Marisa and I were on our way to the airport to pick up Master Ahmed. We had dropped our sons, Tommy and Wayne, our piglets, off at school on the way. They appeared nearly as excited as Marisa to see Master Ahmed again. We had to assure them that they would see him as soon as school was out. Once we dropped them off, we stopped by our lawyer's office to pick up the paperwork that would transfer ownership of our house to Master Ahmed.
We had selected a black law firm at Master Ahmed's insistence. He required us to conduct as many of our business transactions as possible with black-owned businesses. The lawyer we had chosen, Trey Johnson, had been amused when we first met with him a couple of days previously regarding our needs. "So, let me get this straight," he said. "You want to sign your house over to this, uhm, Ahmed Shabaz, free and clear, at no cost whatsoever."
Marisa smiled at the handsome, young, black lawyer, with wire-rimmed glasses and a shaved head. "That's right, Trey," she explained. "My husband, David, and I feel it is our...responsibility to submit completely to the black race, and to Ahmed, in particular. He has taken full control of our ******. I'm carrying his baby, in fact." Marisa raised her shirt enough to reveal both her alabaster belly and her Queen of Spades tattoo.
"Well," Trey responded, clearly intrigued. "Mr. Shabaz sounds like a very, er, enterprising young brother...with exceptional taste in women, I might add. You are acting racially responsible in wanting to do right by him. I'd be happy to draw up the transfer deed for you, and at no cost whatsoever given the admirable sacrifice you are making for the black race. I wish there were more white families with your…priorities."
Marisa stood and leaned forward on his desk, her full lips pursed. "Well, now, surely there is some payment you'll take...isn't there, Trey?"
The young black man, removed his glasses and loosened his tie. "Mmm, we might be able to work something out at that," he agreed. Looking at me with some distaste, he inquired, "What about...him?"
Marisa turned her nose up at me. "Him? Oh, he doesn't matter. Not in the least. David, go wait in the car while Trey and I...finish up here."
I wanted to beg them to let me stay, to let me watch this handsome black man just out of law school fuck my sexy wife, but I knew my need was irrelevant to the both of them. I thanked Trey, and backed out of the office submissively. Waiting in the parking lot, I couldn't even jerk my little white dick imagining my wife splayed across his desk since Marisa had re-caged my cock after its brief release just a few days earlier.
After half an hour, Marisa climbed into the passenger seat, her makeup a bit mussed and her hair disheveled. Raising her skirt above her thighs and spreading her legs, she asked, "Would you like some cream pie, piggy?" I nodded my head enthusiastically, and buried my face in my wife's gaping, shaved snatch, slurping like a cum-greedy faggot at the deposit Trey Johnson had made there. "Trey says we can pick up the transfer paperwork on Friday morning," Marisa explained as I lapped away at the mess between her legs. "All we have to do is sign it with Ahmed, and have it notarized. Do we know any notaries?"
With a moustache of shiny semen above my lip, I answered, "I do. Someone that I'm sure would be happy to help us sign our house over to a black man. I'll arrange everything."
Now that the deed was prepared, Marisa went into Trey's office to pick-up the paperwork, instructing me to remain in the car again. She returned after another half hour. "Sorry, piggy," she sniggered, "no time for cream pie this morning. We have to hurry to the airport and pick-up your Master. Can't keep Ahmed waiting." Although I couldn't enjoy the black lawyer's load directly from her cunt this time, Marisa nevertheless dipped her fingers into her pussy and gave me a taste. I licked at her fingers, noting the absence of the wedding ring that she had discarded weeks ago at Master Ahmed's insistence. My wife never seemed to grow tired of watching me ingest a black man's superior sperm.
At the airport, I pulled up to the curb in front of Master Ahmed's arrival terminal. When we spotted him, Marisa leaped from the car almost before I had time to come to a full stop. She threw her arms around the twenty-one-year-old father of the child she was carrying. Rather than his usual basketball shorts and t-shirt, Master Ahmed was dressed for success in a black pinstripe Armani suit, a white, collarless linen button-up shirt, with several thick gold chains around his neck. He wore Ray-ban aviator sunglasses, his short dreadlocks pulled back and tied off. He pressed his mouth over Marisa's, slipping his tongue past her lips, caressing her tongue with his.
As my wife and my Master made out there on the sidewalk for all to see, I got out of the car and went to open the backdoor for them. They slid into the backseat without acknowledging me, still wrapped up in one another. Before I could close the door, however, Master Ahmed handed me a claim ticket. "Grab my luggage, piggy," he instructed. "Three black Coach bags." He turned his attention back to Marisa. I scurried off to the arrival carousel, and found his bags. They were large and heavy. This would not be a brief visit like his last. I struggled to carry the bags to the car, and made room for them in the trunk. Climbing back behind the wheel, I could see them in the rearview mirror, kissing and touching and whispering to one another. I was certain I heard Marisa say “I love you” to him just loud enough to be overheard. I pulled away from the curb.
As I drove, I watched Marisa remove the transfer deed from its envelope. She and Master Ahmed looked it over, laughing once in a while, my impending sacrifice not troubling them at all. Master Ahmed addressed me, "So, piggy, who is this notary? Where are we headed?"
"Her name is Keisha, Sir," I explained. "She's the Human Resources Director at my office. She is also a licensed notary."
Marisa giggled. "Isn't she the one who beat you with a belt at your boss's orders?"
"Yes, Mistress," I blushed. "She...lashed my bare behind because I...because I had spoken to you without permission."
"A beating you deserved, am I right, faggot?" Master Ahmed sneered.
"Oh, most definitely, Sir," I concurred. "I needed to be taught a lesson, Sir!"
"Well," Master Ahmed nodded at Marisa, "this sister sounds like the ideal person to help me take possession of my brand new house. I look forward to meeting her. I bet she enjoyed beating that pale, faggot ass of yours, huh, piggy?"
"Oh, she certainly seemed to, Sir," I agreed. "Uhh...I'm sure she'll take even more pleasure in giving you my house."
"Whose house, piggy?"
"I'm sorry, Sir! I mean, your house, of course." Although I had already sacrificed thousands of dollars to Master Ahmed in the form of tribute and paid bills and gifts, this afternoon I would be making the ultimate sacrifice, signing over the bulk of my estate, the house I had already fully paid off, valued at over $400,000. It was an insane step, and yet it seemed an inevitable one, the natural trajectory of the path I began on that night that I had responded to Master Ahmed’s direct message in my Twitter feed so many months ago.
I pulled into the garage of the downtown offices of the company for which I had worked as an actuary for more than a decade now. Master Ahmed and Marisa remained seated until I opened the rear door for them, as if I were their personal valet. Any resentment I harbored for being treated as a servant by my wife and her black lover was quickly evaporating. It felt completely proper and natural. As a black man, Master Ahmed was superior to me in every way. As such, he was entitled to my money, my wife, my home, much more than I had ever been. Surrendering them to him was true white privilege.
As we took the elevator up to my office, Master Ahmed and Marisa continued to kiss like infatuated teenagers. When other passengers boarded the elevator car, they appeared amused, as if they had sussed out the situation. Many of the other passengers were black, of course, as many of the companies in the building, mine included, had stepped up their minority hiring outreach as a consequence of the recent political turmoil. Finally, at my floor, I led the way to my office, passing co-workers who noted that my wife, whom many of them had met at company parties, was holding hands with a much younger, expensively-dressed, black man. We drew smirks rather than surprise, as much of the company was doubtlessly aware of the particulars of my marriage due to Keisha’s gossip.
I opened my office door, to discover Keisha herself sitting in front of my desk, Benjamin Jones, my boss, sitting behind it, in my chair.
“Well, well, there you are, piggy! At last,” Mr. Jones greeted me with a smile of condescension. He stood and came around the desk. “And Mr. Shabaz, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you on this very auspicious occasion. It is always cause for celebration when a brother claims what is rightfully his from a white.” The two handsome black men shook hands. “I must say, I admire the way in which you have so completely broken and indoctrinated this white loser. Getting it to sign over its house to you is an audacious step that will hopefully be replicated around the country by other brothers.”
Mr. Jones sized up my wife. “And you must be Marisa,” he greeted her. “My what a prize,” he noted with a smile to Master Ahmed. “May I?”
Master Ahmed nodded his consent, saying, “Oh, certainly. As you said, it is a day of celebration.” Mr. Jones put his hands on Marisa’s shoulders and pulled her close, pressing his thick, brown lips to hers, slipping his tongue into her mouth. Marisa welcomed his familiarity, apparently open to the sexual advances of any dominant black man. “It is always a treat to meet such a fully committed race traitor as yourself, my dear,” he told her.
Marisa appreciated the compliment. “I despise the white race,” she confessed. “I love Black Power. I love black men.”
Keisha laughed. “And I bet you love that black dick, too, just like all you white girls.” Marisa blushed, but nodded her head. “I do! I really do!”
With his arm around my wife’s waist, Mr. Jones said, “Well, we are all here for a very important moment. Shall we get down to business?”
Master Ahmed, having taken my seat behind the desk, smiled broadly. “Yes, definitely. It’s time I take what is rightfully mine.”
Marisa slipped the transfer paperwork out of its envelope and passed it along to Keisha. The dark-skinned black queen looked it over, nodding. “Everything looks in order,” she said. She stood at the desk and marked a few lines with an x. “Okay, white boy,” she said, handing me the pen, “sign and date here and here and here.” My fingers trembling, feeling flushed, I proceeded to do so. She then had Marisa do the same. “And Mr. Shabaz,” she said, sliding the paperwork across the desk to my Master. “Please sign and date here.”
Mr. Jones took a black and gold Montblanc pen from his jacket, and handed it to Master Ahmed. “I have a special gift you can use to mark this occasion, brother,” he said. “It is good to commemorate your triumph over white privilege. You have a promising future.” Master Ahmed thanked him, admiring the handsome pen. He signed and dated the deed as instructed.
Keisha was almost giddy, as she looked over the signatures, thrilled to witness this triumph of Black Power. She used Master Ahmed’s new pen to sign her own name to the deed, and then prepared her stamp with a black ink pad.
“It gives me great honor to transfer the property of this white loser to a righteous and superior brother,” she said, as she affixed her stamp to the records. She slid the papers back to Master Ahmed. “These will have to be filed with the public records office, of course, but as of now, Ahmed Shabaz, you are the owner of a new house.” Keisha, Marisa, and Mr. Jones all applauded. Marisa rushed to Master Ahmed, wrapping her arms around him.
Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “Oh, by the way, David,” he said, “I’m afraid your house is not the only thing you’ve lost today.” He handed me an envelope. I opened it with trepidation. I looked over the contents with disbelief. It was a pink slip. I was being discharged.
“Fired?” I gasped unbelievingly. “You…you’re firing me, S-s-sir?”
“Afraid so, piggy,” he explained casually. “As you know, we’ve been under great pressure to increase black representation in the company, and, well, it turns out that there are no brothers in your department. I’m thinking of giving your job to my nephew, give him a good head start.”
“You…you can’t!” I protested, unable to tolerate this last indiginity. “I...I’ve been slaving for this company for ten years! I…I’ve been sucking your cock, drinkin’ your piss! Sir! Please!” I blubbered almost incoherently, “You can’t, you can’t--!”
Master Ahmed practically leaped over the desk and backhanded me across the face. Before I could recover from the blow, he slammed his black fist into my gut, knocking the wind out of me. I collapsed to my knees, dimly aware that Keisha and Marisa were giggling at the sudden explosion of violence from my Master. I was reminded of the day he so brutally beat Jimmy’s racist *** in front of us so many months ago.
Master Ahmed placed a foot on the back of my neck, pushing my face into Mr. Jones' black Ferragamo shoes. “You stupid white fuck,” he admonished me. “How dare you embarrass me by disrespecting a black man that way! How dare you raise your fuckin’ whiny, white voice to a brother! You. Are. A. White. Fuck. Pig. Nothing more. If this company has no more use for you, it’s really no different than your wife or your kids, am I right?”
Instinctively I kissed and licked at Mr. Jones’ shoes by way apology. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I sniffled. “Please, please, Sir, I need this job. I—I have nothing else. Nothing.”
Mr. Jones looked at me dispassionately. “You really don’t deserve anything else, do you, faggot?” he commented. “It’s too late to save your job, David,” he said. “But…Keisha, do we have any opening that might be…appropriate for a white boy like piggy in a black man’s world?”
Keisha seemed to consider for a moment, although I had the distinct feeling that this had all been worked out between them beforehand, perhaps even rehearsed. “Well, now that I think of it, Ben, there is an opening in…custodial services that might suit the white piggy fine.” Master Ahmed and Marisa, leaning in front of the desk together, both sniggered at the show Mr. Jones and Keisha were putting on.
“Custodian,” Mr. Jones mused. “How’s that sound, piggy? Are you down with scrubbing toilets and emptying the trash around here?”
Still on the floor, with my head bowed, I nodded. “Yes, sir! Please, sir, anything! It’d be…an honor, sir.”
“Very well,” Mr. Jones said. “I’ll expect your office cleared out by noon. Your new quarters will be in the sub-basement, next to the boiler room. Oh, and piggy?”
“Sir?”
“You’ll still be expected to take my morning piss.”
Mr. Jones offered Master Ahmed a Cuban cigar to celebrate my utter defeat and full concession to Black Power. As they lit their cigars, Keisha produced a bottle of scotch, and poured four glasses. “Oh! None for me,” Marisa protested. “Baby on board!” That happy news gave the four of them even more to celebrate.
As I lay prostrate on the floor, I became aware that the conversation had subsided. I looked up to see Mr. Jones with his tongue buried in my wife’s mouth, his hands roaming over her body. Master Ahmed and Keisha were doing the same, Keisha’s greedy finger rubbing at my Master’s crotch. I didn’t know what to do. Absent any specific instruction, I lay there immobile, certain that anything I did would be met with more anger, more violence. I crawled quietly into the corner of what had once been my office and, in an effort to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible, curled into an embryonic position.
I watched silently as the two men pushed the women together, and my wife willingly locked lips with the shapely black woman, her hands roaming over Keisha’s full hips and voluptuous rear. Master Ahmed and Mr. Jones enjoyed their cigars as they watched the lustful interracial lesbian show the two women put on for their pleasure. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched Marisa slip to her knees and grind her face in the crotch of Keisha’s slacks. The mother of my children, slid the black woman’s slacks down her hips, revealing a pair of pink panties. Marisa rubbed at the mound beneath, running her tongue across Keisha’s dark-brown thighs. “Oh, this white cow is making me so fuckin’ wet,” Keisha announced to the amusement of the two black men.
Marisa looked up at Keisha. “Beautiful black queen, may I have the honor of eating your hot, African snatch?”
“Show me what you got, white girl,” Keisha instructed, “get your mouth on that fine Nubian pussy!”
I attempted to form some connection between this wanton race traitor before me and the proper white girl I had dated in college, but it was impossible. I wondered if Marisa had the same trouble with me, when she troubled to think of me at all, if she was able to connect the craven, submissive pig I had become with the hard-working suburban husband and father I had been for years. Our fall, our degeneracy struck me as a metaphor for the future of the white race; soon enough, all whites everywhere would be forced to surrender and sacrifice their sex, their fortunes, their future, and their freedom to the superior black race.
Both women had fully disrobed by this time. Marisa lay on her back on the floor, with Keisha sitting astride her face, thrusting her pussy onto Marisa’s mouth. Master Ahmed and Mr. Jones had moved in close, standing above the two women, massaging the crotches of their slacks. Marisa used her fingers to spread Keisha’s dark brown cunt lips and bury her tongue deep past the folds of her labia. Keisha groaned as she ground her snatch onto my wife’s mouth. “Don’t be shy, white girl,” she laughed. “That’s what white mouths are for, serving the black race.” Marisa moaned in response, and lapped vigorously at the black woman’s cunt with her wet, pink tongue.
I thought back to my first date with Marisa, set up by my college roommate, how quiet and well-mannered she was. I imagined our wedding day, the small chapel filled with fragrant flowers, Tommy already growing inside her. I pictured her nursing our newborn son in her hospital bed after his delivery. Now, her belly was serving as incubator for another man’s baby, and her tits would nurse his brown-skinned brood. The Marisa I had known was gone, if she’d ever even been real at all, and in her place was a black cock slut, a race traitor, who harbored no affection for either me or the white piglets we had spawned. She was magnificent, and I loved her even more for her betrayal and rejection of our race.
As Keisha smashed her pussy onto Marisa’s mouth, Master Ahmed reached down and kneaded her fleshy breasts, twisting her brown nipples between his fingers. Mr. Jones bent at the waist and pressed his mouth to hers. Keisha was a squirter it turned out, and released a torrent of viscous vaginal fluid onto Marisa’s unsuspecting face, coating my wife with the sheen of her orgasm. I watched in amazement as Marisa frigged her own snatch enthusiastically, as she lapped at Keisha’s deluge of splurge.
After Keisha’s cum, the men hauled both women to their feet. Master Ahmed bent Marisa over one end of what had been my desk, Mr. Jones bent Keisha over the other end, so that the two women faced one other. Each man unzipped the fly of his slacks, freeing his large, black erection, while otherwise remaining suited. Mr. Jones held his cigar between his teeth, as he maneuvered his thick hard-on past Keisha’s pussy lips, wet with my wife’s saliva and her recent cum. As he embedded himself in the black woman’s cunt, Mr. Jones pressed the back of Keisha’s head toward my wife, forcing the two women into another kiss.
Master Ahmed, meanwhile, groped Marisa’s ass cheeks as he stroked the thick shaft of his sizable prong. From where I huddled in the office corner, he stood in profile, the complete length of his massive prick on display. Knowing full well that I had yet to witness him sex my wife in person, he glanced my way with an arrogant smirk. “Watch, piggy,” he ordered, deigning to acknowledge my existence. He sank himself balls deep into my wife’s accommodating cunt, causing her to yelp into Keisha’s mouth. The sheer size of his organ was enough to restructure Marisa’s pussy, her cunt having become a gaping cavern. I imagined her giving birth to his child with nonchalant ease.
Continuing to watch my response, Master Ahmed took hold of Marisa by the hips and began fucking in and out of her welcoming pussy. The sight was both devastating and intoxicating. He was enjoying my wife in a way that I knew I never would again, in a way that I would never be permitted to enjoy another woman at all. In every way, she belonged to him. I realized that I heard Marisa correctly earlier when I imagined she told Master Ahmed, “I love you.” She did, she loved him, loved him a way she could never love a weak white man…a weak white piggy…like myself. She loved Master Ahmed, and the shame of it was: so did I.
After about twenty minutes of fucking the women like that, Master Ahmed and Mr. Jones casually switched places, fist bumping one another as they passed around the desk. My wife had sexually serviced our black lawyer just over an hour ago, her pussy still wet with his seed, and now was taking two more black cocks in succession, one of them, my boss’s, belonging to a man she had met for the first time that morning. She had become a true and insatiable whore for black cock. But I was hardly one to judge: I had become a faggot for black cock myself, spending at least one night a week sucking off strange black men at an adult store glory hole. Service to the black race had come to define my life.
The men switched partner’s one more time, Mr. Jones nutting in Keisha’s velvety pussy, Master Ahmed deep in my wife’s gaping snatch. It was amazing to witness the manner in which such assured, virile, dominant men relished their orgasms, similar to the way in which they enjoyed their cigars or their scotch. They were not the sad, pathetic, needy creatures white men were when they ejaculated inside a woman. These men were confident and masterful, fully in control of themselves and the women they pleasured. I was so privileged to have at last witnessed Master Ahmed’s enjoyment of my wife. I realized that my briefs were wet: I had orgasmed without touching myself, without even being able to become erect in my cock cage. Any pretense I might still have made to being a man was gone.
Once he had withdrawn his spent cock from Keisha’s pussy, Mr. Jones came and stood before me. “What are you waiting for, faggot,” he asked. “an invitation? You don’t expect me to put this spunk-covered dick back in my pants, do you? This suit cost more than you’ll earn in a month on your new janitor salary. Tongue out, piggy: get to it.” I obeyed, caressing the fat, still-dripping head of his black cock with my tongue, licking the clotting cum from the shaft into my mouth, swallowing it appreciatively down my throat. Mr. Jones’ cock was coated in a thick sheen of pussy juice from both Keisha and Marisa’s cunts. I slurped it all down greedily. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed my wife performing the same service for Master Ahmed, cleaning his dirty cock with her whore mouth. Here we were, a once normal white, suburban couple, on our knees, happily cleaning the sex organs of the black men who had come to dominate our lives. The white race was truly in its twilight.
“You don’t ever let the piggy work your prong?” Mr. Jones inquired of Master Ahmed. “I have to say, the sissy white boy has a talent for appreciating melanin dick.”
Master Ahmed shook his head as he guided Marisa’s mouth up and down on his shaft. “Nah,” he replied distastefully. “Allah don’t dig that shit. I let a white boy suck me off once back in school. Felt so dirty afterward, I had to fuck the sorry ass queer up really bad afterward just in order to feel clean again. I’m content taking white boys’ money and white boys’ women.”
“And their houses,” Keisha giggled, as she dressed herself.
“I developed a habit of using faggots when I served some time a few years back,” Mr. Jones explained. “I got to say, I enjoy making a white boy acknowledge its place before a brother.”
Master Ahmed nodded. “I hear you. And you’re welcome to make use of my property whenever you want.” He helped Marisa to her feet. “But we better get going now, babe,” he told her. “We got to look into redecorating my new house.” As Marisa dressed, he held out his hand to me. “Car keys, faggot.” I handed him the keys, wondering but not daring to ask what had become of my Cherokee that he had driven off in earlier that summer.
Master Ahmed ordered me to pay Keisha for her services as notary. Crawling to her on my knees, I offered her all the money I had in my wallet, $150, and was thanked with a wad of spit in my face. “I’ll expect this office cleared of all your shit by noon,” Mr. Jones instructed, as the four of them departed. I remained where I was on my knees for another thirty minutes, alone, tasting Mr. Jones’ semen on my tongue, and contemplating my new position as the company janitor. My defeat by the black race was utterly complete.
************************************************************
Master Ahmed proceeded to remake the house in his own image, selling off much of our furniture for his own profit, purchasing new items courtesy of his various other pay pigs. He filled his new house with African and Islamic artwork. He transformed what had been my study into his gaming room, with leather furniture and a 75-inch flatscreen television. The piglets and I were banished to the basement, as my sons’ bedroom was turned into a nursery in expectation of the new baby.
Contrary to what Master Ahmed had implied, no longer was half my salary deposited directly into his account; now, my entire salary, greatly reduced in my new capacity as company custodian, went to Master Ahmed. I was put on a restricted allowance. Tommy and Wayne were also given the opportunity to earn an allowance by performing various chores around the house, such as taking out the trash, washing the dishes, and cleaning the yard; but any money that they earned was donated to various black empowerment groups. My sons, I’m proud to say, were so eager to help the cause of racial justice that they performed their chores with enthusiasm, trying to top one another in how much they could earn for the black race. Master Ahmed had me destroy all my credit cards, explaining that white boys should be indebted to nothing other than the black race. When I signed over the last of my financial portfolio to him, he said, “You don’t need to worry about your future, piggy. Whites have no future.”
At the office, I served under the head custodian, Leroy, a black man about sixty years old. Just as I used to start my days sucking Mr. Jones’ black cock or imbibing his piss, so too did I provide the same service to Leroy. He took particular pleasure in shoving his black ass in my face and making me rim his stinking, puckered brown asshole. When I’d finished my routine custodial duties for the day, I was expected to take my place in the executive washroom and serve as a human urinal and living fleshlight for the black management staff. As he sounded my throat with his black python, Mr. Jones would often tease me, “It’s a shame that master of yours won’t take advantage of this white faggot mouth of yours. He has no idea how satisfying it is to unload in your loser guts. Guess he’s satisfied making sure that wife of yours stays knocked up.”
Marisa’s baby was born the following May. They named her Shazia. She had caramel-colored skin, mahogany eyes, and an irrepressible smile. We all doted over her. Marisa said she felt as though her womb had been purged at last of the sin of birthing white boys. She was eager to breed another child for Master Ahmed. Except for when I was at work earning for Master Ahmed, I was expected to be the baby’s primary caregiver, a duty I performed proudly. The boys and I would often look after Shazia together when Master Ahmed and my wife traveled to various hot spots of black political activism and protests in their tireless fight for racial justice. They were dedicated to ushering in a new era of black supremacy.
I'm glad that Tommy and Wayne came of age in a world in which the systemic racism of white people was on its last legs, our long-deserved ultimate extinction looming on the horizon. For them, a world in which whites sacrificed for their black superiors was quite normal. As they would never have girlfriends, by the time they were in high school, their mother insisted on having them locked in chastity to curb any temptation. Neither boy objected: for them, chastity wasn't a kink, it was a responsibility they owed to the black race. Tommy was caged on his sixteenth birthday, Wayne two years later when he turned the same age.
Like his mother, Wayne became very active in the fight to overturn the white power structure. He had changed tremendously from the spoiled, entitled, white brat he had been as a child. As a teenager, he became a proud ally of the black activists at his school, lobbying to remove white-centric history from the curriculum, canceling teachers who perpetuated racist narratives, attending protests and demonstrations against the police. When his old friend, Jimmy, was accused of having used the n-word, Tommy joined a group of black teenagers in beating Jimmy so bad that he was hospitalized for weeks, and permanently lost the sight in one eye. No charges were ever filed, and Jimmy and his racist father reportedly moved to Idaho shortly afterward.
Wayne was quieter, shyer, more submissive. He had taken to Master Ahmed the way a dog takes to its Alpha, always happy to fix him a drink or run an errand at his request. If Tommy took after Marisa, I suppose Wayne took after me. He recognized his own inferiority and weakness compared to black people, and was eager to demonstrate his allegiance to them. By the time he was a junior in high school, I suspected that he was serving as a slave to several black boys from his class. It was becoming quite usual for whites of all ages and both genders to volunteer themselves as willing slaves to black men and women, a sure sign of the burgeoning Black New World Order.
My friend Ron, however, did not live to see the new era. One weekend, shortly after Jill had left him to join her latest nineteen-year-old lover, Tyrone, when he went off to a California college on a football scholarship, Ron went to the garage and hanged himself with a chain. I was bereft. Ron had become my closest friend and primary confidant, in many ways taking the place of Marisa in my life. Although I lived in the same house as my wife of over a decade, she seldom acknowledged me beyond assigning me household chores or having me slurp Master Ahmed’s semen out of her increasingly distended cunt.
Ron and Jill’s son Danny, seventeen-years-old by now, stayed with the boys and me in our basement for a few days until arrangements were made for him to live with Ron’s parents in Denver. Like me, he missed Ron, but he was philosophical about his father’s decision. “It makes sense, right?” he confided in me one evening. “I mean, white people are going to be extinct soon, anyway. *** did his part to help that along. I probably will, too, one day. I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever have a woman or babies or anything.”
I asked Master Ahmed if it would be better if I just disposed of myself the way Ron did. “Trying to avoid your debt to the black race, piggy?” he asked. “No way, motherfucker. You still have reparations to pay. You think that giving me your money and your wife and your house, cancels your debt? Fuck that, faggot. You’re free when I say you're free. On that day, I’ll happily place the noose around your neck, and your wife will do the same for the piglets….
“…Until then…you’re mine, piggy. You’re mine.”
We had selected a black law firm at Master Ahmed's insistence. He required us to conduct as many of our business transactions as possible with black-owned businesses. The lawyer we had chosen, Trey Johnson, had been amused when we first met with him a couple of days previously regarding our needs. "So, let me get this straight," he said. "You want to sign your house over to this, uhm, Ahmed Shabaz, free and clear, at no cost whatsoever."
Marisa smiled at the handsome, young, black lawyer, with wire-rimmed glasses and a shaved head. "That's right, Trey," she explained. "My husband, David, and I feel it is our...responsibility to submit completely to the black race, and to Ahmed, in particular. He has taken full control of our ******. I'm carrying his baby, in fact." Marisa raised her shirt enough to reveal both her alabaster belly and her Queen of Spades tattoo.
"Well," Trey responded, clearly intrigued. "Mr. Shabaz sounds like a very, er, enterprising young brother...with exceptional taste in women, I might add. You are acting racially responsible in wanting to do right by him. I'd be happy to draw up the transfer deed for you, and at no cost whatsoever given the admirable sacrifice you are making for the black race. I wish there were more white families with your…priorities."
Marisa stood and leaned forward on his desk, her full lips pursed. "Well, now, surely there is some payment you'll take...isn't there, Trey?"
The young black man, removed his glasses and loosened his tie. "Mmm, we might be able to work something out at that," he agreed. Looking at me with some distaste, he inquired, "What about...him?"
Marisa turned her nose up at me. "Him? Oh, he doesn't matter. Not in the least. David, go wait in the car while Trey and I...finish up here."
I wanted to beg them to let me stay, to let me watch this handsome black man just out of law school fuck my sexy wife, but I knew my need was irrelevant to the both of them. I thanked Trey, and backed out of the office submissively. Waiting in the parking lot, I couldn't even jerk my little white dick imagining my wife splayed across his desk since Marisa had re-caged my cock after its brief release just a few days earlier.
After half an hour, Marisa climbed into the passenger seat, her makeup a bit mussed and her hair disheveled. Raising her skirt above her thighs and spreading her legs, she asked, "Would you like some cream pie, piggy?" I nodded my head enthusiastically, and buried my face in my wife's gaping, shaved snatch, slurping like a cum-greedy faggot at the deposit Trey Johnson had made there. "Trey says we can pick up the transfer paperwork on Friday morning," Marisa explained as I lapped away at the mess between her legs. "All we have to do is sign it with Ahmed, and have it notarized. Do we know any notaries?"
With a moustache of shiny semen above my lip, I answered, "I do. Someone that I'm sure would be happy to help us sign our house over to a black man. I'll arrange everything."
Now that the deed was prepared, Marisa went into Trey's office to pick-up the paperwork, instructing me to remain in the car again. She returned after another half hour. "Sorry, piggy," she sniggered, "no time for cream pie this morning. We have to hurry to the airport and pick-up your Master. Can't keep Ahmed waiting." Although I couldn't enjoy the black lawyer's load directly from her cunt this time, Marisa nevertheless dipped her fingers into her pussy and gave me a taste. I licked at her fingers, noting the absence of the wedding ring that she had discarded weeks ago at Master Ahmed's insistence. My wife never seemed to grow tired of watching me ingest a black man's superior sperm.
At the airport, I pulled up to the curb in front of Master Ahmed's arrival terminal. When we spotted him, Marisa leaped from the car almost before I had time to come to a full stop. She threw her arms around the twenty-one-year-old father of the child she was carrying. Rather than his usual basketball shorts and t-shirt, Master Ahmed was dressed for success in a black pinstripe Armani suit, a white, collarless linen button-up shirt, with several thick gold chains around his neck. He wore Ray-ban aviator sunglasses, his short dreadlocks pulled back and tied off. He pressed his mouth over Marisa's, slipping his tongue past her lips, caressing her tongue with his.
As my wife and my Master made out there on the sidewalk for all to see, I got out of the car and went to open the backdoor for them. They slid into the backseat without acknowledging me, still wrapped up in one another. Before I could close the door, however, Master Ahmed handed me a claim ticket. "Grab my luggage, piggy," he instructed. "Three black Coach bags." He turned his attention back to Marisa. I scurried off to the arrival carousel, and found his bags. They were large and heavy. This would not be a brief visit like his last. I struggled to carry the bags to the car, and made room for them in the trunk. Climbing back behind the wheel, I could see them in the rearview mirror, kissing and touching and whispering to one another. I was certain I heard Marisa say “I love you” to him just loud enough to be overheard. I pulled away from the curb.
As I drove, I watched Marisa remove the transfer deed from its envelope. She and Master Ahmed looked it over, laughing once in a while, my impending sacrifice not troubling them at all. Master Ahmed addressed me, "So, piggy, who is this notary? Where are we headed?"
"Her name is Keisha, Sir," I explained. "She's the Human Resources Director at my office. She is also a licensed notary."
Marisa giggled. "Isn't she the one who beat you with a belt at your boss's orders?"
"Yes, Mistress," I blushed. "She...lashed my bare behind because I...because I had spoken to you without permission."
"A beating you deserved, am I right, faggot?" Master Ahmed sneered.
"Oh, most definitely, Sir," I concurred. "I needed to be taught a lesson, Sir!"
"Well," Master Ahmed nodded at Marisa, "this sister sounds like the ideal person to help me take possession of my brand new house. I look forward to meeting her. I bet she enjoyed beating that pale, faggot ass of yours, huh, piggy?"
"Oh, she certainly seemed to, Sir," I agreed. "Uhh...I'm sure she'll take even more pleasure in giving you my house."
"Whose house, piggy?"
"I'm sorry, Sir! I mean, your house, of course." Although I had already sacrificed thousands of dollars to Master Ahmed in the form of tribute and paid bills and gifts, this afternoon I would be making the ultimate sacrifice, signing over the bulk of my estate, the house I had already fully paid off, valued at over $400,000. It was an insane step, and yet it seemed an inevitable one, the natural trajectory of the path I began on that night that I had responded to Master Ahmed’s direct message in my Twitter feed so many months ago.
I pulled into the garage of the downtown offices of the company for which I had worked as an actuary for more than a decade now. Master Ahmed and Marisa remained seated until I opened the rear door for them, as if I were their personal valet. Any resentment I harbored for being treated as a servant by my wife and her black lover was quickly evaporating. It felt completely proper and natural. As a black man, Master Ahmed was superior to me in every way. As such, he was entitled to my money, my wife, my home, much more than I had ever been. Surrendering them to him was true white privilege.
As we took the elevator up to my office, Master Ahmed and Marisa continued to kiss like infatuated teenagers. When other passengers boarded the elevator car, they appeared amused, as if they had sussed out the situation. Many of the other passengers were black, of course, as many of the companies in the building, mine included, had stepped up their minority hiring outreach as a consequence of the recent political turmoil. Finally, at my floor, I led the way to my office, passing co-workers who noted that my wife, whom many of them had met at company parties, was holding hands with a much younger, expensively-dressed, black man. We drew smirks rather than surprise, as much of the company was doubtlessly aware of the particulars of my marriage due to Keisha’s gossip.
I opened my office door, to discover Keisha herself sitting in front of my desk, Benjamin Jones, my boss, sitting behind it, in my chair.
“Well, well, there you are, piggy! At last,” Mr. Jones greeted me with a smile of condescension. He stood and came around the desk. “And Mr. Shabaz, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you on this very auspicious occasion. It is always cause for celebration when a brother claims what is rightfully his from a white.” The two handsome black men shook hands. “I must say, I admire the way in which you have so completely broken and indoctrinated this white loser. Getting it to sign over its house to you is an audacious step that will hopefully be replicated around the country by other brothers.”
Mr. Jones sized up my wife. “And you must be Marisa,” he greeted her. “My what a prize,” he noted with a smile to Master Ahmed. “May I?”
Master Ahmed nodded his consent, saying, “Oh, certainly. As you said, it is a day of celebration.” Mr. Jones put his hands on Marisa’s shoulders and pulled her close, pressing his thick, brown lips to hers, slipping his tongue into her mouth. Marisa welcomed his familiarity, apparently open to the sexual advances of any dominant black man. “It is always a treat to meet such a fully committed race traitor as yourself, my dear,” he told her.
Marisa appreciated the compliment. “I despise the white race,” she confessed. “I love Black Power. I love black men.”
Keisha laughed. “And I bet you love that black dick, too, just like all you white girls.” Marisa blushed, but nodded her head. “I do! I really do!”
With his arm around my wife’s waist, Mr. Jones said, “Well, we are all here for a very important moment. Shall we get down to business?”
Master Ahmed, having taken my seat behind the desk, smiled broadly. “Yes, definitely. It’s time I take what is rightfully mine.”
Marisa slipped the transfer paperwork out of its envelope and passed it along to Keisha. The dark-skinned black queen looked it over, nodding. “Everything looks in order,” she said. She stood at the desk and marked a few lines with an x. “Okay, white boy,” she said, handing me the pen, “sign and date here and here and here.” My fingers trembling, feeling flushed, I proceeded to do so. She then had Marisa do the same. “And Mr. Shabaz,” she said, sliding the paperwork across the desk to my Master. “Please sign and date here.”
Mr. Jones took a black and gold Montblanc pen from his jacket, and handed it to Master Ahmed. “I have a special gift you can use to mark this occasion, brother,” he said. “It is good to commemorate your triumph over white privilege. You have a promising future.” Master Ahmed thanked him, admiring the handsome pen. He signed and dated the deed as instructed.
Keisha was almost giddy, as she looked over the signatures, thrilled to witness this triumph of Black Power. She used Master Ahmed’s new pen to sign her own name to the deed, and then prepared her stamp with a black ink pad.
“It gives me great honor to transfer the property of this white loser to a righteous and superior brother,” she said, as she affixed her stamp to the records. She slid the papers back to Master Ahmed. “These will have to be filed with the public records office, of course, but as of now, Ahmed Shabaz, you are the owner of a new house.” Keisha, Marisa, and Mr. Jones all applauded. Marisa rushed to Master Ahmed, wrapping her arms around him.
Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “Oh, by the way, David,” he said, “I’m afraid your house is not the only thing you’ve lost today.” He handed me an envelope. I opened it with trepidation. I looked over the contents with disbelief. It was a pink slip. I was being discharged.
“Fired?” I gasped unbelievingly. “You…you’re firing me, S-s-sir?”
“Afraid so, piggy,” he explained casually. “As you know, we’ve been under great pressure to increase black representation in the company, and, well, it turns out that there are no brothers in your department. I’m thinking of giving your job to my nephew, give him a good head start.”
“You…you can’t!” I protested, unable to tolerate this last indiginity. “I...I’ve been slaving for this company for ten years! I…I’ve been sucking your cock, drinkin’ your piss! Sir! Please!” I blubbered almost incoherently, “You can’t, you can’t--!”
Master Ahmed practically leaped over the desk and backhanded me across the face. Before I could recover from the blow, he slammed his black fist into my gut, knocking the wind out of me. I collapsed to my knees, dimly aware that Keisha and Marisa were giggling at the sudden explosion of violence from my Master. I was reminded of the day he so brutally beat Jimmy’s racist *** in front of us so many months ago.
Master Ahmed placed a foot on the back of my neck, pushing my face into Mr. Jones' black Ferragamo shoes. “You stupid white fuck,” he admonished me. “How dare you embarrass me by disrespecting a black man that way! How dare you raise your fuckin’ whiny, white voice to a brother! You. Are. A. White. Fuck. Pig. Nothing more. If this company has no more use for you, it’s really no different than your wife or your kids, am I right?”
Instinctively I kissed and licked at Mr. Jones’ shoes by way apology. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I sniffled. “Please, please, Sir, I need this job. I—I have nothing else. Nothing.”
Mr. Jones looked at me dispassionately. “You really don’t deserve anything else, do you, faggot?” he commented. “It’s too late to save your job, David,” he said. “But…Keisha, do we have any opening that might be…appropriate for a white boy like piggy in a black man’s world?”
Keisha seemed to consider for a moment, although I had the distinct feeling that this had all been worked out between them beforehand, perhaps even rehearsed. “Well, now that I think of it, Ben, there is an opening in…custodial services that might suit the white piggy fine.” Master Ahmed and Marisa, leaning in front of the desk together, both sniggered at the show Mr. Jones and Keisha were putting on.
“Custodian,” Mr. Jones mused. “How’s that sound, piggy? Are you down with scrubbing toilets and emptying the trash around here?”
Still on the floor, with my head bowed, I nodded. “Yes, sir! Please, sir, anything! It’d be…an honor, sir.”
“Very well,” Mr. Jones said. “I’ll expect your office cleared out by noon. Your new quarters will be in the sub-basement, next to the boiler room. Oh, and piggy?”
“Sir?”
“You’ll still be expected to take my morning piss.”
Mr. Jones offered Master Ahmed a Cuban cigar to celebrate my utter defeat and full concession to Black Power. As they lit their cigars, Keisha produced a bottle of scotch, and poured four glasses. “Oh! None for me,” Marisa protested. “Baby on board!” That happy news gave the four of them even more to celebrate.
As I lay prostrate on the floor, I became aware that the conversation had subsided. I looked up to see Mr. Jones with his tongue buried in my wife’s mouth, his hands roaming over her body. Master Ahmed and Keisha were doing the same, Keisha’s greedy finger rubbing at my Master’s crotch. I didn’t know what to do. Absent any specific instruction, I lay there immobile, certain that anything I did would be met with more anger, more violence. I crawled quietly into the corner of what had once been my office and, in an effort to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible, curled into an embryonic position.
I watched silently as the two men pushed the women together, and my wife willingly locked lips with the shapely black woman, her hands roaming over Keisha’s full hips and voluptuous rear. Master Ahmed and Mr. Jones enjoyed their cigars as they watched the lustful interracial lesbian show the two women put on for their pleasure. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched Marisa slip to her knees and grind her face in the crotch of Keisha’s slacks. The mother of my children, slid the black woman’s slacks down her hips, revealing a pair of pink panties. Marisa rubbed at the mound beneath, running her tongue across Keisha’s dark-brown thighs. “Oh, this white cow is making me so fuckin’ wet,” Keisha announced to the amusement of the two black men.
Marisa looked up at Keisha. “Beautiful black queen, may I have the honor of eating your hot, African snatch?”
“Show me what you got, white girl,” Keisha instructed, “get your mouth on that fine Nubian pussy!”
I attempted to form some connection between this wanton race traitor before me and the proper white girl I had dated in college, but it was impossible. I wondered if Marisa had the same trouble with me, when she troubled to think of me at all, if she was able to connect the craven, submissive pig I had become with the hard-working suburban husband and father I had been for years. Our fall, our degeneracy struck me as a metaphor for the future of the white race; soon enough, all whites everywhere would be forced to surrender and sacrifice their sex, their fortunes, their future, and their freedom to the superior black race.
Both women had fully disrobed by this time. Marisa lay on her back on the floor, with Keisha sitting astride her face, thrusting her pussy onto Marisa’s mouth. Master Ahmed and Mr. Jones had moved in close, standing above the two women, massaging the crotches of their slacks. Marisa used her fingers to spread Keisha’s dark brown cunt lips and bury her tongue deep past the folds of her labia. Keisha groaned as she ground her snatch onto my wife’s mouth. “Don’t be shy, white girl,” she laughed. “That’s what white mouths are for, serving the black race.” Marisa moaned in response, and lapped vigorously at the black woman’s cunt with her wet, pink tongue.
I thought back to my first date with Marisa, set up by my college roommate, how quiet and well-mannered she was. I imagined our wedding day, the small chapel filled with fragrant flowers, Tommy already growing inside her. I pictured her nursing our newborn son in her hospital bed after his delivery. Now, her belly was serving as incubator for another man’s baby, and her tits would nurse his brown-skinned brood. The Marisa I had known was gone, if she’d ever even been real at all, and in her place was a black cock slut, a race traitor, who harbored no affection for either me or the white piglets we had spawned. She was magnificent, and I loved her even more for her betrayal and rejection of our race.
As Keisha smashed her pussy onto Marisa’s mouth, Master Ahmed reached down and kneaded her fleshy breasts, twisting her brown nipples between his fingers. Mr. Jones bent at the waist and pressed his mouth to hers. Keisha was a squirter it turned out, and released a torrent of viscous vaginal fluid onto Marisa’s unsuspecting face, coating my wife with the sheen of her orgasm. I watched in amazement as Marisa frigged her own snatch enthusiastically, as she lapped at Keisha’s deluge of splurge.
After Keisha’s cum, the men hauled both women to their feet. Master Ahmed bent Marisa over one end of what had been my desk, Mr. Jones bent Keisha over the other end, so that the two women faced one other. Each man unzipped the fly of his slacks, freeing his large, black erection, while otherwise remaining suited. Mr. Jones held his cigar between his teeth, as he maneuvered his thick hard-on past Keisha’s pussy lips, wet with my wife’s saliva and her recent cum. As he embedded himself in the black woman’s cunt, Mr. Jones pressed the back of Keisha’s head toward my wife, forcing the two women into another kiss.
Master Ahmed, meanwhile, groped Marisa’s ass cheeks as he stroked the thick shaft of his sizable prong. From where I huddled in the office corner, he stood in profile, the complete length of his massive prick on display. Knowing full well that I had yet to witness him sex my wife in person, he glanced my way with an arrogant smirk. “Watch, piggy,” he ordered, deigning to acknowledge my existence. He sank himself balls deep into my wife’s accommodating cunt, causing her to yelp into Keisha’s mouth. The sheer size of his organ was enough to restructure Marisa’s pussy, her cunt having become a gaping cavern. I imagined her giving birth to his child with nonchalant ease.
Continuing to watch my response, Master Ahmed took hold of Marisa by the hips and began fucking in and out of her welcoming pussy. The sight was both devastating and intoxicating. He was enjoying my wife in a way that I knew I never would again, in a way that I would never be permitted to enjoy another woman at all. In every way, she belonged to him. I realized that I heard Marisa correctly earlier when I imagined she told Master Ahmed, “I love you.” She did, she loved him, loved him a way she could never love a weak white man…a weak white piggy…like myself. She loved Master Ahmed, and the shame of it was: so did I.
After about twenty minutes of fucking the women like that, Master Ahmed and Mr. Jones casually switched places, fist bumping one another as they passed around the desk. My wife had sexually serviced our black lawyer just over an hour ago, her pussy still wet with his seed, and now was taking two more black cocks in succession, one of them, my boss’s, belonging to a man she had met for the first time that morning. She had become a true and insatiable whore for black cock. But I was hardly one to judge: I had become a faggot for black cock myself, spending at least one night a week sucking off strange black men at an adult store glory hole. Service to the black race had come to define my life.
The men switched partner’s one more time, Mr. Jones nutting in Keisha’s velvety pussy, Master Ahmed deep in my wife’s gaping snatch. It was amazing to witness the manner in which such assured, virile, dominant men relished their orgasms, similar to the way in which they enjoyed their cigars or their scotch. They were not the sad, pathetic, needy creatures white men were when they ejaculated inside a woman. These men were confident and masterful, fully in control of themselves and the women they pleasured. I was so privileged to have at last witnessed Master Ahmed’s enjoyment of my wife. I realized that my briefs were wet: I had orgasmed without touching myself, without even being able to become erect in my cock cage. Any pretense I might still have made to being a man was gone.
Once he had withdrawn his spent cock from Keisha’s pussy, Mr. Jones came and stood before me. “What are you waiting for, faggot,” he asked. “an invitation? You don’t expect me to put this spunk-covered dick back in my pants, do you? This suit cost more than you’ll earn in a month on your new janitor salary. Tongue out, piggy: get to it.” I obeyed, caressing the fat, still-dripping head of his black cock with my tongue, licking the clotting cum from the shaft into my mouth, swallowing it appreciatively down my throat. Mr. Jones’ cock was coated in a thick sheen of pussy juice from both Keisha and Marisa’s cunts. I slurped it all down greedily. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed my wife performing the same service for Master Ahmed, cleaning his dirty cock with her whore mouth. Here we were, a once normal white, suburban couple, on our knees, happily cleaning the sex organs of the black men who had come to dominate our lives. The white race was truly in its twilight.
“You don’t ever let the piggy work your prong?” Mr. Jones inquired of Master Ahmed. “I have to say, the sissy white boy has a talent for appreciating melanin dick.”
Master Ahmed shook his head as he guided Marisa’s mouth up and down on his shaft. “Nah,” he replied distastefully. “Allah don’t dig that shit. I let a white boy suck me off once back in school. Felt so dirty afterward, I had to fuck the sorry ass queer up really bad afterward just in order to feel clean again. I’m content taking white boys’ money and white boys’ women.”
“And their houses,” Keisha giggled, as she dressed herself.
“I developed a habit of using faggots when I served some time a few years back,” Mr. Jones explained. “I got to say, I enjoy making a white boy acknowledge its place before a brother.”
Master Ahmed nodded. “I hear you. And you’re welcome to make use of my property whenever you want.” He helped Marisa to her feet. “But we better get going now, babe,” he told her. “We got to look into redecorating my new house.” As Marisa dressed, he held out his hand to me. “Car keys, faggot.” I handed him the keys, wondering but not daring to ask what had become of my Cherokee that he had driven off in earlier that summer.
Master Ahmed ordered me to pay Keisha for her services as notary. Crawling to her on my knees, I offered her all the money I had in my wallet, $150, and was thanked with a wad of spit in my face. “I’ll expect this office cleared of all your shit by noon,” Mr. Jones instructed, as the four of them departed. I remained where I was on my knees for another thirty minutes, alone, tasting Mr. Jones’ semen on my tongue, and contemplating my new position as the company janitor. My defeat by the black race was utterly complete.
************************************************************
Master Ahmed proceeded to remake the house in his own image, selling off much of our furniture for his own profit, purchasing new items courtesy of his various other pay pigs. He filled his new house with African and Islamic artwork. He transformed what had been my study into his gaming room, with leather furniture and a 75-inch flatscreen television. The piglets and I were banished to the basement, as my sons’ bedroom was turned into a nursery in expectation of the new baby.
Contrary to what Master Ahmed had implied, no longer was half my salary deposited directly into his account; now, my entire salary, greatly reduced in my new capacity as company custodian, went to Master Ahmed. I was put on a restricted allowance. Tommy and Wayne were also given the opportunity to earn an allowance by performing various chores around the house, such as taking out the trash, washing the dishes, and cleaning the yard; but any money that they earned was donated to various black empowerment groups. My sons, I’m proud to say, were so eager to help the cause of racial justice that they performed their chores with enthusiasm, trying to top one another in how much they could earn for the black race. Master Ahmed had me destroy all my credit cards, explaining that white boys should be indebted to nothing other than the black race. When I signed over the last of my financial portfolio to him, he said, “You don’t need to worry about your future, piggy. Whites have no future.”
At the office, I served under the head custodian, Leroy, a black man about sixty years old. Just as I used to start my days sucking Mr. Jones’ black cock or imbibing his piss, so too did I provide the same service to Leroy. He took particular pleasure in shoving his black ass in my face and making me rim his stinking, puckered brown asshole. When I’d finished my routine custodial duties for the day, I was expected to take my place in the executive washroom and serve as a human urinal and living fleshlight for the black management staff. As he sounded my throat with his black python, Mr. Jones would often tease me, “It’s a shame that master of yours won’t take advantage of this white faggot mouth of yours. He has no idea how satisfying it is to unload in your loser guts. Guess he’s satisfied making sure that wife of yours stays knocked up.”
Marisa’s baby was born the following May. They named her Shazia. She had caramel-colored skin, mahogany eyes, and an irrepressible smile. We all doted over her. Marisa said she felt as though her womb had been purged at last of the sin of birthing white boys. She was eager to breed another child for Master Ahmed. Except for when I was at work earning for Master Ahmed, I was expected to be the baby’s primary caregiver, a duty I performed proudly. The boys and I would often look after Shazia together when Master Ahmed and my wife traveled to various hot spots of black political activism and protests in their tireless fight for racial justice. They were dedicated to ushering in a new era of black supremacy.
I'm glad that Tommy and Wayne came of age in a world in which the systemic racism of white people was on its last legs, our long-deserved ultimate extinction looming on the horizon. For them, a world in which whites sacrificed for their black superiors was quite normal. As they would never have girlfriends, by the time they were in high school, their mother insisted on having them locked in chastity to curb any temptation. Neither boy objected: for them, chastity wasn't a kink, it was a responsibility they owed to the black race. Tommy was caged on his sixteenth birthday, Wayne two years later when he turned the same age.
Like his mother, Wayne became very active in the fight to overturn the white power structure. He had changed tremendously from the spoiled, entitled, white brat he had been as a child. As a teenager, he became a proud ally of the black activists at his school, lobbying to remove white-centric history from the curriculum, canceling teachers who perpetuated racist narratives, attending protests and demonstrations against the police. When his old friend, Jimmy, was accused of having used the n-word, Tommy joined a group of black teenagers in beating Jimmy so bad that he was hospitalized for weeks, and permanently lost the sight in one eye. No charges were ever filed, and Jimmy and his racist father reportedly moved to Idaho shortly afterward.
Wayne was quieter, shyer, more submissive. He had taken to Master Ahmed the way a dog takes to its Alpha, always happy to fix him a drink or run an errand at his request. If Tommy took after Marisa, I suppose Wayne took after me. He recognized his own inferiority and weakness compared to black people, and was eager to demonstrate his allegiance to them. By the time he was a junior in high school, I suspected that he was serving as a slave to several black boys from his class. It was becoming quite usual for whites of all ages and both genders to volunteer themselves as willing slaves to black men and women, a sure sign of the burgeoning Black New World Order.
My friend Ron, however, did not live to see the new era. One weekend, shortly after Jill had left him to join her latest nineteen-year-old lover, Tyrone, when he went off to a California college on a football scholarship, Ron went to the garage and hanged himself with a chain. I was bereft. Ron had become my closest friend and primary confidant, in many ways taking the place of Marisa in my life. Although I lived in the same house as my wife of over a decade, she seldom acknowledged me beyond assigning me household chores or having me slurp Master Ahmed’s semen out of her increasingly distended cunt.
Ron and Jill’s son Danny, seventeen-years-old by now, stayed with the boys and me in our basement for a few days until arrangements were made for him to live with Ron’s parents in Denver. Like me, he missed Ron, but he was philosophical about his father’s decision. “It makes sense, right?” he confided in me one evening. “I mean, white people are going to be extinct soon, anyway. *** did his part to help that along. I probably will, too, one day. I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever have a woman or babies or anything.”
I asked Master Ahmed if it would be better if I just disposed of myself the way Ron did. “Trying to avoid your debt to the black race, piggy?” he asked. “No way, motherfucker. You still have reparations to pay. You think that giving me your money and your wife and your house, cancels your debt? Fuck that, faggot. You’re free when I say you're free. On that day, I’ll happily place the noose around your neck, and your wife will do the same for the piglets….
“…Until then…you’re mine, piggy. You’re mine.”
