6:45am
Scotty’s cell phone alarm went off, waking him. It chirped, “Loser, loser, loser,” at fifteen second intervals in the deep, bass voice of his mother’s latest bull, Nasir. “Just as a reminder of your place in the world, white boy,” Nasir had taunted him when he forwarded the recording to Scotty and instructed him to use it. Nasir had also recorded a ringtone for Scotty that played, “Faggot, faggot, faggot,” that sounded whenever his mother called him. Scotty silenced the phone and sat up in what passed for his bed these days, a musty, urine-stained futon scavenged from a back alley dumpster and kept in a damp corner of his mother’s basement.
Scotty was not permitted to wear pajamas, but had to sleep in a pink, lace nightie and a pair of satin panties. Pajamas were simply the first of many things that Scotty was not allowed by his mother, Catherine, her Ugandan-immigrant bull, Nasir, and Nasir’s nineteen-year old son, Ahmed, all of whom lived in the house proper and exercised complete authority over high school junior Scotty. Even Ahmed’s rottweiler, Sultan, lived upstairs. Ahmed and Sultan, in fact, slept in what had once been Scotty’s old second floor room back when Scotty’s father was still alive.
Scotty was also not permitted to use any of the bathrooms in the house, which, in Nasir’s words, were “meant for humans.” Scotty opened the bulkhead into the large, well-maintained backyard, and urinated in his designated corner behind the work shed. He shivered in the cold, morning air. He used the garden house to briefly wash himself. The only washcloth that Scotty was permitted was a foul terrycloth rag that Ahmed used to towel off after workouts and sex. It had the strong scent of Ahmed’s sweat and robust musk, and was liberally crusted with the young, black bull’s semen. Scotty patted himself dry with it, trying unsuccessfully to find a swatch that was not fouled with Ahmed’s bodily fluids.
By this time each morning, Scotty usually had the first of what would be many cries of the day.
7:30am
Needless to say, Scotty was not allowed to eat in the upstairs kitchen with humans.
Under the basement stairs, a tub of dried, rolled oats was the extent of Scotty’s allotted breakfast. He filled the doggie bowl that served as his only dish. Utensils were for humans, so Scotty had to make due with his hands or simply bury his face in the bowl like an animal. After breakfast, Scotty dressed in whatever Catherine had laid out for him the night before. He reinserted the obligatory black buttplug into his anus as his mother required, the base resting against his scarred-over sphincter. He pulled on the pair of pink panties decorated with red hearts that his mother had left for him. Over these, he squeezed into a pair of straight-legged jeans, tight on his thin, girlish frame. Finally, he pulled over his head one of the many Black Supremacy t-shirts that his mother had bought for him to wear to school. This one had a red, black, and green striped pan-African flag on the chest, below which were the words The Future Is Black. The back of the t-shirt read, The Future Is Now.
Examining himself in a broken mirror that hung on the wall, Scotty smoothed his brown, tousled hair with his fingers. Naturally thin, he had begun to fear that he may be suffering from severe malnutrition, noticing the way his ribs and hipbones protruded from his sides, the way his eyes had become sunken and his cheeks hollow. Scotty’s lower lip trembled as he recalled that, just a few years ago, he had been a relatively normal, well-adjusted boy from a comfortable, middle-class, suburban family. That was before his father, like so many white men these days, consented to his own disposal at one of the many voluntary centers that had popped up all around the country. His father had not even said goodbye; according to Catherine, he had simply signed the consent form and stepped into the grinder. Since that day, Scotty’s life had spiraled downward into a daily routine of deprivation, abuse, and fear.
8:00am
The school bus that many of Scotty’s black classmates rode to the local high school was off limits to Scotty and other white boys. Scotty had to walk the three miles to school each morning, much of it along the shoulder of a busy road. Black drivers and passengers in passing vehicles would shout insults or hurl things at him as he made his way to school, laughing as they did so. Occasionally, one would attempt to run him off the road and into a ditch.
Scotty’s mother often lamented that she was still legally required to send her white son to school. Educating white boys, she argued, was so un-progressive, and it was a waste of resources to educate one intended for the grinder as soon as underage disposals were legalized. The only plus side to keeping Scotty in school, she mused, was the tremendous amount of bullying he endured at the hands of his black classmates. Over the last year, much to Catherine’s delight, he had come home with a black eye, fractured ribs, missing teeth, a broken nose, once even a broken arm. She hoped that one day soon one of his many bullies or even one of his abusive black teachers would go too far, and she would finally get that longed for call from the school principal informing her that her white son had at last been snuffed. But no luck so far. Catherine made no effort at all to hide this desire from her son, often saying to him when he returned from school, “Damn, so you survived another day, eh? Oh, well, maybe next time.”
8:30am
Upon arriving at Abu-Jamal High School (formerly named for the slave-holding, white supremacist and rapist, Thomas Jefferson), Scotty entered through a side door intended for other white students and the remaining white faculty. The main front entrance of the school was reserved for black students and black teachers only. Maneuvering the long hallway to his homeroom was always like walking a gauntlet. Despite trying his best to draw as little attention to himself as possible, remaining silent and hugging the wall, invariably one of the black jocks would purposely body check him or one of the white girls would mockingly screech, “Eww!” if she saw him. This morning, he was stopped in the corridor by one of the stars of the school basketball team, Darren Johnson—lean, sinewy, and mean as fuck, at least to white boys—who instructed Scotty to open his mouth and spread his legs. Scotty knew better than to protest. Darren hawked up a thick wad of phlegm from deep in his throat, and spat it directly into Scotty’s open, expectant mouth. He followed that up with a firm punch to Scotty’s crotch, eliciting a high-pitched shriek that won lots of giggles from passing girls, and left Scotty crumpled on the floor in pain. It was several minutes before Scotty could stand, during which time passing students spat on or kicked at his prostrate figure, including many of the white girls. Other white boys knew better than to assist him if they hoped to avoid being targeted themselves. This was all pretty routine.
Noting that Scotty had arrived several minutes late for homeroom, Mr. Jackson, a barrel-chested, bearded black teacher, instructed Scotty to hold out his hands. Mr. Jackson proceeded to whack the palms of Scotty’s hands with a switch that he kept for just that purpose, smirking evilly as he did so. The black boys hollered with laughter, while the white girls sniggered cruelly at Scotty’s pain. The few white boys in class winced, all of them knowing from personal experience how hard Mr. Jackson could hit with that blood-dripping switch.
9:10am
Scotty’s first class on Mondays was Black World History. Like most of the curriculum at the school, it was structured to instill a sense of white racial inferiority, while instructing students in the innate superiority of the black race. Pending legislation would mandate the segregation of black and white students; most leading scholars believed that whites, and white boys especially, only needed enough academic instruction to better serve their black superiors. Until the day that become law, however, black students had to tolerate being enrolled with white sub-humans.
In history class, Scotty learned about the many historical evils of his race, how the ancient Greeks had stolen and taken credit for many of the advances of black Africa, how the Italians of the Renaissance had committed much same crime against Arab Muslims, how the Americans had enslaved millions of Africans and proceeded to deny them their rights even after freeing them. He learned how white people claimed credit for black art and literature and music and science. And he learned how white America was finally paying for its many crimes under the burgeoning Black New World Order that had been so long in coming, but was now sweeping North America and Europe. He learned about the impending extinction of the white race, brought about by the celibacy and castration of white males, the breeding of white females by superior black men, and the voluntary (and not always so voluntary) disposal of white men with an erotic fixation for extinction. To help drive the point home, the instructor, a white woman named Ms. Vaughn, would have the students roleplay, enacting historical scenarios, but with the roles reversed. She might, for instance, have the white students act the part of slaves, while the black students acted as their owners or overseers with authority to beat and abuse them. Ms. Vaughn would often select one of the white girls in class to play the part of a house slave, while enlisting several black boys to play the part of her owners, and demonstrate how owners would sexually abuse their slaves like chattel. These scenarios would frequently end with one or more of the white girls being gang raped on Ms. Vaughn's desk while Ms. Vaughn herself masturbated to the sight. As the class ended, the white students would routinely be instructed to walk up and down the rows of desks and apologize to the black students on behalf of all the white crimes committed against people of color.
10:10am
Scotty’s second period class was Biology, the focus of which, of course, was the biological superiority of those with African lineage, acknowledged as the first true humans. Mr. Epstein taught how the human line had become polluted as people migrated out of Africa by interbreeding with other, less developed hominid species such as Neanderthal and Denisovan. Black Africans, he demonstrated, had no Neanderthal DNA, marking their bloodline as purer, superior. Mr. Epstein, white himself, would sometimes have one of the white boys strip naked and stand side-by-side with one of the superior black students at the head of the class as a way of demonstrating the inherent differences. A well-known cuckold, whose wife had locked him in enforced chastity, Mr. Epstein would often orally service several of the black boys right there in the classroom as a way of demonstrating the biological instinct so many whites had for submission. As he sucked their big, pendulous, teen cocks, Mr. Epstein would point out to the class the superior size and girth and color of those black sex organs, as well as the copious amounts of ejaculate they produced, all the better for breeding. Mr. Epstein’s wife, everyone knew, was the mother of three children, all fathered by superior black men.
11:10am
Scotty had the earlier of two lunch periods. The mothers of some of his fellow white boys still went to the trouble of packing their son’s lunches, finding it difficult to relinquish the usual maternal concerns that Scotty’s mother had abandoned without hesitation or question. Scotty would prowl the edges of the school cafeteria, quietly rooting through the discarded lunches tossed in the waste bins. Sometimes, he would find an unfinished apple core or even a few crusts of bread to assuage his hunger. On an unlucky day, however, he would attract the attention of some of school’s black jocks, who would generously insist on feeding him their phlegm or saliva for his lunch. Some would even blow their noses in his open mouth. They would make him hold the whole mess in his throat until his mouth was full of their fluids, then, and only then, would they instruct him to choke down their filth, which he would have to do as if he were the luckiest white boy in the world. This had happened often enough that Scotty rarely vomited anymore. Today, however, was a lucky day: he attracted no undesired attention, and even found several crusts of discarded pizza and a few tater tots to whet his appetite. He washed this bounty down with water from the whites only drinking fountain (a fountain that many black boys used as a spittoon, and some even used as a urinal).
12:10pm
Scotty’s next period was Study Hall, which he was allowed to spend in the school library. Invariably, this was the best part of Scotty’s day. He was usually able to find a quiet, secluded place, where he could enjoy some solitude and escape from the relentless abuse for a brief while. Most of the library’s volumes, of course, had to do with black history or black politics or black art or black supremacy, all of which only served to remind Scotty of his own worthlessness. He enjoyed books about animals with lots of pictures and no mention of race. He would pass his time looking at photos of marine mammals and reptiles and birds, and briefly forget the many challenges of being a teenage white boy under the Black New World Order. Then the bell would ring, Scotty would re-shelve his books, and it was off to the next class and his bitter reality.
1:10pm
Seldom a day went by in Physical Education in which Scotty was not bullied and abused by his black classmates or, worse yet, the school’s black coach. He was silently thankful when they would turn their contempt and scorn of everything white toward one of his white classmates. So long as they were beating on one of them, they weren’t beating on Scotty. This attitude fostered mistrust among the white boys for one another, as any one of them would happily see another white boy suffer even the most extreme abuse if it meant he might be spared himself. It was during this period when Scotty suffered most of the abuse and injuries that provided his depraved mother so much pleasure. Coach Martin—six feet four inches of hard, black muscle and meanness—urged the black boys on in their abuse of their white classmates. He enjoyed orchestrating pick-up football and basketball games in which the teams were chosen by race. The white teams were not only humiliated by losing, but were usually left bruised and bleeding. Coach Martin had open contempt for all things weak and all things white, both of which were exemplified by Scotty’s scrawny, pasty physique. With his massive build and prodigious cock, Coach Martin was a particular favorite with many of the white girls in school, several of whom he had happily knocked up with his superior seed. Scotty knew that he sometimes tossed a fuck into one of the white boys in his class, but so far Scotty had escaped that particular humiliation. This Monday, he got lucky: Coach Martin gave him the duty of scrubbing down the locker rooms and showers while his teammates scrimmaged out on the field; so long as he had a task like that, no matter how tedious, no matter how degrading, he could usually avoid being beaten or bullied.
2:20pm
Although the school offered many language courses—including Arabic, Swahili, Hausa, Yoruba, among others—white boys were not permitted to study them as they were considered human languages. Courses on European languages, such as Italian and French and German, had been banned as subversive to the Black New World Order. Unable then to enroll in a language course, Scotty had been advised by his guidance counselor to sign up for Health Studies. As with his Biology period, Scotty’s health instruction mainly revolved around the many ways in which white males were inferior to black men, particularly when it came to intercourse and reproduction. To demonstrate the superiority of black male biology, the instructor, Ms. Fairchild, arranged for white girls to be inseminated by black students right in class. Believing that she should set an example for her students, Ms. Fairchild began every school year by having a large number of black boys try to knock her up so that she could carry the child to term throughout the school year, delivering it just before school let out in the spring. So far, she had been successfully bred six times; her cuckold husband stayed home and cared for her mixed race babies. Ms. Fairchild did not consider him good for much else. The previous year, however, she had actually allowed her loser husband to impregnate her just so that she could have the abortion done right in the classroom, as an example, she said, for any white girl who might find herself foolishly carrying a white baby. The course was so successful that Ms. Fairchild planned on alternating being bred black with being bred white on alternate school years; that way she could demonstrate that birth should be for black babies only.
3:00pm
When school let out at 3:00pm, Scotty began the three mile walk home, usually with a new array of bruises and minor injuries inflicted by his black classmates and some of his instructors. Sometimes, he would have to endure the long walk with a belly or ass full of semen if his classmates or one of his teachers decided to make use of his inferior holes. If no one was at home when he arrived, he would begin the long list of chores his mother expected him to complete: making the beds, doing the laundry, cleaning the bathrooms and kitchen, taking out the trash, feeding the dog (who ate significantly better than Scotty himself, naturally), cleaning the backyard of dog shit.
Today, however, his mother and Nasir were home. He discovered them in the living room, his mother casually riding Nasir’s sausage-fat, black cock, as the African alpha reclined languidly on the sofa. Nasir occasionally slapped her heavy tits as he drove his fuckmeat into her wanton pussy. “Ride me, you degenerate white whore,” Nasir ordered in his thick Ugandan accent. When he spotted Scotty in the doorway, he ordered the white teen to crawl between his legs and lick his black balls “while I fuck your whore of a mother!” Scotty knew better than to resist or delay. He ran his tongue over Nasir’s heavy, sperm-bloated testicles, as his mother’s ass slammed repeatedly down upon his head. It was a scenario he had endured many times in the past year, and one which would likely continue until he turned eighteen next spring.
Once Scotty turned eighteen, he could either agree to his own voluntary disposal—as his mother so often encouraged—like so many other white boys, or he could strike out on his own. He looked forward to that day, despite the limited number of opportunities in the modern world open to a white boy. He had spoken to his school guidance counselor about his options, but she had simply advised disposal as the best option available to a white boy. “Yeah,” she quipped, only half paying attention to him as she perused interracial porn on her desktop, “I mean, there really are not that many things available to you out there, you know?” When Nasir finally emptied his load, Scotty was made to clean off both Nasir’s fat, cut cock and his own mother’s distended, dripping, sloppy cunt. It revolted him, but if he did an adequate job, he could usually avoid a beating.
5:00pm
Despite having used his mouth to clean both Nasir and Catherine’s cum-sloppy genitals that afternoon, Scotty still had to complete his list of household chores. Although tedious, these chores kept Scotty occupied, and usually free from abuse so long as he succeeded in completing each task adequately. Mundane work such as scrubbing toilets (that he was not permitted to use) became almost a kind of refuge for the abused white boy. Sometimes, while Scotty was cleaning the bathroom, Nasir or Ahmed might come in and make him swallow their urine or lick their musky assholes. If he performed a proficient job, they would usually refrain from beating him, at least too badly, unless one of them had a particularly bad day. Then all bets were off, and Scotty might find himself brutally pummeled for no fault of his own.
While completing his chores, Scotty would often daydream: he imagined finding a Bull of his own, a black man who might care for him and protect him. Although Scotty did not consider himself at all gay, he knew that life for most white boys who lacked the favor of a black man was usually brutish and short. Most black bulls who wanted ownership of a white, male slave, however, preferred a boy who was compliant and feminized. Scotty tried to cultivate these qualities in order to make himself more desirable. But he knew that he lacked the pretty features that made some white boys desirable to a potential Bull. He wasn’t homely, but he was not pretty or even terribly cute.
Sometimes, he fantasized about heading to the Pacific Northwest, joining up with the White Resistance, but he also knew that he was neither particularly strong or terribly capable. Besides, by all accounts, the White Resistance was being decimated with every single passing day, especially as their white women surrendered in droves, acknowledging black supremacy even as their husbands, brothers, and sons were crushed before the superior forces of Black America. Scotty’s choices for some kind of future that did not include disposal were shockingly few. Maybe his mother, his school counselor, and the media were all correct: maybe disposal was his best and only real option. Maybe his father had made the right decision.
7:00pm
While the humans (and Sultan) were having dinner, Scotty retired quietly to the basement. He would have a second daily bowl of oats for his own meal. Although the teen was near starving, he would force himself to eat no more than a single bowl for dinner, as he had discovered from experience that his mother would not refill his rations until the end of the month regardless of how quickly he might run out. He would eat quietly in the dim corner of the basement, listening to the sounds of family laughter from upstairs.
Sometimes, after dinner, Ahmed would come down to the basement, sprawl back on Scotty’s filthy futon, while Scotty mounted himself on Ahmed’s iron-hard truncheon of a dick. Like his father, Ahmed enjoyed sitting back and relaxing while a white inferior rode his powerful black erection. Tonight, Ahmed did just that, his dark eyes mean and full of contempt, as the white boy slid up and down on his ebony pole. He scowled as he slapped Scotty’s face back and forth, over and over again, laughing that one day he would allow Sultan to fuck Scotty’s gaping cunt. When he finally deposited his African seed up Scotty’s abused boy-hole, Ahmed would give the white fag a couple of kicks to the gut or the face, then head upstairs to play online video games in Scotty’s old room. A virile black bull, Nasir had many children, but he only acknowledged as legitimate the ones he had fathered on black women, the only ones he considered fully human. Scotty knew that Nasir would eventually knock up Catherine, giving her a child she could actually love. She spoke of it sometimes, longingly, expressing regret that she had not aborted Scotty when he was still in her womb, preventing him from poisoning a reproductive system that would be put to better use in service to her black gods.
8:30pm
Before bed, Scotty would take a shit behind the work shed, careful to bury his little turds. He would change into his satin nightie and silky panties. Hidden under his futon, he kept a picture of his family in happier times, the only one he had managed to salvage when Catherine was burning all the old photos. In it, Catherine smiled contentedly in the arms of Scotty’s handsome, thoughtful-looking father. Scotty sat at their feet, laughing. They were at a lake, all in swimsuits, tan and healthy and happy. Scotty was about five years old in the photo, years before everything in his life had turned to shit, before his mother discovered her lust for superior black cock, before his Dad had gone off to the Disposal Center, before the New World Order. As he lay in bed, Scotty looked up at the noose that his wicked mother had hung from the ceiling rafters many months ago, a temptation, an invitation for him to join his loser Dad whenever he wanted. It was the last thing he saw every night before he drifted off to sleep.
Scotty’s cell phone alarm went off, waking him. It chirped, “Loser, loser, loser,” at fifteen second intervals in the deep, bass voice of his mother’s latest bull, Nasir. “Just as a reminder of your place in the world, white boy,” Nasir had taunted him when he forwarded the recording to Scotty and instructed him to use it. Nasir had also recorded a ringtone for Scotty that played, “Faggot, faggot, faggot,” that sounded whenever his mother called him. Scotty silenced the phone and sat up in what passed for his bed these days, a musty, urine-stained futon scavenged from a back alley dumpster and kept in a damp corner of his mother’s basement.
Scotty was not permitted to wear pajamas, but had to sleep in a pink, lace nightie and a pair of satin panties. Pajamas were simply the first of many things that Scotty was not allowed by his mother, Catherine, her Ugandan-immigrant bull, Nasir, and Nasir’s nineteen-year old son, Ahmed, all of whom lived in the house proper and exercised complete authority over high school junior Scotty. Even Ahmed’s rottweiler, Sultan, lived upstairs. Ahmed and Sultan, in fact, slept in what had once been Scotty’s old second floor room back when Scotty’s father was still alive.
Scotty was also not permitted to use any of the bathrooms in the house, which, in Nasir’s words, were “meant for humans.” Scotty opened the bulkhead into the large, well-maintained backyard, and urinated in his designated corner behind the work shed. He shivered in the cold, morning air. He used the garden house to briefly wash himself. The only washcloth that Scotty was permitted was a foul terrycloth rag that Ahmed used to towel off after workouts and sex. It had the strong scent of Ahmed’s sweat and robust musk, and was liberally crusted with the young, black bull’s semen. Scotty patted himself dry with it, trying unsuccessfully to find a swatch that was not fouled with Ahmed’s bodily fluids.
By this time each morning, Scotty usually had the first of what would be many cries of the day.
7:30am
Needless to say, Scotty was not allowed to eat in the upstairs kitchen with humans.
Under the basement stairs, a tub of dried, rolled oats was the extent of Scotty’s allotted breakfast. He filled the doggie bowl that served as his only dish. Utensils were for humans, so Scotty had to make due with his hands or simply bury his face in the bowl like an animal. After breakfast, Scotty dressed in whatever Catherine had laid out for him the night before. He reinserted the obligatory black buttplug into his anus as his mother required, the base resting against his scarred-over sphincter. He pulled on the pair of pink panties decorated with red hearts that his mother had left for him. Over these, he squeezed into a pair of straight-legged jeans, tight on his thin, girlish frame. Finally, he pulled over his head one of the many Black Supremacy t-shirts that his mother had bought for him to wear to school. This one had a red, black, and green striped pan-African flag on the chest, below which were the words The Future Is Black. The back of the t-shirt read, The Future Is Now.
Examining himself in a broken mirror that hung on the wall, Scotty smoothed his brown, tousled hair with his fingers. Naturally thin, he had begun to fear that he may be suffering from severe malnutrition, noticing the way his ribs and hipbones protruded from his sides, the way his eyes had become sunken and his cheeks hollow. Scotty’s lower lip trembled as he recalled that, just a few years ago, he had been a relatively normal, well-adjusted boy from a comfortable, middle-class, suburban family. That was before his father, like so many white men these days, consented to his own disposal at one of the many voluntary centers that had popped up all around the country. His father had not even said goodbye; according to Catherine, he had simply signed the consent form and stepped into the grinder. Since that day, Scotty’s life had spiraled downward into a daily routine of deprivation, abuse, and fear.
8:00am
The school bus that many of Scotty’s black classmates rode to the local high school was off limits to Scotty and other white boys. Scotty had to walk the three miles to school each morning, much of it along the shoulder of a busy road. Black drivers and passengers in passing vehicles would shout insults or hurl things at him as he made his way to school, laughing as they did so. Occasionally, one would attempt to run him off the road and into a ditch.
Scotty’s mother often lamented that she was still legally required to send her white son to school. Educating white boys, she argued, was so un-progressive, and it was a waste of resources to educate one intended for the grinder as soon as underage disposals were legalized. The only plus side to keeping Scotty in school, she mused, was the tremendous amount of bullying he endured at the hands of his black classmates. Over the last year, much to Catherine’s delight, he had come home with a black eye, fractured ribs, missing teeth, a broken nose, once even a broken arm. She hoped that one day soon one of his many bullies or even one of his abusive black teachers would go too far, and she would finally get that longed for call from the school principal informing her that her white son had at last been snuffed. But no luck so far. Catherine made no effort at all to hide this desire from her son, often saying to him when he returned from school, “Damn, so you survived another day, eh? Oh, well, maybe next time.”
8:30am
Upon arriving at Abu-Jamal High School (formerly named for the slave-holding, white supremacist and rapist, Thomas Jefferson), Scotty entered through a side door intended for other white students and the remaining white faculty. The main front entrance of the school was reserved for black students and black teachers only. Maneuvering the long hallway to his homeroom was always like walking a gauntlet. Despite trying his best to draw as little attention to himself as possible, remaining silent and hugging the wall, invariably one of the black jocks would purposely body check him or one of the white girls would mockingly screech, “Eww!” if she saw him. This morning, he was stopped in the corridor by one of the stars of the school basketball team, Darren Johnson—lean, sinewy, and mean as fuck, at least to white boys—who instructed Scotty to open his mouth and spread his legs. Scotty knew better than to protest. Darren hawked up a thick wad of phlegm from deep in his throat, and spat it directly into Scotty’s open, expectant mouth. He followed that up with a firm punch to Scotty’s crotch, eliciting a high-pitched shriek that won lots of giggles from passing girls, and left Scotty crumpled on the floor in pain. It was several minutes before Scotty could stand, during which time passing students spat on or kicked at his prostrate figure, including many of the white girls. Other white boys knew better than to assist him if they hoped to avoid being targeted themselves. This was all pretty routine.
Noting that Scotty had arrived several minutes late for homeroom, Mr. Jackson, a barrel-chested, bearded black teacher, instructed Scotty to hold out his hands. Mr. Jackson proceeded to whack the palms of Scotty’s hands with a switch that he kept for just that purpose, smirking evilly as he did so. The black boys hollered with laughter, while the white girls sniggered cruelly at Scotty’s pain. The few white boys in class winced, all of them knowing from personal experience how hard Mr. Jackson could hit with that blood-dripping switch.
9:10am
Scotty’s first class on Mondays was Black World History. Like most of the curriculum at the school, it was structured to instill a sense of white racial inferiority, while instructing students in the innate superiority of the black race. Pending legislation would mandate the segregation of black and white students; most leading scholars believed that whites, and white boys especially, only needed enough academic instruction to better serve their black superiors. Until the day that become law, however, black students had to tolerate being enrolled with white sub-humans.
In history class, Scotty learned about the many historical evils of his race, how the ancient Greeks had stolen and taken credit for many of the advances of black Africa, how the Italians of the Renaissance had committed much same crime against Arab Muslims, how the Americans had enslaved millions of Africans and proceeded to deny them their rights even after freeing them. He learned how white people claimed credit for black art and literature and music and science. And he learned how white America was finally paying for its many crimes under the burgeoning Black New World Order that had been so long in coming, but was now sweeping North America and Europe. He learned about the impending extinction of the white race, brought about by the celibacy and castration of white males, the breeding of white females by superior black men, and the voluntary (and not always so voluntary) disposal of white men with an erotic fixation for extinction. To help drive the point home, the instructor, a white woman named Ms. Vaughn, would have the students roleplay, enacting historical scenarios, but with the roles reversed. She might, for instance, have the white students act the part of slaves, while the black students acted as their owners or overseers with authority to beat and abuse them. Ms. Vaughn would often select one of the white girls in class to play the part of a house slave, while enlisting several black boys to play the part of her owners, and demonstrate how owners would sexually abuse their slaves like chattel. These scenarios would frequently end with one or more of the white girls being gang raped on Ms. Vaughn's desk while Ms. Vaughn herself masturbated to the sight. As the class ended, the white students would routinely be instructed to walk up and down the rows of desks and apologize to the black students on behalf of all the white crimes committed against people of color.
10:10am
Scotty’s second period class was Biology, the focus of which, of course, was the biological superiority of those with African lineage, acknowledged as the first true humans. Mr. Epstein taught how the human line had become polluted as people migrated out of Africa by interbreeding with other, less developed hominid species such as Neanderthal and Denisovan. Black Africans, he demonstrated, had no Neanderthal DNA, marking their bloodline as purer, superior. Mr. Epstein, white himself, would sometimes have one of the white boys strip naked and stand side-by-side with one of the superior black students at the head of the class as a way of demonstrating the inherent differences. A well-known cuckold, whose wife had locked him in enforced chastity, Mr. Epstein would often orally service several of the black boys right there in the classroom as a way of demonstrating the biological instinct so many whites had for submission. As he sucked their big, pendulous, teen cocks, Mr. Epstein would point out to the class the superior size and girth and color of those black sex organs, as well as the copious amounts of ejaculate they produced, all the better for breeding. Mr. Epstein’s wife, everyone knew, was the mother of three children, all fathered by superior black men.
11:10am
Scotty had the earlier of two lunch periods. The mothers of some of his fellow white boys still went to the trouble of packing their son’s lunches, finding it difficult to relinquish the usual maternal concerns that Scotty’s mother had abandoned without hesitation or question. Scotty would prowl the edges of the school cafeteria, quietly rooting through the discarded lunches tossed in the waste bins. Sometimes, he would find an unfinished apple core or even a few crusts of bread to assuage his hunger. On an unlucky day, however, he would attract the attention of some of school’s black jocks, who would generously insist on feeding him their phlegm or saliva for his lunch. Some would even blow their noses in his open mouth. They would make him hold the whole mess in his throat until his mouth was full of their fluids, then, and only then, would they instruct him to choke down their filth, which he would have to do as if he were the luckiest white boy in the world. This had happened often enough that Scotty rarely vomited anymore. Today, however, was a lucky day: he attracted no undesired attention, and even found several crusts of discarded pizza and a few tater tots to whet his appetite. He washed this bounty down with water from the whites only drinking fountain (a fountain that many black boys used as a spittoon, and some even used as a urinal).
12:10pm
Scotty’s next period was Study Hall, which he was allowed to spend in the school library. Invariably, this was the best part of Scotty’s day. He was usually able to find a quiet, secluded place, where he could enjoy some solitude and escape from the relentless abuse for a brief while. Most of the library’s volumes, of course, had to do with black history or black politics or black art or black supremacy, all of which only served to remind Scotty of his own worthlessness. He enjoyed books about animals with lots of pictures and no mention of race. He would pass his time looking at photos of marine mammals and reptiles and birds, and briefly forget the many challenges of being a teenage white boy under the Black New World Order. Then the bell would ring, Scotty would re-shelve his books, and it was off to the next class and his bitter reality.
1:10pm
Seldom a day went by in Physical Education in which Scotty was not bullied and abused by his black classmates or, worse yet, the school’s black coach. He was silently thankful when they would turn their contempt and scorn of everything white toward one of his white classmates. So long as they were beating on one of them, they weren’t beating on Scotty. This attitude fostered mistrust among the white boys for one another, as any one of them would happily see another white boy suffer even the most extreme abuse if it meant he might be spared himself. It was during this period when Scotty suffered most of the abuse and injuries that provided his depraved mother so much pleasure. Coach Martin—six feet four inches of hard, black muscle and meanness—urged the black boys on in their abuse of their white classmates. He enjoyed orchestrating pick-up football and basketball games in which the teams were chosen by race. The white teams were not only humiliated by losing, but were usually left bruised and bleeding. Coach Martin had open contempt for all things weak and all things white, both of which were exemplified by Scotty’s scrawny, pasty physique. With his massive build and prodigious cock, Coach Martin was a particular favorite with many of the white girls in school, several of whom he had happily knocked up with his superior seed. Scotty knew that he sometimes tossed a fuck into one of the white boys in his class, but so far Scotty had escaped that particular humiliation. This Monday, he got lucky: Coach Martin gave him the duty of scrubbing down the locker rooms and showers while his teammates scrimmaged out on the field; so long as he had a task like that, no matter how tedious, no matter how degrading, he could usually avoid being beaten or bullied.
2:20pm
Although the school offered many language courses—including Arabic, Swahili, Hausa, Yoruba, among others—white boys were not permitted to study them as they were considered human languages. Courses on European languages, such as Italian and French and German, had been banned as subversive to the Black New World Order. Unable then to enroll in a language course, Scotty had been advised by his guidance counselor to sign up for Health Studies. As with his Biology period, Scotty’s health instruction mainly revolved around the many ways in which white males were inferior to black men, particularly when it came to intercourse and reproduction. To demonstrate the superiority of black male biology, the instructor, Ms. Fairchild, arranged for white girls to be inseminated by black students right in class. Believing that she should set an example for her students, Ms. Fairchild began every school year by having a large number of black boys try to knock her up so that she could carry the child to term throughout the school year, delivering it just before school let out in the spring. So far, she had been successfully bred six times; her cuckold husband stayed home and cared for her mixed race babies. Ms. Fairchild did not consider him good for much else. The previous year, however, she had actually allowed her loser husband to impregnate her just so that she could have the abortion done right in the classroom, as an example, she said, for any white girl who might find herself foolishly carrying a white baby. The course was so successful that Ms. Fairchild planned on alternating being bred black with being bred white on alternate school years; that way she could demonstrate that birth should be for black babies only.
3:00pm
When school let out at 3:00pm, Scotty began the three mile walk home, usually with a new array of bruises and minor injuries inflicted by his black classmates and some of his instructors. Sometimes, he would have to endure the long walk with a belly or ass full of semen if his classmates or one of his teachers decided to make use of his inferior holes. If no one was at home when he arrived, he would begin the long list of chores his mother expected him to complete: making the beds, doing the laundry, cleaning the bathrooms and kitchen, taking out the trash, feeding the dog (who ate significantly better than Scotty himself, naturally), cleaning the backyard of dog shit.
Today, however, his mother and Nasir were home. He discovered them in the living room, his mother casually riding Nasir’s sausage-fat, black cock, as the African alpha reclined languidly on the sofa. Nasir occasionally slapped her heavy tits as he drove his fuckmeat into her wanton pussy. “Ride me, you degenerate white whore,” Nasir ordered in his thick Ugandan accent. When he spotted Scotty in the doorway, he ordered the white teen to crawl between his legs and lick his black balls “while I fuck your whore of a mother!” Scotty knew better than to resist or delay. He ran his tongue over Nasir’s heavy, sperm-bloated testicles, as his mother’s ass slammed repeatedly down upon his head. It was a scenario he had endured many times in the past year, and one which would likely continue until he turned eighteen next spring.
Once Scotty turned eighteen, he could either agree to his own voluntary disposal—as his mother so often encouraged—like so many other white boys, or he could strike out on his own. He looked forward to that day, despite the limited number of opportunities in the modern world open to a white boy. He had spoken to his school guidance counselor about his options, but she had simply advised disposal as the best option available to a white boy. “Yeah,” she quipped, only half paying attention to him as she perused interracial porn on her desktop, “I mean, there really are not that many things available to you out there, you know?” When Nasir finally emptied his load, Scotty was made to clean off both Nasir’s fat, cut cock and his own mother’s distended, dripping, sloppy cunt. It revolted him, but if he did an adequate job, he could usually avoid a beating.
5:00pm
Despite having used his mouth to clean both Nasir and Catherine’s cum-sloppy genitals that afternoon, Scotty still had to complete his list of household chores. Although tedious, these chores kept Scotty occupied, and usually free from abuse so long as he succeeded in completing each task adequately. Mundane work such as scrubbing toilets (that he was not permitted to use) became almost a kind of refuge for the abused white boy. Sometimes, while Scotty was cleaning the bathroom, Nasir or Ahmed might come in and make him swallow their urine or lick their musky assholes. If he performed a proficient job, they would usually refrain from beating him, at least too badly, unless one of them had a particularly bad day. Then all bets were off, and Scotty might find himself brutally pummeled for no fault of his own.
While completing his chores, Scotty would often daydream: he imagined finding a Bull of his own, a black man who might care for him and protect him. Although Scotty did not consider himself at all gay, he knew that life for most white boys who lacked the favor of a black man was usually brutish and short. Most black bulls who wanted ownership of a white, male slave, however, preferred a boy who was compliant and feminized. Scotty tried to cultivate these qualities in order to make himself more desirable. But he knew that he lacked the pretty features that made some white boys desirable to a potential Bull. He wasn’t homely, but he was not pretty or even terribly cute.
Sometimes, he fantasized about heading to the Pacific Northwest, joining up with the White Resistance, but he also knew that he was neither particularly strong or terribly capable. Besides, by all accounts, the White Resistance was being decimated with every single passing day, especially as their white women surrendered in droves, acknowledging black supremacy even as their husbands, brothers, and sons were crushed before the superior forces of Black America. Scotty’s choices for some kind of future that did not include disposal were shockingly few. Maybe his mother, his school counselor, and the media were all correct: maybe disposal was his best and only real option. Maybe his father had made the right decision.
7:00pm
While the humans (and Sultan) were having dinner, Scotty retired quietly to the basement. He would have a second daily bowl of oats for his own meal. Although the teen was near starving, he would force himself to eat no more than a single bowl for dinner, as he had discovered from experience that his mother would not refill his rations until the end of the month regardless of how quickly he might run out. He would eat quietly in the dim corner of the basement, listening to the sounds of family laughter from upstairs.
Sometimes, after dinner, Ahmed would come down to the basement, sprawl back on Scotty’s filthy futon, while Scotty mounted himself on Ahmed’s iron-hard truncheon of a dick. Like his father, Ahmed enjoyed sitting back and relaxing while a white inferior rode his powerful black erection. Tonight, Ahmed did just that, his dark eyes mean and full of contempt, as the white boy slid up and down on his ebony pole. He scowled as he slapped Scotty’s face back and forth, over and over again, laughing that one day he would allow Sultan to fuck Scotty’s gaping cunt. When he finally deposited his African seed up Scotty’s abused boy-hole, Ahmed would give the white fag a couple of kicks to the gut or the face, then head upstairs to play online video games in Scotty’s old room. A virile black bull, Nasir had many children, but he only acknowledged as legitimate the ones he had fathered on black women, the only ones he considered fully human. Scotty knew that Nasir would eventually knock up Catherine, giving her a child she could actually love. She spoke of it sometimes, longingly, expressing regret that she had not aborted Scotty when he was still in her womb, preventing him from poisoning a reproductive system that would be put to better use in service to her black gods.
8:30pm
Before bed, Scotty would take a shit behind the work shed, careful to bury his little turds. He would change into his satin nightie and silky panties. Hidden under his futon, he kept a picture of his family in happier times, the only one he had managed to salvage when Catherine was burning all the old photos. In it, Catherine smiled contentedly in the arms of Scotty’s handsome, thoughtful-looking father. Scotty sat at their feet, laughing. They were at a lake, all in swimsuits, tan and healthy and happy. Scotty was about five years old in the photo, years before everything in his life had turned to shit, before his mother discovered her lust for superior black cock, before his Dad had gone off to the Disposal Center, before the New World Order. As he lay in bed, Scotty looked up at the noose that his wicked mother had hung from the ceiling rafters many months ago, a temptation, an invitation for him to join his loser Dad whenever he wanted. It was the last thing he saw every night before he drifted off to sleep.
