Over the next few weeks, Master Ahmed tweeted countless photos and videos of himself and my wife, Marisa, enjoying their summer in South Beach. They took a long term rental right on the water, a rental which I financed, of course, by making payments on Master Ahmed's credit card. One photo showed them relaxing by the pool with drinks, Master Ahmed in a black, red, and green swimsuit—the colors of the pan-African flag—Marisa in a skimpy white bikini, both of them grinning widely. The photo was captioned, "No baby bump...yet." Marisa might not have been showing, but they had confirmed she was pregnant with Master Ahmed's baby when they emailed me a photo of the home pregnancy test result. My wife was having another man's baby, a black man's baby, the baby of the man who had taken first financial and then full control of my life.
In the photo, I noticed what appeared to be a black splotch on Marisa's abdomen. Upon closer examination, I realized it was what is called a Queen of Spades tattoo, an indication that a woman is only interested in black men. I'm quite certain I must have paid for that, as well.
Other than these tweets, I had precious little contact with Master Ahmed during this period, and none from my wife. I knew better than to try to contact either one of them directly. About once a week, Master Ahmed would DM me, demanding a reparation payment. Although half of my paycheck was now being deposited directly into his account, he still expected me to make tribute to him via Paypal as a show of my subservience and good faith. I complied. Whatever free will I had once enjoyed had been permanently squashed. I was Marisa's cuckold and Master Ahmed's slave. I could not even jerk off when I sent tribute to my owner as I once had since he had my tiny prick locked in chastity in a cock cage. And the only keys were in his possession some one thousand miles away.
I hadn't yet told our sons Tommy and Wayne about Marisa's pregnancy. They were both following the racial justice movement closely, and their school had instituted a number of programs to ensure that privileged, young, white suburbanites like them learned of all the injustices white people had imposed upon people of color. I approved wholeheartedly of this new curriculum. Ten year old Tommy, in particular, had begun following the news closely, and thrilled at the sight of black people fighting for their rights against white oppression and police violence. He had come a long way from the selfish little piglet he had been. I was proud of him. Both boys knew that their mother had gone off protesting against the police on behalf of black people; they both admired Master Ahmed, looked up to him, but I wasn't sure how to inform them that they had a little black brother or sister on the way.
Then one afternoon, while I was vacuuming the living room among other household chores, Marisa walked into the living room. She wore a black leather Gucci skirt and a white tank top that revealed her midriff just enough to display the Queen of Spades tattoo beneath her navel. I imagined that she was already showing a slight baby bump, which was ridiculous: it was far too soon. Rather than greet me, she merely said, "My bags, piggy, they're in the town car. Get them. Oh, and tip the driver." I scurried outside without a word, flabbergasted by her unexpected and domineering presence.
A black sedan sat at the curb, a young, handsome black man behind the wheel. The trunk had been popped open. I removed two expensive black leather Coach bags. I fumbled for my wallet, but the driver merely reached out the window and took it from my grasp. He removed the hundred or so dollars it contained. "Thanks, cuck," he laughed, dropping my wallet in the gutter. "That wife of yours is one hot bitch. She rode right up front with me all the way from the airport, polishing my knob." He looked down, indicating his crotch; his fly was open, his large, heavy, flaccid cock and scrotum resting on the seat, still glistening with saliva and semen. He gave me a smirk as he raised the window and pulled away from the curb.
I retrieved my wallet and headed up the driveway with Marisa's luggage. I discovered my wife on the living room sofa, legs crossed, busy texting, sniggering quietly. Her dark hair was longer, with highlights added; her lips were fuller, pumped with collagen at Master Ahmed's direction. She looked up as I entered. "Oh, you can bring those up to the Master bedroom, piggy," she instructed. "I assume all your shit has been removed?"
I nodded. "Yes, Mistress."
I didn't know what else to say. This was not the same woman I had married; this was not even the same woman who had left a few weeks ago with Master Ahmed. As I hurried upstairs with her bags, I heard her call out, "And unpack everything, piggy!"
Marisa had always been a very practical, a very modest woman. As I emptied her luggage, I realized that had changed. Dramatically. She had a Dolce & Gabbana dress, Valentino sunglasses, Givenchy perfume, Prada shoes, Dior, Hermes, Versace, and many other high-end names. All of which, presumably, I would be financing as I paid down Master Ahmed's credit card bill. I had already dipped into our savings. These expenses would wipe them out. We would be living paycheck to paycheck, only half of which was eveb coming to me at this point, the rest going directly to Master Ahmed. I shuddered at the ruin my future had become.
I had already moved most of my clothing and belongings out of the Master bedroom and into the downstairs study, where I would be sleeping from now on. That left ample room for Marisa's new things. I wondered about Master Ahmed, where he was, if he would be taking my place in our marriage bed as he clearly had in my wife's affections and fidelity. I dare not broach the question with Marisa. If she wanted me to know, she would tell me. I had already been beaten once for impertinence when I presumed to video chat with my wife without Master Ahmed's permission. I would not make that mistake again, but I feared that there were many other pitfalls that I could not predict in my new circumstances.
I was just finishing up when I became aware of Marisa leaning in the doorway of the bedroom. "You haven't greeted Ahmed's brood, yet, piggy. Don't you think you should bow before the young King and show your submission and devotion, hmm?"
I knelt on the floor in front of my wife. "Young King? Does that mean...?"
"That it's a boy?" she commented. "No, it's still too soon to tell. But I have an intuition. After all, I have to rectify the race crime I committed by bringing two white piglets into the world. There is no better way for me to do that than to breed black, to bring more black Kings into the world." Marisa thrust her bare midriff toward me. "Kiss my swelling belly, piggy. Let him know that you'll worship him as you worship his father."
I planted a tender kiss on Marisa's stomach, just below her navel, near the edge of her new tattoo. "Do you like it," she teased. "The driver who picked me up at the airport did. That's how he knew I was exclusively black. That's why he asked me to ride up front with him. Our race has such a debt to pay to the black race. I pay reparations with my body, just like you pay with your labor. Isn't it beautiful?" I placed a hand over Marisa's baby bump, marveling that another man's child had taken root there. Just a few months ago, this turn of events would have been unthinkable. Now, it is what we both wanted.
As I knelt on the floor before her, Marisa said, "Speaking of the piglets, where are your sons? They aren't here?"
I shook my head. "Danny's father, Ron, took them to the park. They've been spending the days at Ron and Jill's house while I'm at work, uhm, earning for Master Ahmed. Ron and Danny sleep over here a lot."
"They do? Why?"
I explained Ron and Jill's situation as best I could: that Jill had several black teenage lovers, that Ron, like me, was a chaste cuckold to a woman who preferred black men. I left out the part about how Ron and I had been frequenting an adult store to suck black cocks at a glory hole like two insatiable fags. Marisa knew that I had sucked cock at Master Ahmed's instructions; she didn't yet know that servicing black cock was turning into an addiction for me as surely as it was for her.
"Huh," she mused, "Jill Murphy is a black cock slut. Good for her! And she has all those young, athletic, virile, black teenagers at her disposal. You know, piggy, I think I may need to get to know Danny's Mom a bit better. Now, get lost. I'm going to take a nap."
As I headed out of the room, Marisa called me back. "Don't forget this, piggy," she said, handing me a framed picture that I'd kept on the nightstand. It was a photo of me and her with our sons taken just last summer. "I have no need for this shit."
Obediently, I took the photo, and closed the door behind me. I found a place for it on the desk in my study, a fading reminder of the ****** I had sacrificed in my devotion to Black Supremacy. I sat at the desk and logged into my Twitter account. I casually perused Master Ahmed's tweets of the past few weeks, enthralled at the sight of him and my wife together, both sexually and romantically, photos and videos of Marisa's infidelity for all to see.
Suddenly, there was a DM from Master Ahmed.
"Hey, piggy," it read. "Is my baby mama back home, yet? What do you think of her baby bump? It must be Allah's will that she carry my black bastard, don't you think?"
"She's taking a nap right now, Sir," I informed him. "She looks more beautiful than ever. You've transformed her into a true bitch. Her new lips were made for sucking black cock. Her tattoo is perfect. I am so glad she is carrying your child."
"The first of many, piggy," Master Ahmed responded. "That wife of yours is still in her early thirties, pretty young. She's got some prime breeding years ahead of her. And I aim to take advantage of that. That house of yours is going to be teeming with my progeny! Ain't that great?"
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "It will be an honor, Sir!"
"It's just a shame," he went on, "that you have to waste any space or money or attention on those white piglets of yours, don't you think, piggy? Would have been a lot better for everyone if you'd just had them 'borted at the beginning, ain't that right, piggy?"
"It's very true, Sir," I assured him. "But Wayne, and even Tommy, have both become very supportive of the movement, Sir. They are teaching them all about racial justice and reparations in school. They've come a long way. I think they'll be great big brothers."
"Brothers?" I could hear the derision in Master Ahmed's chuckle. "Those white boys won't be no brothers of my offspring, piggy. Don't be stupid. Slaves, maybe. Servants, definitely. But brothers? No fuckin' way." He paused for a moment. "We considered having you send them off to live with their racist grandparents, piggy. But there is still a chance that they'll grow up and be of some use to the black race. So, you can keep 'em around...for now, at least."
"Thank you, Sir. Master...if I may ask you a question?"
"What is it, faggot?"
"Sir, it is a great honor to serve you and the black race."
"Of course it is."
"But, Sir, the amount of money you are taking, the bills I am paying, it is a lot, Sir. Beyond...beyond my means. It is wiping out my savings, my investments. I don't want to complain, but..."
"Then don't, piggy. That's your white privilege talking. White fucks like you think you deserve what you have, that you've earned it. All you've really done is build on the backs of my people. Ain’t that right, faggot?"
"Of course, Sir. I understand, Sir."
"You don't deserve anything you have, do you, piggy?"
"No, Sir, I don't. Of course, I don't. I'm sorry, Sir."
"Still...you know...there is one thing that might persuade me to reduce your burden, to consider your reparations paid."
"There is? What is that, Sir? I'd be happy to do anything!"
There was a pause before his answer appeared on my screen.
"Sign your house over to me, piggy. Your wife tells me that it's paid off. Sign it over to me and I'll free you from paying my bills. I'll let you have your full salary back. It'll free you up to raise my babies better. I want my forty acres, faggot! I want my mule, fucker!"
I couldn't believe what he was demanding. He already had my Cherokee, and I had no idea if or when I'd ever see it again. Our house was in a comfortable suburb, a nice neighborhood. It wasn't huge, but it was worth a fair amount of money, and had appreciated a good deal since we purchased it. To simply sign it over to this twenty-one year old kid would be madness. At the same time, he had already taken my wife, and knocked her up with his baby. Giving him our house seemed almost insignificant compared with that. I felt my flaccid cock strain against the stainless steel bars of its cage as it bloated full of blood in excitement. Just contemplating signing the house over to Master Ahmed had aroused me.
"Tell you what, piggy: you take a day or two to think it over. I'm going to be checking in on some of my other bitches and baby mamas. I'll be swinging by to see you next weekend. I'll want an answer before then, piggy. Give me your house free and clear, and I pass your obligations along to one of my other white boy cucks, make them pick up your slack."
He signed out without a goodbye. He had referred to other cucks, other baby mamas. He was only twenty-one, I marveled, how many kids could he possibly have? I sat at my desk quietly, unnerved by his demand, even more shaken that I was actually considering it, that I might willingly relinquish ownership of my own house to a near stranger in the name of racial justice, or even more, as an offering to Black Supremacy. Just a few months ago, that idea would have struck me as absurd; now it seemed in the realm of possibility, perhaps even likely.
I heard a car in the driveway, and peered out the window to see Ron pulling in with the boys. I went out to meet them.
"Hey, guys," I greeted them. "You can take Danny and play in the backyard, but don't make too much noise. Your mother is taking a nap. Okay?"
"Mom's home?" Tommy asked. "Is Ahmed with her?"
I shook my head. "She got home just a little while ago. She's alone, and she's tired, so keep the noise down."
"Cool!" Wayne cheered. "I missed Mommy! When can we see her?"
"You'll see her soon. Probably for dinner. Now, go on and play…quietly."
I remained in the driveway with Ron, leaning against his car. "So...the wife's home," he said.
“Yeah.”
“Pregnant?”
“Apparently,” I replied. It occurred to me that Ron was not just my confidant; he might very well be the last person in the world to actually give a damn about me. “Master Ahmed contacted me this afternoon.”
Ron looked worried. Perhaps he could tell from my tone that I was shaken. “What…what did he say?”
I looked at him imploringly, for guidance. “He wants the house, Ron. He wants me to sign over the house.” It was almost a relief saying it out loud. I made it seem less outlandish.
“Oh,” Ron said, nodding slowly. “Man. That’s a big step. But…”
I looked at him as he paused, ruminated. “But what?” I prodded.
“Well…you have to do it, buddy. You have to sign your house over to him.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I was floored.
“I do?”
“Yeah, man. I mean, you’ve already conceded that Black Supremacy is not just a sexual kink or fetish for you, right? At least not anymore. All the steps you’ve taken, signing over your salary, surrendering your wife without a fight, caging your cock…well, he owns you. Right? You can’t back out now. You’re on the right path. I envy you. I hope that one day, one of Jill’s men takes as complete control of me as Master Ahmed has of you.”
The way Ron phrased it, it was indeed quite simple. Giving Master Ahmed possession of my house, signing everything I had worked for over to a black man, was the logical progression of the path I was on. One of the ultimate goals of the Black New World Order that Master Ahmed advocated was a world in which white men owned no property. I would be among the first to make that commitment. I felt a great weight lift away from me as I thought of surrendering my right of ownership. Ron was right: it was beautiful, it was inevitable.
Later that night, after Ron and Danny had left, I was having dinner with Tommy and Wayne in the kitchen. Marisa appeared to still be napping. The boys inquired after their mother. “When’s Mom going to wake up?” they asked. “When’s Ahmed coming to visit?” I explained that she was exhausted from her trip and needed rest. They were excited and full of questions.
“Would it make you happy if I brought some presents back for you?” Marisa was standing in the doorway, a shopping bag in her hands. She had switched to more modest dress, jeans a black blouse. “Mommy!” the boys cried in unison, rushing to their mother. They threw their arms about her waist, Marisa patting them on their heads distantly, reservedly.
“What’d you bring us?” Wayne asked. “Presents!” Marisa handed them the bag and sat down at the table as they dug into it.
Tommy pulled out a t-shirt with a Black Power logo and a raised fist in the center. “Cool!” he said. Wayne had a smaller one in his size, with a pan-African flag and the words “The Future” printed on it. There were other things, as well: a pamphlet entitled, “The Black New World Order for white boys,” a coloring book of great figures of black history, a gold belt buckle in the shape of Africa, and more. “These are all from Ahmed and me,” Marisa explained. “We wanted to make sure you are committed to racial justice.”
Tommy nodded eagerly. “We are, Mom, we really are! I promise!” Wayne pulled a small gold rattle out of the bag. “Mom,” he laughed, “I’m too old for a rattle!”
Marisa took it from him with a smile. “Oh, don’t be silly, little piglet. This isn’t for you. This is for the baby, of course.”
“Baby,” Wayne looked baffled. “What baby?”
Marisa placed a hand proudly over her belly. “Why my baby, of course, the one I’m carrying in here.”
Tommy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re having a baby? We’re going to have a brother?”
“Or sister,” Marisa corrected him. “We don’t know yet. But whether it is a boy or a girl, the baby will be black…because Ahmed is the father.” Tommy looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, but I maintained a neutral expression, hoping it help him more easily assimilate the news.
Wayne continued looking at Marisa’s stomach. “There’s really a baby in there?” he asked. “How big is it?”
Marisa laughed. “Well, he’s really small right now, but he’ll grow bigger inside me until he’s ready to come out.” Marisa sat at the kitchen table. “Now, why don’t you run upstairs and try on your new shirts, so your father and I can talk.” Tommy and Wayne scurried upstairs, jabbering about being big brothers.
Marisa looked across the table at me. “So…you hadn’t told them about the baby.”
“I wasn’t sure how…I thought it might be best coming from the both of us,” I tried to explain. “They seemed to take it well…even that it is…”
Marisa gave me a frigid smirk. “That it is not your baby? That it is Ahmed’s baby? Yes, they did, didn’t they? Ahmed believes that on some primal level even boys as young as…your piglets…understand that the black race is superior. I hope he’s correct. It’s really quite beautiful when you think about it, an entire race willingly striving towards extinction. Just imagine it: all across the country, even the world, white men like yourself locking themselves up in chastity, giving their wives away to be bred by better men, sacrificing their savings and salaries to the black race. Could anything be more just?”
I marveled at how completely immersed in the philosophy of Black Supremacy she had become. “Speaking of which,” I cautiously broached, “I suppose you know that Master Ahmed wants us to sign over the house to him.”
“Of course I know,” she smiled broadly. “I think it’s a wonderful idea! None of his other cuck couples have taken such an extreme step. It would be a great honor to be the first, to ensure his future security by sacrificing our own.”
“I suppose you’re right. Master Ahmed says that I don’t deserve anything I have, that I only have it because I’m…white.”
“He’s right about that, piggy. You know that sooner or later, this is going to be the fate of all whites. Some will do it willingly, others will be forced by reparation laws, but it’s going to happen. Whites are on the way out. Your ******, your genes, they’re slated for extinction. The piglets will never reproduce. No self-respecting white girl would ever have them, not when they can be bred by a black king. Fully accepting Ahmed’s proprietorship of you now puts you ahead of the inevitable.”
Marisa was correct. This is the path I started on the second I answered Master Ahmed’s DM so many months ago. “You know,” I confided, “Ron wondered if whites like he and I, if everyone might just not be better off…killing ourselves….”
Marisa gave me a contemptuous sneer. “Oh, no,” she said. “Racist fucks like you don’t get away that easily. You have a lot to make up for. There are no easy outs, piggy. If or when the day comes when it is time to dispose of you, it will be Master Ahmed who decides. You are his property.”
I nodded my agreement. “Yes, that is pretty much what I told Ron myself.” I could no longer hold it in. “My God, Marisa…I mean, Mistress…you are so different. It’s amazing!”
“Ahmed really opened my eyes, piggy. To the power and beauty of the black race. And to the debt white women owe black men with our bodies, our pussies, and our wombs. And, of course, to the uselessness and treachery of white men. That I carried white piglets in a womb that should have been reserved for kings will be a source of eternal shame.” She stood. “But Ahmed has given me the opportunity to make up for my mistakes. I’m going to take a bath now. I hope you’ll call the bank tomorrow and make arrangements to transfer the house to Ahmed. He deserves no less.” With that she left me alone in the kitchen.
As I stood to clear the dishes, I noticed that Marisa had left something behind: on the table, in front of her seat, was a single key. It was the key to my cage. Was she offering me a choice? The opportunity to walk away from all of this, to forsake the commitment I had made to Master Ahmed? Or was she just offering me a single night of freedom, the chance to jerk a load that had been building up for weeks? It was a test, I was sure of it. But I didn’t understand what was being tested.
I pocketed the key, and went upstairs to check on the boys.
Wayne had fallen asleep on the lower bunk wearing his African flag t-shirt. He looked for all the world like an angelic little race traitor. Tommy sat at his desk, poring over the Black Power pamphlets his mother had brought for him. “***,” he whispered, turning my way, “it says here that white boys are better off without girlfriends, and that all girls will always like black boys better, anyway. Isn’t that cool? I mean, girls are kinda yucky, so it’s cool. I don’t care if I ever have a girlfriend. Black boys can have all the girls.”
I nodded approvingly, kneeling beside him. “It’s true, Tommy. Black boys will always be more exciting for white girls. It’s just the way things are.”
He looked at me seriously. “Is that why Mommy is having Ahmed’s baby?” he asked.
Tommy had come a long way from the spoiled, insolent piglet he had been before this wild, life-altering summer. “That’s exactly right, son. I hope you’re okay with that.”
“Oh, yeah,” he assured me. “It’ll be cool having a new baby in the house, especially a black one. But…will Mommy still…will she still love me? Me and Wayne?”
I thought about it for a moment, weighing my answer. “I’m sure she will, Tommy. But maybe not in the same way that she’ll love the new baby. It will need a lot of love and attention. Will you be okay with that?”
“Sure! I’m going to love the new baby, too! Uh…what about you? Will you love it even though it isn’t yours?”
“I love your mother, Tommy, so, yes, I will love the new baby with all my heart.” I stood, and gave him a hug. “I’m proud of you, son. You’ve grown up a lot. Now, just fifteen more minutes and then lights out, okay?”
“’K, ***,” he said. “And, ***: thanks.”
I hurried downstairs, eager to finally unlock my cock cage once I was in the study. For a moment, as I fumbled with the lock, I feared Marisa was tricked me by leaving the wrong key on the table. But after a moment, I succeeded in undoing the padlock and easing the cage off my flaccid dick. The sad thing had never looked so small and unresponsive, barely larger than Marisa’s distended clit. I massaged it gently for several moments, trying to bring it back to life.
I opened a file of interracial porn on my desktop, choosing one of my favorite gang bang scenes. I watched it for several minutes, playing with my dick, but with barely any response. I worried that the months of unrelieved caging had done it permanent damage. I tried a number of other interracial videos—oral, anal, lesbian—with no more success.
Then it occurred to me to open Master Ahmed’s Twitter page. I scrolled through videos of my wife slurping on his magnificent cock. At last, a response. I paused on a video of him assaulting a white man during the protests in Washington D.C., slugging him in the face, kicking him as he fell to the ground. My race traitor prick became fully turgid. I began stroking it.
That gave me another idea. I logged into my various financial accounts: my savings and checking accounts, my 401K, my PayPal, even my pay stubs. I viewed the history of money draining from them, going directly to Master Ahmed. My breath grew raspy as I jerked my tiny, white prick. This was it, this was what excited me now: watching my Master sex my wife and assault white strangers, sacrificing my hard-earned money for his benefit. I whimpered as I came, spraying more of my weak, white semen into the air than I think I’d ever produced before. I jerked off twice more that night—each load weaker and thinner, than the one before—certain that Marisa would demand the key back in the morning.
I wondered why she had allowed me the key in the first place. Then it struck me: she knew, Master Ahmed knew, how much my mind had been molded, that the sexual release would lead me to the proper resolve, the unavoidable answer.
I opened my DM. “Master,” I typed.
“It’s about time, faggot,” came the reply.
“I’m ready, Sir,” I responded. “I want to sign my house over to you.”
A full minute went by without an answer.
Then, simply: “Of course you do, piggy. Of course you do.”
Alongside the text, he had included a laughing emoji and a black power fist.
In the photo, I noticed what appeared to be a black splotch on Marisa's abdomen. Upon closer examination, I realized it was what is called a Queen of Spades tattoo, an indication that a woman is only interested in black men. I'm quite certain I must have paid for that, as well.
Other than these tweets, I had precious little contact with Master Ahmed during this period, and none from my wife. I knew better than to try to contact either one of them directly. About once a week, Master Ahmed would DM me, demanding a reparation payment. Although half of my paycheck was now being deposited directly into his account, he still expected me to make tribute to him via Paypal as a show of my subservience and good faith. I complied. Whatever free will I had once enjoyed had been permanently squashed. I was Marisa's cuckold and Master Ahmed's slave. I could not even jerk off when I sent tribute to my owner as I once had since he had my tiny prick locked in chastity in a cock cage. And the only keys were in his possession some one thousand miles away.
I hadn't yet told our sons Tommy and Wayne about Marisa's pregnancy. They were both following the racial justice movement closely, and their school had instituted a number of programs to ensure that privileged, young, white suburbanites like them learned of all the injustices white people had imposed upon people of color. I approved wholeheartedly of this new curriculum. Ten year old Tommy, in particular, had begun following the news closely, and thrilled at the sight of black people fighting for their rights against white oppression and police violence. He had come a long way from the selfish little piglet he had been. I was proud of him. Both boys knew that their mother had gone off protesting against the police on behalf of black people; they both admired Master Ahmed, looked up to him, but I wasn't sure how to inform them that they had a little black brother or sister on the way.
Then one afternoon, while I was vacuuming the living room among other household chores, Marisa walked into the living room. She wore a black leather Gucci skirt and a white tank top that revealed her midriff just enough to display the Queen of Spades tattoo beneath her navel. I imagined that she was already showing a slight baby bump, which was ridiculous: it was far too soon. Rather than greet me, she merely said, "My bags, piggy, they're in the town car. Get them. Oh, and tip the driver." I scurried outside without a word, flabbergasted by her unexpected and domineering presence.
A black sedan sat at the curb, a young, handsome black man behind the wheel. The trunk had been popped open. I removed two expensive black leather Coach bags. I fumbled for my wallet, but the driver merely reached out the window and took it from my grasp. He removed the hundred or so dollars it contained. "Thanks, cuck," he laughed, dropping my wallet in the gutter. "That wife of yours is one hot bitch. She rode right up front with me all the way from the airport, polishing my knob." He looked down, indicating his crotch; his fly was open, his large, heavy, flaccid cock and scrotum resting on the seat, still glistening with saliva and semen. He gave me a smirk as he raised the window and pulled away from the curb.
I retrieved my wallet and headed up the driveway with Marisa's luggage. I discovered my wife on the living room sofa, legs crossed, busy texting, sniggering quietly. Her dark hair was longer, with highlights added; her lips were fuller, pumped with collagen at Master Ahmed's direction. She looked up as I entered. "Oh, you can bring those up to the Master bedroom, piggy," she instructed. "I assume all your shit has been removed?"
I nodded. "Yes, Mistress."
I didn't know what else to say. This was not the same woman I had married; this was not even the same woman who had left a few weeks ago with Master Ahmed. As I hurried upstairs with her bags, I heard her call out, "And unpack everything, piggy!"
Marisa had always been a very practical, a very modest woman. As I emptied her luggage, I realized that had changed. Dramatically. She had a Dolce & Gabbana dress, Valentino sunglasses, Givenchy perfume, Prada shoes, Dior, Hermes, Versace, and many other high-end names. All of which, presumably, I would be financing as I paid down Master Ahmed's credit card bill. I had already dipped into our savings. These expenses would wipe them out. We would be living paycheck to paycheck, only half of which was eveb coming to me at this point, the rest going directly to Master Ahmed. I shuddered at the ruin my future had become.
I had already moved most of my clothing and belongings out of the Master bedroom and into the downstairs study, where I would be sleeping from now on. That left ample room for Marisa's new things. I wondered about Master Ahmed, where he was, if he would be taking my place in our marriage bed as he clearly had in my wife's affections and fidelity. I dare not broach the question with Marisa. If she wanted me to know, she would tell me. I had already been beaten once for impertinence when I presumed to video chat with my wife without Master Ahmed's permission. I would not make that mistake again, but I feared that there were many other pitfalls that I could not predict in my new circumstances.
I was just finishing up when I became aware of Marisa leaning in the doorway of the bedroom. "You haven't greeted Ahmed's brood, yet, piggy. Don't you think you should bow before the young King and show your submission and devotion, hmm?"
I knelt on the floor in front of my wife. "Young King? Does that mean...?"
"That it's a boy?" she commented. "No, it's still too soon to tell. But I have an intuition. After all, I have to rectify the race crime I committed by bringing two white piglets into the world. There is no better way for me to do that than to breed black, to bring more black Kings into the world." Marisa thrust her bare midriff toward me. "Kiss my swelling belly, piggy. Let him know that you'll worship him as you worship his father."
I planted a tender kiss on Marisa's stomach, just below her navel, near the edge of her new tattoo. "Do you like it," she teased. "The driver who picked me up at the airport did. That's how he knew I was exclusively black. That's why he asked me to ride up front with him. Our race has such a debt to pay to the black race. I pay reparations with my body, just like you pay with your labor. Isn't it beautiful?" I placed a hand over Marisa's baby bump, marveling that another man's child had taken root there. Just a few months ago, this turn of events would have been unthinkable. Now, it is what we both wanted.
As I knelt on the floor before her, Marisa said, "Speaking of the piglets, where are your sons? They aren't here?"
I shook my head. "Danny's father, Ron, took them to the park. They've been spending the days at Ron and Jill's house while I'm at work, uhm, earning for Master Ahmed. Ron and Danny sleep over here a lot."
"They do? Why?"
I explained Ron and Jill's situation as best I could: that Jill had several black teenage lovers, that Ron, like me, was a chaste cuckold to a woman who preferred black men. I left out the part about how Ron and I had been frequenting an adult store to suck black cocks at a glory hole like two insatiable fags. Marisa knew that I had sucked cock at Master Ahmed's instructions; she didn't yet know that servicing black cock was turning into an addiction for me as surely as it was for her.
"Huh," she mused, "Jill Murphy is a black cock slut. Good for her! And she has all those young, athletic, virile, black teenagers at her disposal. You know, piggy, I think I may need to get to know Danny's Mom a bit better. Now, get lost. I'm going to take a nap."
As I headed out of the room, Marisa called me back. "Don't forget this, piggy," she said, handing me a framed picture that I'd kept on the nightstand. It was a photo of me and her with our sons taken just last summer. "I have no need for this shit."
Obediently, I took the photo, and closed the door behind me. I found a place for it on the desk in my study, a fading reminder of the ****** I had sacrificed in my devotion to Black Supremacy. I sat at the desk and logged into my Twitter account. I casually perused Master Ahmed's tweets of the past few weeks, enthralled at the sight of him and my wife together, both sexually and romantically, photos and videos of Marisa's infidelity for all to see.
Suddenly, there was a DM from Master Ahmed.
"Hey, piggy," it read. "Is my baby mama back home, yet? What do you think of her baby bump? It must be Allah's will that she carry my black bastard, don't you think?"
"She's taking a nap right now, Sir," I informed him. "She looks more beautiful than ever. You've transformed her into a true bitch. Her new lips were made for sucking black cock. Her tattoo is perfect. I am so glad she is carrying your child."
"The first of many, piggy," Master Ahmed responded. "That wife of yours is still in her early thirties, pretty young. She's got some prime breeding years ahead of her. And I aim to take advantage of that. That house of yours is going to be teeming with my progeny! Ain't that great?"
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "It will be an honor, Sir!"
"It's just a shame," he went on, "that you have to waste any space or money or attention on those white piglets of yours, don't you think, piggy? Would have been a lot better for everyone if you'd just had them 'borted at the beginning, ain't that right, piggy?"
"It's very true, Sir," I assured him. "But Wayne, and even Tommy, have both become very supportive of the movement, Sir. They are teaching them all about racial justice and reparations in school. They've come a long way. I think they'll be great big brothers."
"Brothers?" I could hear the derision in Master Ahmed's chuckle. "Those white boys won't be no brothers of my offspring, piggy. Don't be stupid. Slaves, maybe. Servants, definitely. But brothers? No fuckin' way." He paused for a moment. "We considered having you send them off to live with their racist grandparents, piggy. But there is still a chance that they'll grow up and be of some use to the black race. So, you can keep 'em around...for now, at least."
"Thank you, Sir. Master...if I may ask you a question?"
"What is it, faggot?"
"Sir, it is a great honor to serve you and the black race."
"Of course it is."
"But, Sir, the amount of money you are taking, the bills I am paying, it is a lot, Sir. Beyond...beyond my means. It is wiping out my savings, my investments. I don't want to complain, but..."
"Then don't, piggy. That's your white privilege talking. White fucks like you think you deserve what you have, that you've earned it. All you've really done is build on the backs of my people. Ain’t that right, faggot?"
"Of course, Sir. I understand, Sir."
"You don't deserve anything you have, do you, piggy?"
"No, Sir, I don't. Of course, I don't. I'm sorry, Sir."
"Still...you know...there is one thing that might persuade me to reduce your burden, to consider your reparations paid."
"There is? What is that, Sir? I'd be happy to do anything!"
There was a pause before his answer appeared on my screen.
"Sign your house over to me, piggy. Your wife tells me that it's paid off. Sign it over to me and I'll free you from paying my bills. I'll let you have your full salary back. It'll free you up to raise my babies better. I want my forty acres, faggot! I want my mule, fucker!"
I couldn't believe what he was demanding. He already had my Cherokee, and I had no idea if or when I'd ever see it again. Our house was in a comfortable suburb, a nice neighborhood. It wasn't huge, but it was worth a fair amount of money, and had appreciated a good deal since we purchased it. To simply sign it over to this twenty-one year old kid would be madness. At the same time, he had already taken my wife, and knocked her up with his baby. Giving him our house seemed almost insignificant compared with that. I felt my flaccid cock strain against the stainless steel bars of its cage as it bloated full of blood in excitement. Just contemplating signing the house over to Master Ahmed had aroused me.
"Tell you what, piggy: you take a day or two to think it over. I'm going to be checking in on some of my other bitches and baby mamas. I'll be swinging by to see you next weekend. I'll want an answer before then, piggy. Give me your house free and clear, and I pass your obligations along to one of my other white boy cucks, make them pick up your slack."
He signed out without a goodbye. He had referred to other cucks, other baby mamas. He was only twenty-one, I marveled, how many kids could he possibly have? I sat at my desk quietly, unnerved by his demand, even more shaken that I was actually considering it, that I might willingly relinquish ownership of my own house to a near stranger in the name of racial justice, or even more, as an offering to Black Supremacy. Just a few months ago, that idea would have struck me as absurd; now it seemed in the realm of possibility, perhaps even likely.
I heard a car in the driveway, and peered out the window to see Ron pulling in with the boys. I went out to meet them.
"Hey, guys," I greeted them. "You can take Danny and play in the backyard, but don't make too much noise. Your mother is taking a nap. Okay?"
"Mom's home?" Tommy asked. "Is Ahmed with her?"
I shook my head. "She got home just a little while ago. She's alone, and she's tired, so keep the noise down."
"Cool!" Wayne cheered. "I missed Mommy! When can we see her?"
"You'll see her soon. Probably for dinner. Now, go on and play…quietly."
I remained in the driveway with Ron, leaning against his car. "So...the wife's home," he said.
“Yeah.”
“Pregnant?”
“Apparently,” I replied. It occurred to me that Ron was not just my confidant; he might very well be the last person in the world to actually give a damn about me. “Master Ahmed contacted me this afternoon.”
Ron looked worried. Perhaps he could tell from my tone that I was shaken. “What…what did he say?”
I looked at him imploringly, for guidance. “He wants the house, Ron. He wants me to sign over the house.” It was almost a relief saying it out loud. I made it seem less outlandish.
“Oh,” Ron said, nodding slowly. “Man. That’s a big step. But…”
I looked at him as he paused, ruminated. “But what?” I prodded.
“Well…you have to do it, buddy. You have to sign your house over to him.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I was floored.
“I do?”
“Yeah, man. I mean, you’ve already conceded that Black Supremacy is not just a sexual kink or fetish for you, right? At least not anymore. All the steps you’ve taken, signing over your salary, surrendering your wife without a fight, caging your cock…well, he owns you. Right? You can’t back out now. You’re on the right path. I envy you. I hope that one day, one of Jill’s men takes as complete control of me as Master Ahmed has of you.”
The way Ron phrased it, it was indeed quite simple. Giving Master Ahmed possession of my house, signing everything I had worked for over to a black man, was the logical progression of the path I was on. One of the ultimate goals of the Black New World Order that Master Ahmed advocated was a world in which white men owned no property. I would be among the first to make that commitment. I felt a great weight lift away from me as I thought of surrendering my right of ownership. Ron was right: it was beautiful, it was inevitable.
Later that night, after Ron and Danny had left, I was having dinner with Tommy and Wayne in the kitchen. Marisa appeared to still be napping. The boys inquired after their mother. “When’s Mom going to wake up?” they asked. “When’s Ahmed coming to visit?” I explained that she was exhausted from her trip and needed rest. They were excited and full of questions.
“Would it make you happy if I brought some presents back for you?” Marisa was standing in the doorway, a shopping bag in her hands. She had switched to more modest dress, jeans a black blouse. “Mommy!” the boys cried in unison, rushing to their mother. They threw their arms about her waist, Marisa patting them on their heads distantly, reservedly.
“What’d you bring us?” Wayne asked. “Presents!” Marisa handed them the bag and sat down at the table as they dug into it.
Tommy pulled out a t-shirt with a Black Power logo and a raised fist in the center. “Cool!” he said. Wayne had a smaller one in his size, with a pan-African flag and the words “The Future” printed on it. There were other things, as well: a pamphlet entitled, “The Black New World Order for white boys,” a coloring book of great figures of black history, a gold belt buckle in the shape of Africa, and more. “These are all from Ahmed and me,” Marisa explained. “We wanted to make sure you are committed to racial justice.”
Tommy nodded eagerly. “We are, Mom, we really are! I promise!” Wayne pulled a small gold rattle out of the bag. “Mom,” he laughed, “I’m too old for a rattle!”
Marisa took it from him with a smile. “Oh, don’t be silly, little piglet. This isn’t for you. This is for the baby, of course.”
“Baby,” Wayne looked baffled. “What baby?”
Marisa placed a hand proudly over her belly. “Why my baby, of course, the one I’m carrying in here.”
Tommy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re having a baby? We’re going to have a brother?”
“Or sister,” Marisa corrected him. “We don’t know yet. But whether it is a boy or a girl, the baby will be black…because Ahmed is the father.” Tommy looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, but I maintained a neutral expression, hoping it help him more easily assimilate the news.
Wayne continued looking at Marisa’s stomach. “There’s really a baby in there?” he asked. “How big is it?”
Marisa laughed. “Well, he’s really small right now, but he’ll grow bigger inside me until he’s ready to come out.” Marisa sat at the kitchen table. “Now, why don’t you run upstairs and try on your new shirts, so your father and I can talk.” Tommy and Wayne scurried upstairs, jabbering about being big brothers.
Marisa looked across the table at me. “So…you hadn’t told them about the baby.”
“I wasn’t sure how…I thought it might be best coming from the both of us,” I tried to explain. “They seemed to take it well…even that it is…”
Marisa gave me a frigid smirk. “That it is not your baby? That it is Ahmed’s baby? Yes, they did, didn’t they? Ahmed believes that on some primal level even boys as young as…your piglets…understand that the black race is superior. I hope he’s correct. It’s really quite beautiful when you think about it, an entire race willingly striving towards extinction. Just imagine it: all across the country, even the world, white men like yourself locking themselves up in chastity, giving their wives away to be bred by better men, sacrificing their savings and salaries to the black race. Could anything be more just?”
I marveled at how completely immersed in the philosophy of Black Supremacy she had become. “Speaking of which,” I cautiously broached, “I suppose you know that Master Ahmed wants us to sign over the house to him.”
“Of course I know,” she smiled broadly. “I think it’s a wonderful idea! None of his other cuck couples have taken such an extreme step. It would be a great honor to be the first, to ensure his future security by sacrificing our own.”
“I suppose you’re right. Master Ahmed says that I don’t deserve anything I have, that I only have it because I’m…white.”
“He’s right about that, piggy. You know that sooner or later, this is going to be the fate of all whites. Some will do it willingly, others will be forced by reparation laws, but it’s going to happen. Whites are on the way out. Your ******, your genes, they’re slated for extinction. The piglets will never reproduce. No self-respecting white girl would ever have them, not when they can be bred by a black king. Fully accepting Ahmed’s proprietorship of you now puts you ahead of the inevitable.”
Marisa was correct. This is the path I started on the second I answered Master Ahmed’s DM so many months ago. “You know,” I confided, “Ron wondered if whites like he and I, if everyone might just not be better off…killing ourselves….”
Marisa gave me a contemptuous sneer. “Oh, no,” she said. “Racist fucks like you don’t get away that easily. You have a lot to make up for. There are no easy outs, piggy. If or when the day comes when it is time to dispose of you, it will be Master Ahmed who decides. You are his property.”
I nodded my agreement. “Yes, that is pretty much what I told Ron myself.” I could no longer hold it in. “My God, Marisa…I mean, Mistress…you are so different. It’s amazing!”
“Ahmed really opened my eyes, piggy. To the power and beauty of the black race. And to the debt white women owe black men with our bodies, our pussies, and our wombs. And, of course, to the uselessness and treachery of white men. That I carried white piglets in a womb that should have been reserved for kings will be a source of eternal shame.” She stood. “But Ahmed has given me the opportunity to make up for my mistakes. I’m going to take a bath now. I hope you’ll call the bank tomorrow and make arrangements to transfer the house to Ahmed. He deserves no less.” With that she left me alone in the kitchen.
As I stood to clear the dishes, I noticed that Marisa had left something behind: on the table, in front of her seat, was a single key. It was the key to my cage. Was she offering me a choice? The opportunity to walk away from all of this, to forsake the commitment I had made to Master Ahmed? Or was she just offering me a single night of freedom, the chance to jerk a load that had been building up for weeks? It was a test, I was sure of it. But I didn’t understand what was being tested.
I pocketed the key, and went upstairs to check on the boys.
Wayne had fallen asleep on the lower bunk wearing his African flag t-shirt. He looked for all the world like an angelic little race traitor. Tommy sat at his desk, poring over the Black Power pamphlets his mother had brought for him. “***,” he whispered, turning my way, “it says here that white boys are better off without girlfriends, and that all girls will always like black boys better, anyway. Isn’t that cool? I mean, girls are kinda yucky, so it’s cool. I don’t care if I ever have a girlfriend. Black boys can have all the girls.”
I nodded approvingly, kneeling beside him. “It’s true, Tommy. Black boys will always be more exciting for white girls. It’s just the way things are.”
He looked at me seriously. “Is that why Mommy is having Ahmed’s baby?” he asked.
Tommy had come a long way from the spoiled, insolent piglet he had been before this wild, life-altering summer. “That’s exactly right, son. I hope you’re okay with that.”
“Oh, yeah,” he assured me. “It’ll be cool having a new baby in the house, especially a black one. But…will Mommy still…will she still love me? Me and Wayne?”
I thought about it for a moment, weighing my answer. “I’m sure she will, Tommy. But maybe not in the same way that she’ll love the new baby. It will need a lot of love and attention. Will you be okay with that?”
“Sure! I’m going to love the new baby, too! Uh…what about you? Will you love it even though it isn’t yours?”
“I love your mother, Tommy, so, yes, I will love the new baby with all my heart.” I stood, and gave him a hug. “I’m proud of you, son. You’ve grown up a lot. Now, just fifteen more minutes and then lights out, okay?”
“’K, ***,” he said. “And, ***: thanks.”
I hurried downstairs, eager to finally unlock my cock cage once I was in the study. For a moment, as I fumbled with the lock, I feared Marisa was tricked me by leaving the wrong key on the table. But after a moment, I succeeded in undoing the padlock and easing the cage off my flaccid dick. The sad thing had never looked so small and unresponsive, barely larger than Marisa’s distended clit. I massaged it gently for several moments, trying to bring it back to life.
I opened a file of interracial porn on my desktop, choosing one of my favorite gang bang scenes. I watched it for several minutes, playing with my dick, but with barely any response. I worried that the months of unrelieved caging had done it permanent damage. I tried a number of other interracial videos—oral, anal, lesbian—with no more success.
Then it occurred to me to open Master Ahmed’s Twitter page. I scrolled through videos of my wife slurping on his magnificent cock. At last, a response. I paused on a video of him assaulting a white man during the protests in Washington D.C., slugging him in the face, kicking him as he fell to the ground. My race traitor prick became fully turgid. I began stroking it.
That gave me another idea. I logged into my various financial accounts: my savings and checking accounts, my 401K, my PayPal, even my pay stubs. I viewed the history of money draining from them, going directly to Master Ahmed. My breath grew raspy as I jerked my tiny, white prick. This was it, this was what excited me now: watching my Master sex my wife and assault white strangers, sacrificing my hard-earned money for his benefit. I whimpered as I came, spraying more of my weak, white semen into the air than I think I’d ever produced before. I jerked off twice more that night—each load weaker and thinner, than the one before—certain that Marisa would demand the key back in the morning.
I wondered why she had allowed me the key in the first place. Then it struck me: she knew, Master Ahmed knew, how much my mind had been molded, that the sexual release would lead me to the proper resolve, the unavoidable answer.
I opened my DM. “Master,” I typed.
“It’s about time, faggot,” came the reply.
“I’m ready, Sir,” I responded. “I want to sign my house over to you.”
A full minute went by without an answer.
Then, simply: “Of course you do, piggy. Of course you do.”
Alongside the text, he had included a laughing emoji and a black power fist.
