The DM on my Twitter feed read simply, "Do you support Black Supremacy?"
A moment of panic took hold of me. It was only recently that I had discovered the extent of interracial porn and black power advocacy on Twitter. I had gone so far as to create an anonymous profile in order to explore some of these tweets discretely, a profile separate and distinct from the one I use to follow professional and political news. There were clips of black men with enormous members, jacking off, fucking white women, ejaculating. There were memes advocating something called the BNWO, which I learned referred to the belief, real or fanciful, in a future Black New World Order. There were black men, Masters, who demanded reparations in the form of tributes, payments they accepted via Paypal or CashApp or Amazon gift cards. There were even some who pushed the idea of a white ******** and extinction. It was all very bewildering. And a lot of it very...arousing.
My wife, Marisa, knew nothing about my interest in interracial porn. I usually worked in my study after she and the kids had turned in for the night, accessing my Blacked.com account at my desktop, with a bottle of hand lotion I kept at the ready in my desk. It was some casual googling that led me to this dark underbelly of Twitter that I'd never even imagined.
I clicked on the DM.
It was from somebody called Master Ahmed. His account, however, was invisible to me unless he deigned to grant me access. His visible bio described him as a "twenty-one year old straight Black Muslim Master," who accepted "reparations and devotion from white betas and pussy from white sluts." Nervously, I typed in reply, "New to this, sir, but, yes, I think I do support black supremacy," and waited for an answer. In the meantime, I opened a new window, accessing one of my porn accounts, and became quickly engaged in an interracial gang bang video: a petite blonde at the mercy of eight black men, all endowed with cocks that made mine look like that of grade-schooler. I squeezed a generous helping of lotion onto my right hand, and began stroking my circumcised cock.
Although I have never had a sexual encounter with another man, and have always considered myself decidedly straight, the sight of those thick, brown truncheons dangling between the legs of the muscular performers, fascinated me. I paid scant attention to the young woman, her lithe build, her firm, rounded breasts, her fleshy ass. It was the men and their members that enthralled me. As I jacked my cock, I could not help but wonder, as I had so often recently, what it would be like to engulf one of those foot long cocks in my mouth. Not the expected pondering of a thirty-five year old supposedly-straight ****** man, but that's where my fascination with interracial sex had taken me. As I beat my small dick, a chime indicated that I had a new message. Without even a pause in my cock stroking, I switched back to my Twitter screen. Master Ahmed was online and had replied.
"How do you support the Truth of Black Supremacy, boy?" his message read. "Be fuckin' specific."
I didn't know how to answer. As near-obsessed as I'd become with interracial porn, the thought of actual black supremacy was new to me and I couldn't really begin to imagine what it entailed. I stopped stroking myself as I attempted to compose an honest reply.
"Well, I enjoy Blacked.com, sir," I explained. "I think it’s hot watching black men have sex with white girls."
"First off, whitey, you need to always capitalize anything that refers to your Black Superiors: the word Black, for example, or Black Supremacy. Also, while your instinct to call me Sir is natural, you do need to capitalize anything that refers to me, specifically: Sir, Master, Boss. Got it, piggy?"
"Yes, Sir!" I replied. In just a couple of lines, this black stranger, more than a decade my junior, had referred to me as boy, whitey, and piggy. My cock throbbed, excited by the derision.
"Second of all: it is good and right that you watch white whores dominated by Black Kings, but I don't give much of a shit what gets you off. My question was: how the fuck do you support Black Supremacy? Don't make me repeat myself again or this conversation is over."
"I'm sorry, Sir! Please forgive me for being so stupid."
"I don't expect much better, boy: you're white, after all."
"This is all new to me, Sir. I have to be honest: as much as I admire and...envy...Black Men, I had never thought about racial supremacy of any kind. But I can admit that it intrigues me. And...excites me."
"Admiration and envy make a good starting place, son. Have you ever tributed a Black King, faggot?"
"No, Sir. Until recently, I honestly did not even know such things happened."
"You're a stupid fag, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid I am, Sir."
"Do you have a Paypal account, piggy?"
"Yes, Sir. I do, Sir."
"There is a link in my profile, piggy. Click on it. Tribute me $50 right now via Paypal. You have one minute. Do that, and we can continue your lessons about Black Supremacy. Otherwise, get the fuck out of my DMs!"
I balked at the thought of our chat coming to an end. I clicked on the direct link to his Paypal account. With almost trembling fingers, I typed 50.00 in the send box. I hesitated before completing the transaction. Had it been a minute, yet? Had he already moved on. Shit, I couldn't help myself; I had to know how this would all play out. I hit send, and felt an unexpected sexual rush as the money left my account for his.
Master Ahmed's reply read simply, "Good, piggy."
Instinctively, I answered him, "Thank you, Sir, for accepting tribute from me."
"Just taking what is owed me, cracker. I am granting you access to my Twitter feed now. I want you to study it, think about what you see. Consider it a tutorial on Black Supremacy. Be back here at this time tomorrow. Your education will begin. But keep in mind: education costs, and tuition runs high. I will expect you to have additional tribute prepared."
Once he signed off, I delved deep into his Twitter account. Pinned to the top of his page was a GIF of an erect cock, dark brown and spider-webbed with thick veins. It oozed pre-ejaculate. Was it his, I wondered and hoped. It was a thing of beauty.
His page consisted of countless memes about Black Supremacy, of course, but also about white extinction and white ********, concepts that both alarmed and excited me. There were photos and videos of Black Men groping, kissing, and fucking white women; there were photos of white men comparing their minuscule penises with the proud erections of Black Kings; there were white cuckolds, some in cock cages being laughed at by women, others jacking off as they watched their girlfriends or wives fucked by Black Men. There were also retweets and links to scholarly articles, academic pieces about the crimes the white race had perpetrated on Africans, about the natural physical, moral, and intellectual superiority of the black race, about how a decline in the white birth rate promised a white-free future. It was sobering stuff. It engaged me both intellectually and sexually. I confessed to myself that I recognized this itch for racial extinction in myself, in my growing interest in interracial porn.
I went to bed that night without even jerking off. I lay next to my wife, Marisa, my cock erect as I recalled what it felt like to tribute $50 to Master Ahmed, the rush of surrendering power and control to another man. I envisioned a world like the one imagined in his tweets, one in which white men were replaced by stronger, more virile black men, finally getting their due after centuries of oppression and indignity. I fantasized that a man like Master Ahmed invaded my marriage bed, and took my wife, fucked her, bred her, with his enormous black cock, in ways that I could never hope to. I pressed my erection against my wife's rounded ass, but she just sleepily brushed me away, mumbling, "Not now, s'late..." Her rejection of sex only made my cock throb more, and I fell asleep with aching, denied balls.
I awoke several hours later to the usual morning chaos, as Marisa struggled to get the boys ready for school, preparing their lunches, frowning at their squabbling. As I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, she teased me, "Good morning, sleepy head. I thought I was going to have to toss a glass of water in your face to wake you, you were out cold."
I grinned sheepishly. "Went to bed way too late last night, sorry, trying to get caught up the quarterlies," I explained away my sluggishness.
Our sons, ten-year old Tommy and eight-year old Wayne, argued tirelessly about Minecraft. As they quarreled back and forth, I tried to erase from my mind the memory of Master Ahmed's tweets about how shameful and irresponsible it was to bring white boys into a world that is quickly leaving them behind. He strongly advocated abstinence for white males, and abortion when mistakes occurred. Here I was, at my ****** table having breakfast, thinking of my own sons as mistakes. I tried to clear my head, but felt my penis grow plump with blood at the thought that my sons were an evolutionary dead end, that they would grow-up to be like me: pitiful, inadequate, irrelevant. I thought of my quarterly reports as I tried to force my erection away, shoveling cheerios into my mouth.
Marisa dropped me off at the commuter station, where I caught the train into the city for work; she would drop our sons off at school before heading home. The boys continued blabbering about video games in the backseat, not even sparing me a good-bye as I pecked their mother on the cheek and dashed for my train. I heard Marisa snap at them to be quiet as she pulled away from the curb. I was flushed with unease as I contemplated the very privilege my sons took for granted--their video games, their suburban school, their extracurricular activities--exactly the sort of white privilege that many of Master Ahmed's tweets railed against.
As usual, the morning train was crowded. As I was about to take an aisle seat, I noticed a young, bearded African-American man in a rather nice suit. On impulse, I motioned for him to take the seat. He looked momentarily surprised, probably unused to white men ten years his senior, giving up anything for him. He nodded his thanks, and took the seat, while I moved to the rear of the train, where there was standing room only. It occurred to me that I was instinctively doing things that I hoped would please Master Ahmed. I closed my eyes and shook my head: this was just nuts. I had simply exchanged a couple of messages with a stranger on-line, and now I was doing things that I hoped would win his approval.
As I ordered coffee across the street from my office building, I noticed a young African-American couple in line behind me. Again, on impulse, I mentioned to the barista that I would like to cover their drinks as well. The couple thanked me, but explained they planned on ordering pastries as well as drinks. "No worry, Sir," I said. "Please, it's all on me. Just paying it forward, as they say." They thanked me as the cashier rang up the almost $20 order. Again, I experienced a strange rush sacrificing for black people I didn't even know. I understood how this could become addictive.
My day proceeded as usual as I caught up on a lot of the work that I didn't do at home because I was busy jacking myself silly to interracial porn. But at every opportunity, I found myself deferring to African-Americans whenever possible. On the elevator, I made certain to ask a black man what floor he'd like me to press. When passing a black co-worker in the hallway, I moved to the side, allowing him to proceed down the center. All these little things were adding up to something, but I still wasn't sure what. I only knew that I was eager to relate these experiences to Master Ahmed, and hoped he would approve.
****** dinner that evening went by in a blur. The boys were acting up, as usual, refusing to finish the pasta that Marisa had prepared because it had broccoli mixed in it. They whined and argued and demonstrated what overly privileged little snots they were, taking everything they had for granted because they were...say it, I thought to myself...because they were white. And Christian. And middle-class. And American. Were I a more of a man, more of a father, I would have disciplined them, but I remained silent, picking at my meal as Marisa scolded and cajoled them into finishing at least the parts of the meal they did like, the sausage and garlic bread. I was growing increasingly contemptuous of my own young sons, finding their squabbling and their presumptuousness simply maddening, thinking of those things as an inevitable outgrowth of their white privilege.
After the boys had gone to bed, Marisa and I sat on the sofa and watched some mindless comedy about overly privileged white people who lived in inexplicably large Manhattan apartments despite never seeming to have to work. Marisa rested her head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry about last night," she said out of nowhere. "I had a tough day with the boys. Just wasn't in the mood, I guess, wiped out."
I shrugged. "It's okay, I understand. Neither of us seems to have much time lately. And I've got just...so much work. I should probably put in a bit more time tonight if I'm going to get caught up by the weekend."
Marisa ruffled my hair, much the way she might have one of the boys. "Alright. Don't come to bed too late. You really haven't been getting enough sleep lately."
As I headed to my home office, I looked back at her and asked, "Hon. Do you ever think, do you ever wonder if..."
She looked up at me from the inane sitcom. "Hmm, do I ever, what?"
I shook my head. "Never mind. Good night."
In my office, I poured myself a whiskey neat as I logged on to my desktop. As I perused the Blacked.com menu, it occurred to me that I usually selected videos that featured women that most resembled Marisa: lean-bodied, wide-hipped, short, dark hair. How strange that had never struck me before; and, yet, on some subconscious level, I must have been fantasizing about my wife of twelve years having sex with other men, with thickly-muscled, large-dicked, dominant black men, every bit as much as I thought about holding, stroking, even sucking those dicks myself. My cock grew rigid as I pursued this line of thought, even as I struggled to understand my desires. Was I a wannabe cuckold or a wannabe fag? Did I hope to witness Marisa being blacked? Or myself?
My computer pinged, indicating a DM in my Twitter feed. I took a deep gulp of the whiskey and opened my messages.
"Faggot. You there?"
It was Master Ahmed. He was punctual.
"Yes, Sir. I am here, Sir," I replied.
"Good, piggy. This conversation doesn't continue, though, without tribute. Pay me, piggy."
I opened my Paypal account. My last tribute was reflected under my past transactions. I selected his name, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I considered the empty amount box. I typed out 50.00, the same as my last tribute. As I looked at it, though, it seemed inexplicably inadequate. I backspaced, emptying the field out, then typed in 100.00. My cock grew achingly erect. I hit send.
A minute passed. "Good, piggy. You're learning, son. We'll turn you into a full-fledged cashfag, yet. Now, tell me: did you look over my Twitter?"
"Yes, Sir, I did. I spent of lot of time reading your tweets and links last night."
"And...?"
"It was...inspiring, Sir. I don't think I realized how deep a chord they struck until this morning."
"What happened this morning, faggot?"
"It's difficult to explain, Sir. I found myself deferring whenever I encountered a black person. I would hold doors open for them and offer them my seat, and step out of their way. I even bought breakfast for one couple even though they were complete strangers."
"As it should be, piggy. You're off to a good start. Tell me about yourself, son. What do you do for work?"
"I work for an insurance company, Sir. I run actuarial tables, projections, that sort of thing."
"How old are you, piggy?"
"I'm thirty-five, Sir."
"You're an old white faggot. All those years of white privilege and racial intolerance must be pretty hard to give up. I'm here to help you see the light, cracker."
"Yes, Sir! Thank you so much, Sir. I am so sorry for being a racist! I am so disgusted by my white privilege. I want to pay!"
"Then pay me, piggy. Hit my Paypal with another $50.00. Now."
This time I didn't hesitate. I typed 75.00 in the box and hit send, hoping to demonstrate my seriousness.
"Fuckin' faggot. I said $50.00, not $75.00. I decide how much and how fast your wallet gets drained. Don't try to impress me, piggy. There is nothing white fucks like you can do to impress me. Follow my fuckin' instructions, always. Just for that, tribute me another $50.00 right now."
I realized there was sweat on my brow, and that my cock was leaking pre-cum even as I followed his instructions. That was $225.00 total, and we'd only been chatting for only about five minutes. Fuck. I felt nauseated.
"That's better, piggy. Do. As. I. Fucking. Say, Faggot."
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "I'm sorry, Sir."
"Are you married, faggot?"
"Yes, Sir. I am married. We have two sons."
"How old is your sow, piggy?"
I bristled at the term sow, but didn't object. "She's thirty, Sir."
"Send me a photo."
Again, I hesitated, but only for a moment. I attached a photo of Marisa taken at a ****** cookout last summer. It was bright and sunny, and she was laughing at something off-camera, I don't remember what. She wore a white T-shirt and cutoff jeans, and I always thought she looked particularly stunning in the picture. I hit send.
"Mm, a sexy white bitch. Sexier than a white boy like you deserves. Since she's still married to you, and has two little white piglets, I assume that she's never been blacked. Am I right?"
"That's right, Sir. She only had one serious boyfriend before we married, and he was a white man, too."
"White man? That's a contradiction in terms, piggy. Ain't no such thing. You know that, don't you? There's white boys, and white faggots, and white sissies, and white cucks. No such beast as a white man. Never has been, never will be."
"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir, I understand."
"You understand shit, piggy. But you will. I'll see to it. Tell me about your piglets. How old are the little white fucks?"
I should have objected to this stranger talking about my sons with such disrespect. Instead, I only felt my cock throb with excitement. I absentmindedly massaged my crotch.
"One is ten-years old, Sir. The other is eight."
"A pity the little piglets weren't aborted, isn't it, piggy?"
"Sir...please, don't make me say that, Sir."
"I'm not making you say anything, cracker. You've thought the same thing, haven't you? Come on."
I didn't respond for a full minute, struggling against the vile thoughts I was having. "Why would you say something like that, Sir," I asked.
"Why? Tell me about your sons, piggy. Tell me what they're like."
"They're young. And energetic. They enjoy video games."
"Stop it, piggy. The truth. Now."
"They're...they're weak, Sir."
"Better, piggy. Go on."
"They're weak. And they're whiny."
"Of course they are. What else?"
"They're worthless, Sir. And they're....they are...white."
"Good piggy. They don't actually deserve anything they have, do they? They only have it because they're white. And they take it for granted, don't they? Just like..."
"Just like me, Sir. They are little fucking white wastes…just like me."
"We've had a breakthrough. Good going, piggy. Just for that, I'm not going to take any more tribute tonight. You can keep your fag cash for a bit."
I took a gulp of the whiskey, letting the warmth rush over me.
"No lesson tomorrow night, piggy. I have a date with a white fuck sow, breeding her while her husband watches. But if you look at the top of my Twitter page, you’ll see an Amazon link next to my PayPal link. It’s my wishlist, piggy. Pick out something nice for me tomorrow night, son, just so I know that you're thinking of me."
"Sir," I tried to protest. "This is becoming really expensive. I don't know that I can afford to be giving my money away like this."
"Your money, piggy?"
I didn't respond. I was quickly learning that he thought of it--and wanted me think of it--as his money.
"Look, faggot: if you want to continue your lessons, they'll be a gift coming my way when I'm done breeding my livestock. Better choose expedited shipping, too, so it’ll be here by the next time we chat. If it's not here, I'll know you weren't serious. How's that sound?"
"I suppose that's fair, Sir."
“And just as an added incentive, piggy, there's this...." Suddenly, a photo of an erect, black cock appeared in my DM. It was thick and heavily veined, with a plum-sized head, and full, bloated balls. It was the same cock that was pinned to the top of his Twitter page. And it was astonishing.
"Sir, is that...you?"
"Believe it, piggy. That's my cock. That's your God. I’ll be dipping it in fine white pussy tomorrow night while you’re at home jacking your sorry clit. I'll be here on Sunday night. Assuming you have gifted me and want to continue your lessons, we can proceed to the next level, which is video chatting. I'll have some specific tasks for you at that point. Be a good cash fag, and don't let me down."
And with that he was gone. A part of me knew that I should simply walk away from this whole insanity. But as I gazed at the majesty of his incredible cock, I knew that would be impossible. I would have to move some money around in my ****** accounts to cover up my excesses, but I was his, I was Master Ahmed's. He was just a chat or two away from taking complete ownership of me. And from there, I imagined, of my life, of my whole ******. I trembled as ejaculate erupted from my cock of its own accord.
To be continued....
A moment of panic took hold of me. It was only recently that I had discovered the extent of interracial porn and black power advocacy on Twitter. I had gone so far as to create an anonymous profile in order to explore some of these tweets discretely, a profile separate and distinct from the one I use to follow professional and political news. There were clips of black men with enormous members, jacking off, fucking white women, ejaculating. There were memes advocating something called the BNWO, which I learned referred to the belief, real or fanciful, in a future Black New World Order. There were black men, Masters, who demanded reparations in the form of tributes, payments they accepted via Paypal or CashApp or Amazon gift cards. There were even some who pushed the idea of a white ******** and extinction. It was all very bewildering. And a lot of it very...arousing.
My wife, Marisa, knew nothing about my interest in interracial porn. I usually worked in my study after she and the kids had turned in for the night, accessing my Blacked.com account at my desktop, with a bottle of hand lotion I kept at the ready in my desk. It was some casual googling that led me to this dark underbelly of Twitter that I'd never even imagined.
I clicked on the DM.
It was from somebody called Master Ahmed. His account, however, was invisible to me unless he deigned to grant me access. His visible bio described him as a "twenty-one year old straight Black Muslim Master," who accepted "reparations and devotion from white betas and pussy from white sluts." Nervously, I typed in reply, "New to this, sir, but, yes, I think I do support black supremacy," and waited for an answer. In the meantime, I opened a new window, accessing one of my porn accounts, and became quickly engaged in an interracial gang bang video: a petite blonde at the mercy of eight black men, all endowed with cocks that made mine look like that of grade-schooler. I squeezed a generous helping of lotion onto my right hand, and began stroking my circumcised cock.
Although I have never had a sexual encounter with another man, and have always considered myself decidedly straight, the sight of those thick, brown truncheons dangling between the legs of the muscular performers, fascinated me. I paid scant attention to the young woman, her lithe build, her firm, rounded breasts, her fleshy ass. It was the men and their members that enthralled me. As I jacked my cock, I could not help but wonder, as I had so often recently, what it would be like to engulf one of those foot long cocks in my mouth. Not the expected pondering of a thirty-five year old supposedly-straight ****** man, but that's where my fascination with interracial sex had taken me. As I beat my small dick, a chime indicated that I had a new message. Without even a pause in my cock stroking, I switched back to my Twitter screen. Master Ahmed was online and had replied.
"How do you support the Truth of Black Supremacy, boy?" his message read. "Be fuckin' specific."
I didn't know how to answer. As near-obsessed as I'd become with interracial porn, the thought of actual black supremacy was new to me and I couldn't really begin to imagine what it entailed. I stopped stroking myself as I attempted to compose an honest reply.
"Well, I enjoy Blacked.com, sir," I explained. "I think it’s hot watching black men have sex with white girls."
"First off, whitey, you need to always capitalize anything that refers to your Black Superiors: the word Black, for example, or Black Supremacy. Also, while your instinct to call me Sir is natural, you do need to capitalize anything that refers to me, specifically: Sir, Master, Boss. Got it, piggy?"
"Yes, Sir!" I replied. In just a couple of lines, this black stranger, more than a decade my junior, had referred to me as boy, whitey, and piggy. My cock throbbed, excited by the derision.
"Second of all: it is good and right that you watch white whores dominated by Black Kings, but I don't give much of a shit what gets you off. My question was: how the fuck do you support Black Supremacy? Don't make me repeat myself again or this conversation is over."
"I'm sorry, Sir! Please forgive me for being so stupid."
"I don't expect much better, boy: you're white, after all."
"This is all new to me, Sir. I have to be honest: as much as I admire and...envy...Black Men, I had never thought about racial supremacy of any kind. But I can admit that it intrigues me. And...excites me."
"Admiration and envy make a good starting place, son. Have you ever tributed a Black King, faggot?"
"No, Sir. Until recently, I honestly did not even know such things happened."
"You're a stupid fag, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid I am, Sir."
"Do you have a Paypal account, piggy?"
"Yes, Sir. I do, Sir."
"There is a link in my profile, piggy. Click on it. Tribute me $50 right now via Paypal. You have one minute. Do that, and we can continue your lessons about Black Supremacy. Otherwise, get the fuck out of my DMs!"
I balked at the thought of our chat coming to an end. I clicked on the direct link to his Paypal account. With almost trembling fingers, I typed 50.00 in the send box. I hesitated before completing the transaction. Had it been a minute, yet? Had he already moved on. Shit, I couldn't help myself; I had to know how this would all play out. I hit send, and felt an unexpected sexual rush as the money left my account for his.
Master Ahmed's reply read simply, "Good, piggy."
Instinctively, I answered him, "Thank you, Sir, for accepting tribute from me."
"Just taking what is owed me, cracker. I am granting you access to my Twitter feed now. I want you to study it, think about what you see. Consider it a tutorial on Black Supremacy. Be back here at this time tomorrow. Your education will begin. But keep in mind: education costs, and tuition runs high. I will expect you to have additional tribute prepared."
Once he signed off, I delved deep into his Twitter account. Pinned to the top of his page was a GIF of an erect cock, dark brown and spider-webbed with thick veins. It oozed pre-ejaculate. Was it his, I wondered and hoped. It was a thing of beauty.
His page consisted of countless memes about Black Supremacy, of course, but also about white extinction and white ********, concepts that both alarmed and excited me. There were photos and videos of Black Men groping, kissing, and fucking white women; there were photos of white men comparing their minuscule penises with the proud erections of Black Kings; there were white cuckolds, some in cock cages being laughed at by women, others jacking off as they watched their girlfriends or wives fucked by Black Men. There were also retweets and links to scholarly articles, academic pieces about the crimes the white race had perpetrated on Africans, about the natural physical, moral, and intellectual superiority of the black race, about how a decline in the white birth rate promised a white-free future. It was sobering stuff. It engaged me both intellectually and sexually. I confessed to myself that I recognized this itch for racial extinction in myself, in my growing interest in interracial porn.
I went to bed that night without even jerking off. I lay next to my wife, Marisa, my cock erect as I recalled what it felt like to tribute $50 to Master Ahmed, the rush of surrendering power and control to another man. I envisioned a world like the one imagined in his tweets, one in which white men were replaced by stronger, more virile black men, finally getting their due after centuries of oppression and indignity. I fantasized that a man like Master Ahmed invaded my marriage bed, and took my wife, fucked her, bred her, with his enormous black cock, in ways that I could never hope to. I pressed my erection against my wife's rounded ass, but she just sleepily brushed me away, mumbling, "Not now, s'late..." Her rejection of sex only made my cock throb more, and I fell asleep with aching, denied balls.
I awoke several hours later to the usual morning chaos, as Marisa struggled to get the boys ready for school, preparing their lunches, frowning at their squabbling. As I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, she teased me, "Good morning, sleepy head. I thought I was going to have to toss a glass of water in your face to wake you, you were out cold."
I grinned sheepishly. "Went to bed way too late last night, sorry, trying to get caught up the quarterlies," I explained away my sluggishness.
Our sons, ten-year old Tommy and eight-year old Wayne, argued tirelessly about Minecraft. As they quarreled back and forth, I tried to erase from my mind the memory of Master Ahmed's tweets about how shameful and irresponsible it was to bring white boys into a world that is quickly leaving them behind. He strongly advocated abstinence for white males, and abortion when mistakes occurred. Here I was, at my ****** table having breakfast, thinking of my own sons as mistakes. I tried to clear my head, but felt my penis grow plump with blood at the thought that my sons were an evolutionary dead end, that they would grow-up to be like me: pitiful, inadequate, irrelevant. I thought of my quarterly reports as I tried to force my erection away, shoveling cheerios into my mouth.
Marisa dropped me off at the commuter station, where I caught the train into the city for work; she would drop our sons off at school before heading home. The boys continued blabbering about video games in the backseat, not even sparing me a good-bye as I pecked their mother on the cheek and dashed for my train. I heard Marisa snap at them to be quiet as she pulled away from the curb. I was flushed with unease as I contemplated the very privilege my sons took for granted--their video games, their suburban school, their extracurricular activities--exactly the sort of white privilege that many of Master Ahmed's tweets railed against.
As usual, the morning train was crowded. As I was about to take an aisle seat, I noticed a young, bearded African-American man in a rather nice suit. On impulse, I motioned for him to take the seat. He looked momentarily surprised, probably unused to white men ten years his senior, giving up anything for him. He nodded his thanks, and took the seat, while I moved to the rear of the train, where there was standing room only. It occurred to me that I was instinctively doing things that I hoped would please Master Ahmed. I closed my eyes and shook my head: this was just nuts. I had simply exchanged a couple of messages with a stranger on-line, and now I was doing things that I hoped would win his approval.
As I ordered coffee across the street from my office building, I noticed a young African-American couple in line behind me. Again, on impulse, I mentioned to the barista that I would like to cover their drinks as well. The couple thanked me, but explained they planned on ordering pastries as well as drinks. "No worry, Sir," I said. "Please, it's all on me. Just paying it forward, as they say." They thanked me as the cashier rang up the almost $20 order. Again, I experienced a strange rush sacrificing for black people I didn't even know. I understood how this could become addictive.
My day proceeded as usual as I caught up on a lot of the work that I didn't do at home because I was busy jacking myself silly to interracial porn. But at every opportunity, I found myself deferring to African-Americans whenever possible. On the elevator, I made certain to ask a black man what floor he'd like me to press. When passing a black co-worker in the hallway, I moved to the side, allowing him to proceed down the center. All these little things were adding up to something, but I still wasn't sure what. I only knew that I was eager to relate these experiences to Master Ahmed, and hoped he would approve.
****** dinner that evening went by in a blur. The boys were acting up, as usual, refusing to finish the pasta that Marisa had prepared because it had broccoli mixed in it. They whined and argued and demonstrated what overly privileged little snots they were, taking everything they had for granted because they were...say it, I thought to myself...because they were white. And Christian. And middle-class. And American. Were I a more of a man, more of a father, I would have disciplined them, but I remained silent, picking at my meal as Marisa scolded and cajoled them into finishing at least the parts of the meal they did like, the sausage and garlic bread. I was growing increasingly contemptuous of my own young sons, finding their squabbling and their presumptuousness simply maddening, thinking of those things as an inevitable outgrowth of their white privilege.
After the boys had gone to bed, Marisa and I sat on the sofa and watched some mindless comedy about overly privileged white people who lived in inexplicably large Manhattan apartments despite never seeming to have to work. Marisa rested her head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry about last night," she said out of nowhere. "I had a tough day with the boys. Just wasn't in the mood, I guess, wiped out."
I shrugged. "It's okay, I understand. Neither of us seems to have much time lately. And I've got just...so much work. I should probably put in a bit more time tonight if I'm going to get caught up by the weekend."
Marisa ruffled my hair, much the way she might have one of the boys. "Alright. Don't come to bed too late. You really haven't been getting enough sleep lately."
As I headed to my home office, I looked back at her and asked, "Hon. Do you ever think, do you ever wonder if..."
She looked up at me from the inane sitcom. "Hmm, do I ever, what?"
I shook my head. "Never mind. Good night."
In my office, I poured myself a whiskey neat as I logged on to my desktop. As I perused the Blacked.com menu, it occurred to me that I usually selected videos that featured women that most resembled Marisa: lean-bodied, wide-hipped, short, dark hair. How strange that had never struck me before; and, yet, on some subconscious level, I must have been fantasizing about my wife of twelve years having sex with other men, with thickly-muscled, large-dicked, dominant black men, every bit as much as I thought about holding, stroking, even sucking those dicks myself. My cock grew rigid as I pursued this line of thought, even as I struggled to understand my desires. Was I a wannabe cuckold or a wannabe fag? Did I hope to witness Marisa being blacked? Or myself?
My computer pinged, indicating a DM in my Twitter feed. I took a deep gulp of the whiskey and opened my messages.
"Faggot. You there?"
It was Master Ahmed. He was punctual.
"Yes, Sir. I am here, Sir," I replied.
"Good, piggy. This conversation doesn't continue, though, without tribute. Pay me, piggy."
I opened my Paypal account. My last tribute was reflected under my past transactions. I selected his name, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I considered the empty amount box. I typed out 50.00, the same as my last tribute. As I looked at it, though, it seemed inexplicably inadequate. I backspaced, emptying the field out, then typed in 100.00. My cock grew achingly erect. I hit send.
A minute passed. "Good, piggy. You're learning, son. We'll turn you into a full-fledged cashfag, yet. Now, tell me: did you look over my Twitter?"
"Yes, Sir, I did. I spent of lot of time reading your tweets and links last night."
"And...?"
"It was...inspiring, Sir. I don't think I realized how deep a chord they struck until this morning."
"What happened this morning, faggot?"
"It's difficult to explain, Sir. I found myself deferring whenever I encountered a black person. I would hold doors open for them and offer them my seat, and step out of their way. I even bought breakfast for one couple even though they were complete strangers."
"As it should be, piggy. You're off to a good start. Tell me about yourself, son. What do you do for work?"
"I work for an insurance company, Sir. I run actuarial tables, projections, that sort of thing."
"How old are you, piggy?"
"I'm thirty-five, Sir."
"You're an old white faggot. All those years of white privilege and racial intolerance must be pretty hard to give up. I'm here to help you see the light, cracker."
"Yes, Sir! Thank you so much, Sir. I am so sorry for being a racist! I am so disgusted by my white privilege. I want to pay!"
"Then pay me, piggy. Hit my Paypal with another $50.00. Now."
This time I didn't hesitate. I typed 75.00 in the box and hit send, hoping to demonstrate my seriousness.
"Fuckin' faggot. I said $50.00, not $75.00. I decide how much and how fast your wallet gets drained. Don't try to impress me, piggy. There is nothing white fucks like you can do to impress me. Follow my fuckin' instructions, always. Just for that, tribute me another $50.00 right now."
I realized there was sweat on my brow, and that my cock was leaking pre-cum even as I followed his instructions. That was $225.00 total, and we'd only been chatting for only about five minutes. Fuck. I felt nauseated.
"That's better, piggy. Do. As. I. Fucking. Say, Faggot."
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "I'm sorry, Sir."
"Are you married, faggot?"
"Yes, Sir. I am married. We have two sons."
"How old is your sow, piggy?"
I bristled at the term sow, but didn't object. "She's thirty, Sir."
"Send me a photo."
Again, I hesitated, but only for a moment. I attached a photo of Marisa taken at a ****** cookout last summer. It was bright and sunny, and she was laughing at something off-camera, I don't remember what. She wore a white T-shirt and cutoff jeans, and I always thought she looked particularly stunning in the picture. I hit send.
"Mm, a sexy white bitch. Sexier than a white boy like you deserves. Since she's still married to you, and has two little white piglets, I assume that she's never been blacked. Am I right?"
"That's right, Sir. She only had one serious boyfriend before we married, and he was a white man, too."
"White man? That's a contradiction in terms, piggy. Ain't no such thing. You know that, don't you? There's white boys, and white faggots, and white sissies, and white cucks. No such beast as a white man. Never has been, never will be."
"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir, I understand."
"You understand shit, piggy. But you will. I'll see to it. Tell me about your piglets. How old are the little white fucks?"
I should have objected to this stranger talking about my sons with such disrespect. Instead, I only felt my cock throb with excitement. I absentmindedly massaged my crotch.
"One is ten-years old, Sir. The other is eight."
"A pity the little piglets weren't aborted, isn't it, piggy?"
"Sir...please, don't make me say that, Sir."
"I'm not making you say anything, cracker. You've thought the same thing, haven't you? Come on."
I didn't respond for a full minute, struggling against the vile thoughts I was having. "Why would you say something like that, Sir," I asked.
"Why? Tell me about your sons, piggy. Tell me what they're like."
"They're young. And energetic. They enjoy video games."
"Stop it, piggy. The truth. Now."
"They're...they're weak, Sir."
"Better, piggy. Go on."
"They're weak. And they're whiny."
"Of course they are. What else?"
"They're worthless, Sir. And they're....they are...white."
"Good piggy. They don't actually deserve anything they have, do they? They only have it because they're white. And they take it for granted, don't they? Just like..."
"Just like me, Sir. They are little fucking white wastes…just like me."
"We've had a breakthrough. Good going, piggy. Just for that, I'm not going to take any more tribute tonight. You can keep your fag cash for a bit."
I took a gulp of the whiskey, letting the warmth rush over me.
"No lesson tomorrow night, piggy. I have a date with a white fuck sow, breeding her while her husband watches. But if you look at the top of my Twitter page, you’ll see an Amazon link next to my PayPal link. It’s my wishlist, piggy. Pick out something nice for me tomorrow night, son, just so I know that you're thinking of me."
"Sir," I tried to protest. "This is becoming really expensive. I don't know that I can afford to be giving my money away like this."
"Your money, piggy?"
I didn't respond. I was quickly learning that he thought of it--and wanted me think of it--as his money.
"Look, faggot: if you want to continue your lessons, they'll be a gift coming my way when I'm done breeding my livestock. Better choose expedited shipping, too, so it’ll be here by the next time we chat. If it's not here, I'll know you weren't serious. How's that sound?"
"I suppose that's fair, Sir."
“And just as an added incentive, piggy, there's this...." Suddenly, a photo of an erect, black cock appeared in my DM. It was thick and heavily veined, with a plum-sized head, and full, bloated balls. It was the same cock that was pinned to the top of his Twitter page. And it was astonishing.
"Sir, is that...you?"
"Believe it, piggy. That's my cock. That's your God. I’ll be dipping it in fine white pussy tomorrow night while you’re at home jacking your sorry clit. I'll be here on Sunday night. Assuming you have gifted me and want to continue your lessons, we can proceed to the next level, which is video chatting. I'll have some specific tasks for you at that point. Be a good cash fag, and don't let me down."
And with that he was gone. A part of me knew that I should simply walk away from this whole insanity. But as I gazed at the majesty of his incredible cock, I knew that would be impossible. I would have to move some money around in my ****** accounts to cover up my excesses, but I was his, I was Master Ahmed's. He was just a chat or two away from taking complete ownership of me. And from there, I imagined, of my life, of my whole ******. I trembled as ejaculate erupted from my cock of its own accord.
To be continued....
