Please be aware, this story references certain real world current events. Specific names and locations are intentionally omitted. In no way are these references intended to make light of those events or minimize their importance; they serve as a backdrop to the story, nothing more.
Over the next two weeks, my life proceeded, well, it would be ridiculous to say as normal. At work, in the city and in the office, I continued to defer to black people wherever I encountered them: holding doors open for them, offering them a seat, paying for their coffees, sometimes even meals. It felt good to be of service. Most of the black people that I did these things for simply looked at me quizzically, sometimes thanking me. I would always reply with a submissive, “Thank YOU, Sir.” I learned to never look a black man or even woman directly in the eye, but to keep my gaze lowered submissively. They seemed to appreciate this.
At night, I continued my immersion into the theology of Black Power and Black Supremacy after my wife and sons had gone to bed. My online findom owner, twenty-one year old Master Ahmed, would text me if he needed money for a pizza or an Uber or a video game. I happily covered his expenses whenever instructed. I learned to consider his leisure of more importance than my necessities.
On the fifteenth of the month, as ordered, I paid off his Visa bill, a total of $675. I moved some money around in our accounts to keep my wife from discovering such a large expenditure. I wondered how much of a bill he ran up every month, but found it didn’t really matter to me: I was pleased, even proud to pay it. It was the least I could do as a white man who had benefited from centuries of slavery and oppression of Master Ahmed’s superior race.
Then, suddenly, the world erupted.
A black man was cruelly and needlessly killed in broad daylight by police officers. The entire thing was caught on video. An outraged community protested the callous murder. And that outrage spread like wildfire, as protests turned to violence, to riots and looting and arson in cities throughout the country. I didn’t hear from Master Ahmed for several days, but he tweeted numerous videos of protests, some that he seemed to have taken himself, and others in which he, dressed in black and masked, was in the forefront of setting fire to police cars, storming storefronts, and attacking white men. He was stunning, confident, leading charges and attacks. My Master was a soldier in a revolution that some viewed as a fight against racial injustice, but which he described as the long-awaited beginning of the end of white America.
After several days of no word from my Master, I emailed him out of concern, something he’d never given me leave to do, but I was worried. “Are you safe, Sir,” I inquired simply. After several minutes, I received a reply. “No Black Man is safe in this fucked up country, piggy. But we’re out here making it safe for future Black Kings. Your time is ending.” This was no longer a game or a sexual kink, I knew, this was serious, deadly serious. “I hope so, Master,” I answered him. “It is what we deserve.”
“If you mean that, cracker,” he responded, “donate to these organizations.” A list of groups followed, a few I’d heard of in recent days, but most were unknown to me. “We’ll chat next weekend, slave. Until then: fuck you.”
I did as Master Ahmed instructed. I googled several of the groups and learned that some of them were on terrorist watch lists, groups of violent black militants and insurrectionists that advocated the overthrow of the United States government and white ********, but none of that stopped me from donating as ordered. In fact, I am proud to say that I submitted the largest amounts to the most radical of the organizations. If my cock cage did not prevent me from becoming fully turgid, betraying my race like I did would have given me a tremendous hard-on. But my penis had accustomed itself to its cage over recent weeks, and it would no longer grow fully hard, swelling just enough to fill its cage when I became excited, causing me discomfit and sometimes pain.
My wife, Marisa, was both enthralled and frightened by the violence we saw on the television, although most of it was far-removed from the safety of our mostly white suburban home. “What do you think is going to happen?” she’d ask me, once the boys had gone to bed.
As yet, she knew nothing of my submission to Master Ahmed or my growing commitment to Black Supremacy, but I would answer, “It’s been a long time coming, I’m afraid. We’ve only brought this on ourselves.”
She appeared surprised by my stoicism about the riots and violence, but she nodded in agreement. “I’ve thought the same thing,” she confirmed. “It’s just sad that it’s taking all this, this mess to bring real change.” I wondered silently if she might actually be more receptive to Master Ahmed’s ideology than I’d given her credit for.
Suddenly, I became aware of ten-year old Tommy standing in the doorway in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Tommy,” Marisa said, “what are you doing up? Is something wrong?”
“I can’t sleep, Mommy,” our son whined. “I’m scared.”
“Scared?” his mother asked. “What on earth are you scared of…?”
Tommy looked at the television. “I’m scared of that,” he said, pointing at the screen. “I’m scared of the niggers.”
I was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the arms, shaking him. “Where did you hear that word? How dare you…!”
He glared at me. “I heard it from Jimmy’s ***! When I told him what happened to our skateboards, he said you should have called the cops on those, those niggers!” He was shrill, almost hysterical. “Shut up,” I yelled back. “Don’t ever let me hear you use that word again. If you do, I’ll pack up all your toys and give them away to black children myself! And you are never going to Jimmy’s house again!”
“Mom! That’s not fair!”
“Tommy, your father’s right. Never use that word again. It’s ugly and hateful! And don’t ever, ever let me hear you use it around your brother.”Tommy glared at the both of us, then turned and stomped out of the room like the overly privileged white piglet that he was.
Marisa just shook her head. “I can’t believe he said that. Jimmy’s father. I had no idea. That kind of ugliness, David, it’s like it’s everywhere.”
I sat back down and put an arm around her shoulder. I had been avoiding physical contact over the last couple of weeks so she wouldn’t discover that I had locked myself in chastity at Master Ahmed’s instruction. The scene with Tommy, however, had clearly upset her, and she needed comfort. I so wanted to confide in her about Master Ahmed, his proprietorship of me, my enforced chastity, but I had no idea how she would react. I was terrified that she would think I was a degenerate and go stay with her sister. Sooner or later, though, the truth had to come out. Master Ahmed expected to fuck her eventually; it was his right, he had told me as much. I wanted that, too, but I had no idea how to make it happen.
“You were right,” Marisa conceded. “The boys are way too sheltered and spoiled. I’m so fed up with the way they behave. They take everything for granted.”
“Well, if you mean that, maybe we can do something to change it.” On the television screen, buildings were shown burning in several cities across the country, young activists were standing up to the police, hurling bricks and stones and even molotov cocktails. “This weekend, let’s take them into the city,” I said. “There’s going to be a Juneteenth celebration at the park, observing the abolition of slavery. Let’s take them to that. We can show them what people who aren’t like them, aren’t as lucky as them, have to live with.”
Marisa thought about it. “Do you think it’d be safe? I mean, look at everything that’s going on.”
I was counting on it not being too safe. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Most of the daytime protests are peaceful. Things don’t get crazy until after dark. We can enjoy the park, watch some of the events, maybe the demonstrations, explain to Tommy and Wayne what they’re all about. This could be an important lesson for the boys. There is a lot they need to learn about the real world, and about the white privilege they’ve taken for granted.” I thought about Master Ahmed for a moment and corrected myself. “That we’ve all taken for granted.”
Marisa agreed. “All right, that sounds like a great idea, David. I don’t want our sons to grow up to be racists like Jimmy’s horrible father. You’re right, they should learn that other people have to fight for things, they can’t just take everything for granted like we do. Yes, let’s do it!” So, we resolved that on the coming weekend, instead of taking our sons to ride their bikes or play in the park as usual, we would drive into the city where black people were fighting oppression and racism every day. We would begin to teach our sons about racial justice.
That Saturday, we drove into the city as planned, telling the boys that we were taking them to a festival. We left the car several blocks from the park, going the rest of the way on foot. Tommy, naturally, whined and complained about having to walk; eight-year old Wayne, however, grew quiet and observant. He noticed the multitude of black faces that crowded the street, many of them turned our way, watching us as we made our way to the park.
The entrance to the park had a carnival atmosphere. I'd never been to a Junteenth celebration before, so had little idea what to expect. There were food vendors and T-shirt stalls and face painting booths. There was live music throughout the park, everything from saxophone soloists to freestyling rappers. There were public speakers in the park, mostly black men and women, standing before small mixed-race crowds, talking about white racism and police brutality, black power and even white extinction. It was a heady thing hearing so many people talk openly about the very things Master Ahmed had been teaching me. "This is so intense," Marisa whispered to me. I just nodded in agreement.
"Hey, you boys want your faces painted?" a young white woman asked Tommy and Wayne. Tommy scoffed, "I'm way too old for face painting." But Wayne asked if he could have it done. Marisa and I consented. The woman said she would surprise us as Wayne hopped up on a stool, and she got to work. "This has been a very popular look today," she explained as she worked. "Lots of kids are getting it. And even some adults." When she was finished, she held a mirror up to Wayne. "Cool!" he said. "I look like a soccer fan!" She had painted his face the red, black and green of the pan-African flag that was popular in the black power movement.
When Marisa asked what the colors meant, the woman told us that the red was for the blood that united all people of African descent; the black was for the skin color that those people shared; and the green was for the natural beauty of the African continent, the homeland. "Black is beautiful," she said, and I immediately recognized that she, like me, was a proud race traitor.
As we paid her, Tommy told his little brother, "You look stupid." Wayne objected, "Nu-uh! It looks cool!" As we headed into the park, Wayne got approving nods from many of the black people we passed, even a couple of fist bumps. "You look dope, lil white dude," a large, bearded black man said to him, holding up his fist and saying, "Black power!"
Wayne saluted him back, laughing, and proclaimed, "Black power!"
"You can't say that," Tommy corrected him. "That's racist."
"No, it isn't," I warned Tommy sternly, growing tired of his negative attitude to his brother's open-mindedness. "Black power can't be racist," I explained, "Only those who hold power can be truly racist, so only white people can be racist. Remember that."
"Preach it!" the large black man responded, hearing me discipline my ten-year old son. "You know, you folks seem down with the cause. At least most of you do." He glared disdainfully at Tommy. "You should step this way, you can make amends."
"Amends?" Marisa asked, a note of caution in her voice.
"Yeah," he said. "You are sorry for being racist, ain't you?"
"Well," Marisa searched for an answer to his loaded question, "I don't think, I mean I try not to be...racist at all."
He looked at her patiently, the way one might a slow child. "Well, you're either actively anti-racist or you're racist. Those are the only two choices now. What's it going to be?"
Standing behind Wayne, my hands on his shoulders, I answered, "We want to be anti-racist, that's the whole reason we're here. That's why we brought our sons here. How can we make amends…Sir?" He sized me up with an approving nod. "That's better, white boy. C'mon, just follow me." He led the way deeper into the park, past ever thicker crowds of people, mostly black, many of them dressed in brightly colored, traditional African dress in observance of the holiday.
Before a large fountain near the center of the park, stood a group of four black men and two black women, all dressed in dark clothing. They stood before a small group of white people, about a dozen, all of whom were on their knees. Our guide slapped me on the back of my head. "On your knees, whitey," he said. "Show your humility." I bent to my knees, bringing Tommy and Wayne with me. Wayne protested, but a sharp slap to the nape of his neck quieted him. Marisa bowed with us. The group of black men and women were reciting a long list of crimes committed by white people against black people, everything from slavery to Jim Crow to the systemic racism of the justice system.
"Now," said one of the women, "which of you white devils wants to step forward and repent for the sins of your race by kissing our beautiful black feet?"
The crowd of kneeling whites looked at one another uncertainly. They appeared hesitant to refuse, but unwilling to debase themselves as required. With Master Ahmed in mind, I felt no such reluctance. I looked up at the woman who had asked for our submission and repentance. "I will," I said. "Please, let me make amends." The woman, probably no more than nineteen or so, dressed in a black leather jacket, and sporting a rather large afro, responded, "Then crawl forward and atone, white boy. Show us that you reject the racism of your ancestors and accept the divinity of the black race." Without looking back to see Marisa's reaction, I crawled forward on my hands and knees like a dog, across the grass, making my way through the small group. Once in front of the woman, I bent my head to her feet and pressed my lips against her leather boot.
"Repeat after me, penitent," she intoned. "I pledge to reject all forms of bias, prejudice, and discrimination directed against the beautiful black people of this world." I repeated the phrase exactly as she said it, carefully enunciating each word. "I pledge to oppose any racism or racial stereotype directed against the children of Africa. I promise to actively support public policy that promotes the black race and furthers black power. I commit to using my voice to fight against the many injustices that black people face, from hate speech to police violence." After repeating the entire oath, I moved down the line, kissing the boots of each of the six speakers, men and women alike.
When I was finished, Wayne scurried forward, crawling to the front and kissed the woman's shoes, too, following my example. The black group exchanged smiles, seeing such a young white boy submitting to them so willingly. Marisa watched with a curious smile as our son moved down the line, kissing each of the feet, Wayne’s face proudly emblazoned with the colors of Africa. The woman had him repeat a simpler version of the pledge I took. Wayne carefully repeated each word before taking his place beside me.
"Did I do a good job, ***, huh?" he asked, looking up at me, smiling innocently.
"A very good job, son," I said, patting him on the back. "I'm so proud of you." There was a donation box at the front, and I gave Wayne $50 to put it in. He did so without hesitation, waving at his Mom and Tommy as he did.
Marisa crawled through the crowed, and began kissing each booted foot as she took the pledge. It was very exciting for me to see her submit to black power that way. I couldn't wait to tell Master Ahmed about this turn of events.
Tommy, however, stayed where he was in the back, with a stubborn pout, his eyes glowering. Several of the other whites followed our lead, crawling before the African-Americans, groveling in forgiveness, kissing their boots. At one point, a couple of the black men slipped off their boots and socks to allow white girls to kiss their bare feet. It really was an inspiring sight.
I noticed that the large black man who had led us to the demonstration was using his phone to record the event. I approached him and politely asked him to send me a copy of the video, explaining how important it was for my ****** to commemorate our submission to Black Supremacy. He raised an eyebrow at my use of the word supremacy, his smile turning into a condescending smirk. He agreed to forward me a copy, and I gave him my details. "You really got to get that little fucking faggot of yours in line, though," he warned, nodding toward Tommy. "Kid needs to learn a lesson."
"It's true, Sir," I acknowledged. "I was hoping that coming here today would help, but it's going to take some time I think."
"Time's up for white fucks like him," the black giant warned me. "You don't get him in line soon, somebody else is going to." I thanked him for his time and advice, and for giving us the opportunity to make amends. We continued our exploration of the festival. Marisa and I both signed a petition to make Juneteenth a national holiday, abolishing Columbus Day, which shamefully commemorated the evils of colonialism. We ordered corn dogs and fries for the boys, burgers for ourselves from a food truck. I made a point of only buying from the black owned vendors, explaining to Marisa that giving them our business on this holiday was the least we could do.
As we ate, I asked Tommy and Wayne, "So...have you boys learned anything today?"
Tommy just glared at me, like he thought I was a monster. Wayne, on the other hand, beamed happily. "I learned that black people are really cool. I was a little scared, like, at first, 'cause they made me think of the boys who took our skateboards, but they're all really nice. And kissing their feet was really funny, kinda like they were kings or something, like we were playing. It was cool." He was my son, alright, content, even enthusiastic to bow before superior black men. He continued, "I'm really sorry that they were slaves. I mean, that was, like, so mean!"
Marisa smiled at me, happy that at least part of our project was proceeding as we hoped. I bought Wayne a black T-shirt with a map of Africa in the same colors he had painted on his face. He pulled it on right there, enthusiastically. I bought Marisa a Juneteenth T-shirt that read "July 4, 1776" with a line crossing it out, and "June 19, 1865" in large, bold, bright colors right below it. When Tommy said he didn't want a T-shirt, I bought matching shirts with a black power fist for both him and myself. I told him that if he didn't put it on, he would be grounded for the rest of the week. He grumbled, but complied. I was eager to tell Master Ahmed about the lessons I was teaching the little piglets, as he contemptuously called my sons.
On the drive home, Tommy sulked, not even playing with his Gameboy. Wayne, on the other hand, jabbered excitedly about everything he had seen, about how cool all the black people were to him, about the food and the music and the clothes. "I wish I was black," he said excitedly.
"Don't be stupid," Tommy rolled his eyes. Marisa snapped at him. "I don't like your attitude, Tommy. Your brother had fun today, and he learned a lot. You could try to be a little more understanding." Tommy sighed in exasperation. "My friend JImmy's *** says that ni--that blacks are dumber than monkeys, that they--" Suddenly, Marisa reached into the backseat and smacked Tommy across the face. The slap echoed in the car.
"I'm sick of hearing that Jimmy's *** said this or said that. He sounds like a perfectly horrible man. Don't ever mention him again, do you understand, young man?" Tommy just looked at her in shock, having never been hit by ether of us before. Once we arrived home, he stormed to his room, slamming the door. To be honest, I was happy to be rid of him and his entitled haughtiness. I was as ashamed of him as I was proud of Marisa and Wayne.
That night, I received the video from the afternoon’s event in my email from the black giant. I was mesmerized by the sight of myself crawling on my hands and knees, genuflecting before black Kings and Queens that were otherwise strangers to me, kissing their feet, pledging my service to their cause. I was pleased to watch my youngest son, Wayne, do the same, and ecstatic at Marisa’s display of subservience to the black race. I do not know where I summoned the courage to submit publicly like that, but it felt so right to do so. I shared the video with my wife.
“I thought we just got…caught up in the moment,” she mused, “but it really is quite beautiful, isn’t it, David? Committing ourselves, our ****** to racial justice like that.”
It thrilled me to hear her say that. “Yes, honey, it really is. There are so many ways for us to serve the cause. I think we’re on the right path.”
I was tempted to just stand up in front of Marisa and drop my slacks, show her my little white cock--my dink, as Master Ahmed belittled it--locked away in chastity at the instruction of my dominant Black Master, a man to whom I had already given more than a grand of our money, and hundreds more to radical Black Supremacy groups on his orders. But I worried about pushing her too far, too soon, so I refrained, excused myself to do some work in my study. We'd made a lot of progress this afternoon, both as individuals and as a ******, and I didn't want any setbacks. Tommy's attitude and behavior continued to be a problem, of course, but Master Ahmed never said the journey would be easy. Or without sacrifice.
Usually in the office, I would jerk my little to dink to interracial porn. Although no longer able to masturbate, with my cock locked away and the keys in Master Ahmed's possession, I logged onto blacked.com out of habit and casually scrolled through a few of my favorite scenes. Although my dink could no longer grow fully hard, it did still leak pre-ejaculate, which I could coax by massaging my cock head through the metal bars of my cage. It was cheating, perhaps, but since erection and orgasm were denied me, it was the only bit of sexual stimulation I could still enjoy. As usual, I substituted Marisa for the model in the scene. I pictured her getting fucked by Master Ahmed, of course, but this time I imagined her bowing before him, kissing his bare feet, accepting his proprietorship of our entire ******.
Then, out of nowhere, I started imagining my recalcitrant son, Tommy, being bullied by a group of young black boys, the way he had been at the park that day they stole his skateboard. I imagined them forcing him to his knees, making him kiss and lick their feet as he cried and whimpered in protest. They would kick him with their sneakered feet, laughing at him for being such a white loser. I imagined me and Marisa and Wayne cheering from the sidelines as Tommy was mocked and brutalized by the tougher young black boys. The viscous precum spilled from my cock in a watery cascade, the closest thing I'd had to an orgasm since locking myself up.
I was a true degenerate, and I reveled in it. Not only did I want to betray my race to Black Supremacy, not only did I conspire to get my wife fucked by black men, I also fantasized about my own son being bullied and beaten by the same race that I had pledged my loyalty to. No wonder black people held us in such contempt. And, yet, accepting my debauchery felt as liberating as acknowledging my inherent inferiority. I emailed Master Ahmed the video of my ****** submitting to Black Power, thanking him for teaching me the truth, for allowing me to serve him, and to serve the New World Order any way I could. I was eager to hear what he thought of my ******'s obeisance to Black Power.
The following morning, Marisa and I were awoken by Wayne shaking the foot of our bed. "Wayne," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
Wayne nodded. "It's Tommy, ***, he ran away from home. He said that he's going to go live with Jimmy and his ***." Marisa and I looked at each other, stunned. This was unexpected. "Why'd Tommy run away, ***? Is it 'cause he's a racist? Is it 'cause he hates black people?" I sat up in bed and pulled Wayne into a paternal hug. "Shhh, don't worry, Wayne, everything will be okay. Tommy is just having a hard time...accepting everything. You've been much braver and stronger than him." Sending Wayne off to play in his room, I pulled on a pair of jeans. "Shit," I said to Marisa, "I guess I have to go over there and get him."
"Do you?" she asked. "Are you certain? Maybe...well, maybe he'd be better off there. At least for now. I mean, if he'd going to be so defiant and hateful, that might be a better place for him."
I thought about it. "You've got a point, it'd all be much easier...without him. But he's still our son, our responsibility. Tell you what, I'll talk to him, but I won't try too hard to convince him to come home." I winked, and Marisa sniggered conspiratorially. "Now, where does Jimmy live? Over by Lincoln Street, right?"
I found the house without much difficulty. It was the one with a car up on cinder blocks and heavy plastic sheeting covering the garage windows. Jimmy's ****** appeared to be as white trash as I expected of someone who tossed the n-word around in front of children. I rang the front doorbell. A heavy set, unshaven man in a stained tank top answered the door.
"Er, you must be Jimmy's father. I'm--"
"You're the cuck nigger-lover," he snapped. "I know who you are boot kisser. Tommy told me how you bowed to those monkeys. What the fuck you doing here?"
I bristled at his insults, but held my composure. "I'm here for my son, it's time for Tommy to come home."
"You know what? I don't usually get involved with other people's shit, but in your case, I'll make an exception. Tommy can stay here as long as he likes. I'd rather take care of him myself than see him or any white kid with sick fucks like you and your coon-loving wife. The only reason I don't call child protective services on you race traitor perverts is I don't need them getting all up in my shit." Behind him, in the squalid house, I saw Tommy glaring angrily at me. "Now, get the fuck off my property before I introduce you to my 260 Remington!" I held Tommy's silent, resentful gaze for a moment, recalling Marisa's suggestion that this "might be a better place for him." I wondered how long my privileged brat of a son could last with this redneck trash. I discovered that I didn't much care. I turned abruptly, and left Tommy to his fate. Fuck him.
That afternoon, Marisa and I explained to his brother that Tommy would be staying with his friend Jimmy for a while. Wayne took it better than I expected. In fact, he suggested that we should do what I threatened earlier, give Tommy's stuff away to underprivileged black children who needed it more. Wayne even offered to give up some of his stuff, albeit the "older things that I don't play with much anymore." Still, it was a step in the right direction for my youngest son: like me, he clearly had a proclivity for betraying his brother, his ******, and his race to do what is right for black people. I would do what I could to nurture that instinct.
Just then, I received a notice that I had an incoming video call. I went to my study and opened the app to discover Master Ahmed sitting back, stroking his long, black cock, his fist running up and down the hard shaft, spider-webbed with veins. "Faggot," he greeted me. "I'm just sitting here rubbing one out to the sight of you and your missus submitting to Black Supremacy. Gotta say, son, it's a beautiful sight. Wasn't sure you had it in you."
"It was my honor, Sir," I conceded. "It was so rewarding to see my wife and son take their proper place before the Black Race."
"Yeah, about that," my master continued, "what's up with that other white fuck baby of yours that was so disrespectful to his superiors he couldn't even be bothered to kiss their feet?"
I lowered my gaze submissively. "I'm sorry, Master. We failed with Tommy, he's a disgrace. Recently, he started saying...the n-word, Sir. And he refuses to submit to Black Power. I'm so ashamed."
"You should be, piggy. What you going to do about the little piglet?"
"Well, Sir, he ran away from home this morning. He went to stay with a friend of his, real redneck racist scum, Sir. I basically told them that they were welcome to keep him. My wife agreed."
"That's probably for the best, piggy," Master Ahmed responded. "Having a little white fuck like that around would just distract you and the other piggies from serving me properly." His fist continued to jack that majestic prick of his; he would occasionally massage the glans of his cock head with his other hand, precum oozing from the piss slit. "How's it feel to see a real man work his joint, faggot, while your pathetic dink stays caged?"
"It's only proper, Sir."
"Fuckin' right, piggy!" Master Ahmed said. "Now, listen, I want you to tribute me until I cum. Start with $10, then keep doubling it every 60 seconds until I shoot. Understand, faggot?"
"Yes, yes, Sir!" I answered, opening my PayPal app. I tributed $10 immediately, keeping an eye on the clock as I watched this dominant young man leisurely stroke his magnificent slab of meat. "Been out on the street fighting so hard for the New World Order," he explained, "I ain't hardly hard time for no pussy this week. Got quite a load churning in these black balls of mine."
When a minute had passed, I typed $20 into PayPal and hit send. Master Ahmed began jacking himself using both fists, his cock so long that it filled both hands with extra left over. It was an amazing sight. When the third minute started, I doubled my tribute to $40, happy to give my money to the man who had come to dominate my life so effortlessly. My cock twitched, straining in its cage, aroused at both the vision of Master Ahmed stroking his meat and the willing emptying of my bank account.
I typed in $80 as we approached the fourth minute of Master Ahmed enjoying something that had become completely denied me. Sexual release was something enjoyed by real men; as a white wannabe cuckold loser, I had surrendered that right. As I typed in $160, Master Ahmed picked up his pace, jerking his black cock vigorously. I marveled at his stamina: I would have spewed my weak load after the first minute. As it was, my own little dink was leaking ejaculate through the bars of its cage like a broken faucet. As the sixth minute neared, I typed in $320, preparing to hit send just as Master Ahmed shot his voluminous load of thick, fertile sperm high in the air. It was an astounding vision.
His breathing ragged, Master Ahmed said, "You got that last tribute ready, piggy? Go ahead and send it. I deserve it." I obeyed, and watched the $320 drain from my account to his. Just like that, I had handed $630 over to this amazing man who had taken control of my entire life and my every thought. Far from upset or angry over the loss, I considered it an honor.
Master Ahmed leaned in close to the camera. "You are turning out to be a very good piggy," he told me. I beamed with pride, like a child receiving a congratulatory pat on the head. Being owned by a man like Master Ahmed was true white privilege, and I told him so. "There usually comes a time," he explained, "when even the most committed traitor to the white race will have second thoughts, stop tributing, try to cut contact. Most whites are cowardly and treacherous. Have you had any thoughts like that, son?"
I contemplated it for a minute, the road I had been traveling since meeting Master Ahmed: learning about white privilege and Black Supremacy, draining my bank account at his pleasure, submitting to black men and women at every opportunity, caging my cock in chastity, grooming my wife and children to serve the New World Order that was being created. "No, Master," I answered honestly. "I confess that it hasn't always been easy, that I sometimes have doubts, but, Sir...I am honored to live a life of service to the Black Race. I only hope that I can contribute in some small way to you taking your rightful place above us white devils."
"Good piggy. For a white boy, you demonstrate good sense. You seem to know your rightful place and aren't resisting it the way so many piggies do. But don't get too cocky, son: you're still a white, which makes you worthless and pathetic. Got it?"
"I do, Sir, I understand. Whiteness is a disease. Black cock is the cure."
"Got that right, piggy. And speaking of which, it's getting to be about time I dipped this black cock of mine in that fine white pussy of your wife's. We going to make that happen, son?"
"Oh, yes, Sir!" I answered with sincere enthusiasm. "Her pussy belongs to you, just like my wallet."
“That’s right, piggy. That is so fuckin’ right.”
Over the next two weeks, my life proceeded, well, it would be ridiculous to say as normal. At work, in the city and in the office, I continued to defer to black people wherever I encountered them: holding doors open for them, offering them a seat, paying for their coffees, sometimes even meals. It felt good to be of service. Most of the black people that I did these things for simply looked at me quizzically, sometimes thanking me. I would always reply with a submissive, “Thank YOU, Sir.” I learned to never look a black man or even woman directly in the eye, but to keep my gaze lowered submissively. They seemed to appreciate this.
At night, I continued my immersion into the theology of Black Power and Black Supremacy after my wife and sons had gone to bed. My online findom owner, twenty-one year old Master Ahmed, would text me if he needed money for a pizza or an Uber or a video game. I happily covered his expenses whenever instructed. I learned to consider his leisure of more importance than my necessities.
On the fifteenth of the month, as ordered, I paid off his Visa bill, a total of $675. I moved some money around in our accounts to keep my wife from discovering such a large expenditure. I wondered how much of a bill he ran up every month, but found it didn’t really matter to me: I was pleased, even proud to pay it. It was the least I could do as a white man who had benefited from centuries of slavery and oppression of Master Ahmed’s superior race.
Then, suddenly, the world erupted.
A black man was cruelly and needlessly killed in broad daylight by police officers. The entire thing was caught on video. An outraged community protested the callous murder. And that outrage spread like wildfire, as protests turned to violence, to riots and looting and arson in cities throughout the country. I didn’t hear from Master Ahmed for several days, but he tweeted numerous videos of protests, some that he seemed to have taken himself, and others in which he, dressed in black and masked, was in the forefront of setting fire to police cars, storming storefronts, and attacking white men. He was stunning, confident, leading charges and attacks. My Master was a soldier in a revolution that some viewed as a fight against racial injustice, but which he described as the long-awaited beginning of the end of white America.
After several days of no word from my Master, I emailed him out of concern, something he’d never given me leave to do, but I was worried. “Are you safe, Sir,” I inquired simply. After several minutes, I received a reply. “No Black Man is safe in this fucked up country, piggy. But we’re out here making it safe for future Black Kings. Your time is ending.” This was no longer a game or a sexual kink, I knew, this was serious, deadly serious. “I hope so, Master,” I answered him. “It is what we deserve.”
“If you mean that, cracker,” he responded, “donate to these organizations.” A list of groups followed, a few I’d heard of in recent days, but most were unknown to me. “We’ll chat next weekend, slave. Until then: fuck you.”
I did as Master Ahmed instructed. I googled several of the groups and learned that some of them were on terrorist watch lists, groups of violent black militants and insurrectionists that advocated the overthrow of the United States government and white ********, but none of that stopped me from donating as ordered. In fact, I am proud to say that I submitted the largest amounts to the most radical of the organizations. If my cock cage did not prevent me from becoming fully turgid, betraying my race like I did would have given me a tremendous hard-on. But my penis had accustomed itself to its cage over recent weeks, and it would no longer grow fully hard, swelling just enough to fill its cage when I became excited, causing me discomfit and sometimes pain.
My wife, Marisa, was both enthralled and frightened by the violence we saw on the television, although most of it was far-removed from the safety of our mostly white suburban home. “What do you think is going to happen?” she’d ask me, once the boys had gone to bed.
As yet, she knew nothing of my submission to Master Ahmed or my growing commitment to Black Supremacy, but I would answer, “It’s been a long time coming, I’m afraid. We’ve only brought this on ourselves.”
She appeared surprised by my stoicism about the riots and violence, but she nodded in agreement. “I’ve thought the same thing,” she confirmed. “It’s just sad that it’s taking all this, this mess to bring real change.” I wondered silently if she might actually be more receptive to Master Ahmed’s ideology than I’d given her credit for.
Suddenly, I became aware of ten-year old Tommy standing in the doorway in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Tommy,” Marisa said, “what are you doing up? Is something wrong?”
“I can’t sleep, Mommy,” our son whined. “I’m scared.”
“Scared?” his mother asked. “What on earth are you scared of…?”
Tommy looked at the television. “I’m scared of that,” he said, pointing at the screen. “I’m scared of the niggers.”
I was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the arms, shaking him. “Where did you hear that word? How dare you…!”
He glared at me. “I heard it from Jimmy’s ***! When I told him what happened to our skateboards, he said you should have called the cops on those, those niggers!” He was shrill, almost hysterical. “Shut up,” I yelled back. “Don’t ever let me hear you use that word again. If you do, I’ll pack up all your toys and give them away to black children myself! And you are never going to Jimmy’s house again!”
“Mom! That’s not fair!”
“Tommy, your father’s right. Never use that word again. It’s ugly and hateful! And don’t ever, ever let me hear you use it around your brother.”Tommy glared at the both of us, then turned and stomped out of the room like the overly privileged white piglet that he was.
Marisa just shook her head. “I can’t believe he said that. Jimmy’s father. I had no idea. That kind of ugliness, David, it’s like it’s everywhere.”
I sat back down and put an arm around her shoulder. I had been avoiding physical contact over the last couple of weeks so she wouldn’t discover that I had locked myself in chastity at Master Ahmed’s instruction. The scene with Tommy, however, had clearly upset her, and she needed comfort. I so wanted to confide in her about Master Ahmed, his proprietorship of me, my enforced chastity, but I had no idea how she would react. I was terrified that she would think I was a degenerate and go stay with her sister. Sooner or later, though, the truth had to come out. Master Ahmed expected to fuck her eventually; it was his right, he had told me as much. I wanted that, too, but I had no idea how to make it happen.
“You were right,” Marisa conceded. “The boys are way too sheltered and spoiled. I’m so fed up with the way they behave. They take everything for granted.”
“Well, if you mean that, maybe we can do something to change it.” On the television screen, buildings were shown burning in several cities across the country, young activists were standing up to the police, hurling bricks and stones and even molotov cocktails. “This weekend, let’s take them into the city,” I said. “There’s going to be a Juneteenth celebration at the park, observing the abolition of slavery. Let’s take them to that. We can show them what people who aren’t like them, aren’t as lucky as them, have to live with.”
Marisa thought about it. “Do you think it’d be safe? I mean, look at everything that’s going on.”
I was counting on it not being too safe. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Most of the daytime protests are peaceful. Things don’t get crazy until after dark. We can enjoy the park, watch some of the events, maybe the demonstrations, explain to Tommy and Wayne what they’re all about. This could be an important lesson for the boys. There is a lot they need to learn about the real world, and about the white privilege they’ve taken for granted.” I thought about Master Ahmed for a moment and corrected myself. “That we’ve all taken for granted.”
Marisa agreed. “All right, that sounds like a great idea, David. I don’t want our sons to grow up to be racists like Jimmy’s horrible father. You’re right, they should learn that other people have to fight for things, they can’t just take everything for granted like we do. Yes, let’s do it!” So, we resolved that on the coming weekend, instead of taking our sons to ride their bikes or play in the park as usual, we would drive into the city where black people were fighting oppression and racism every day. We would begin to teach our sons about racial justice.
That Saturday, we drove into the city as planned, telling the boys that we were taking them to a festival. We left the car several blocks from the park, going the rest of the way on foot. Tommy, naturally, whined and complained about having to walk; eight-year old Wayne, however, grew quiet and observant. He noticed the multitude of black faces that crowded the street, many of them turned our way, watching us as we made our way to the park.
The entrance to the park had a carnival atmosphere. I'd never been to a Junteenth celebration before, so had little idea what to expect. There were food vendors and T-shirt stalls and face painting booths. There was live music throughout the park, everything from saxophone soloists to freestyling rappers. There were public speakers in the park, mostly black men and women, standing before small mixed-race crowds, talking about white racism and police brutality, black power and even white extinction. It was a heady thing hearing so many people talk openly about the very things Master Ahmed had been teaching me. "This is so intense," Marisa whispered to me. I just nodded in agreement.
"Hey, you boys want your faces painted?" a young white woman asked Tommy and Wayne. Tommy scoffed, "I'm way too old for face painting." But Wayne asked if he could have it done. Marisa and I consented. The woman said she would surprise us as Wayne hopped up on a stool, and she got to work. "This has been a very popular look today," she explained as she worked. "Lots of kids are getting it. And even some adults." When she was finished, she held a mirror up to Wayne. "Cool!" he said. "I look like a soccer fan!" She had painted his face the red, black and green of the pan-African flag that was popular in the black power movement.
When Marisa asked what the colors meant, the woman told us that the red was for the blood that united all people of African descent; the black was for the skin color that those people shared; and the green was for the natural beauty of the African continent, the homeland. "Black is beautiful," she said, and I immediately recognized that she, like me, was a proud race traitor.
As we paid her, Tommy told his little brother, "You look stupid." Wayne objected, "Nu-uh! It looks cool!" As we headed into the park, Wayne got approving nods from many of the black people we passed, even a couple of fist bumps. "You look dope, lil white dude," a large, bearded black man said to him, holding up his fist and saying, "Black power!"
Wayne saluted him back, laughing, and proclaimed, "Black power!"
"You can't say that," Tommy corrected him. "That's racist."
"No, it isn't," I warned Tommy sternly, growing tired of his negative attitude to his brother's open-mindedness. "Black power can't be racist," I explained, "Only those who hold power can be truly racist, so only white people can be racist. Remember that."
"Preach it!" the large black man responded, hearing me discipline my ten-year old son. "You know, you folks seem down with the cause. At least most of you do." He glared disdainfully at Tommy. "You should step this way, you can make amends."
"Amends?" Marisa asked, a note of caution in her voice.
"Yeah," he said. "You are sorry for being racist, ain't you?"
"Well," Marisa searched for an answer to his loaded question, "I don't think, I mean I try not to be...racist at all."
He looked at her patiently, the way one might a slow child. "Well, you're either actively anti-racist or you're racist. Those are the only two choices now. What's it going to be?"
Standing behind Wayne, my hands on his shoulders, I answered, "We want to be anti-racist, that's the whole reason we're here. That's why we brought our sons here. How can we make amends…Sir?" He sized me up with an approving nod. "That's better, white boy. C'mon, just follow me." He led the way deeper into the park, past ever thicker crowds of people, mostly black, many of them dressed in brightly colored, traditional African dress in observance of the holiday.
Before a large fountain near the center of the park, stood a group of four black men and two black women, all dressed in dark clothing. They stood before a small group of white people, about a dozen, all of whom were on their knees. Our guide slapped me on the back of my head. "On your knees, whitey," he said. "Show your humility." I bent to my knees, bringing Tommy and Wayne with me. Wayne protested, but a sharp slap to the nape of his neck quieted him. Marisa bowed with us. The group of black men and women were reciting a long list of crimes committed by white people against black people, everything from slavery to Jim Crow to the systemic racism of the justice system.
"Now," said one of the women, "which of you white devils wants to step forward and repent for the sins of your race by kissing our beautiful black feet?"
The crowd of kneeling whites looked at one another uncertainly. They appeared hesitant to refuse, but unwilling to debase themselves as required. With Master Ahmed in mind, I felt no such reluctance. I looked up at the woman who had asked for our submission and repentance. "I will," I said. "Please, let me make amends." The woman, probably no more than nineteen or so, dressed in a black leather jacket, and sporting a rather large afro, responded, "Then crawl forward and atone, white boy. Show us that you reject the racism of your ancestors and accept the divinity of the black race." Without looking back to see Marisa's reaction, I crawled forward on my hands and knees like a dog, across the grass, making my way through the small group. Once in front of the woman, I bent my head to her feet and pressed my lips against her leather boot.
"Repeat after me, penitent," she intoned. "I pledge to reject all forms of bias, prejudice, and discrimination directed against the beautiful black people of this world." I repeated the phrase exactly as she said it, carefully enunciating each word. "I pledge to oppose any racism or racial stereotype directed against the children of Africa. I promise to actively support public policy that promotes the black race and furthers black power. I commit to using my voice to fight against the many injustices that black people face, from hate speech to police violence." After repeating the entire oath, I moved down the line, kissing the boots of each of the six speakers, men and women alike.
When I was finished, Wayne scurried forward, crawling to the front and kissed the woman's shoes, too, following my example. The black group exchanged smiles, seeing such a young white boy submitting to them so willingly. Marisa watched with a curious smile as our son moved down the line, kissing each of the feet, Wayne’s face proudly emblazoned with the colors of Africa. The woman had him repeat a simpler version of the pledge I took. Wayne carefully repeated each word before taking his place beside me.
"Did I do a good job, ***, huh?" he asked, looking up at me, smiling innocently.
"A very good job, son," I said, patting him on the back. "I'm so proud of you." There was a donation box at the front, and I gave Wayne $50 to put it in. He did so without hesitation, waving at his Mom and Tommy as he did.
Marisa crawled through the crowed, and began kissing each booted foot as she took the pledge. It was very exciting for me to see her submit to black power that way. I couldn't wait to tell Master Ahmed about this turn of events.
Tommy, however, stayed where he was in the back, with a stubborn pout, his eyes glowering. Several of the other whites followed our lead, crawling before the African-Americans, groveling in forgiveness, kissing their boots. At one point, a couple of the black men slipped off their boots and socks to allow white girls to kiss their bare feet. It really was an inspiring sight.
I noticed that the large black man who had led us to the demonstration was using his phone to record the event. I approached him and politely asked him to send me a copy of the video, explaining how important it was for my ****** to commemorate our submission to Black Supremacy. He raised an eyebrow at my use of the word supremacy, his smile turning into a condescending smirk. He agreed to forward me a copy, and I gave him my details. "You really got to get that little fucking faggot of yours in line, though," he warned, nodding toward Tommy. "Kid needs to learn a lesson."
"It's true, Sir," I acknowledged. "I was hoping that coming here today would help, but it's going to take some time I think."
"Time's up for white fucks like him," the black giant warned me. "You don't get him in line soon, somebody else is going to." I thanked him for his time and advice, and for giving us the opportunity to make amends. We continued our exploration of the festival. Marisa and I both signed a petition to make Juneteenth a national holiday, abolishing Columbus Day, which shamefully commemorated the evils of colonialism. We ordered corn dogs and fries for the boys, burgers for ourselves from a food truck. I made a point of only buying from the black owned vendors, explaining to Marisa that giving them our business on this holiday was the least we could do.
As we ate, I asked Tommy and Wayne, "So...have you boys learned anything today?"
Tommy just glared at me, like he thought I was a monster. Wayne, on the other hand, beamed happily. "I learned that black people are really cool. I was a little scared, like, at first, 'cause they made me think of the boys who took our skateboards, but they're all really nice. And kissing their feet was really funny, kinda like they were kings or something, like we were playing. It was cool." He was my son, alright, content, even enthusiastic to bow before superior black men. He continued, "I'm really sorry that they were slaves. I mean, that was, like, so mean!"
Marisa smiled at me, happy that at least part of our project was proceeding as we hoped. I bought Wayne a black T-shirt with a map of Africa in the same colors he had painted on his face. He pulled it on right there, enthusiastically. I bought Marisa a Juneteenth T-shirt that read "July 4, 1776" with a line crossing it out, and "June 19, 1865" in large, bold, bright colors right below it. When Tommy said he didn't want a T-shirt, I bought matching shirts with a black power fist for both him and myself. I told him that if he didn't put it on, he would be grounded for the rest of the week. He grumbled, but complied. I was eager to tell Master Ahmed about the lessons I was teaching the little piglets, as he contemptuously called my sons.
On the drive home, Tommy sulked, not even playing with his Gameboy. Wayne, on the other hand, jabbered excitedly about everything he had seen, about how cool all the black people were to him, about the food and the music and the clothes. "I wish I was black," he said excitedly.
"Don't be stupid," Tommy rolled his eyes. Marisa snapped at him. "I don't like your attitude, Tommy. Your brother had fun today, and he learned a lot. You could try to be a little more understanding." Tommy sighed in exasperation. "My friend JImmy's *** says that ni--that blacks are dumber than monkeys, that they--" Suddenly, Marisa reached into the backseat and smacked Tommy across the face. The slap echoed in the car.
"I'm sick of hearing that Jimmy's *** said this or said that. He sounds like a perfectly horrible man. Don't ever mention him again, do you understand, young man?" Tommy just looked at her in shock, having never been hit by ether of us before. Once we arrived home, he stormed to his room, slamming the door. To be honest, I was happy to be rid of him and his entitled haughtiness. I was as ashamed of him as I was proud of Marisa and Wayne.
That night, I received the video from the afternoon’s event in my email from the black giant. I was mesmerized by the sight of myself crawling on my hands and knees, genuflecting before black Kings and Queens that were otherwise strangers to me, kissing their feet, pledging my service to their cause. I was pleased to watch my youngest son, Wayne, do the same, and ecstatic at Marisa’s display of subservience to the black race. I do not know where I summoned the courage to submit publicly like that, but it felt so right to do so. I shared the video with my wife.
“I thought we just got…caught up in the moment,” she mused, “but it really is quite beautiful, isn’t it, David? Committing ourselves, our ****** to racial justice like that.”
It thrilled me to hear her say that. “Yes, honey, it really is. There are so many ways for us to serve the cause. I think we’re on the right path.”
I was tempted to just stand up in front of Marisa and drop my slacks, show her my little white cock--my dink, as Master Ahmed belittled it--locked away in chastity at the instruction of my dominant Black Master, a man to whom I had already given more than a grand of our money, and hundreds more to radical Black Supremacy groups on his orders. But I worried about pushing her too far, too soon, so I refrained, excused myself to do some work in my study. We'd made a lot of progress this afternoon, both as individuals and as a ******, and I didn't want any setbacks. Tommy's attitude and behavior continued to be a problem, of course, but Master Ahmed never said the journey would be easy. Or without sacrifice.
Usually in the office, I would jerk my little to dink to interracial porn. Although no longer able to masturbate, with my cock locked away and the keys in Master Ahmed's possession, I logged onto blacked.com out of habit and casually scrolled through a few of my favorite scenes. Although my dink could no longer grow fully hard, it did still leak pre-ejaculate, which I could coax by massaging my cock head through the metal bars of my cage. It was cheating, perhaps, but since erection and orgasm were denied me, it was the only bit of sexual stimulation I could still enjoy. As usual, I substituted Marisa for the model in the scene. I pictured her getting fucked by Master Ahmed, of course, but this time I imagined her bowing before him, kissing his bare feet, accepting his proprietorship of our entire ******.
Then, out of nowhere, I started imagining my recalcitrant son, Tommy, being bullied by a group of young black boys, the way he had been at the park that day they stole his skateboard. I imagined them forcing him to his knees, making him kiss and lick their feet as he cried and whimpered in protest. They would kick him with their sneakered feet, laughing at him for being such a white loser. I imagined me and Marisa and Wayne cheering from the sidelines as Tommy was mocked and brutalized by the tougher young black boys. The viscous precum spilled from my cock in a watery cascade, the closest thing I'd had to an orgasm since locking myself up.
I was a true degenerate, and I reveled in it. Not only did I want to betray my race to Black Supremacy, not only did I conspire to get my wife fucked by black men, I also fantasized about my own son being bullied and beaten by the same race that I had pledged my loyalty to. No wonder black people held us in such contempt. And, yet, accepting my debauchery felt as liberating as acknowledging my inherent inferiority. I emailed Master Ahmed the video of my ****** submitting to Black Power, thanking him for teaching me the truth, for allowing me to serve him, and to serve the New World Order any way I could. I was eager to hear what he thought of my ******'s obeisance to Black Power.
The following morning, Marisa and I were awoken by Wayne shaking the foot of our bed. "Wayne," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
Wayne nodded. "It's Tommy, ***, he ran away from home. He said that he's going to go live with Jimmy and his ***." Marisa and I looked at each other, stunned. This was unexpected. "Why'd Tommy run away, ***? Is it 'cause he's a racist? Is it 'cause he hates black people?" I sat up in bed and pulled Wayne into a paternal hug. "Shhh, don't worry, Wayne, everything will be okay. Tommy is just having a hard time...accepting everything. You've been much braver and stronger than him." Sending Wayne off to play in his room, I pulled on a pair of jeans. "Shit," I said to Marisa, "I guess I have to go over there and get him."
"Do you?" she asked. "Are you certain? Maybe...well, maybe he'd be better off there. At least for now. I mean, if he'd going to be so defiant and hateful, that might be a better place for him."
I thought about it. "You've got a point, it'd all be much easier...without him. But he's still our son, our responsibility. Tell you what, I'll talk to him, but I won't try too hard to convince him to come home." I winked, and Marisa sniggered conspiratorially. "Now, where does Jimmy live? Over by Lincoln Street, right?"
I found the house without much difficulty. It was the one with a car up on cinder blocks and heavy plastic sheeting covering the garage windows. Jimmy's ****** appeared to be as white trash as I expected of someone who tossed the n-word around in front of children. I rang the front doorbell. A heavy set, unshaven man in a stained tank top answered the door.
"Er, you must be Jimmy's father. I'm--"
"You're the cuck nigger-lover," he snapped. "I know who you are boot kisser. Tommy told me how you bowed to those monkeys. What the fuck you doing here?"
I bristled at his insults, but held my composure. "I'm here for my son, it's time for Tommy to come home."
"You know what? I don't usually get involved with other people's shit, but in your case, I'll make an exception. Tommy can stay here as long as he likes. I'd rather take care of him myself than see him or any white kid with sick fucks like you and your coon-loving wife. The only reason I don't call child protective services on you race traitor perverts is I don't need them getting all up in my shit." Behind him, in the squalid house, I saw Tommy glaring angrily at me. "Now, get the fuck off my property before I introduce you to my 260 Remington!" I held Tommy's silent, resentful gaze for a moment, recalling Marisa's suggestion that this "might be a better place for him." I wondered how long my privileged brat of a son could last with this redneck trash. I discovered that I didn't much care. I turned abruptly, and left Tommy to his fate. Fuck him.
That afternoon, Marisa and I explained to his brother that Tommy would be staying with his friend Jimmy for a while. Wayne took it better than I expected. In fact, he suggested that we should do what I threatened earlier, give Tommy's stuff away to underprivileged black children who needed it more. Wayne even offered to give up some of his stuff, albeit the "older things that I don't play with much anymore." Still, it was a step in the right direction for my youngest son: like me, he clearly had a proclivity for betraying his brother, his ******, and his race to do what is right for black people. I would do what I could to nurture that instinct.
Just then, I received a notice that I had an incoming video call. I went to my study and opened the app to discover Master Ahmed sitting back, stroking his long, black cock, his fist running up and down the hard shaft, spider-webbed with veins. "Faggot," he greeted me. "I'm just sitting here rubbing one out to the sight of you and your missus submitting to Black Supremacy. Gotta say, son, it's a beautiful sight. Wasn't sure you had it in you."
"It was my honor, Sir," I conceded. "It was so rewarding to see my wife and son take their proper place before the Black Race."
"Yeah, about that," my master continued, "what's up with that other white fuck baby of yours that was so disrespectful to his superiors he couldn't even be bothered to kiss their feet?"
I lowered my gaze submissively. "I'm sorry, Master. We failed with Tommy, he's a disgrace. Recently, he started saying...the n-word, Sir. And he refuses to submit to Black Power. I'm so ashamed."
"You should be, piggy. What you going to do about the little piglet?"
"Well, Sir, he ran away from home this morning. He went to stay with a friend of his, real redneck racist scum, Sir. I basically told them that they were welcome to keep him. My wife agreed."
"That's probably for the best, piggy," Master Ahmed responded. "Having a little white fuck like that around would just distract you and the other piggies from serving me properly." His fist continued to jack that majestic prick of his; he would occasionally massage the glans of his cock head with his other hand, precum oozing from the piss slit. "How's it feel to see a real man work his joint, faggot, while your pathetic dink stays caged?"
"It's only proper, Sir."
"Fuckin' right, piggy!" Master Ahmed said. "Now, listen, I want you to tribute me until I cum. Start with $10, then keep doubling it every 60 seconds until I shoot. Understand, faggot?"
"Yes, yes, Sir!" I answered, opening my PayPal app. I tributed $10 immediately, keeping an eye on the clock as I watched this dominant young man leisurely stroke his magnificent slab of meat. "Been out on the street fighting so hard for the New World Order," he explained, "I ain't hardly hard time for no pussy this week. Got quite a load churning in these black balls of mine."
When a minute had passed, I typed $20 into PayPal and hit send. Master Ahmed began jacking himself using both fists, his cock so long that it filled both hands with extra left over. It was an amazing sight. When the third minute started, I doubled my tribute to $40, happy to give my money to the man who had come to dominate my life so effortlessly. My cock twitched, straining in its cage, aroused at both the vision of Master Ahmed stroking his meat and the willing emptying of my bank account.
I typed in $80 as we approached the fourth minute of Master Ahmed enjoying something that had become completely denied me. Sexual release was something enjoyed by real men; as a white wannabe cuckold loser, I had surrendered that right. As I typed in $160, Master Ahmed picked up his pace, jerking his black cock vigorously. I marveled at his stamina: I would have spewed my weak load after the first minute. As it was, my own little dink was leaking ejaculate through the bars of its cage like a broken faucet. As the sixth minute neared, I typed in $320, preparing to hit send just as Master Ahmed shot his voluminous load of thick, fertile sperm high in the air. It was an astounding vision.
His breathing ragged, Master Ahmed said, "You got that last tribute ready, piggy? Go ahead and send it. I deserve it." I obeyed, and watched the $320 drain from my account to his. Just like that, I had handed $630 over to this amazing man who had taken control of my entire life and my every thought. Far from upset or angry over the loss, I considered it an honor.
Master Ahmed leaned in close to the camera. "You are turning out to be a very good piggy," he told me. I beamed with pride, like a child receiving a congratulatory pat on the head. Being owned by a man like Master Ahmed was true white privilege, and I told him so. "There usually comes a time," he explained, "when even the most committed traitor to the white race will have second thoughts, stop tributing, try to cut contact. Most whites are cowardly and treacherous. Have you had any thoughts like that, son?"
I contemplated it for a minute, the road I had been traveling since meeting Master Ahmed: learning about white privilege and Black Supremacy, draining my bank account at his pleasure, submitting to black men and women at every opportunity, caging my cock in chastity, grooming my wife and children to serve the New World Order that was being created. "No, Master," I answered honestly. "I confess that it hasn't always been easy, that I sometimes have doubts, but, Sir...I am honored to live a life of service to the Black Race. I only hope that I can contribute in some small way to you taking your rightful place above us white devils."
"Good piggy. For a white boy, you demonstrate good sense. You seem to know your rightful place and aren't resisting it the way so many piggies do. But don't get too cocky, son: you're still a white, which makes you worthless and pathetic. Got it?"
"I do, Sir, I understand. Whiteness is a disease. Black cock is the cure."
"Got that right, piggy. And speaking of which, it's getting to be about time I dipped this black cock of mine in that fine white pussy of your wife's. We going to make that happen, son?"
"Oh, yes, Sir!" I answered with sincere enthusiasm. "Her pussy belongs to you, just like my wallet."
“That’s right, piggy. That is so fuckin’ right.”
