Recently, I had discovered the on-line existence of a movement that promoted Black Supremacy, interracial cuckoldry, white submission, even white extinction. Although I was married with children, my latent interest, near obsession, with the size of Black cock, the sexual skill of Black Men, had led me to fall victim to the financial domination of Master Ahmed, a young, black Muslim, fifteen years my junior. I had already tributed him more than a couple of hundred dollars, as he introduced me to the concept of a Black New World Order, a world dominated by African and African-descended people, a world in which white privilege, white racism, and even white marriage would hold no sway. Most recently, he had assigned me the task of choosing a gift for him from his Amazon wishlist, as a way of demonstrating my fidelity to his philosophy of black racial supremacy. While he spent the weekend sexually dominating a married white couple, I would be spending my ******'s money on a man I had never met in person, one who had taken me firmly in hand, and led me to question everything I thought about myself, my sexuality, my place in the world. I trembled as I scrolled through his Amazon list.
Master Ahmed's wishlist included a number of books about radical black activism. It became clear that Black Supremacy was more than merely a sexual fetish for him, or a means to milk insecure white losers like myself out of a few bucks. He was a committed racial supremacist. That realization turned me on even more. The books, however, were too small a token to demonstrate my interest in the wisdom he had to impart to me. Then I saw them: a pair of size 13 Nike Air Jordan VI Retro Infrared sneakers for $320! He had more expensive items on his list--a leather jacket, a gold chain, diamond earrings--among other fine things. But somehow gifting him something that he would wear on his enormous feet seemed appropriate for the submissiveness he brought out in me. I added the Air Jordan's to my shopping cart. As instructed, I paid for expedited shipping so he might receive them before the close of the weekend. As I completed the transaction--although his actual street address was invisible to me--I could see his name and the city in which he lived. It turned out, surprisingly, that his name actually was Ahmed, and that he lived barely two hundred miles away from me. My heart raced as I completed the transaction.
Leaving my Amazon account open to the order page, I proceeded to open my PayPal account, looking at the receipts for the money I had already tributed directly to Master Ahmed. I wheedled my small, uncut, but fully turgid penis, out of my fly, and began stroking it fiercely as I looked at the amount of money, several hundred dollars, this young, black Alpha had drained from me in just a couple of days. What kind of a weak faggot was I that I so easily surrendered my hard-earned money to a stranger at his instruction. I was a wimp, a weak, white wimp, a faggot and a wannabe cocksucker. With those thoughts racing through my mind, I shot my load, thinking how thin and useless it was compared to Master Ahmed's superior seed, wondering if he was indeed breeding some white girl, a snowbunny as they were called, at that very moment. I cleaned up my sticky mess, and shot a quick DM to Master Ahmed: "Done, Sir. I hope you are pleased."
Upstairs, my wife, Marisa, had already turned in for the night. I peeked in on our sons, who were asleep in their bunk bed. Master Ahmed's anti-white propaganda had awakened in me a latent resentment of my very own sons, a disgust for their assumed white privilege and petulant behavior. Master Ahmed advocated a zero birth rate for whites, encouraging white chastity, vasectomies, abortion, even chemical castration for white men. By breeding white children, even worse, by breeding white males, I had committed a mortal sin in his eyes. I would have to sacrifice a great deal to atone for my transgression, I was learning.
After brushing my teeth and changing into pajamas, I climbed into bed beside Marisa, knowing that my marriage to her was yet another thing Master Ahmed may well demand I sacrifice. Her commitment to me, our monogamy, meant nothing to him. He would gladly sabotage and corrupt it if he could; and I would be his willing accomplice.
Sunday mornings, after breakfast, I would usually take the boys, ten-year old Tommy and eight-year old Wayne, to the park to ride their bikes and skateboards, giving Marisa a bit of time to herself. She usually just ended up doing chores, but at least she had a couple of hours alone. We had tried to introduce the boys to doing jobs around the house, but they griped and whined so much that we eventually dropped it. As we pulled out of the driveway, I was struck by a sudden inspiration. When we drove past their usual skatepark, they looked up from their Game Boys, yelling, “Da-a-ad! You’re going the wrong way! The park’s back there!”
“Don’t worry, guys,” I assured them. “I know another park, one I think you might like better.” I could tell they were doubtful, but intrigued enough at the thought of something new that they didn’t protest and returned their attention to their Game Boys. Even a sedate suburb like ours had its rougher sections, adjacent to the freeway, with public housing units, and bars on the windows of private homes. This is where I brought my sons, pulling in across the street from a park with more asphalt than grass, drunks and junkies on what few benches there were, black and Latino kids riding skateboards and playing basketball at a net-less hoop. Tommy looked up, making a face like he’d just swallowed a particularly sour gummy. “Da-a-ad! This isn’t a playground,” he complained.
“Of course it is, Tommy,” I corrected him. “See, there’s lots of kids playing. Now, come on, get out there and have a good time.” We piled out of the car, and retrieved the boys’ skateboards from the trunk. They skated around the perimeter of the park warily, while I leaned against a chain link fence and scrolled through my phone. There were no new messages from Master Ahmed, nor had he tweeted anything over the past couple of days. I wondered if he’d received the sneakers, yet. It gave me a thrill to think of him opening them, pleased with my choice. Winning his approval meant more to me with every day.
Suddenly, I heard some shouting, and looked up surreptitiously. Tommy was in a squabble with some older boys, some black boys. With my head down as if still looking through my phone, I began recording what was going on across the park from me. A black teenager, a few years older than Tommy, was holding Tommy’s skateboard as if it were his own. Tommy reached to take it back several times, but the older boy simply pushed him away each time, a dismissive smirk on his face. His friends grouped around, laughing. Rather than rushing to my son’s aid, I simply continued recording. “Give it back,” Tommy whined. The older boy shoved my son casually, knocking him to the ground. “Try it take it, white boy,” he laughed. Another boy, about Tommy’s own age, kicked him in the side, sneering, “Stupid cracker!”
Tommy scrambled away, and came running to my side. His brother Wayne, who had been observing everything from a distance rushed up behind him. “***! ***!” Tommy called, blubbering like a baby. “They, they took my board, ***! Go get it back!” I continued recording, but held my phone at an angle to not be obvious. I stood up and strolled over to the small group of black youths, who sized me up defiantly. My sons stood close behind me.
“I think you’ve taken my son’s skateboard,” I began.
“Nope,” the black teen denied it. “This here’s my board!”
“I think you’re forgetting something,” I told him. He puffed his chest, confidently, belligerently. “Oh, yeah, what’s that, gramps?” The other boys snickered.
I placed a hand on Wayne’s shoulder and pulled him in front of me. “My other boy, he still has his skateboard. Don’t you want that, too?”
Wayne’s mouth fell open. The black boys appeared uncertain what I meant at first, but then the one who had kicked Tommy stepped forward and pulled at the skateboard that Wayne grasped to his chest. “Gimme that, whitey,” he said. Wayne held to the board firmly, but the other boy was too strong and he yanked it free, causing Wayne to fall back on his ass. The black kids found that hilarious.
“Enjoy your new boards,” I told them, turning and walking off, Tommy and Wayne following behind me incredulously. When they began to complain, I just said, “Shut the fuck up.” As they piled into the car, demanding that I call the police, I explained, “You weren’t strong enough to keep your skateboards, you don’t fucking deserve them.” I’d never spoken to the boys that way before, and I confess: it felt goddamn good.
Back at the house, Tommy and Wayne rushed to Marisa’s side as she was slicing vegetables for dinner. “I hate ***!” Tommy yelled. “He, he let some boys, some black boys, take our skateboards! And he didn’t even do anything! He didn’t do anything!” Marisa tried to calm them, but finally I just snapped, “Go to your room, both of you. Now!” Marissa looked shocked at my tone, but didn’t contradict me. The boys scurried off, still yelling and wailing. One of them slammed the bedroom door.
Marisa looked at me quizzically. “Honey, what on earth…?”
I sighed. “I took them to a different park,” I explained. “One on the East Side. Tommy started a fight with some boys there, knocked one of them down. He was really quite out of control. To calm things down, I suggested that the other boys keep the skateboards. Tommy and Wayne really need to learn some respect.”
“The East Side? Why would you take them all the way over there?”
“I don’t know. I just thought…well, they’re kind of spoiled, aren’t they? They don’t interact much with people of different backgrounds. I thought they might make some friends, see what life is like with fewer advantages, less privilege. They behaved very badly.”
Marisa seemed to be thinking over what I had told her. “Well, it’s true that they lead pretty sheltered lives. There are hardly any black children at their school. It was a good idea, honey. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Oh, I’m not giving up. Who knows? We’ll try that park again sometime. They might still make some friends over there.” Dinner was eaten in cold, pouty silence, both boys picking resentfully at their food. Marisa told them if they were going to behave so poorly, they could skip dessert. I confess: I enjoyed this new, hardline we were adopting with our spoiled, bratty, white boys.
That night after Marisa and the boys had gone to bed, I logged into my Twitter account expecting to find a "Hello, faggot" in my direct messages. Instead, there was simply an address for a video chat application. I downloaded the app and typed in the address provided. The receiving screen was blank. I wondered if I'd mis-typed the address, but as I was checking, I heard a voice from my laptop's speaker. "Piggy."
I looked up, saw my face in the inset box, but the rest of the screen was still black. "Sir? Master Ahmed? Is that you?" I asked.
"It's me, piggy," he said, his voice a confident tenor. He must have activated his camera at that point because the screen suddenly filled with the sight of the Air Jordan's I had purchased for him, his size 13 feet filling them. Those feet resting on his desk, Master Ahmed sat back in a chair, his arms cupped behind his head. My first sight of the man who had been dominating my thoughts, my very life, these past few days was thrilling. He was shirtless, his body lean and well-defined, a deep, rich, beautiful brown. Around his neck were draped two gold chains, with large, shiny links. His face was youthful, handsome, with dark, almond eyes, and a broad, powerful jaw. He wore a diamond stud in each ear, his hair in short dreadlocks. The few wispy, curling hairs that decorated his strong chin made him appear even younger than he was. "You did good, piggy," he said, his eyes looking over the sneakers. "You've pleased your owner."
Owner? He hadn't referred to himself that way before. The word made my cock grow hard. "I'm happy you like them...Master," I said, trying the word out, liking the way it felt as I directed it at this handsome, confident, young black man.
He removed his feet from the desk and sat forward, examining the image on his screen. "Huh, you really are a weak looking little fuck, even by white fag standards, aren't you, piggy?"
I lowered my eyes in submission. "I'm, yes, I'm afraid so, Master."
"Piggy?"
"Yes, sir?" I asked, my voice quivering.
"Tribute, piggy? Where's my tribute? Fifty to my Paypal. Now."
"Sir, I'm sorry, sir! Of course," I fumbled with the keyboard, minimizing the video chat and opening my Paypal app. I quickly keyed in the expected amount, knowing better than to try to impress him with anything greater.
I saw in his eyes that he had received my tribute, although he didn't acknowledge it with words. "Repeat after me, piggy: whiteness...is a disease."
"Whiteness is a disease," I said.
"Black Cock is the cure."
"Black Cock is the cure," I repeated.
"That, piggy, is going to be your mantra. You will repeat it to yourself until it becomes second nature, until you accept it and live it without question."
"Yes, Master," I said with enthusiasm, knowing my indoctrination had really begun. "Whiteness is a disease, Black Cock is the cure."
"Good, piggy." He leaned in close to the camera. “You’re a rude little piggy, ain’t you, cracker?”
“Master?”
“You didn’t ask me about my weekend, piggy. Pretty fuckin’ rude.”
“I’m so sorry, Master!” I apologized. “Yes, I am a stupid, rude piggy, I know. How was your weekend, Master? Did you enjoy that white slut you were going to breed?”
“As a matter of fact, piggy, I did. Very much. I’ve been trying to knock this bitch up for a few months now, timing our meetings with her cycle. I think we might have finally got it right.”
“That’s great, Sir,” I said enthusiastically. “Her husband…?”
“He’ll raise and pay for the brat of course. He was right there, too, groveling on the ground licking my feet while his whore rode my big black python.” I must have let out a groan at that description because he laughed and said, “You like that, huh, piggy?”
“Oh, yes, Master, so much!”
“Wish it were you worshipping my big feet while I fucked your sow, don’t you, piggy?”
The image of Marisa astride his lap was mesmerizing. “Oh, Sir, yes, very much, Master!”
“What’d you do on behalf of Black Supremacy this weekend, piggy?” asked Master Ahmed.
“Oh, Sir, I hope you like this!” I pulled out my phone and accessed my Twitter DM. I forwarded him the video of my sons being bullied at the park. “Please, Master, check your messages.”
He watched for a few minutes; I could him chuckling, laughing out loud at the part where Tommy was knocked to the ground. “Whoa-ho-ho, piggy! Are those your piglets? You are a baa-ad ***! Did you set your piglets up to be bullied and robbed by those young Kings?”
“I did, Sir. It’s what they deserve, Master, for being the overly privileged white piglets that they are.”
“Oh, they deserve a lot worse than that, piggy. Your whole corrupt race does. But this is a good start. I’m proud of you, faggot. You learn quickly for a white boy.” I beamed, thrilled at having pleased my Master. “Your mantra, piggy!”
“Whiteness is a disease, Sir! Black cock is the cure!”
“Good, piggy.” He lowered the waistband of his track pants and pulled out his enormous cock, hard and black. “It always make me hard to see whites take a beating, piggy. As hard as good pussy.” I stared stupefied at his incredible cock as he ran his hand up and down its prodigious length.
"How'd it make you feel, piggy, to see the piglets get bullied like that?" he asked.
I knew what I should say, that it made me angry, appalled, made me want to jump to their defense. "I enjoyed it, Master. I enjoyed seeing the little shits put in their place by...by..."
"By their betters," Master completed my thought.
"Yes, Sir. By their betters."
"By real human beings."
"Yes, Sir! By real human beings, Sir!"
"Good, piggy. You're shaping up nicely, piggy." I beamed, thrilled that Master Ahmed appeared pleased with my progress. My little dink grew hard in my slacks.
"You want to take it out and jerk, don't you piggy?"
I nodded.
"That'll cost you, piggy. Tribute $100, now, and I will grant you permission to jerk while we speak." I was too far gone at that point to even hesitate. I maximized the open PayPal window and typed in the instructed amount. As my bank account drained of the hundred, I felt my cock leak copious amounts of pre-ejaculate.
"Oh, you are a very good piggy, indeed," Master Ahmed observed. "Go ahead and take out that little boy clit of yours, and stroke to your heart's content." I obeyed, my cock never harder in my life. "That thing's just pathetic, isn't it, white boy?"
"Yes, it is, Sir, it really is!"
"It's never satisfied a woman, has it, cracker? Not even your sow wife."
"No, Sir! Never, Sir! It's just pathetic, Master." As I beat my little dink with the fervor of a grade schooler, Master Ahmed massaged his prodigious black python, only half-hard, but many times bigger than my tiny wiener, and waved it in front of the monitor. "You're a fag for big, black dick, ain't you, homo?"
"I am, Sir," I replied, panting, "I really am!"
"Would you lick my black balls, piggy?"
"Oh, yes, Master!"
"Tell me, piggy."
"I would lick your big, black balls, Master!"
"Would you eat my black ass, piggy?"
"I would, Sir. I would eat your black ass, Master!"
"Would you kiss my feet while I fucked your sow wife, faggot?"
"Ohhh!" I began spraying my watery seed in the air. "Yes, Master! Yes, I'd kiss your feet. I want you to fuck her! Fuck my wife!"
“In due time, piggy. In due time I will.” As I shot my load, it struck me how supremely confident this young man was, confident that he had me in his power, confident that I would surrender my money, my wife, my manhood at his whim. And he was right: I would. Submitting to him revealed to me a truth about myself that I had not known, or perhaps had always been in denial about: I was not a man, not a real man, not a man in the way Master Ahmed was a man. As far as he was concerned, not only was I not a man, but as a white, I was not even really human. Black people were the true humans; my race, the white race, were imposters, frauds. We deserved to pay, to be punished for our audacity, our presumption to humanity.
“I sent you a link, piggy,” he told me, leaning toward the camera so that I could see his smile. “Something to buy for yourself this time. Don’t contact me again until it arrives.” With a final sneer, he signed off, the screen going black. I opened my direct messages and clicked on the Amazon link in my DM. It was for a $150 stainless steel, padlocked male control device. Master Ahmed was going to lock me in chastity!
To be continued...
