The following story is both sexually and violently explicit. It includes, but is not limited to, extreme racial violence. If you are offended by the violent physical abuse of white men, even merely as fantasy, please do not read further. If, however, you find pleasure in the racial, sexual, and physical dominance of young, superior black men over inferior whites, please enjoy.
They call it the Bop Bag Challenge, and it was sweeping the nation, garnering millions of hits on various social media platforms. A black teenager would approach an unsuspecting white man with a question about something innocuous such as the time. While the white man checked his watch or his phone, a second black teenager would crouch on all fours behind him. At this point, the first teen would "bop" the white man lightly in the chest or the face, the way little kids used to bop those inflatable clowns that would bounce right back up. Only the white men, who inevitably fell backward over the crouching teens, flailing and crying in surprise, would hit the ground hard rather than immediately bounce back to an upright position as the clowns did. A third teenager would capture the whole thing on video to post on social media. Although the Bop Bag Challenge frequently ended in broken bones and bloodied faces for the white men involved, the police took little notice other than to laugh at the posted videos themselves. Black on white crime, after all, had come to be considered little more than a nuisance, something to be widely ignored. It was, more or less, open season on white men.
Brian had never wanted to become a viral internet sensation, but that is just what happened after he became a victim of the Bop Bag Challenge one day after class. Crossing the quad to his dorm room, Brian was stopped by Trey, one of the black guys from his Postcolonial Ethics class, asking about the day's reading. Not used to any of the black students even acknowledging his existence, Brian stuttered and fumbled through his backpack for the syllabus. As he drew it out, Trey bopped him right in the nose. Brian dropped his backpack and stumbled backward, tripping over Trey's frat brother, Marcus, who had discreetly knelt behind him. Brian flailed as he collapsed, twisting in mid-fall, causing him to slam into the pavement face first. Brian felt his nose cave-in as the cartilage shattered, blood filling his sinuses. He sputtered and gasped. All around him, passersby laughed and whooped at his humiliation. He looked up and saw that it was all being captured on video by Trey's girlfriend, Jenny, a petit white girl with red hair pulled into a ponytail. She was in Brian's Readings in Black Radicalism class, a requirement for all white freshman, and he had a bit of a crush on her. Now, she stood over him with her cell phone, laughing at his bloodied face.
It was too much for the rather nebish white boy. He reached up to try to grab the phone away from Jenny, but was met with Trey's fist in his face yet again, this time a solid punch rather than a playful bop. "Stay in your fuckin' lane, white boy," Trey shouted at him, following the punch with a swift, resolute kick to Brian's ribs.
The football coach, Sam Phelps, happened to be walking through the quad at that moment. When he saw that it was one of his own players simply correcting a white loser, Coach Phelps just chuckled to himself, always happy to see young black men taking a firm hand with their former oppressors. Marcus joined Trey in beating down Brian, punching and kicking at the helpless white boy. Trey stood towering above the prone loser, and hawked a thick wad of phlegm into the white face. Jenny circled the trio of teenagers, continuing to film the beating, giggling excitedly at the violence. The truth was that she didn't even recognize Brian from their shared class; she simply delighted in seeing a white boy get a beat down.
When Trey and Marcus were done with their bit of fun at Brian’s expense, they simply continued on their way as if nothing had happened, sparing not the slightest thought of concern for the white boy they left bloodied and bruised in the quad. Other students passed Brian as he lay in a puddle of his own blood, groaning in pain. The black students sneered at the pathetic loser, some of them kicking or spitting at him as they passed by, enjoying the sight of a defeated, helpless white boy. Race traitor white girls laughed at him as usual, excited by more evidence that they had made the right choice in rejecting the losers of their own race. The few white boys on campus simply averted their gaze, grateful that this time, at least, they had been spared the type of beating that Brian had endured.
While Brian struggled to find the strength to even get to his feet, Trey and Marcus sat in the bleachers of the stadium behind the school, sharing a blunt, while Jenny knelt between them, sucking on their erect black prongs. Like so many black youths, Trey always shared whatever white cooch he was tapping with his friends, and Jenny was an adept cocksucker, skilled at swallowing brothers to the root. Trey had stripped off his basketball jersey to warm his hard, sinewy brown body in the afternoon sun. His chiseled torso and taut arms were covered in ink. His long, beaded cornrows fell across his shoulders as he bent his head back to take a deep hit off the blunt, holding the pungent smoke deep in his lungs. “Dat’s de shit, white girl,” he instructed Jenny. “Slurp on dat black snake, all the way to de balls.”
Sitting beside Trey, Marcus rewatched the video of the beating they’d laid on Brian. They had only intended to Bop Bag the white loser, but his attempt to grab the phone away from Jenny called for more extreme measures. No matter. Both Marcus and Trey never objected to knocking a white boy around some. Not long ago, it might have been necessary to edit the video before posting it, to make sure their black faces were not recognizable. No longer. Nobody really gave much of a shit what happened to white boys these days. Had he and Trey beaten the loser to death, it was unlikely they would have gotten anything more than a littering fine for leaving the corpse on the quad. Just the way it should be, Marcus thought to himself, as he uploaded a hip-hop track to the video before posting it to his social media accounts. He was even bold enough to share it on the University’s public account. It was the kind of thing that would draw more brothers to the school, seeing that they ruled the roost.
Marcus took the blunt that Trey held out to him. He was shorter than his teammate, but more thickly built, with heavily corded arms and a powerful core tight within his white t-shirt. He was several shades darker than his mocha-colored friend, his curved, jutting erection even darker. He stroked it while waiting his turn at Jenny's mouth, putting the blunt to his lips. Watching the video of Brian's beatdown had made his thick, vascular cock as hard as granite. It felt good in his fist as he blew a cloud of pungent, cloying smoke past his lips. "Shit, this is the life," the young football player said, as the white girl moved from Trey's long club of a cock to Marcus' blunter, thicker prick. Her mouth was warm and moist, and felt good on his big old rod. He took hold of her red ponytail in his strong, black fist, working her head up and down on his dick. "Shit," he sighed again, grinning at Trey. "It's good to be a black man in this world."
On his way across campus to his office, Coach Phelps felt his own black dick become a bit bloated, turned-on as usual by the always elevating sight of a weak white boy being put in his place by young black brothers. He needed some immediate relief, and saw just the thing in two white cheerleaders who sat on a bench in front of the school library. Like so many of the white girls on campus, they were dressed more like streetwalkers than college students. For a lot of white girls, their entire academic success was based on their sexual availability to the black faculty and student body. Just the way it should be, mused Coach Phelps.
"You," the coach said, pointing to the blue-eyed blonde with full, crimson lips. "Take off your sweater." The big busted teen stood, and wasted no time peeling her tight cheerleader sweater off over her head. She knew better than to gainsay the handsome black football coach. A lacey black brassiere held her obviously augmented breasts in place. The coach smirked, noting a black spade tattoo decorating her tight, lower abdomen. "Now the bra," Coach Phelps said, his voice grown husky at the sight of her smooth, pale flesh. The girl reached adroitly behind her back and unclasped the brassiere, tossing it to her friend on the bench. The blonde stood before the coach in just her short cheering skirt and white leather boots, her ample breasts proudly on display for Coach Phelps' pleasure.
"Now, you," he said to the other girl, dark-haired and suntanned, "play with those big fuckin' tits of hers." The other cheerleader stood beside her friend, taking her silicone-filled breasts in her hands, kneading them between her fingers, the nails of which were painted an opaque white. Unprompted, she lowered her mouth to her friend’s distended nipples, taking one between her lips, and sucking on it as if were a black dick. This ain't the first time these white bitches have performed for a brother, the aroused coach thought to himself. They've probably put on shows like this for the players on his own team, he guessed, or even for some of the black frat houses.
Coach Phelps directed the brunette to strip her own sweater off. She did so, revealing rounded breasts that did not appear surgically enlarged as the blonde's had clearly been. The two white girls locked lips as their hands roamed over one another's bodies for the pleasure of the horny football coach, their tongues locked in a duel. Coach Phelps sat down on the bench where the girls had been seated, patting his lap. The cheerleaders each perched on one of the coach's muscular legs, taking turns kissing him. Occasionally, other students would pass them, enjoying the lascivious show. Open sexual displays were not uncommon on campus these days, particularly interracial sex, as white students were expected to make themselves available to the demands of their black superiors, both faculty and fellow students.
Several dozen miles away, meanwhile, Brian's twin sister, Brianna, scrolled through social media in her own dorm room. She attended a much more prestigious university than her brother, primarily because it was easier for sexy, available white girls to get in to the school of their choice. On Tik Tok, she noticed, the latest Bop Bag challenge appeared to be trending. Brianna paused in her scrolling to check it out, as it was always kind of hot to see a white boy humiliated.
"Oh! My! Fucking! God!" Brianna guffawed when she recognized that the latest Bop victim was her own loser brother, Brian. She watched Brian fall backward, slamming into the pavement. She laughed as the two handsome black teens began punching and kicking him. The video zoomed in on Brian's face, one eye already swollen, his lower lip cut open, and his nose smashed to bits. Brianna felt herself grow moist at the brutal beating Brian endured. Even by white boy standards, she mused, her brother was an exceptional waste.
Brianna reached under her bed, retrieving a long, ebony dildo, molded to resemble an actual black cock, complete with large, round testicles. She played the video again and again, frigging her neatly shaved, well-used snatch with the enormous phallus. She wondered if Brian were even still alive after that harsh beating. She came hard to the idea of him beaten to death by the two black men. If they had actually snuffed him, she vowed she would track them down and fuck them both, maybe even try to get knocked up by them. It would be such a thrill to carry the bastard of one of her brother's murderers. Brianna excitedly forwarded the video to her mother, knowing how much Mom would appreciate it.
Brian and Brianna's mother, Veronica, soaked in a bubble bath. She had had a full night, working a stag party for her pimp and lover, Reggie. At thirty-eight, Veronica kept herself fit and young in order to remain desirable to the black men who dominated her life. Her late husband, Jim—the twins' father—had died in prison, where he'd been sent after Veronica and Reggie framed him for embezzlement at the firm at which he had worked, when, in truth, it was they, using Jim's access, who had embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars. The justice system, these days, proved all too eager to convict white men of crimes perpetrated by black men. What goes around, Reggie explained to Veronica, sooner or fucking later comes around. Jim, so the prison authorities explained, was killed in his sleep by another white inmate, who was jealous that his black bull had expressed an interest in turning Jim into his newest punk.
The entire episode rather amused Veronica. especially as she stood to collect a nice settlement from the state.
When her phone pinged, indicating that she had a new text message, she reached languidly out of the tub to retrieve her phone from the table on which was burning a strong lavender-scented candle. Brianna had texted, “Mom, you totally have to check this shit out,” along with a link. Veronica’s ******** regularly sent links, often news about anti-white laws that were being passed, occasionally video of some hot black man with whom she had hooked up. Veronica opened the link of this latest video and immediately perked up. It was Jim’s loser son, Brian—she preferred to think of him that way, rather than as anything that she had carried in her own womb—being attacked and assaulted by two very handsome, dominant young black men. “Oh my,” she sighed, watching Brian succumb to a hail of punches and kicks. Watching Jim’s son being brutalized, Veronica’s free hand sank beneath the bubbles of her bath, moving between her legs. “Oh, fuck that white boy up,” she hissed hatefully, as she rubbed at her swelling clit. “Put him in his fucking place.”
Few white boys attended college these days, fewer still ever graduated. Most of them were destined for menial work and domestic jobs. Brian was eager to enter university in order to escape his mother’s contempt and cruelty, to say nothing of her pimp, Reggie, who constantly teased Brian about feminizing him, and turning him out on the street. Luckily, Jim had left Brian and Brianna secure college funds that neither the authorities nor Veronica herself could touch despite Jim’s conviction. While university, however, provided an escape from his mother, it proved no more welcoming to a white boy like Brian, who, from the perspective of almost all of his instructors and fellow students, represented all that was vile with his race, all that was wrong about what had been his country.
Like most schools these days—from kindergarten through graduate school—Brian’s was largely segregated. Like all white boys, he was assigned a whites-only dormitory. While the black dorms were like luxury apartments, with fitness rooms and swimming pools and elaborate recreational facilities, the white dorms were located in buildings slated to be demolished, with poor heating systems and unreliable plumbing. While white girls had full access to most school facilities, white boys were denied entry to the student lounges, the school cafeteria, and were even allowed access to the library only during specified and limited hours. By law, white people enjoyed few rights and fewer privileges, and white boys the least of all.
In Brian’s dorm room, his roommate, Tim, sat at their particle board desk, jacking off to interracial pornography as much as the dormitory’s shoddy, substandard wi-fi permitted. If anything, Tim was an even bigger loser than Brian: rail-thin and myopic, with a mess of uncombed, mousy brown hair, and pockmarked acne scars. Tim’s hands were small and soft and feminine, at least partly from the hand lotion he always used when masturbating, which he did several times a day, edging himself to the sight of superior black men enjoying sexually insatiable white women. As long as he had been viewing interracial porn, Tim had always been less interested in the curvaceous, voluptuous bodies of the women then in the powerful, prodigious black phalluses of the men. Black cock mesmerized him.
A window popped opened on Tim’s secondhand laptop, alerting him to a newly posted video to the university’s website. He clicked the link, wary that it might be alerting him to still another anti-white boy ordinance, such as the 8pm curfew that applied to all white male students. Instead, however, he discovered a link to a video that showed yet another victim of the Bop Bag Challenge. Tim gasped when he recognized his own roommate, Brian, being violently trounced by two of the school’s star football players. Poor Brian didn’t stand a chance. He appeared to barely resist as the two black athletes pummeled him with their fists. Tim was aware that his tiny wiener pulsed at the black on white violence, but he resisted the urge to stroke his dick, worried about Brian, who was one of his few friends in a world that was both hostile and dangerous for white boys. By the end of the brief video, it was apparent that Brian had been left in grave shape.
Tim checked the time-stamp on the video. It had been posted within the last hour. He recognized the location as the school’s quad. Pulling his jeans up, Tim rushed out of the dormitory, and across campus. The whites only dormitories were located as far from the center of the campus as possible, the administration operating under the conviction that white males were better neither seen nor heard.
As he hurried past the stadium, Tim noted that the very students who had beaten Brian so badly were in the bleachers, spit-roasting a young red-haired white girl, who squatted on all fours, making her holes available to them. Trey rutted into her from behind, thrusting his long brown prick into her smooth, pink twat; Marcus, meanwhile, fed his thick ebony shaft down her throat, causing her to sputter and gag, to fight for even the least gulp of air. Open sex was common on campus, and white boys like Tim were frequently subjected to public displays that demonstrated their own sexual inadequacy. Real men, black men like Trey and Marcus, enjoyed ready access to white pussy pretty much whenever and wherever the desire struck them.
As Tim continued past the library, he observed Coach Phelps standing naked, his long, black shaft buried deep in the cunt of a big-titted blonde cheerleader, who clung to his neck, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Another cheerleader knelt behind the rutting coach, her mouth sucking on his black, puckered asshole as she contentedly rubbed her oozing pussy. “What the fuck you looking at, white boy,” the kneeling brunette called after Tim, mockingly. The white nerd turned away, hoping to avoid the ire of Coach Phelps if he inadvertently interrupted the coach’s pleasure. He hurried on to the quad where he hoped he would find Brian still alive.
Tim discovered Brian still in the quad, apparently crawled to a patch of grass that was at least more comfortable than the concrete that was stained with his blood. “Brian, Brian,” Tim pleaded. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Brian opened his eyes, and grinned weakly at his roommate.
“Dude,” he drawled shakily. “I got Bop Bagged, buddy.” His eyes fluttered.
Tim feared that Brian may have a concussion, if not worse. Brian probably required medical assistance, but Tim knew that the school’s clinic was for black students only. The white hospital was on the other side of town. “Can…can you get up, Brian?” he asked. “Can you stand?” Wrapping an arm around his roommate’s shoulder, he gradually helped his groggy friend to a sitting position. “Damn, man, you reek of piss. Did you…did you, uh, wet yourself?”
Brian shook his head. “Nuh-uh…while I was out, some black girls passed by…and thought it’d be funny to pee on me…I, ugh, woke up to it splashing all over my face.” Damn, Tim thought to himself, I wish I had video of that, too. Tim noted that the blood on Brian’s face had dried. He doubted that his friend needed stitches, but he might well have a concussion given the size of the contusion on the side of his head. He hoped Brian didn’t need a hospital as the whites only hospital was so far away.
“Come on, dude,” he said, wrapping an arm around Brian’s shoulder. “I’m going to help you up, and get you back to the dorm.” Unsteadily, and with Tim’s assistance, Brian got to his feet. The quad seemed to spin around him, but he allowed Tim to guide him toward the campus gates.
“Wait…it’s quicker…if we just…cut across campus, Tim.”
Tim shook his head. “Nah, bro, trust me. We don’t want to go that way. The street will be slower. But safer. I hope.”
In front of the library, Coach Phelps was now fucking the brunette cheerleader, whom he had on the bench on all fours, like a bitch, while the blonde now knelt behind him, her tongue up his asshole. He had no interest in either of their names. He simply loved how these white girls were so eager to debase themselves for the pleasure of a black man, having been indoctrinated to the superiority of the black race by their professors, teachers whose primary interest was not in educating them, but in spreading and promoting a doctrine of black supremacy. The blonde’s gash had been sloppy and loose, obviously the object of numerous black dicks before his. The brunette’s snatch, however, was tighter, gripping his shaft with cunt muscles that remained fresh and taut, ready to milk the coach’s nut from his heavy balls, slapping back and forth as he heaved into her womb.
“Take my fuckin’ nut, you white whore,” Coach Phelps inveighed. “Gonna make you carry my baby in your fuckin’ white womb, wipe out your white heritage with my seed, fuckin’ change your life forever with one fuckin’ load of my cum.” He chuckled evilly, knowing that he might very well be knocking up this white bitch whose name he didn’t even know and didn’t care to learn.
Withdrawing his draining prick from the cheerleader’s pussy, he backed up, knocking the blonde girl, who had been rimming his black ass, backward without a second thought. Grabbing her by her blonde locks, he shoved his prick in her mouth, instructing, “Clean that shit off my black dick, you fuckin’ white cunt.” The blonde sucked greedily on the swampy glop that coated his long, uncircumcised dick. The rank flavor of the coach’s salty semen and her friend’s pussy juices exciting her as she slurped the gooey mess down her throat. Satisfied, Coach Phelps pushed the blonde off his dick, pulled his shorts up over his muscular black ass, and left the two white cheerleaders to wallow in the aftermath of their encounter with the randy football coach.
Not far away, in the bleachers, Trey and Marcus relaxed, continuing to share a blunt, while Jenny rode their stiff rods in a reverse cowgirl position, skewering herself on Trey’s black prick for several minutes then switching to Marcus’ then back to Trey’s. High from the kush and still grooving on the beat down they’d administered to the loser white boy, Trey and Marcus wanted to make their nut last as long as possible, and were content to make Jenny work for it while they leaned back and enjoyed the fresh air, the late afternoon sun, the weed, and the sex. That is, after all, pretty much all that white bitches were good for.
As Tim assisted Brian along the city sidewalks, the two white boys drew the gaze of passersby. Black men and women snickered at them scornfully, white girls giggled with disdain, while fellow white boys averted their eyes and crossed the street, hoping to avoid the trouble that Brian’s ruined face suggested. Circling the campus to get to their dorm added almost a mile to their trip, but Tim felt it best to evade Trey and Marcus if Brian was going to avoid a sequel to his beating. A passing black couple sneered at them. The man spat in their direction, opining to his woman that city sidewalks should be reserved for human beings, not white faggot trash. The woman nodded in agreement. “They make everything so ugly, don’t they?” she complained. Just another few blocks, Tim thought to himself, and we’ll be home.
Still luxuriating in her bubble bath, Veronica answered her phone.
"Hey Mom," Brianna greeted her mother, "have you watched the video?"
"Oh my God! Sweetie, thanks for sending that! It was so hot. I swear, I came three times!"
"I know, right? Do you think the little faggot is still alive?"
"I dunno. It was a pretty good beating. We could get lucky, I suppose, and the ugly, little loser could end up like his dumbass white father."
"Mmm, that'd be awesome! Remind me what you did with Daddy's body again..."
"You mean how I had him cremated...then dumped his ashes in the toilet...then pissed all over him...then laughed as Reggie took a dump on him...then flushed him away forever....?"
"Oh,yeah! I want to do that exact same shit to Brian! That'd be so hot."
"It'd be pretty satisfying, that's for sure. But even if he's not dead, maybe he will at least end up in a coma, and on life support. We could visit him in the hospital, and remind him how much we hate him. They say that some comatose patients are aware of their surroundings. Maybe we can even fuck the boys who beat him up right there in his hospital room. Maybe 'accidentally' unplug whatever machines might be keeping him alive while we fuck."
"Ha! God! If I'd been there when they were doing him, I would have gone down on those boys right there and then!"
"Christ, me, too!"
"If he does die, I totally want the guys who snuffed him to knock me up."
"Oh, that is such a hot idea! Replace my loser son with a real man."
“About time, too. We should have been free of him a long time ago!”
“I can’t wait to show the video to Reggie. He’s always hated the little faggot.”
“Don’t we all?” Brianna laughed.
Finally, back at their dorm, Tim laid Brian down on their futon, and cleaned his face with a wet cloth, applying disinfectant to his cuts, a cold compress to his bruises. Tim tried to keep his friend alert out of fear that he might be concussed, but Brian kept slipping into unconsciousness. Looking down at his roommate’s brutalized face, Tim leaned over and pressed his lips to Brian’s. At nineteen, Tim had never kissed anyone, male or female, let alone done anything else of a sexual nature. He enjoyed even this unreciprocated kiss, and allowed his tongue to slip into Brian’s mouth.
Just then, Brian’s eyes opened. “Dude!” he gasped, shoving Tim away weakly. “What’re you doing, dude? I’m not…I’m not…!”
Tim shook his head anxiously. “No! Me, neither. I swear. It’s…It’s just…man, it’s not like any girl will ever even look at us. And seeing you all hurt and beat up…I just wanted to do something, I dunno, to make things…better. I’m sorry, man, I’m really sorry.”
Brian knew Tim was right. Like his friend, he had also never been kissed. Well, until today. He knew his prospects were dim, with most girls of any race or ethnicity preferring the sexual prowess and social cachet of black men. Even those few white girls that might demean themselves to fuck a white man could certainly do better than losers like Brian and Tim.
Brian’s cell phone vibrated. He retrieved it from his pocket with a groan, as even such simple motion taxed his beaten body. He discovered an unexpected text from his twin sister, Brianna.
“Hey, Bri. I saw the Bop Bag video. You alive?”
“I’m a little beat up,” he replied. “But I’ll live.”
“Damn,” Brianna texted back with a frowny emoji. “Too bad. Mom’s going to be bummed, too. Oh, well. Maybe next time.”
Brian didn’t reply.
Brianna texted, “By the way, do you have the digits of those studs who beat the fuck out of you?”
His sister’s contempt was palpable. He had long known that his mother and sister hated him. He didn’t doubt that they really wished him dead. Just like his ***. Veronica made certain that Brian knew that Jim was killed in a dispute over who would get to be a black bull’s number one piece of prison ass. Veronica’s pimp, Reggie, was constantly teasing and pressuring Brian to turn tricks for him. Maybe being a white boy faggot was the best that Brian could ever hope for.
He looked at Tim, sitting forlornly on the edge of the futon, the only one who had come to Brian in his time of need, the only one in the entire world, perhaps, who cared if Brian lived or died. He reached up, and placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim turned, and looked at Brian’s deeply bruised face, swollen eyes, busted nose. Brian pulled Tim toward him, and the two boys kissed. Tim’s lips were thin and chapped, not soft and pillowy, the way Brian imagined Jenny’s. Tim’s body was thin and boney, not curved and fleshy like Brianna’s. But unlike everyone else in his life, including his own mother, his own twin sister, Tim cared. Brian slipped his tongue into his friend’s mouth. He needed what little comfort the world offered. This black man’s world would someday be the end of him, he knew, perhaps someday soon, but until that day, Brian would take what little comfort he could, where he could find it. A white boy could not hope for much more.
They call it the Bop Bag Challenge, and it was sweeping the nation, garnering millions of hits on various social media platforms. A black teenager would approach an unsuspecting white man with a question about something innocuous such as the time. While the white man checked his watch or his phone, a second black teenager would crouch on all fours behind him. At this point, the first teen would "bop" the white man lightly in the chest or the face, the way little kids used to bop those inflatable clowns that would bounce right back up. Only the white men, who inevitably fell backward over the crouching teens, flailing and crying in surprise, would hit the ground hard rather than immediately bounce back to an upright position as the clowns did. A third teenager would capture the whole thing on video to post on social media. Although the Bop Bag Challenge frequently ended in broken bones and bloodied faces for the white men involved, the police took little notice other than to laugh at the posted videos themselves. Black on white crime, after all, had come to be considered little more than a nuisance, something to be widely ignored. It was, more or less, open season on white men.
Brian had never wanted to become a viral internet sensation, but that is just what happened after he became a victim of the Bop Bag Challenge one day after class. Crossing the quad to his dorm room, Brian was stopped by Trey, one of the black guys from his Postcolonial Ethics class, asking about the day's reading. Not used to any of the black students even acknowledging his existence, Brian stuttered and fumbled through his backpack for the syllabus. As he drew it out, Trey bopped him right in the nose. Brian dropped his backpack and stumbled backward, tripping over Trey's frat brother, Marcus, who had discreetly knelt behind him. Brian flailed as he collapsed, twisting in mid-fall, causing him to slam into the pavement face first. Brian felt his nose cave-in as the cartilage shattered, blood filling his sinuses. He sputtered and gasped. All around him, passersby laughed and whooped at his humiliation. He looked up and saw that it was all being captured on video by Trey's girlfriend, Jenny, a petit white girl with red hair pulled into a ponytail. She was in Brian's Readings in Black Radicalism class, a requirement for all white freshman, and he had a bit of a crush on her. Now, she stood over him with her cell phone, laughing at his bloodied face.
It was too much for the rather nebish white boy. He reached up to try to grab the phone away from Jenny, but was met with Trey's fist in his face yet again, this time a solid punch rather than a playful bop. "Stay in your fuckin' lane, white boy," Trey shouted at him, following the punch with a swift, resolute kick to Brian's ribs.
The football coach, Sam Phelps, happened to be walking through the quad at that moment. When he saw that it was one of his own players simply correcting a white loser, Coach Phelps just chuckled to himself, always happy to see young black men taking a firm hand with their former oppressors. Marcus joined Trey in beating down Brian, punching and kicking at the helpless white boy. Trey stood towering above the prone loser, and hawked a thick wad of phlegm into the white face. Jenny circled the trio of teenagers, continuing to film the beating, giggling excitedly at the violence. The truth was that she didn't even recognize Brian from their shared class; she simply delighted in seeing a white boy get a beat down.
When Trey and Marcus were done with their bit of fun at Brian’s expense, they simply continued on their way as if nothing had happened, sparing not the slightest thought of concern for the white boy they left bloodied and bruised in the quad. Other students passed Brian as he lay in a puddle of his own blood, groaning in pain. The black students sneered at the pathetic loser, some of them kicking or spitting at him as they passed by, enjoying the sight of a defeated, helpless white boy. Race traitor white girls laughed at him as usual, excited by more evidence that they had made the right choice in rejecting the losers of their own race. The few white boys on campus simply averted their gaze, grateful that this time, at least, they had been spared the type of beating that Brian had endured.
While Brian struggled to find the strength to even get to his feet, Trey and Marcus sat in the bleachers of the stadium behind the school, sharing a blunt, while Jenny knelt between them, sucking on their erect black prongs. Like so many black youths, Trey always shared whatever white cooch he was tapping with his friends, and Jenny was an adept cocksucker, skilled at swallowing brothers to the root. Trey had stripped off his basketball jersey to warm his hard, sinewy brown body in the afternoon sun. His chiseled torso and taut arms were covered in ink. His long, beaded cornrows fell across his shoulders as he bent his head back to take a deep hit off the blunt, holding the pungent smoke deep in his lungs. “Dat’s de shit, white girl,” he instructed Jenny. “Slurp on dat black snake, all the way to de balls.”
Sitting beside Trey, Marcus rewatched the video of the beating they’d laid on Brian. They had only intended to Bop Bag the white loser, but his attempt to grab the phone away from Jenny called for more extreme measures. No matter. Both Marcus and Trey never objected to knocking a white boy around some. Not long ago, it might have been necessary to edit the video before posting it, to make sure their black faces were not recognizable. No longer. Nobody really gave much of a shit what happened to white boys these days. Had he and Trey beaten the loser to death, it was unlikely they would have gotten anything more than a littering fine for leaving the corpse on the quad. Just the way it should be, Marcus thought to himself, as he uploaded a hip-hop track to the video before posting it to his social media accounts. He was even bold enough to share it on the University’s public account. It was the kind of thing that would draw more brothers to the school, seeing that they ruled the roost.
Marcus took the blunt that Trey held out to him. He was shorter than his teammate, but more thickly built, with heavily corded arms and a powerful core tight within his white t-shirt. He was several shades darker than his mocha-colored friend, his curved, jutting erection even darker. He stroked it while waiting his turn at Jenny's mouth, putting the blunt to his lips. Watching the video of Brian's beatdown had made his thick, vascular cock as hard as granite. It felt good in his fist as he blew a cloud of pungent, cloying smoke past his lips. "Shit, this is the life," the young football player said, as the white girl moved from Trey's long club of a cock to Marcus' blunter, thicker prick. Her mouth was warm and moist, and felt good on his big old rod. He took hold of her red ponytail in his strong, black fist, working her head up and down on his dick. "Shit," he sighed again, grinning at Trey. "It's good to be a black man in this world."
On his way across campus to his office, Coach Phelps felt his own black dick become a bit bloated, turned-on as usual by the always elevating sight of a weak white boy being put in his place by young black brothers. He needed some immediate relief, and saw just the thing in two white cheerleaders who sat on a bench in front of the school library. Like so many of the white girls on campus, they were dressed more like streetwalkers than college students. For a lot of white girls, their entire academic success was based on their sexual availability to the black faculty and student body. Just the way it should be, mused Coach Phelps.
"You," the coach said, pointing to the blue-eyed blonde with full, crimson lips. "Take off your sweater." The big busted teen stood, and wasted no time peeling her tight cheerleader sweater off over her head. She knew better than to gainsay the handsome black football coach. A lacey black brassiere held her obviously augmented breasts in place. The coach smirked, noting a black spade tattoo decorating her tight, lower abdomen. "Now the bra," Coach Phelps said, his voice grown husky at the sight of her smooth, pale flesh. The girl reached adroitly behind her back and unclasped the brassiere, tossing it to her friend on the bench. The blonde stood before the coach in just her short cheering skirt and white leather boots, her ample breasts proudly on display for Coach Phelps' pleasure.
"Now, you," he said to the other girl, dark-haired and suntanned, "play with those big fuckin' tits of hers." The other cheerleader stood beside her friend, taking her silicone-filled breasts in her hands, kneading them between her fingers, the nails of which were painted an opaque white. Unprompted, she lowered her mouth to her friend’s distended nipples, taking one between her lips, and sucking on it as if were a black dick. This ain't the first time these white bitches have performed for a brother, the aroused coach thought to himself. They've probably put on shows like this for the players on his own team, he guessed, or even for some of the black frat houses.
Coach Phelps directed the brunette to strip her own sweater off. She did so, revealing rounded breasts that did not appear surgically enlarged as the blonde's had clearly been. The two white girls locked lips as their hands roamed over one another's bodies for the pleasure of the horny football coach, their tongues locked in a duel. Coach Phelps sat down on the bench where the girls had been seated, patting his lap. The cheerleaders each perched on one of the coach's muscular legs, taking turns kissing him. Occasionally, other students would pass them, enjoying the lascivious show. Open sexual displays were not uncommon on campus these days, particularly interracial sex, as white students were expected to make themselves available to the demands of their black superiors, both faculty and fellow students.
Several dozen miles away, meanwhile, Brian's twin sister, Brianna, scrolled through social media in her own dorm room. She attended a much more prestigious university than her brother, primarily because it was easier for sexy, available white girls to get in to the school of their choice. On Tik Tok, she noticed, the latest Bop Bag challenge appeared to be trending. Brianna paused in her scrolling to check it out, as it was always kind of hot to see a white boy humiliated.
"Oh! My! Fucking! God!" Brianna guffawed when she recognized that the latest Bop victim was her own loser brother, Brian. She watched Brian fall backward, slamming into the pavement. She laughed as the two handsome black teens began punching and kicking him. The video zoomed in on Brian's face, one eye already swollen, his lower lip cut open, and his nose smashed to bits. Brianna felt herself grow moist at the brutal beating Brian endured. Even by white boy standards, she mused, her brother was an exceptional waste.
Brianna reached under her bed, retrieving a long, ebony dildo, molded to resemble an actual black cock, complete with large, round testicles. She played the video again and again, frigging her neatly shaved, well-used snatch with the enormous phallus. She wondered if Brian were even still alive after that harsh beating. She came hard to the idea of him beaten to death by the two black men. If they had actually snuffed him, she vowed she would track them down and fuck them both, maybe even try to get knocked up by them. It would be such a thrill to carry the bastard of one of her brother's murderers. Brianna excitedly forwarded the video to her mother, knowing how much Mom would appreciate it.
Brian and Brianna's mother, Veronica, soaked in a bubble bath. She had had a full night, working a stag party for her pimp and lover, Reggie. At thirty-eight, Veronica kept herself fit and young in order to remain desirable to the black men who dominated her life. Her late husband, Jim—the twins' father—had died in prison, where he'd been sent after Veronica and Reggie framed him for embezzlement at the firm at which he had worked, when, in truth, it was they, using Jim's access, who had embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars. The justice system, these days, proved all too eager to convict white men of crimes perpetrated by black men. What goes around, Reggie explained to Veronica, sooner or fucking later comes around. Jim, so the prison authorities explained, was killed in his sleep by another white inmate, who was jealous that his black bull had expressed an interest in turning Jim into his newest punk.
The entire episode rather amused Veronica. especially as she stood to collect a nice settlement from the state.
When her phone pinged, indicating that she had a new text message, she reached languidly out of the tub to retrieve her phone from the table on which was burning a strong lavender-scented candle. Brianna had texted, “Mom, you totally have to check this shit out,” along with a link. Veronica’s ******** regularly sent links, often news about anti-white laws that were being passed, occasionally video of some hot black man with whom she had hooked up. Veronica opened the link of this latest video and immediately perked up. It was Jim’s loser son, Brian—she preferred to think of him that way, rather than as anything that she had carried in her own womb—being attacked and assaulted by two very handsome, dominant young black men. “Oh my,” she sighed, watching Brian succumb to a hail of punches and kicks. Watching Jim’s son being brutalized, Veronica’s free hand sank beneath the bubbles of her bath, moving between her legs. “Oh, fuck that white boy up,” she hissed hatefully, as she rubbed at her swelling clit. “Put him in his fucking place.”
Few white boys attended college these days, fewer still ever graduated. Most of them were destined for menial work and domestic jobs. Brian was eager to enter university in order to escape his mother’s contempt and cruelty, to say nothing of her pimp, Reggie, who constantly teased Brian about feminizing him, and turning him out on the street. Luckily, Jim had left Brian and Brianna secure college funds that neither the authorities nor Veronica herself could touch despite Jim’s conviction. While university, however, provided an escape from his mother, it proved no more welcoming to a white boy like Brian, who, from the perspective of almost all of his instructors and fellow students, represented all that was vile with his race, all that was wrong about what had been his country.
Like most schools these days—from kindergarten through graduate school—Brian’s was largely segregated. Like all white boys, he was assigned a whites-only dormitory. While the black dorms were like luxury apartments, with fitness rooms and swimming pools and elaborate recreational facilities, the white dorms were located in buildings slated to be demolished, with poor heating systems and unreliable plumbing. While white girls had full access to most school facilities, white boys were denied entry to the student lounges, the school cafeteria, and were even allowed access to the library only during specified and limited hours. By law, white people enjoyed few rights and fewer privileges, and white boys the least of all.
In Brian’s dorm room, his roommate, Tim, sat at their particle board desk, jacking off to interracial pornography as much as the dormitory’s shoddy, substandard wi-fi permitted. If anything, Tim was an even bigger loser than Brian: rail-thin and myopic, with a mess of uncombed, mousy brown hair, and pockmarked acne scars. Tim’s hands were small and soft and feminine, at least partly from the hand lotion he always used when masturbating, which he did several times a day, edging himself to the sight of superior black men enjoying sexually insatiable white women. As long as he had been viewing interracial porn, Tim had always been less interested in the curvaceous, voluptuous bodies of the women then in the powerful, prodigious black phalluses of the men. Black cock mesmerized him.
A window popped opened on Tim’s secondhand laptop, alerting him to a newly posted video to the university’s website. He clicked the link, wary that it might be alerting him to still another anti-white boy ordinance, such as the 8pm curfew that applied to all white male students. Instead, however, he discovered a link to a video that showed yet another victim of the Bop Bag Challenge. Tim gasped when he recognized his own roommate, Brian, being violently trounced by two of the school’s star football players. Poor Brian didn’t stand a chance. He appeared to barely resist as the two black athletes pummeled him with their fists. Tim was aware that his tiny wiener pulsed at the black on white violence, but he resisted the urge to stroke his dick, worried about Brian, who was one of his few friends in a world that was both hostile and dangerous for white boys. By the end of the brief video, it was apparent that Brian had been left in grave shape.
Tim checked the time-stamp on the video. It had been posted within the last hour. He recognized the location as the school’s quad. Pulling his jeans up, Tim rushed out of the dormitory, and across campus. The whites only dormitories were located as far from the center of the campus as possible, the administration operating under the conviction that white males were better neither seen nor heard.
As he hurried past the stadium, Tim noted that the very students who had beaten Brian so badly were in the bleachers, spit-roasting a young red-haired white girl, who squatted on all fours, making her holes available to them. Trey rutted into her from behind, thrusting his long brown prick into her smooth, pink twat; Marcus, meanwhile, fed his thick ebony shaft down her throat, causing her to sputter and gag, to fight for even the least gulp of air. Open sex was common on campus, and white boys like Tim were frequently subjected to public displays that demonstrated their own sexual inadequacy. Real men, black men like Trey and Marcus, enjoyed ready access to white pussy pretty much whenever and wherever the desire struck them.
As Tim continued past the library, he observed Coach Phelps standing naked, his long, black shaft buried deep in the cunt of a big-titted blonde cheerleader, who clung to his neck, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Another cheerleader knelt behind the rutting coach, her mouth sucking on his black, puckered asshole as she contentedly rubbed her oozing pussy. “What the fuck you looking at, white boy,” the kneeling brunette called after Tim, mockingly. The white nerd turned away, hoping to avoid the ire of Coach Phelps if he inadvertently interrupted the coach’s pleasure. He hurried on to the quad where he hoped he would find Brian still alive.
Tim discovered Brian still in the quad, apparently crawled to a patch of grass that was at least more comfortable than the concrete that was stained with his blood. “Brian, Brian,” Tim pleaded. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Brian opened his eyes, and grinned weakly at his roommate.
“Dude,” he drawled shakily. “I got Bop Bagged, buddy.” His eyes fluttered.
Tim feared that Brian may have a concussion, if not worse. Brian probably required medical assistance, but Tim knew that the school’s clinic was for black students only. The white hospital was on the other side of town. “Can…can you get up, Brian?” he asked. “Can you stand?” Wrapping an arm around his roommate’s shoulder, he gradually helped his groggy friend to a sitting position. “Damn, man, you reek of piss. Did you…did you, uh, wet yourself?”
Brian shook his head. “Nuh-uh…while I was out, some black girls passed by…and thought it’d be funny to pee on me…I, ugh, woke up to it splashing all over my face.” Damn, Tim thought to himself, I wish I had video of that, too. Tim noted that the blood on Brian’s face had dried. He doubted that his friend needed stitches, but he might well have a concussion given the size of the contusion on the side of his head. He hoped Brian didn’t need a hospital as the whites only hospital was so far away.
“Come on, dude,” he said, wrapping an arm around Brian’s shoulder. “I’m going to help you up, and get you back to the dorm.” Unsteadily, and with Tim’s assistance, Brian got to his feet. The quad seemed to spin around him, but he allowed Tim to guide him toward the campus gates.
“Wait…it’s quicker…if we just…cut across campus, Tim.”
Tim shook his head. “Nah, bro, trust me. We don’t want to go that way. The street will be slower. But safer. I hope.”
In front of the library, Coach Phelps was now fucking the brunette cheerleader, whom he had on the bench on all fours, like a bitch, while the blonde now knelt behind him, her tongue up his asshole. He had no interest in either of their names. He simply loved how these white girls were so eager to debase themselves for the pleasure of a black man, having been indoctrinated to the superiority of the black race by their professors, teachers whose primary interest was not in educating them, but in spreading and promoting a doctrine of black supremacy. The blonde’s gash had been sloppy and loose, obviously the object of numerous black dicks before his. The brunette’s snatch, however, was tighter, gripping his shaft with cunt muscles that remained fresh and taut, ready to milk the coach’s nut from his heavy balls, slapping back and forth as he heaved into her womb.
“Take my fuckin’ nut, you white whore,” Coach Phelps inveighed. “Gonna make you carry my baby in your fuckin’ white womb, wipe out your white heritage with my seed, fuckin’ change your life forever with one fuckin’ load of my cum.” He chuckled evilly, knowing that he might very well be knocking up this white bitch whose name he didn’t even know and didn’t care to learn.
Withdrawing his draining prick from the cheerleader’s pussy, he backed up, knocking the blonde girl, who had been rimming his black ass, backward without a second thought. Grabbing her by her blonde locks, he shoved his prick in her mouth, instructing, “Clean that shit off my black dick, you fuckin’ white cunt.” The blonde sucked greedily on the swampy glop that coated his long, uncircumcised dick. The rank flavor of the coach’s salty semen and her friend’s pussy juices exciting her as she slurped the gooey mess down her throat. Satisfied, Coach Phelps pushed the blonde off his dick, pulled his shorts up over his muscular black ass, and left the two white cheerleaders to wallow in the aftermath of their encounter with the randy football coach.
Not far away, in the bleachers, Trey and Marcus relaxed, continuing to share a blunt, while Jenny rode their stiff rods in a reverse cowgirl position, skewering herself on Trey’s black prick for several minutes then switching to Marcus’ then back to Trey’s. High from the kush and still grooving on the beat down they’d administered to the loser white boy, Trey and Marcus wanted to make their nut last as long as possible, and were content to make Jenny work for it while they leaned back and enjoyed the fresh air, the late afternoon sun, the weed, and the sex. That is, after all, pretty much all that white bitches were good for.
As Tim assisted Brian along the city sidewalks, the two white boys drew the gaze of passersby. Black men and women snickered at them scornfully, white girls giggled with disdain, while fellow white boys averted their eyes and crossed the street, hoping to avoid the trouble that Brian’s ruined face suggested. Circling the campus to get to their dorm added almost a mile to their trip, but Tim felt it best to evade Trey and Marcus if Brian was going to avoid a sequel to his beating. A passing black couple sneered at them. The man spat in their direction, opining to his woman that city sidewalks should be reserved for human beings, not white faggot trash. The woman nodded in agreement. “They make everything so ugly, don’t they?” she complained. Just another few blocks, Tim thought to himself, and we’ll be home.
Still luxuriating in her bubble bath, Veronica answered her phone.
"Hey Mom," Brianna greeted her mother, "have you watched the video?"
"Oh my God! Sweetie, thanks for sending that! It was so hot. I swear, I came three times!"
"I know, right? Do you think the little faggot is still alive?"
"I dunno. It was a pretty good beating. We could get lucky, I suppose, and the ugly, little loser could end up like his dumbass white father."
"Mmm, that'd be awesome! Remind me what you did with Daddy's body again..."
"You mean how I had him cremated...then dumped his ashes in the toilet...then pissed all over him...then laughed as Reggie took a dump on him...then flushed him away forever....?"
"Oh,yeah! I want to do that exact same shit to Brian! That'd be so hot."
"It'd be pretty satisfying, that's for sure. But even if he's not dead, maybe he will at least end up in a coma, and on life support. We could visit him in the hospital, and remind him how much we hate him. They say that some comatose patients are aware of their surroundings. Maybe we can even fuck the boys who beat him up right there in his hospital room. Maybe 'accidentally' unplug whatever machines might be keeping him alive while we fuck."
"Ha! God! If I'd been there when they were doing him, I would have gone down on those boys right there and then!"
"Christ, me, too!"
"If he does die, I totally want the guys who snuffed him to knock me up."
"Oh, that is such a hot idea! Replace my loser son with a real man."
“About time, too. We should have been free of him a long time ago!”
“I can’t wait to show the video to Reggie. He’s always hated the little faggot.”
“Don’t we all?” Brianna laughed.
Finally, back at their dorm, Tim laid Brian down on their futon, and cleaned his face with a wet cloth, applying disinfectant to his cuts, a cold compress to his bruises. Tim tried to keep his friend alert out of fear that he might be concussed, but Brian kept slipping into unconsciousness. Looking down at his roommate’s brutalized face, Tim leaned over and pressed his lips to Brian’s. At nineteen, Tim had never kissed anyone, male or female, let alone done anything else of a sexual nature. He enjoyed even this unreciprocated kiss, and allowed his tongue to slip into Brian’s mouth.
Just then, Brian’s eyes opened. “Dude!” he gasped, shoving Tim away weakly. “What’re you doing, dude? I’m not…I’m not…!”
Tim shook his head anxiously. “No! Me, neither. I swear. It’s…It’s just…man, it’s not like any girl will ever even look at us. And seeing you all hurt and beat up…I just wanted to do something, I dunno, to make things…better. I’m sorry, man, I’m really sorry.”
Brian knew Tim was right. Like his friend, he had also never been kissed. Well, until today. He knew his prospects were dim, with most girls of any race or ethnicity preferring the sexual prowess and social cachet of black men. Even those few white girls that might demean themselves to fuck a white man could certainly do better than losers like Brian and Tim.
Brian’s cell phone vibrated. He retrieved it from his pocket with a groan, as even such simple motion taxed his beaten body. He discovered an unexpected text from his twin sister, Brianna.
“Hey, Bri. I saw the Bop Bag video. You alive?”
“I’m a little beat up,” he replied. “But I’ll live.”
“Damn,” Brianna texted back with a frowny emoji. “Too bad. Mom’s going to be bummed, too. Oh, well. Maybe next time.”
Brian didn’t reply.
Brianna texted, “By the way, do you have the digits of those studs who beat the fuck out of you?”
His sister’s contempt was palpable. He had long known that his mother and sister hated him. He didn’t doubt that they really wished him dead. Just like his ***. Veronica made certain that Brian knew that Jim was killed in a dispute over who would get to be a black bull’s number one piece of prison ass. Veronica’s pimp, Reggie, was constantly teasing and pressuring Brian to turn tricks for him. Maybe being a white boy faggot was the best that Brian could ever hope for.
He looked at Tim, sitting forlornly on the edge of the futon, the only one who had come to Brian in his time of need, the only one in the entire world, perhaps, who cared if Brian lived or died. He reached up, and placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim turned, and looked at Brian’s deeply bruised face, swollen eyes, busted nose. Brian pulled Tim toward him, and the two boys kissed. Tim’s lips were thin and chapped, not soft and pillowy, the way Brian imagined Jenny’s. Tim’s body was thin and boney, not curved and fleshy like Brianna’s. But unlike everyone else in his life, including his own mother, his own twin sister, Tim cared. Brian slipped his tongue into his friend’s mouth. He needed what little comfort the world offered. This black man’s world would someday be the end of him, he knew, perhaps someday soon, but until that day, Brian would take what little comfort he could, where he could find it. A white boy could not hope for much more.
