out and ruffled my hair. “Your wife and I thought it better if the piglet spends the night elsewhere, so she’s taking him to a friend’s for a sleepover.” He chuckled. “Sleepover. That’s a very white thing to do, ain’t it?”
Master Ahmed held out his hand. “Tribute, piggy?” he asked. I reached into my jacket and removed my wallet. As I opened it, he shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, piggy. Hand over the whole thing, son.” I obeyed. As he flipped it open and began looking through my cards, he casually said, “Stand up and strip, piggy. I prefer my white eunuchs to be naked at all times. Clothes are for real human beings.”
His open derision aroused me, even though I could no longer really get hard thanks to the cock cage I wore at Master Ahmed’s direction. I stood and began disrobing, draping my clothes over a nearby armchair. Master Ahmed, meanwhile, casually extracted the cash from my wallet, about $250, and slid it into his shorts. I observed how much jewelry he wore: a gold-banded Cartier watch on his left wrist, a silver Gucci bracelet on his right, a large gold pendant in the shape of Africa around his neck, diamond studs in his earlobes. They all stood out brilliantly against his mocha-colored skin. When he had finished confiscating the cash and examining the contents of my wallet—his wallet, I mean—he casually tossed it aside.
I stood before my Master completely in the raw except for the stainless steel cage that enveloped my small, white cock, the key of which was in the possession of the young black man before me. “Wow,” he sneered. “You really are a weak-looking white fuck, ain’t you? I can’t believe that hot sow of yours wasted all these years on an insubstantial nothing like you.” Master Ahmed stood from the sofa and walked around me. He was a couple of inches taller than my 5’10” at least. “Well, lucky for her, that shit’s over. I’m here now. To claim what is mine.”
“Master,” I braved nervously. “May I ask…?”
“You want to know how I knew where to find you, huh, piggy? Well, son, it’s not hard. I never take possession of a white without doing my due diligence. I need to make certain that anything I own is worth my time. It’s a pretty simple matter to find out all I need to know, piggy. You really should invest in a better firewall.” Master Ahmed smirked. “Tell me, boy, how’s that new black boss of yours working out, what’s his name? Jones?” He chuckled when my mouth fell open. “There are no secrets, piggy, not from me.”
Just then, Master Ahmed reached under the collar of his Laker’s shirt and extracted a second neck chain, this one with thin gold links. Dangling from the end of this chain were two keys that I recognized immediately. “That’s right, son. The keys to your cage. I keep them near me. Depending on how things go tonight, you might just earn yourself a few hours of freedom.” It had been weeks since my cock was last freed, since I’d last jerked off. The possibility of sexual release elicited a whimper from me. “I make no promises, Davey, but if you’re good, if everything goes well with your sow, well, we’ll see…”
“So, it’s true!” I turned to see Marisa standing in the front doorway, her eyes on me standing naked and vulnerable and submissive before this black man, fifteen years my junior. “You really are his slave. I mean, I knew it, Ahmed told me all about it weeks ago, but to see it with my own eyes…!”
Weeks ago! How long had these two been in touch? How deep did Master Ahmed’s control over my life extend? “Marisa, I’m sorry, I can explain,” I started to say.
“Quiet,” Master Ahmed hissed. “Back on your knees, piggy, where you belong.” I hesitated, my eyes on my wife. Master Ahmed smacked me on the back of the head, hard. “Now, piggy!” I obeyed, dropping to my knees and lowering my eyes.
Master Ahmed walked up to my wife, taking her in his arms, and pressed his mouth against hers as if he owned her, which to his mind, I guess, he did. Marisa did not resist. “You disposed of the piglet, babe?” he asked. Marisa nodded. “Wayne is at his friend Danny’s for the weekend. He won’t interrupt us.”
“I hope this Danny is a better influence than your other piglet’s little friend,” Master Ahmed warned.
“Oh, Danny’s ****** is much better than Jimmy’s,” she assured him. “They won’t be the bad influence on Wayne that those horrible racists have been on Tommy.” His arm around her waist, Master Ahmed guided Marisa to the living room sofa, where they sat down together. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Piglet number two has…possibilities.”
Master Ahmed turned his attention back to me. “Now, piggy: I bet you’re wondering just what the fuck is going on, ain’t you?” Marisa giggled at my ignorance. I nodded. “Yes, Sir. I’m very confused just now.”
“I just bet you are, white boy,” he laughed. “Well, you see, son: when I invest in something, I take a real interest in it. And you and your ******, piggy, you are an investment. A lot of white pigs think of tributing to a young black dom like myself as a fetish, a kink, something they can jerk their little white dinklets thinking about late at night then go back to their normal, boring, white lives.” Marisa cuddled close to Master Ahmed, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting on his chest. “That’s not how I roll, piggy. When you told me all that shit about opening doors for brothers and paying for their coffee and shit, well, I knew you were the real deal. Even if you didn’t know it yourself.”
Marisa piped up. “Ahmed began texting me, sending me screen caps of your late night conversations. You thought I was asleep while you were emptying our bank account, but I was following everything all along. Even as he was teaching you all about Black Superiority and the New World Order, Ahmed was tutoring me about the fragility of white boys, the declining white birthrate, and looming white extinction. Like you, I began watching Blacked.com at his instruction. I never had much interest in pornography before, David, but watching white girls getting blacked by dominant, masculine black men…It awoke something in me, just like it did you.” Marisa raised her lips to Master Ahmed’s, and the two kissed, long and sloppily.
I just knelt there on the floor before them, nude and caged and bewildered. They were beautiful together, exactly as I’d imagined.
“When the protests began,” Master Ahmed picked up the narrative, “I didn’t have as much time to devote to my…property as I’d like. There was shit to burn, white boys to beat down. But you both stayed loyal and devoted, I liked that. Your ******, Davey, minus that racist little piglet that was better aborted”—shockingly, I noticed Marisa giggle at this—“you are the future of white America. You should be proud, son.”
Tears were streaming down my face, this was everything I had longed for.
“I’m on my way to a big, weeklong, national protest in D.C., so I made a point of passing through your shit little town. I’ll be here for the weekend, piggy. How’s that strike you?”
I beamed. “Oh, Master, I couldn’t be happier! Thank you, Sir, thank you for blessing our house with your presence.” As I thanked him, Master Ahmed began casually caressing one of my wife’s tits, pinching her nipple through the material of her blouse. Marisa groaned with pleasure. Her hand went to his crotch, massaging his bulge through the fabric of his basketball shorts. “Did you say ‘your house,’ piggy,” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Sir. Everything I have is yours, of course! Your house, I meant, Sir: your house.”
“That’s better, son. I know you think that you’re finally going to get to see your sow blacked, fucked by my big, black horsecock, but I’m afraid it’s not to be.” My eyes must have widened with shock and disappointment. Marisa sniggered at my alarm. “No, not tonight, anyway, piggy. Our first time together is not for your eyes.” Again, Master Ahmed pressed his mouth to my wife’s, his tongue thrusting deep past her lips. “Besides,” he explained, “I have something else to keep you…occupied.”
Master Ahmed and Marissa stood, towering over my place on the floor, their hands on one another’s bodies. “We’ll be upstairs, piggy. You’ll find your instructions in your email. When you return, you are to sleep in the piglet’s room. This hot bitch and I are not to be disturbed. We’ll send for you if we need anything.” With that, the young, black Master led my wife up to our bedroom. Marisa didn’t spare me so much as a look or a goodbye.
I crawled to my discarded clothes and retrieved my cell, opening my email. The email referred to me as faggot instead of piggy, and included the address of an adult video store near the African-American section of the city. Master Ahmed informed me that as obsessed as I understandably was with his black cock, he never lets fags, even ones he owns, suckle on it. Instead, though, I could whet my appetite for black cock by servicing as many as I could via glory holes in the video store’s booths. I was not to leave the booth until 1am, and I was to use my cell to video myself sucking black dick after black dick. I was to reject any white dicks that might be inserted through the holes. I was to ingest as much black cum as possible, even if it made me sick. “I know what you’re thinking,” the email read, “you’re not gay. Well, piggy, I don’t give a fuck. You’re not going to suck black dick because you’re gay. You’re going to suck black dick because I told you to.”
If I did as instructed, Master Ahmed might free me from my cage for the rest of the weekend and allow me to watch him fuck my wife. If I failed to obey—and he was clear, I had that option--I was to check into a motel room and not return home until after he left on Sunday night.
I dressed slowly, methodically. From the upstairs bedroom, I could hear the sounds of Master Ahmed fucking my wife, something I had been prohibited from doing for several weeks now. The same young black man that was enjoying my wife’s beautiful, smooth pussy was turning me out, forcing me to become a cocksucking faggot for black cock in order to enjoy just a little bit of sexual release. It was true: Master Ahmed owned me. I had no choice. The very idea of disobeying his directives made me feel queasy and ill. With the sounds of my wife’s happy moans filling the house, I walked out to the car. After today, both Marisa and I would be black cock whores.
The video store was seedy and in a decidedly bad part of town. As I parked and made my way to the store, I could feel black faces turned my way, many of them seething with hostility given recent events. At the counter, I purchased a roll of tokens from a grey-haired black man who sneered openly at the pathetic white faggot come to suck dick in his video booths. I’d never done anything remotely like this before, but it felt completely natural for me, as if I were finally fulfilling some innate, unacknowledged need. Master Ahmed knew me better than I knew myself. The clerk directed me to booth number three.
Once in the booth, I didn’t bother to insert any tokens to watch any of the videos. That was not why I was here. I could hear the moans and squeals of videos playing in neighboring booths. Looking around, I realized why the clerk had specified this booth: there were glory holes on the walls shared with both booths two and four. I stripped down to my underwear, hanging my work clothes on a hook. I knelt, feeling the ancient stickiness of the floor on my bare knees. I slid a small partition aside, and hooked a finger though the hole on my right, curious if anybody was there. That was apparently a signal, for a fat, uncut black cock began sliding past my finger, filling the hole.
The black cock before me was about 8 inches long, but it was fat enough that it barely squeezed through the glory hole. The foreskin wrapped tightly around the large, plum-sized head. I just stared at it, a voice in my head screaming, “I’m not gay! I’m not gay!” But even as I told myself I wasn’t gay, I reached for the thick shaft, grasping it in my white hand, feeling its girth and warmth. It was like holding a new power tool for the first time, I felt a lewd thrill run through my entire body. “Suck it, whitey,” a voice hissed from the other side of the hole.
God help me, I did. Holding it firmly in my hand, I opened my mouth and engulfed the cock of this black stranger, kneeling in the filth of countless unknown men before me. I eased the cock past my lips, letting my tongue lick at the foreskin. It had a strong, musky odor, not unpleasant, but powerful. I swallowed more of it into my throat, as much as I could until my gag reflex stopped me. Then I proceeded to suck, running my lips over the thick shaft, my mouth filling with saliva and phlegm. I heard the man on the other side of the wall moan as I sucked, and I applied myself with more determination, liking that I was provoking a response. I found I had an aptitude for sucking cock, much as I did for providing Marisa oral pleasure. Maybe my instinctively submissive nature made me as talented a cocksucker as I was a cunt-licker.
I sobbed at the thought that I would never be allowed to apply these skills to my Master’s cock. His dick was for bitches alone. I realized, however, how lucky I was that he was permitting me to indulge this latent need I had to please other men, to submit to the superior black race. I realized that I was sucking the stranger’s cock with a great fervor, swallowing it almost to the root. God help me, I thought, I might not be gay, but Master Ahmed was correct: I was certainly a faggot.
As I continued to slurp on the fat, black cock, I held up my phone and began recording as Master Ahmed had instructed me to. He wanted proof that I was serving as a glory hole fag for faceless black men. The man on the other side of the wall partially withdrew his prick in order to give it a few quick jerks, ejaculating into my open mouth. I gulped his load down, quelling the urge to cough it back up, knowing that this was exactly what I was good for. The other man withdrew without a word.
I continued kneeling there, my own cock flaccid but drooling. I played back some of the video of myself gulping down the stranger’s load. It was true: I was a fag. To my Master’s mind, I knew, all white men should be and would be nothing more than cocksuckers and slaves to the superior black race. If we couldn’t perform those functions, we had no place in the New World Order.
A new cock slid through the same glory hole, this one longer but thinner, darker, circumcised. I learned that sucking different cocks required different skill sets. The thicker ones made my jaw ache, but the longer ones required me to control my gag reflex. Some men preferred to fuck deep into my throat, others liked to remain stationary while I bobbed my mouth on their shaft. That night, I sucked eight black cocks in all, rejecting one puny white dick that some white fucker had the audacity to stick through the hole. I swallowed nearly every drop of cum, some of it landing on my torso, where I let it dry and crust. I had no idea what the men on the other side of the wall looked like. Only one thing mattered: they were black. I had videoed each blowjob as Master Ahmed expected. I hoped he would be pleased by my performance.
It was almost 2am when I pulled into the driveway. My clothes stank of sex, my breath reeked of cum. My jaw and throat ached, my mouth was dry. I felt like a cheap whore, and yet I was oddly satisfied because I had done as my owner instructed. In the house, I was greeted by the sounds of fucking coming from the upstairs master bedroom. They were still going at it. Master Ahmed had been fucking my wife all the while I had been on my knees in a filthy video store sucking anonymous black dick like the greediest of cocksucking fags. On the coffee table I saw a note. “Enjoy, piggy,” it read. The key to my cock cage lay beside it.
I scurried upstairs to my sons’ bedroom, leaving the door ajar so I could hear the sounds of the hardcore fucking from across the hall, hotter than any pornography I’d ever seen. I stripped off my clothes and climbed into bed. I inserted the key into the lock, and sighed with relief when the cage came off. I lay on Wayne’s mattress, massaging my small, white cock as I listened to Master Ahmed tirelessly fuck my wife. Plenty of precum pooled at the piss slit, but my cock refused to harden. I began stroking it, as I imagined my Master’s prodigious fuckstick buried in Marisa’s snatch. It remained flaccid. I played with my balls as I listened to the pounding of the bedsprings. Nothing happened. It was as if, in just a few short weeks of being locked away, my cock, always inadequate, had become completely useless. I played with my impotent dink, until I finally fell asleep, stinking of cum and musk and sweat.
With morning light streaming through the window, Marisa shook me awake. I was naked, wrapped in our son Wayne’s Minecraft bed sheets. “David,” she whispered. I opened my eyes to find my wife looking more beautiful than ever, shining with an after-fuck glow I’d never seen before. “Shhh, Ahmed is still asleep. How are you? Did you do it? What he wanted?”
I nodded affirmatively. “Oh! How exciting!” she squealed happily.
“Marisa,” I explained, “I did it, but I’m not a…I’m not gay.”
Marisa waved her hand. “Ahmed says that doesn’t matter. All white boys are queer for black cock. Oh, David, he is amazing! He went all night! I don’t know if that’s because black guys have more stamina or because he’s only twenty-one, but he’s like a machine. It was incredible. I am so committed to Black Supremacy, David. Thank you so much for bringing this into our lives. Our ******.”
She sat on the edge of the bed in her sheer nightgown. Her nearly naked body beside me, her hand on my arm, and still no response from my tiny boy dink. The horrible little thing continued to betray me. Marisa lowered her lips to my ear. “I haven’t washed, babe. Everything he put in me, it’s still there. Do you want a taste? Do you want to eat me out?”
I looked at her wide-eyed, momentarily horrified. “Would it be okay with…with Master Ahmed,” I objected.
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you…cleaned me up, prepared me for the next round.” Initially revolted by the idea, I felt a stirring in my groin. Christ, I thought, is this what it’s going to take to get me hard from now on, sucking my Master’s baby batter from my wife’s sodden pussy? I nodded in consent.
Marisa stood and raised her nightie. She straddled me on Wayne’s bed, lowering her crotch to my face. Her pussy was so pungent I winced; I could not tell where her scent ended and his began. They were intertwined. The whole thing was a raw mess, red and swollen and dripping. As I wrapped my lips around Marisa’s distended vagina, my cock finally became erect. I fisted it slowly as I worked my tongue around in my wife’s full cunt. She must have began pushing because globs of thick, viscous semen spilled onto my face, into my mouth. It thrilled me to know that this breakfast buffet was the baby-making jizz of my black Master. As more and more of his seed spackled my face and ran down my throat, I marveled at how many times he must have fucked my wife last night.
Finally, after so many futile attempts, I spewed my own thin, watery load into the air. The only thing that got me hard, got me off, was gulping down the thick, superior cum of my youthful black Master. Whatever manhood I had once pretended to was gone.
“Looks like you enjoyed that feast, piggy,” Master Ahmed observed, leaning naked in the doorframe, his flaccid brown cock dangling between his legs. “Don’t worry, son: there’s lots more where that came from.”
We had not heard anything from our ten-year old, Tommy, who had run away to live with his friend Jimmy and Jimmy’s horribly racist father in their white trash hovel. His name had hardly come up after Wayne and I gathered many of Tommy’s favorite toys and clothes and donated them to the nearest black church to distribute to the children of their congregation. If Tommy was going to be a racist, I was no longer going to support him. I wouldn’t have his poison in my home, polluting my ******.
At night, once Marisa had gone to bed, I would view some of the more violent videos from the protests on-line in my home office. It excited me to watch white men being brutally beat down by gangs of black protestors, dragged out of their cars, smashed with bats, pounded by fists, left bloody and broken. There was something beautiful in this primal fight for freedom, this revolution, in which white people like myself were at last being held responsible, paying for our countless sins against the black race. I was becoming a committed race traitor.
Recently, there had been only silence from my black, findom Master. He was out on the streets, I knew, fighting whitey, the police, centuries of systemic racism. He was a soldier in a war that was a long time coming. I prayed for his safety even as I waited patiently to hear from him. In just a few short weeks, I had grown lost without his instruction. Even without orders, I submitted tribute to him via PayPal, $50 a day, certain he could use the money in his righteous struggle. I prayed for his safety, silently directing my thoughts to Allah, the God of my Master.
Throughout the country, many businesses were aligning themselves with the struggle against racism, knowing it was the smart side to be on. They were proclaiming their support for the protestors, donating money to black causes and organizations, some even replacing their power structure with more high level black management. One afternoon, at my own company, I was called into the office of our new regional manager, a very handsome black man about my own age, mid-thirties. “David,” he said, “please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” I was a bit nervous as there had been shakeups and restructuring throughout the industry in the wake of the protests. Thus far, I had only met the new manager once, briefly.
“Please, David, call me Benjamin. It has come to our attention…well, this is a bit awkward. Here, let me show you.” He swiveled the monitor of his computer around to face me. My mouth dropped open to see myself on the screen crawling along the ground, bowing before a group of black-clad protestors, taking an oath to their cause, and kissing their feet. I had done all this at the city park at the Juneteenth celebration. I knew it had been videoed, but was ******* that it had been shared on social media. My son, Wayne, and wife, Marisa, followed my lead on the video, crawling, pledging, kissing. “Mr. Jo--uh, Benjamin, sir, I can, I can explain….”
Mr. Jones smiled at my reaction. “No need, David. What you did here, well, it’s very…inspiring, very woke. You have set an example. And in doing so, you’ve caught the eye of a lot of the higher ups. Our PR people are hoping to make use of this video to demonstrate what the company’s stance should be in race relations going forward. With your permission, of course. They want to make it part of a training package for our employees, as well as a selling point for our clients. What do you think?”
I was astounded. “It would be an honor, Benjamin. Anything I or my ****** can do to further the cause of racial justice, well, it would be a great honor.”
“We’d have to edit out your other…son, of course,” he explained. “He seemed to find the whole thing…objectionable.”
“Of course. The little piglet, uh, he doesn’t even live with us currently,” I informed him. Benjamin smiled at my indiscretion of referring to Tommy as a piglet as Master Ahmed does.
“Glad to hear it, David. His kind, young as he is, they have no place in the future we’re building. Well, I’ll have some releases sent to your desk for you to sign. We can touch base on other things you might do to help the company take the right stance on these important issues of the day.”
“That would be wonderful, Benjamin,” I said, getting up to leave. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Oh. David. Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said, standing, and sliding a foot forward. I looked at his Bruno Magli dress shoes. Did he want me to…do what I had done on the video? I hesitated for a moment, then steeled myself, certain I was doing the right thing. I bent to my knees before him, lowered my head to his feet, and pressed my lips to the toes of his expensive shoes. “Thank you, sir,” I said.
Benjamin smiled down at me, condescendingly. “Good boy,” he said. “You know, David, on second thought, call me Mr. Jones, after all. Or sir. That would be for the best. No pretension of equality, right? That will be all. You can go.”
Were my cock not locked in chastity at Master Ahmed’s insistence, I would have jacked off the moment I got back to my office; submitting to Mr. Jones that way aroused me so much. Master Ahmed had awakened a submissive streak in me that I had barely even been aware of. That this growing submissiveness coincided with the rise of the Black Supremacy movement was fortuitous. It meant I might have a place, a way to serve whatever power structure rises out of the current turmoil. Mr. Jones was correct: those like my son, Tommy, like Jimmy and his racist ***, they had no place in the coming world, at least not if they stubbornly refused to acknowledge our inherent inferiority and bow to our genetic superiors.
I walked into the house that evening elated at the day’s events, eager to tell Marisa about my meeting with Mr. Jones. I opened the front door, only to be greeted by the sight of Master Ahmed, the twenty-one year old radical black Muslim who had taken control of my life over the internet, sitting before me on the living room sofa. We had never met in person, yet I recognized him instantly. He wore white basketball shorts and a Laker’s t-shirt, his dreadlocks were pulled back and tied off, his muscular, tattooed arms were spread wide, resting on the back of the sofa. “Hey, Davey,” he greeted me with a smirk. “’Bout time you got home.”
I stood in the doorway stunned, shaken. “How did you, what’s going…where’s Marisa? Where’s Wayne?”
“Now, piggy,” Master Ahmed addressed me sternly, putting one of his feet forward and nodding to it in a manner reminiscent of Mr. Jones earlier that afternoon. “Is that any way to greet your owner?” Unnerved, I closed the door behind me and dropped to my knees, looking around carefully. I lowered my eyes submissively, as I’d been learning to do, and crawled across the living room floor until I knelt before my Master. Barely able to believe this was real, I bent my head to his feet and pressed my lips to the toes of his sneakers. I quickly realized that they were the very Air Jordans I had purchased for him a few weeks ago. I moved my mouth to his other foot, and applied a kiss to that one, as well. “Master…,” I started.
“Shhh, piggy,” he shushed me. I glanced up at him. He was in complete control. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about your sow or your piglet. They’re fine. They are my property by extension, piggy. I never damage my own property…unless it leaves me no choice.” He reached out and ruffled my hair. “Your wife and I thought it better if the piglet spends the night elsewhere, so she’s taking him to a friend’s for a sleepover.” He chuckled. “Sleepover. That’s a very white thing to do, ain’t it?”
Master Ahmed held out his hand. “Tribute, piggy?” he asked. I reached into my jacket and removed my wallet. As I opened it, he shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, piggy. Hand over the whole thing, son.” I obeyed. As he flipped it open and began looking through my cards, he casually said, “Stand up and strip, piggy. I prefer my white eunuchs to be naked at all times. Clothes are for real human beings.”
His open derision aroused me, even though I could no longer really get hard thanks to the cock cage I wore at Master Ahmed’s direction. I stood and began disrobing, draping my clothes over a nearby armchair. Master Ahmed, meanwhile, casually extracted the cash from my wallet, about $250, and slid it into his shorts. I observed how much jewelry he wore: a gold-banded Cartier watch on his left wrist, a silver Gucci bracelet on his right, a large gold pendant in the shape of Africa around his neck, diamond studs in his earlobes. They all stood out brilliantly against his mocha-colored skin. When he had finished confiscating the cash and examining the contents of my wallet—his wallet, I mean—he casually tossed it aside.
I stood before my Master completely in the raw except for the stainless steel cage that enveloped my small, white cock, the key of which was in the possession of the young black man before me. “Wow,” he sneered. “You really are a weak-looking white fuck, ain’t you? I can’t believe that hot sow of yours wasted all these years on an insubstantial nothing like you.” Master Ahmed stood from the sofa and walked around me. He was a couple of inches taller than my 5’10” at least. “Well, lucky for her, that shit’s over. I’m here now. To claim what is mine.”
“Master,” I braved nervously. “May I ask…?”
“You want to know how I knew where to find you, huh, piggy? Well, son, it’s not hard. I never take possession of a white without doing my due diligence. I need to make certain that anything I own is worth my time. It’s a pretty simple matter to find out all I need to know, piggy. You really should invest in a better firewall.” Master Ahmed smirked. “Tell me, boy, how’s that new black boss of yours working out, what’s his name? Jones?” He chuckled when my mouth fell open. “There are no secrets, piggy, not from me.”
Just then, Master Ahmed reached under the collar of his Laker’s shirt and extracted a second neck chain, this one with thin gold links. Dangling from the end of this chain were two keys that I recognized immediately. “That’s right, son. The keys to your cage. I keep them near me. Depending on how things go tonight, you might just earn yourself a few hours of freedom.” It had been weeks since my cock was last freed, since I’d last jerked off. The possibility of sexual release elicited a whimper from me. “I make no promises, Davey, but if you’re good, if everything goes well with your sow, well, we’ll see…”
“So, it’s true!” I turned to see Marisa standing in the front doorway, her eyes on me standing naked and vulnerable and submissive before this black man, fifteen years my junior. “You really are his slave. I mean, I knew it, Ahmed told me all about it weeks ago, but to see it with my own eyes…!”
Weeks ago! How long had these two been in touch? How deep did Master Ahmed’s control over my life extend? “Marisa, I’m sorry, I can explain,” I started to say.
“Quiet,” Master Ahmed hissed. “Back on your knees, piggy, where you belong.” I hesitated, my eyes on my wife. Master Ahmed smacked me on the back of the head, hard. “Now, piggy!” I obeyed, dropping to my knees and lowering my eyes.
Master Ahmed walked up to my wife, taking her in his arms, and pressed his mouth against hers as if he owned her, which to his mind, I guess, he did. Marisa did not resist. “You disposed of the piglet, babe?” he asked. Marisa nodded. “Wayne is at his friend Danny’s for the weekend. He won’t interrupt us.”
“I hope this Danny is a better influence than your other piglet’s little friend,” Master Ahmed warned.
“Oh, Danny’s ****** is much better than Jimmy’s,” she assured him. “They won’t be the bad influence on Wayne that those horrible racists have been on Tommy.” His arm around her waist, Master Ahmed guided Marisa to the living room sofa, where they sat down together. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Piglet number two has…possibilities.”
Master Ahmed turned his attention back to me. “Now, piggy: I bet you’re wondering just what the fuck is going on, ain’t you?” Marisa giggled at my ignorance. I nodded. “Yes, Sir. I’m very confused just now.”
“I just bet you are, white boy,” he laughed. “Well, you see, son: when I invest in something, I take a real interest in it. And you and your ******, piggy, you are an investment. A lot of white pigs think of tributing to a young black dom like myself as a fetish, a kink, something they can jerk their little white dinklets thinking about late at night then go back to their normal, boring, white lives.” Marisa cuddled close to Master Ahmed, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting on his chest. “That’s not how I roll, piggy. When you told me all that shit about opening doors for brothers and paying for their coffee and shit, well, I knew you were the real deal. Even if you didn’t know it yourself.”
Marisa piped up. “Ahmed began texting me, sending me screen caps of your late night conversations. You thought I was asleep while you were emptying our bank account, but I was following everything all along. Even as he was teaching you all about Black Superiority and the New World Order, Ahmed was tutoring me about the fragility of white boys, the declining white birthrate, and looming white extinction. Like you, I began watching Blacked.com at his instruction. I never had much interest in pornography before, David, but watching white girls getting blacked by dominant, masculine black men…It awoke something in me, just like it did you.” Marisa raised her lips to Master Ahmed’s, and the two kissed, long and sloppily.
I just knelt there on the floor before them, nude and caged and bewildered. They were beautiful together, exactly as I’d imagined.
“When the protests began,” Master Ahmed picked up the narrative, “I didn’t have as much time to devote to my…property as I’d like. There was shit to burn, white boys to beat down. But you both stayed loyal and devoted, I liked that. Your ******, Davey, minus that racist little piglet that was better aborted”—shockingly, I noticed Marisa giggle at this—“you are the future of white America. You should be proud, son.”
Tears were streaming down my face, this was everything I had longed for.
“I’m on my way to a big, weeklong, national protest in D.C., so I made a point of passing through your shit little town. I’ll be here for the weekend, piggy. How’s that strike you?”
I beamed. “Oh, Master, I couldn’t be happier! Thank you, Sir, thank you for blessing our house with your presence.” As I thanked him, Master Ahmed began casually caressing one of my wife’s tits, pinching her nipple through the material of her blouse. Marisa groaned with pleasure. Her hand went to his crotch, massaging his bulge through the fabric of his basketball shorts. “Did you say ‘your house,’ piggy,” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Sir. Everything I have is yours, of course! Your house, I meant, Sir: your house.”
“That’s better, son. I know you think that you’re finally going to get to see your sow blacked, fucked by my big, black horsecock, but I’m afraid it’s not to be.” My eyes must have widened with shock and disappointment. Marisa sniggered at my alarm. “No, not tonight, anyway, piggy. Our first time together is not for your eyes.” Again, Master Ahmed pressed his mouth to my wife’s, his tongue thrusting deep past her lips. “Besides,” he explained, “I have something else to keep you…occupied.”
Master Ahmed and Marissa stood, towering over my place on the floor, their hands on one another’s bodies. “We’ll be upstairs, piggy. You’ll find your instructions in your email. When you return, you are to sleep in the piglet’s room. This hot bitch and I are not to be disturbed. We’ll send for you if we need anything.” With that, the young, black Master led my wife up to our bedroom. Marisa didn’t spare me so much as a look or a goodbye.
I crawled to my discarded clothes and retrieved my cell, opening my email. The email referred to me as faggot instead of piggy, and included the address of an adult video store near the African-American section of the city. Master Ahmed informed me that as obsessed as I understandably was with his black cock, he never lets fags, even ones he owns, suckle on it. Instead, though, I could whet my appetite for black cock by servicing as many as I could via glory holes in the video store’s booths. I was not to leave the booth until 1am, and I was to use my cell to video myself sucking black dick after black dick. I was to reject any white dicks that might be inserted through the holes. I was to ingest as much black cum as possible, even if it made me sick. “I know what you’re thinking,” the email read, “you’re not gay. Well, piggy, I don’t give a fuck. You’re not going to suck black dick because you’re gay. You’re going to suck black dick because I told you to.”
If I did as instructed, Master Ahmed might free me from my cage for the rest of the weekend and allow me to watch him fuck my wife. If I failed to obey—and he was clear, I had that option--I was to check into a motel room and not return home until after he left on Sunday night.
I dressed slowly, methodically. From the upstairs bedroom, I could hear the sounds of Master Ahmed fucking my wife, something I had been prohibited from doing for several weeks now. The same young black man that was enjoying my wife’s beautiful, smooth pussy was turning me out, forcing me to become a cocksucking faggot for black cock in order to enjoy just a little bit of sexual release. It was true: Master Ahmed owned me. I had no choice. The very idea of disobeying his directives made me feel queasy and ill. With the sounds of my wife’s happy moans filling the house, I walked out to the car. After today, both Marisa and I would be black cock whores.
The video store was seedy and in a decidedly bad part of town. As I parked and made my way to the store, I could feel black faces turned my way, many of them seething with hostility given recent events. At the counter, I purchased a roll of tokens from a grey-haired black man who sneered openly at the pathetic white faggot come to suck dick in his video booths. I’d never done anything remotely like this before, but it felt completely natural for me, as if I were finally fulfilling some innate, unacknowledged need. Master Ahmed knew me better than I knew myself. The clerk directed me to booth number three.
Once in the booth, I didn’t bother to insert any tokens to watch any of the videos. That was not why I was here. I could hear the moans and squeals of videos playing in neighboring booths. Looking around, I realized why the clerk had specified this booth: there were glory holes on the walls shared with both booths two and four. I stripped down to my underwear, hanging my work clothes on a hook. I knelt, feeling the ancient stickiness of the floor on my bare knees. I slid a small partition aside, and hooked a finger though the hole on my right, curious if anybody was there. That was apparently a signal, for a fat, uncut black cock began sliding past my finger, filling the hole.
The black cock before me was about 8 inches long, but it was fat enough that it barely squeezed through the glory hole. The foreskin wrapped tightly around the large, plum-sized head. I just stared at it, a voice in my head screaming, “I’m not gay! I’m not gay!” But even as I told myself I wasn’t gay, I reached for the thick shaft, grasping it in my white hand, feeling its girth and warmth. It was like holding a new power tool for the first time, I felt a lewd thrill run through my entire body. “Suck it, whitey,” a voice hissed from the other side of the hole.
God help me, I did. Holding it firmly in my hand, I opened my mouth and engulfed the cock of this black stranger, kneeling in the filth of countless unknown men before me. I eased the cock past my lips, letting my tongue lick at the foreskin. It had a strong, musky odor, not unpleasant, but powerful. I swallowed more of it into my throat, as much as I could until my gag reflex stopped me. Then I proceeded to suck, running my lips over the thick shaft, my mouth filling with saliva and phlegm. I heard the man on the other side of the wall moan as I sucked, and I applied myself with more determination, liking that I was provoking a response. I found I had an aptitude for sucking cock, much as I did for providing Marisa oral pleasure. Maybe my instinctively submissive nature made me as talented a cocksucker as I was a cunt-licker.
I sobbed at the thought that I would never be allowed to apply these skills to my Master’s cock. His dick was for bitches alone. I realized, however, how lucky I was that he was permitting me to indulge this latent need I had to please other men, to submit to the superior black race. I realized that I was sucking the stranger’s cock with a great fervor, swallowing it almost to the root. God help me, I thought, I might not be gay, but Master Ahmed was correct: I was certainly a faggot.
As I continued to slurp on the fat, black cock, I held up my phone and began recording as Master Ahmed had instructed me to. He wanted proof that I was serving as a glory hole fag for faceless black men. The man on the other side of the wall partially withdrew his prick in order to give it a few quick jerks, ejaculating into my open mouth. I gulped his load down, quelling the urge to cough it back up, knowing that this was exactly what I was good for. The other man withdrew without a word.
I continued kneeling there, my own cock flaccid but drooling. I played back some of the video of myself gulping down the stranger’s load. It was true: I was a fag. To my Master’s mind, I knew, all white men should be and would be nothing more than cocksuckers and slaves to the superior black race. If we couldn’t perform those functions, we had no place in the New World Order.
A new cock slid through the same glory hole, this one longer but thinner, darker, circumcised. I learned that sucking different cocks required different skill sets. The thicker ones made my jaw ache, but the longer ones required me to control my gag reflex. Some men preferred to fuck deep into my throat, others liked to remain stationary while I bobbed my mouth on their shaft. That night, I sucked eight black cocks in all, rejecting one puny white dick that some white fucker had the audacity to stick through the hole. I swallowed nearly every drop of cum, some of it landing on my torso, where I let it dry and crust. I had no idea what the men on the other side of the wall looked like. Only one thing mattered: they were black. I had videoed each blowjob as Master Ahmed expected. I hoped he would be pleased by my performance.
It was almost 2am when I pulled into the driveway. My clothes stank of sex, my breath reeked of cum. My jaw and throat ached, my mouth was dry. I felt like a cheap whore, and yet I was oddly satisfied because I had done as my owner instructed. In the house, I was greeted by the sounds of fucking coming from the upstairs master bedroom. They were still going at it. Master Ahmed had been fucking my wife all the while I had been on my knees in a filthy video store sucking anonymous black dick like the greediest of cocksucking fags. On the coffee table I saw a note. “Enjoy, piggy,” it read. The key to my cock cage lay beside it.
I scurried upstairs to my sons’ bedroom, leaving the door ajar so I could hear the sounds of the hardcore fucking from across the hall, hotter than any pornography I’d ever seen. I stripped off my clothes and climbed into bed. I inserted the key into the lock, and sighed with relief when the cage came off. I lay on Wayne’s mattress, massaging my small, white cock as I listened to Master Ahmed tirelessly fuck my wife. Plenty of precum pooled at the piss slit, but my cock refused to harden. I began stroking it, as I imagined my Master’s prodigious fuckstick buried in Marisa’s snatch. It remained flaccid. I played with my balls as I listened to the pounding of the bedsprings. Nothing happened. It was as if, in just a few short weeks of being locked away, my cock, always inadequate, had become completely useless. I played with my impotent dink, until I finally fell asleep, stinking of cum and musk and sweat.
With morning light streaming through the window, Marisa shook me awake. I was naked, wrapped in our son Wayne’s Minecraft bed sheets. “David,” she whispered. I opened my eyes to find my wife looking more beautiful than ever, shining with an after-fuck glow I’d never seen before. “Shhh, Ahmed is still asleep. How are you? Did you do it? What he wanted?”
I nodded affirmatively. “Oh! How exciting!” she squealed happily.
“Marisa,” I explained, “I did it, but I’m not a…I’m not gay.”
Marisa waved her hand. “Ahmed says that doesn’t matter. All white boys are queer for black cock. Oh, David, he is amazing! He went all night! I don’t know if that’s because black guys have more stamina or because he’s only twenty-one, but he’s like a machine. It was incredible. I am so committed to Black Supremacy, David. Thank you so much for bringing this into our lives. Our ******.”
She sat on the edge of the bed in her sheer nightgown. Her nearly naked body beside me, her hand on my arm, and still no response from my tiny boy dink. The horrible little thing continued to betray me. Marisa lowered her lips to my ear. “I haven’t washed, babe. Everything he put in me, it’s still there. Do you want a taste? Do you want to eat me out?”
I looked at her wide-eyed, momentarily horrified. “Would it be okay with…with Master Ahmed,” I objected.
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you…cleaned me up, prepared me for the next round.” Initially revolted by the idea, I felt a stirring in my groin. Christ, I thought, is this what it’s going to take to get me hard from now on, sucking my Master’s baby batter from my wife’s sodden pussy? I nodded in consent.
Marisa stood and raised her nightie. She straddled me on Wayne’s bed, lowering her crotch to my face. Her pussy was so pungent I winced; I could not tell where her scent ended and his began. They were intertwined. The whole thing was a raw mess, red and swollen and dripping. As I wrapped my lips around Marisa’s distended vagina, my cock finally became erect. I fisted it slowly as I worked my tongue around in my wife’s full cunt. She must have began pushing because globs of thick, viscous semen spilled onto my face, into my mouth. It thrilled me to know that this breakfast buffet was the baby-making jizz of my black Master. As more and more of his seed spackled my face and ran down my throat, I marveled at how many times he must have fucked my wife last night.
Finally, after so many futile attempts, I spewed my own thin, watery load into the air. The only thing that got me hard, got me off, was gulping down the thick, superior cum of my youthful black Master. Whatever manhood I had once pretended to was gone.
“Looks like you enjoyed that feast, piggy,” Master Ahmed observed, leaning naked in the doorframe, his flaccid brown cock dangling between his legs. “Don’t worry, son: there’s lots more where that came from.”
