Terry arrived home from work, having stopped to pick up a sandwich at the shop on the corner. His studio apartment was small but neat and uncluttered. Sitting at his kitchen table, he opened a bottle of water and unwrapped his bologna and cheese on wheat. A man of simple tastes, Terry preferred it with just a dab of mayonnaise, nothing spicier.
As he ate, he scrolled through the news of the day on his phone. The daily news for men like Terry--white men--was seldom very good these days. Both the tax rate and the suicide rate for white men were at all-time highs, while their employment and reproduction rates were plummeting. Each day, it seemed, new laws were being passed at both state and federal levels restricting the rights of white people in general and white men specifically. There were even rumors of underground disposal parties, in which white men were done-in, some voluntarily, some not so much, by their wives and their wives black lovers. Staged to appear like accidents or suicides, there was little authorities could do about such disposals. Given changing public attitudes, there was not very much authorities were even inclined to do about such disposals. It would have been more trouble than white lives were regarded as being worth.
While many white men found their marginalization and increasing obsolescence alarming, Terry had long since reconciled himself to it. In the months since his last girlfriend had forsaken him for a black man (like the one before her, and the one before her), he had accepted an increasingly voluntary celibacy. According to news reports, Terry's experience was not unique: many, perhaps even most, white women had begun openly expressing their preference for black lovers, leaving white men with ever diminishing romantic or sexual prospects.
At first, Terry had satisfied himself viewing interracial porn, an interest he had developed after his first girlfriend had started cheating on him with a black co-worker. Eventually, he discovered that his sexual interest had waned, and, although only thirty-eight-years-old, he rarely achieved a full erection anymore. He had, however, discovered something of a purpose for himself in this changed world on the app TaskCracka.com, which he opened now on his phone after perusing the daily news.
TaskCracka brought black clients together with white people who wanted to serve them, a population that was growing dramatically. Black subscribers, of course, paid nothing, either for the app or for the service performed. Whites, on the other hand, paid a monthly subscription fee in order to provide free labor of various sorts to black patrons. Whites were also expected to tip the men and women for whom they provided a service. Such service could take many forms: a black man might want his car washed and detailed, for instance, or a black woman might need someone to do her grocery shopping. Terry had delivered pizzas and beer to black frat houses and done laundry for black families. He discovered that a life of service to the black race could be unexpectedly fulfilling.
TaskCracka encouraged its black users to review its white service providers (an option not given to white subscribers, as no one really cared to hear what a cracka might think). Few black subscribers bothered to rate any white user as more than adequate, not wanting to encourage feelings of self-esteem in a race that grew more obsolete with every day. Terry had accrued a large number of two-star reviews, and even a handful of three-star reviews, high praise for a white man. Many black subscribers approved of Terry's natural submissiveness, which bordered almost on obsequiousness.
As he scrolled through the app tonight, he found many of the usual postings for food deliveries and liquor runs that were common on a Friday night. The white taskcracka was, needless to say, expected to pay for any food or liquor out of his own pocket. Terry continued scrolling until a request for a chauffeur for the night caught his eye. He swiped right, signaling his acceptance of the task. Once a white subscriber agreed to conduct a service, he could not back out without endangering his good standing on the app. The details of the job followed.
"It's my girl's birthday. I'm taking her to dinner, and later hitting some clubs. Going to need a taskcracka that can drive us until the early hours. It will be expected to drive my Land Rover, and with good fucking care. I expect it to be punctual, presentable, and, above all else, respectful and fucking quiet." The time and location followed, Terry noting the posh Back Bay address.
Terry looked through his limited, somewhat threadbare wardrobe, choosing the black suit that he had bought for his father's funeral last year as the only thing really appropriate for a chauffeur. He did not have the kind of hat that a driver might wear, so he combed back his wispy blonde hair as neatly as possible he stood before his bedroom mirror. He tucked his button-down shirt into his dress slacks before adjusting his tie and pulling on the jacket for his suit. Terry was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and the jacket hung loose on his lean frame. He feared that he failed to make much of an impression, but he hoped it would be adequate for his client.
Terry arrived at the address provided. In the lobby, he was greeted by a concierge with a vaguely Eastern European accent. Terry explained that he was there to meet a resident by the name of Luke Rather.
"Ah," grinned the concierge. "You must be from TaskCracka, I take it."
"Well, uhm, I..."
"Oh, don't be embarrassed," the concierge assured Terry. "Mr. Rather uses TaskCracka quite frequently. He told me to expect you. Here." He handed Terry a set of keys. "You'll find Mr. Rather's Land Rover in space 350. Just take the elevator to the garage level, and bring the vehicle around to the front of the building. I'll call Mr. Rather, and let him know you have arrived." As Terry headed toward the elevator, the concierge said, "Oh, and a word to the wise: I would advise against making eye contact. Mr. Rather put one rather...impertinent taskcracka in the hospital last month." Terry gulped.
Locating the correct parking space, Terry admired the metallic black Land Rover, a vehicle well beyond his own meager means. He took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls, including the GPS, so he could avoid troubling his client with ignorant questions. He pulled around to the front of the building as the concierge had instructed. After about a twenty-minute wait, the concierge opened the rear door of the Land Rover for Luke Rather.
The young black man slid into the backseat without acknowledging either the concierge or Terry. He occupied himself with his phone, texting and occasionally chuckling to himself. The concierge came around to the driver's window and handed Terry a list of addresses. "The first is where you will pick-up Mr. Rather's date for the evening," he explained. "After that are listed the restaurant and clubs to which you will take them. If there are any changes to the itinerary, Mr. Rather will alert you through the app's messenger." Just before Terry put up the window, the concierge whispered, "Remember: don't fuck up."
As he pulled into traffic, Terry noted the first address was across town, in a much more blue collar neighborhood than that in which his client resided. It was becoming common for African-Americans to reside in the more upscale, posh neighborhoods, while whites clustered in crowded, low-income tenements. It was a modern variation on red-lining.
Although cautioned against making eye contact, Terry could not help but glance at his client in the rearview mirror. Luke Rather appeared to be no more than thirty, probably younger. He had short hair, shaved close on the sides, and a couple days growth of facial hair. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. He wore an elegant black silk shirt, white slacks, and several pieces of gold jewelry: rings, neck chains, ear studs, and a nose ring. Given his good looks and impressive physique, Terry wondered if he might be a model or an actor. His wardrobe, vehicle, and posh address suggested that the young black man was quite affluent.
Arriving at the first address, Terry pulled up to a rather ramshackle triple-decker apartment building. A young blonde woman came bouncing down the steps toward the Land Rover. The young black man in the backseat smacked Terry across the back of the head, addressing him for the first time. "Get out and open the door for her, you rude cracker motherfucker," he instructed. Terry scurried to do so, embarrassed that he had to be told. The young white woman didn't spare Terry a glance as she dove into the car and threw her arms around Luke. "Oh, baby," she said. "It's so good to see you!"
"Happy birthday," Terry heard Luke Rather greet his date as Terry slid back behind the wheel, inputting the address of the restaurant into the GPS. From the sounds, he suspected that the young couple must be making out, something he confirmed with a glimpse in the mirror. The girl was several years younger than Luke, Terry saw, perhaps barely out of high school. Although slim-waisted, she had an ample bosom, which Luke caressed freely, his hands groping inside her blouse. She giggled, as they kissed, Luke nibbling at her lower lip. Terry could not help but admire the young man's suave confidence and self-assurance.
"Here, baby," Luke said. "Got a little something for your eighteenth." He handed her a small bag with a Hermès logo. Excitedly, the young woman unfolded what appeared to be a bright red dress. "Oh, Luke, baby," she exclaimed breathlessly, "it's beautiful! I love it!"
"It's for tonight," Luke explained. "So, you'll look your hottest at the club. Go ahead, put it on." The woman cast an apprehensive look toward the front seat. "Oh," the black man assured her with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't worry none about that thing. It's just a traskcracka. Nothing important." The girl giggled naughtily, beginning to unbutton her blouse.
Terry caught a brief glimpse of her bare, milky breasts before averting his eyes from her reflection in the rearview mirror. Luke's sunglasses made it difficult to ascertain when he might be looking Terry's way. The concierge's warning remained fresh in Terry's mind. He had no doubt that this young, fit black man might trounce him with the slightest provocation and without a moment's thought or regret.
When he next glanced up from the road, Terry saw that the young woman had slipped into the strapless red dress, snug on her small frame, exposing a deep cleft of cleavage. It appeared to be cut at about the level of her crotch, the spot which Luke's large, brown, ring-bedecked hand now cupped possessively. "I knew you'd look sexy in red," he observed. "Just like a good snow bunny should." Giggling, the girl ran own petit hand over the crotch of Luke's tight slacks. "Mm-mm," he purred. "Tell me, baby, did you show your loser white daddy your new ink like I told you to?"
The blonde nodded, snickering mischievously. "I sure did, Luke, honey," she told him. "I've never seen him turn so red. I warned him that if he made a fuss, you might have to smack him down again. That shut him up real fast. I showed all my girlfriends, too, and they were totally jealous that I'm black-owned by a man like you."
"They should be," Luke agreed. "You are my number one white bitch."
Also in the bag were a pair of red, cross-strapped high heel shoes. The girl raised her feet to Luke's lap, and he helped her into them, running his fingers along her smooth pale legs as he did. Once the girl was fully changed into her new outfit, Terry saw Luke's head disappear into her lap, followed by the sounds of vigorous slurping. The blonde teenager rolled her head back, moaning with pleasure as the young black man feasted luxuriously on her youthful pussy. For what was perhaps the first time in several weeks, Terry felt himself actually grow turgid, the sounds of interracial lust exciting his sluggish libido.
They pulled up outside the restaurant, an intimate French bistro near downtown. Terry stepped out of the vehicle and stood by the rear door. When Luke raised himself from between his date's legs, Terry opened the door for them. When the couple stepped out of the vehicle, standing with arms locked, Terry was struck by what a strikingly attractive pair they were: young, fit, gorgeous, and in their sexual prime. It was no great mystery that soft, effete, white men like himself were so little desired by young women like this one when there were men like Luke Rather in the world.
To avoid another smack to the head, Terry scurried to open the door to the restaurant for the young couple. Luke's hand cupped the girl's shapely buttock, raising the bottom of her new dress just enough to reveal the outline of a spade tattooed on the lower part of her left ass cheek. They glided passed Terry without acknowledgment. On Luke's breath, Terry caught a whiff of what he was certain must be the scent of the young woman's pussy just beneath the musk of Luke's cologne. He savored the fragrance of female sex, grown so unfamiliar in recent years, before returning to the Land Rover.
Terry parked down the block, scrolling through his phone until Luke Rather had further need of him. Out of curiosity, he searched the internet for his client's name, learning that the young black man was a music producer who owned a local recording studio. There were photos of him at Hollywood premieres and awards shows, starlets both white and black on his arm. His image had graced the covers of several magazines, everything from Ebony to Cigar Aficionado. Such a level of success suggested that Luke was not using TaskCracka to save money, as some of Terry's other clients did. Instead, he probably used the service because he viewed it as the proper role of white men to cater to him.
Terry perused the reviews that Luke Rather had left for previous taskcrackas. He had rated them all uniformly with zero star reviews. "Motherfucker left the smell of white boy in my car," one review read. "Are all white boys retarded or just the ones I find on TaskCracka?" another questioned. Hoping to impress his client more than past taskcrackas, Terry drove down the street to a gas station and topped off the Land Rover's tank. At a nearby liquor store, he purchased a bottle of champagne, along with a bucket of ice and two glasses, that he left to chill in the backseat for the client and his date. Terry hoped these small touches might win him at least a single star.
Continuing to scroll through his phone, Terry discovered some of Luke Rather's social media accounts. It appeared that he belonged to several Afrocentric organizations, and enjoyed sharing news about the precipitous decline of the white man in America. A recent post celebrated the precipitous drop in the testosterone levels of white men. There were many more photos of Luke with white women, usually no older than the girl he was with tonight. A snippet of video showed him at a resort swimming pool crowded with handsome black men, young white women draped all over them. There were photos of him partying in Los Angeles, Paris, Lisbon, Lagos, Tokyo, Dubai, Ibiza, sometimes with black musicians, actors, and athletes that Terry recognized. Luke Rather lived a life privileged beyond Terry's imagining.
When the TaskCracka app indicated Terry's client would be leaving the restaurant soon, he pulled the Land Rover to the front, and opened the rear door in preparation. The couple exited the restaurant in one another's arms, talking and laughing, sliding into the car without sparing a thought for Terry or his diligence. When Terry resumed his seat behind the wheel, he heard Luke ask absently, "What the fuck is this swill," before tossing the champagne Terry had bought out on the sidewalk. "I wouldn't gargle with that shit," he told the girl, who tittered at his joke.
Terry broke out in a cold sweat, humiliated that his attempt to be thoughtful was so callously dismissed. He silently cursed himself as a fool for thinking that a man would be impressed with a $50 bottle of wine who could probably down Dom Pérignon as if it were soda pop. He was lucky that the client refrained from smacking him over the head yet again.
According to the itinerary, the next stop was the address of a club near the waterfront. While Terry pulled into traffic, Luke pulled the blonde girl into his arms, slipping a long, probing tongue into her mouth. Terry found that he enjoyed the sounds of them making out, the smacks and slurps, Luke's deep, guttural moans, and the girl's libidinous sighs. After a while, the girl slipped off the seat, kneeling between Luke's legs. Terry heard the telltale sound of a zipper being lowered. Sneaking a peak in the rearview mirror, he saw the girl's blonde head bob up and down in Luke's lap, while the handsome young black man rested his head and spread his arms across the back of the seat. Even with the few girlfriends he had had, Terry had very little experience with oral sex, as the women in his life had almost always refused to go down on him. Luke's date had no such reservations, apparently, and appeared to suck his black dick with enthusiasm.
As Terry pulled up to the address of the club, he saw that it was located in a block-long, repurposed, brick warehouse. A queue of stylishly dressed young people lined up around the block. Terry noted immediately that they were almost all black, with a smattering of young, very attractive white women on the arms of some of the black men, even one or two on the arms of black women. Before he pulled the car to a stop, however, Luke snarled, "Drive around the block a time or tow, cracka. I haven't had my nut, yet." Terry complied, as Luke wrapped a black fist in his date's long blonde hair, directing her to suck faster and harder.
As they completed a circuit of the block, Luke let out out a low groan. "Swallow that shit, you white bitch," he growled. "Swallow my fuckin' babies. There's some sweet birthday nut for your eighteenth." Terry heard the girl slurp Luke's load down her throat as they pulled up to the front of the club. As the girl sat up, Terry opened the rear door for them, observing Luke stuff his prodigious cock back into his slacks while the girl reapplied her lipstick and ran a hand through her hair. The couple stepped out of the Land Rover and approached the front door, ignoring the long line. Luke greeted two large, well-muscled doormen, who welcomed the young couple, and held the doors open for them, much to the consternation of the waiting crowd.
"Hey, nigga," one black woman called out. "Why da fuck dat brotha get to waltz right in?"
"Because, bitch," one of the muscle-swollen doormen replied snidely, "that brotha owns the fuckin' club."
Terry pulled the Land Rover across the street, finding a parking space in which to wait. Even from there, he could hear the persistent beat of dance music and hip-hop from inside the one-time factory. The odor of weed was as strong as the music was loud. He noted that many of the other vehicles on this side of the street were occupied by lone white men, too, taskcrackas like him probably, he mused. With nothing else to occupy his time, he observed the men and women waiting in line to get into the club.
A young light-skinned black man had his arm around the short black girl who had voiced annoyance when Luke breezed past those in line. He wore a red track suit, white Nikes, and several gold chains around his neck, while her ample buttocks fit snugly in a black leather skirt. She appeared aggrieved at having to wait in line to enter the club, while the young man grinned and joked, working to lighten her mood. She would have none of it, continuing to pout. Terry sympathized with the young man, never having had much success himself at making women happy.
Behind them a tall, dreadlocked, very dark black man leaned against the wall, with a pale-skinned redhead, in a revealing white dress, wrapped in his thick arms. The couple kissed hungrily, his hands kneading her rounded ass. A group of three young men in line behind them talked among themselves, occasionally casting envious glances at the interracial couple. They were clearly hungry for some white pussy themselves. Further back in the line, Terry observed a quartet of young women, mostly white but at least one of whom appeared Latina, laughing and dancing among themselves. He imagined his last girlfriend, Allison, with this group, waiting to get into a black dance club to meet the kind of men who, as she put it, could satisfy her in ways Terry never had. Not once.
Terry thought of Allison without recrimination. She was right to dump him. He had nothing to offer her that could compare to even the least of these confident, robust, virile, handsome black men. He was just another white loser in a world that already had more than its share of white losers. Serving as a willing minion for the same type of men that his girlfriends forsook him for was really about the only thing Terry, and men like Terry, had to offer.
Further back in line, stood a tall, regal black women dressed like a dominatrix in black leather jeans, a black leather bustier, and six-inch heels. She ran her hands possessively over a young, collared and leashed, white woman with dyed-pink hair pulled into a ponytail. Some black people, Terry had heard, had begun to practice white slavery openly rather than participate in half-measures like TaskCracka. Terry wondered if this lesbian kink couple was such an instance. He pondered if he might ever choose to forego even the illusion of free-will and independence that he enjoyed now, and opt for perpetual slavery to the black race instead. Although it might be counterintuitive, he suspected that there might be something ultimately liberating in living a life of such dedicated servitude.
It was almost one o'clock when Luke exited the club, laughing, his arm around his date's waist. Without sunglasses, Terry noticed, Luke's eyes were bright, sharp, observant. Luke and his date were accompanied by another couple: a well-muscled black man well over six-feet tall, with a dark-haired white girl on his arm. Terry held the rear door open, and all four slid into the backseat. Returning to the driver's seat, he pulled out of the space, following the GPS directions to the next address, a private residence in a wealthy suburb.
"Who da white boy," the tall man inquired.
"My latest taskcracka," Luke explained. "My chauffeur for the night."
"TaskCracka," his friend said. "Yeah, I heard o' dat shit."
"You got to give it a try, Lamond," Luke recommended. "Hook you up with white boys eager to serve the black race. All kinds of shit. Grocery shopping. Laundry. Cleaning your crib. You never have to lift a finger to do any of that crap again. And it's absolutely free, man. Fuck, some of the white boys will even pay you for the honor of being your maid. Ain't that right, cracka?" said Luke to Terry, giving the driver's seat a little kick.
"Yes, sir," Terry agreed quickly. "Anything to be of service, sir."
"See?" Luke grinned. "Course, most white boys are pretty dumb, and sometimes you gotta correct them a bit. But that can be fun, too, know what I'm saying?"
The conversation turned to the club, the music, the DJ, as Terry pulled onto the highway. After a while, when things had grown quiet, Terry stole another glance in the rearview mirror, and saw that the men had directed the two women to kiss one another. Luke and Lamond ran their brown hands indiscriminately over the pale flesh of the two young women whose lips were pressed together, their tongues darting into one another's mouths. As Luke's fingers moved under the dress of the young blonde, fingering her snatch, he said, "Yo, find a place to pull off the road, white boy. I gotta get me some of this pussy right fuckin' now!"
Terry pulled off the highway at the next available exit, and into the empty parking lot of an office park. Leaving Terry where he was, the two couples stepped out of the car, laughing, horny, clearly a bit intoxicated. "Put on some music, cracka," Lamond instructed. Terry turned on Luke's streaming service, filling the parking lot with neo soul rhythm. Terry wondered if this was the sort of music that Luke produced.
Outside the vehicle, Luke had his date up against the front of the hood, his lips to her neck as his hands caressed her breasts. Lamond sat his date on the side of the hood, and slipped her jeans down around her ankles, allowing his mouth access to her pussy. From his perspective, Terry could see Lamond's tongue flick over the girl's clitoris and dip inside the lips of her pussy. The girl rested one hand on the black man's cornrows, while she played with her erect nipples under her halter top with the other. In the Land Rover and over the music, Terry could more sense than actually hear Lamond's lapping tongue and the girl's lurid moans.
Although he remained wary of earning Luke's ire, Terry could not help but watch as Luke lowered the fly of his white slacks and worked his scimitar-like prong out of his fly. Sliding the white girl's dress up over her thighs and above her hips, Luke stepped in-between her legs and stabbed his long member into her pussy. The blonde threw her head back as she sought to retain her balance on the Land Rover's hood, wrapping her long legs around Luke's back to pull him deeper into her. With the girl's buttocks now exposed, Terry got a clearer view of her spade tattoo, which he had heard were becoming near ubiquitous with white girls of her generation. The music, sexy and languid, seemed to complement the couple's slow, rhythmic fuck. As he ran his fingers through the girl's long blonde locks, Luke caught Terry watching them through the windshield. With a contemptuous smirk, he flipped Terry his middle finger. Terry lowered his gaze shyly.
The Land Rover began to rock gently as Luke fucked his girl. Terry looked up to note that Lamond's girl had dropped to her knees by the side of the vehicle, and had her lips wrapped around his meaty member, sucking it greedily. After a few minutes, Lamond held her head in place with his large hands, and began face fucking her mouth. Again, Terry felt a stirring of arousal in his groin, one that had become unfamiliar in recent months. Witnessing this display of interracial lust was so much more visceral than the videos he would sometimes watch. It was clear to him why all his girlfriends had thrown him over for black men, why the same thing was happening to white men all across the country. Black men, black cocks, black sex were simply superior in every meaningful way.
With the next glance he stole, Terry saw that the two men had bent the women over the front of the hood, and were fucking them from behind. Lamond's big hands grasped his girl by the waist as he ploughed into her, while Luke held the blonde's long locks like the bridle of a horse, pulling her back into his groin. Luke had unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a taut, wiry, dark brown body. The top of his girl's dress had been pulled down, allowing her fleshy white breasts to bounce freely as she was fucked. Terry touched himself surreptitiously through his slacks, thinking how unlikely it was that he would ever again feel the tight wet warmth of a woman's pussy around his small penis. As far as women like these were concerned, he was invisible, irrelevant, obsolete.
Luke's date noticed Terry spying on her, and pointed him out to Lamond's girl. They sniggered at him, regarding any weak, soft-bodied white man who willingly enslaved himself to anonymous black alpha males as an object of ridicule. Terry actually found their disdain, his utter defeat and desolation, more arousing than any prurient interest he had in their young, fertile bodies or their interracial copulation. As the white women laughed at him, and the black men flipped him off, Terry ejaculated in his slacks. He experienced something almost like satisfaction at the shame and humiliation he was enduring.
After both men enjoyed their nut, the two couples lingered outside, talking and sharing a blunt. When they returned to the back seat, Luke smacked Terry across the side of the face. "That's for watching us, white boy," he said. "Next time, keep your pervert eyes in your cracka head."
Lamond shook his head. "So many o' dem white boys is real sickos, man. Spyin' on a brotha when he's just tryin' to enjoy some prime pussy. A man don't need dat shit." The girls merely laughed.
As the foursome derided white men in general and Terry in particular, Terry pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the highway. Following the GPS directions, he eventually pulled up to a large, gated Edwardian house. No, he thought to himself, not a house so much as an estate. Lights shown from all the windows, and music could be heard dimly from inside.
Terry identified Luke Rather to a security guard at the entrance, who checked the name against a list. When the wrought iron gate opened, the guard directed Terry to pull around to the side to park after he dropped the guests off at the front door. Terry proceeded up the long drive, and jumped out of the car to open the door for Luke and his friends. As he drove around to the side, he noted that all the couples who mingled on the vast lawn in front of the great house were interracial: black men with women of various ethnicities, including Asian, Middle-Eastern, Hispanic, and especially white. Some of the men even seemed to be accompanied by white femboys or sissies. Terry thought he spotted a well-known basketball star among the crowd, an arm around two different women, as well as a famous rapper and even a congressman.
Terry pulled the Land Rover into a spot alongside various luxury vehicles, including a number of limousines. He noticed other white drivers huddled in small groups nearby, talking furtively among themselves. "I tell you, it's downright disgusting," he heard one of the men complain, as he exited the Land Rover. "The way these white girls throw themselves at these...these fuckin' apes." The man was stout, balding, probably in his fifties. "These...whores don't have any self-respect." He spat on the graveled drive.
"You're going to get yourself a beating with that kind of talk," another man cautioned him. "Those attitudes, they don't fly nomore. You can't let it get to you, Sid. You gotta know your place."
"My place?" Sid snorted. "Niggers took my job. Niggers took my place. In my wife's bed. In my ********'s life. I got three grandkids: all niggers. Can you believe it?"
"Yet, here you are, driving for a black man," one of the other drivers noted.
"I gotta work, don't I, Davey?" Sid responded. "I still got bills to pay. Worst of all, my boy, my only son. He's a nigger's punk, a faggot for black dick. I woulda disowned the little fairy, but the dirty queer, he disowned me first."
"Shut it with that talk," the first man shushed him. "You're going to get us all in hot water." He turned to Terry, who approached the small group. "Hey, don't mind us, buddy. Just some bellyaching, y'know?" Terry simply nodded. "Who do you work for?" the man inquired.
"Oh, uh, I'm not...uh...I don't...I'm just driving through TaskCracka," Terry explained awkwardly.
"What?" yelled Sid. "That fuckin' racist app shit? You give away for free what the rest of us have to do to feed ourselves? That's just some motherfuckin' slavery shit, you fuckin' faggot!" The other men tried to calm him, but Sid was growing louder and louder. Terry found himself backing away in the face of his anger.
Suddenly, Sid felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and turned, ready to fight.
"Problem, gentlemen?" a giant of a black man inquired. His head was smoothly shaved, and the muscle of his enormous body was evident even beneath his dark suit and tie. Terry noted what might have been the bulge of a holster beneath the man's jacket.
Sid was appropriately cowed. "N-no," he said. "Just, er, letting off some steam."
The black eyes narrowed. "Well, keep your voices down. The guests don't need to be disturbed by the help. The white help, especially. I would hate to have to speak to your...employers."
As the man returned to the front lawn, Terry asked, "Who was that?"
"The head of security," Davey explained. "He was a heavyweight boxer. Smart not to mess with the likes of him." Sid turned with a scowl, and slinked off to the car he drove.
"TaskCracka, huh?" one of the men inquired of Terry. "So, you volunteer to, like, serve...them?"
Terry nodded. "Well, I work in a warehouse in the daytime. Takes up a lot of my time, y'know. But, well, it feels good to be of service, to make myself, I dunno, useful."
"So, you're, like, what, okay with the whole black supremacy thing? With them pushing us aside?"
Terry shrugged. "I don't think it matters much whether I'm okay with it or not. It's happening. I'm just...I guess I'm just trying to find a niche for myself."
"I hear you," another of men piped up, younger than the others. "That's pretty much why I took this job. There aren't many real jobs left for white guys like us, y'know. And, God knows, women hardly take an interest in a white dude anymore."
Another of the men explained, "My wife left me for my boss. They're here now, in fact. I drive for them. And, uh, other things, too." He turned to Terry. "So, yeah, I know where you're coming from. A niche seems to be all we can hope for...right?"
Terry nodded his agreement. "So...what is this place? Whose lives here? I thought I recognized some of the guests."
"Well, the place is owned by a bigtime real estate developer, a white guy," one of the men explained. "He donates the place out once a month or so for these parties. All the men bring their favorite, uh, snow bunny to be bred by as many men as possible. I got to tell you: I'd love to be a fly on those walls. I bet some crazy shit goes on inside there." Terry imagined Luke's eighteen-year-old date availing herself of one black man after another in an effort to breed a black child. It struck him as simultaneously debauched and beautiful.
The white men continued to talk among themselves. As the evening wore on, some of the guests would wander around to the side of the house, oblivious of their presence. One couple fucked standing up, leaning against a trellis for support; other couples fucked in the colorful Adirondack patio chairs that were laid out along the side of the house; some even fucked simply kneeling or lying on the well-tended lawn. None of them gave the white drivers any more attention than one might a curious pet. Their proximity was an irrelevancy.
As dawn began to break, the drivers were gradually summoned to pick-up their employers by the front of the house. Terry watched Sid pull out of the drive in a luxury town car. His scowl was gone, and he appeared complacent, even cowed, as he held the rear door open for a sharp-dressed, middle-aged, bearded black man and a youthful, voluptuous, blonde. As he watched them pull away, Terry received a message on the TaskCracka app to meet Luke by the front. He pulled the Land Rover onto the circular drive, and got out to open the door for his client.
Luke Rather exited the house not with the girl with whom he had spent most of the night, but with a dark-haired, olive-complexioned woman of about thirty, in a designer black evening gown and stiletto heels. This was no mere snow bunny, Terry thought to himself. This was a mature, experienced Queen of Spades. The couple paused at the car, the woman wrapping her slender arms around Luke's broad shoulders. They kissed, Luke grasping the woman's thigh in his right hand, while he pulled her close with his left.
When the kiss broke off, the woman told Luke, "She's a promising one, Lucas. You've got a real eye for talent. We'll take good care of her, you have my word."
Luke kissed the woman once more, before climbing in the Land Rover and signaling Terry to drive. "Home," he instructed simply with a wave. The young black man scrolled through his phone casually as he lit a cigar. After some time on the road, he looked up, catching Terry's eyes in the rearview mirror. "You're wondering what happened to Jessica, ain't you, white boy?" he inquired of Terry. So, that's her name, Terry realized. Jessica. It was the first time he had heard it all evening.
"It's really none of my business, sir," Terry responded.
"You got that right, cracker. But, I'll put your mind at ease. You see, Evangeline--that's the sexy bitch you saw me with just now--she takes snow bunnies like Jessica and trains them to become full-fledged Queens of Spades, just like herself." Luke drew on his cigar, the pungent smoke clouding about his handsome face. "Once she's turned her into a proper bitch, she'll set her up with a white boy from the right kind of ******. You know, one with real money, property, privilege. As a Queen of Spades, it will be her responsibility to teach that white boy his proper place in the New World Order, if you know what I'm saying, transferring his money, his stocks, his trust fund to the cause." Luke grinned, as much to himself as to Terry. "When the time comes, maybe she even convinces the white boy that the world is better off...without him."
Terry nodded his agreement. "It sounds like a noble goal, sir. I take it you've, um, done this before?"
Luke chuckled. "Fuck yeah, sure have. Just doing my part to take what is properly ours and to help eradicate your vile race." With that he turned back to his phone, ignoring Terry.
When they pulled up to Luke’s building, Terry rushed to open the door open for his client a final time. “Park the car, cracker, and leave the keys with the concierge.” Luke instructed. He paused, holding a hand out expectantly. Terry reached into his jacket and handed Luke an envelope, saying simply, “Thank you, sir, for allowing me to serve you. I hope my service was adequate.” The young black man inspected the contents of the envelope. Appearing satisfied, Luke turned with a smirk, and headed into the posh lobby of his building. The envelope contained $200 in fresh twenties, a gratuity from Terry for the privilege of being of service to a black man.
Later that day...
Terry was awakened only a few hours later by a notification on his phone. He rolled over in bed, reaching for his cell to check his messages. A DM had come through on the TaskCracka app. “White boy: the Land Rover needs cleaning after last night. There are smudges on the hood from me and my boy doing those bitches, and the driver's seat reeks of Caucasian. Fuck, but you white boys do stink. Be here in an hour to clean my car, and I might let you drive me around to the clubs again tonight.”
Terry grinned widely, and hurried to get ready. It was good to have a purpose.
As he ate, he scrolled through the news of the day on his phone. The daily news for men like Terry--white men--was seldom very good these days. Both the tax rate and the suicide rate for white men were at all-time highs, while their employment and reproduction rates were plummeting. Each day, it seemed, new laws were being passed at both state and federal levels restricting the rights of white people in general and white men specifically. There were even rumors of underground disposal parties, in which white men were done-in, some voluntarily, some not so much, by their wives and their wives black lovers. Staged to appear like accidents or suicides, there was little authorities could do about such disposals. Given changing public attitudes, there was not very much authorities were even inclined to do about such disposals. It would have been more trouble than white lives were regarded as being worth.
While many white men found their marginalization and increasing obsolescence alarming, Terry had long since reconciled himself to it. In the months since his last girlfriend had forsaken him for a black man (like the one before her, and the one before her), he had accepted an increasingly voluntary celibacy. According to news reports, Terry's experience was not unique: many, perhaps even most, white women had begun openly expressing their preference for black lovers, leaving white men with ever diminishing romantic or sexual prospects.
At first, Terry had satisfied himself viewing interracial porn, an interest he had developed after his first girlfriend had started cheating on him with a black co-worker. Eventually, he discovered that his sexual interest had waned, and, although only thirty-eight-years-old, he rarely achieved a full erection anymore. He had, however, discovered something of a purpose for himself in this changed world on the app TaskCracka.com, which he opened now on his phone after perusing the daily news.
TaskCracka brought black clients together with white people who wanted to serve them, a population that was growing dramatically. Black subscribers, of course, paid nothing, either for the app or for the service performed. Whites, on the other hand, paid a monthly subscription fee in order to provide free labor of various sorts to black patrons. Whites were also expected to tip the men and women for whom they provided a service. Such service could take many forms: a black man might want his car washed and detailed, for instance, or a black woman might need someone to do her grocery shopping. Terry had delivered pizzas and beer to black frat houses and done laundry for black families. He discovered that a life of service to the black race could be unexpectedly fulfilling.
TaskCracka encouraged its black users to review its white service providers (an option not given to white subscribers, as no one really cared to hear what a cracka might think). Few black subscribers bothered to rate any white user as more than adequate, not wanting to encourage feelings of self-esteem in a race that grew more obsolete with every day. Terry had accrued a large number of two-star reviews, and even a handful of three-star reviews, high praise for a white man. Many black subscribers approved of Terry's natural submissiveness, which bordered almost on obsequiousness.
As he scrolled through the app tonight, he found many of the usual postings for food deliveries and liquor runs that were common on a Friday night. The white taskcracka was, needless to say, expected to pay for any food or liquor out of his own pocket. Terry continued scrolling until a request for a chauffeur for the night caught his eye. He swiped right, signaling his acceptance of the task. Once a white subscriber agreed to conduct a service, he could not back out without endangering his good standing on the app. The details of the job followed.
"It's my girl's birthday. I'm taking her to dinner, and later hitting some clubs. Going to need a taskcracka that can drive us until the early hours. It will be expected to drive my Land Rover, and with good fucking care. I expect it to be punctual, presentable, and, above all else, respectful and fucking quiet." The time and location followed, Terry noting the posh Back Bay address.
Terry looked through his limited, somewhat threadbare wardrobe, choosing the black suit that he had bought for his father's funeral last year as the only thing really appropriate for a chauffeur. He did not have the kind of hat that a driver might wear, so he combed back his wispy blonde hair as neatly as possible he stood before his bedroom mirror. He tucked his button-down shirt into his dress slacks before adjusting his tie and pulling on the jacket for his suit. Terry was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and the jacket hung loose on his lean frame. He feared that he failed to make much of an impression, but he hoped it would be adequate for his client.
Terry arrived at the address provided. In the lobby, he was greeted by a concierge with a vaguely Eastern European accent. Terry explained that he was there to meet a resident by the name of Luke Rather.
"Ah," grinned the concierge. "You must be from TaskCracka, I take it."
"Well, uhm, I..."
"Oh, don't be embarrassed," the concierge assured Terry. "Mr. Rather uses TaskCracka quite frequently. He told me to expect you. Here." He handed Terry a set of keys. "You'll find Mr. Rather's Land Rover in space 350. Just take the elevator to the garage level, and bring the vehicle around to the front of the building. I'll call Mr. Rather, and let him know you have arrived." As Terry headed toward the elevator, the concierge said, "Oh, and a word to the wise: I would advise against making eye contact. Mr. Rather put one rather...impertinent taskcracka in the hospital last month." Terry gulped.
Locating the correct parking space, Terry admired the metallic black Land Rover, a vehicle well beyond his own meager means. He took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls, including the GPS, so he could avoid troubling his client with ignorant questions. He pulled around to the front of the building as the concierge had instructed. After about a twenty-minute wait, the concierge opened the rear door of the Land Rover for Luke Rather.
The young black man slid into the backseat without acknowledging either the concierge or Terry. He occupied himself with his phone, texting and occasionally chuckling to himself. The concierge came around to the driver's window and handed Terry a list of addresses. "The first is where you will pick-up Mr. Rather's date for the evening," he explained. "After that are listed the restaurant and clubs to which you will take them. If there are any changes to the itinerary, Mr. Rather will alert you through the app's messenger." Just before Terry put up the window, the concierge whispered, "Remember: don't fuck up."
As he pulled into traffic, Terry noted the first address was across town, in a much more blue collar neighborhood than that in which his client resided. It was becoming common for African-Americans to reside in the more upscale, posh neighborhoods, while whites clustered in crowded, low-income tenements. It was a modern variation on red-lining.
Although cautioned against making eye contact, Terry could not help but glance at his client in the rearview mirror. Luke Rather appeared to be no more than thirty, probably younger. He had short hair, shaved close on the sides, and a couple days growth of facial hair. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. He wore an elegant black silk shirt, white slacks, and several pieces of gold jewelry: rings, neck chains, ear studs, and a nose ring. Given his good looks and impressive physique, Terry wondered if he might be a model or an actor. His wardrobe, vehicle, and posh address suggested that the young black man was quite affluent.
Arriving at the first address, Terry pulled up to a rather ramshackle triple-decker apartment building. A young blonde woman came bouncing down the steps toward the Land Rover. The young black man in the backseat smacked Terry across the back of the head, addressing him for the first time. "Get out and open the door for her, you rude cracker motherfucker," he instructed. Terry scurried to do so, embarrassed that he had to be told. The young white woman didn't spare Terry a glance as she dove into the car and threw her arms around Luke. "Oh, baby," she said. "It's so good to see you!"
"Happy birthday," Terry heard Luke Rather greet his date as Terry slid back behind the wheel, inputting the address of the restaurant into the GPS. From the sounds, he suspected that the young couple must be making out, something he confirmed with a glimpse in the mirror. The girl was several years younger than Luke, Terry saw, perhaps barely out of high school. Although slim-waisted, she had an ample bosom, which Luke caressed freely, his hands groping inside her blouse. She giggled, as they kissed, Luke nibbling at her lower lip. Terry could not help but admire the young man's suave confidence and self-assurance.
"Here, baby," Luke said. "Got a little something for your eighteenth." He handed her a small bag with a Hermès logo. Excitedly, the young woman unfolded what appeared to be a bright red dress. "Oh, Luke, baby," she exclaimed breathlessly, "it's beautiful! I love it!"
"It's for tonight," Luke explained. "So, you'll look your hottest at the club. Go ahead, put it on." The woman cast an apprehensive look toward the front seat. "Oh," the black man assured her with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't worry none about that thing. It's just a traskcracka. Nothing important." The girl giggled naughtily, beginning to unbutton her blouse.
Terry caught a brief glimpse of her bare, milky breasts before averting his eyes from her reflection in the rearview mirror. Luke's sunglasses made it difficult to ascertain when he might be looking Terry's way. The concierge's warning remained fresh in Terry's mind. He had no doubt that this young, fit black man might trounce him with the slightest provocation and without a moment's thought or regret.
When he next glanced up from the road, Terry saw that the young woman had slipped into the strapless red dress, snug on her small frame, exposing a deep cleft of cleavage. It appeared to be cut at about the level of her crotch, the spot which Luke's large, brown, ring-bedecked hand now cupped possessively. "I knew you'd look sexy in red," he observed. "Just like a good snow bunny should." Giggling, the girl ran own petit hand over the crotch of Luke's tight slacks. "Mm-mm," he purred. "Tell me, baby, did you show your loser white daddy your new ink like I told you to?"
The blonde nodded, snickering mischievously. "I sure did, Luke, honey," she told him. "I've never seen him turn so red. I warned him that if he made a fuss, you might have to smack him down again. That shut him up real fast. I showed all my girlfriends, too, and they were totally jealous that I'm black-owned by a man like you."
"They should be," Luke agreed. "You are my number one white bitch."
Also in the bag were a pair of red, cross-strapped high heel shoes. The girl raised her feet to Luke's lap, and he helped her into them, running his fingers along her smooth pale legs as he did. Once the girl was fully changed into her new outfit, Terry saw Luke's head disappear into her lap, followed by the sounds of vigorous slurping. The blonde teenager rolled her head back, moaning with pleasure as the young black man feasted luxuriously on her youthful pussy. For what was perhaps the first time in several weeks, Terry felt himself actually grow turgid, the sounds of interracial lust exciting his sluggish libido.
They pulled up outside the restaurant, an intimate French bistro near downtown. Terry stepped out of the vehicle and stood by the rear door. When Luke raised himself from between his date's legs, Terry opened the door for them. When the couple stepped out of the vehicle, standing with arms locked, Terry was struck by what a strikingly attractive pair they were: young, fit, gorgeous, and in their sexual prime. It was no great mystery that soft, effete, white men like himself were so little desired by young women like this one when there were men like Luke Rather in the world.
To avoid another smack to the head, Terry scurried to open the door to the restaurant for the young couple. Luke's hand cupped the girl's shapely buttock, raising the bottom of her new dress just enough to reveal the outline of a spade tattooed on the lower part of her left ass cheek. They glided passed Terry without acknowledgment. On Luke's breath, Terry caught a whiff of what he was certain must be the scent of the young woman's pussy just beneath the musk of Luke's cologne. He savored the fragrance of female sex, grown so unfamiliar in recent years, before returning to the Land Rover.
Terry parked down the block, scrolling through his phone until Luke Rather had further need of him. Out of curiosity, he searched the internet for his client's name, learning that the young black man was a music producer who owned a local recording studio. There were photos of him at Hollywood premieres and awards shows, starlets both white and black on his arm. His image had graced the covers of several magazines, everything from Ebony to Cigar Aficionado. Such a level of success suggested that Luke was not using TaskCracka to save money, as some of Terry's other clients did. Instead, he probably used the service because he viewed it as the proper role of white men to cater to him.
Terry perused the reviews that Luke Rather had left for previous taskcrackas. He had rated them all uniformly with zero star reviews. "Motherfucker left the smell of white boy in my car," one review read. "Are all white boys retarded or just the ones I find on TaskCracka?" another questioned. Hoping to impress his client more than past taskcrackas, Terry drove down the street to a gas station and topped off the Land Rover's tank. At a nearby liquor store, he purchased a bottle of champagne, along with a bucket of ice and two glasses, that he left to chill in the backseat for the client and his date. Terry hoped these small touches might win him at least a single star.
Continuing to scroll through his phone, Terry discovered some of Luke Rather's social media accounts. It appeared that he belonged to several Afrocentric organizations, and enjoyed sharing news about the precipitous decline of the white man in America. A recent post celebrated the precipitous drop in the testosterone levels of white men. There were many more photos of Luke with white women, usually no older than the girl he was with tonight. A snippet of video showed him at a resort swimming pool crowded with handsome black men, young white women draped all over them. There were photos of him partying in Los Angeles, Paris, Lisbon, Lagos, Tokyo, Dubai, Ibiza, sometimes with black musicians, actors, and athletes that Terry recognized. Luke Rather lived a life privileged beyond Terry's imagining.
When the TaskCracka app indicated Terry's client would be leaving the restaurant soon, he pulled the Land Rover to the front, and opened the rear door in preparation. The couple exited the restaurant in one another's arms, talking and laughing, sliding into the car without sparing a thought for Terry or his diligence. When Terry resumed his seat behind the wheel, he heard Luke ask absently, "What the fuck is this swill," before tossing the champagne Terry had bought out on the sidewalk. "I wouldn't gargle with that shit," he told the girl, who tittered at his joke.
Terry broke out in a cold sweat, humiliated that his attempt to be thoughtful was so callously dismissed. He silently cursed himself as a fool for thinking that a man would be impressed with a $50 bottle of wine who could probably down Dom Pérignon as if it were soda pop. He was lucky that the client refrained from smacking him over the head yet again.
According to the itinerary, the next stop was the address of a club near the waterfront. While Terry pulled into traffic, Luke pulled the blonde girl into his arms, slipping a long, probing tongue into her mouth. Terry found that he enjoyed the sounds of them making out, the smacks and slurps, Luke's deep, guttural moans, and the girl's libidinous sighs. After a while, the girl slipped off the seat, kneeling between Luke's legs. Terry heard the telltale sound of a zipper being lowered. Sneaking a peak in the rearview mirror, he saw the girl's blonde head bob up and down in Luke's lap, while the handsome young black man rested his head and spread his arms across the back of the seat. Even with the few girlfriends he had had, Terry had very little experience with oral sex, as the women in his life had almost always refused to go down on him. Luke's date had no such reservations, apparently, and appeared to suck his black dick with enthusiasm.
As Terry pulled up to the address of the club, he saw that it was located in a block-long, repurposed, brick warehouse. A queue of stylishly dressed young people lined up around the block. Terry noted immediately that they were almost all black, with a smattering of young, very attractive white women on the arms of some of the black men, even one or two on the arms of black women. Before he pulled the car to a stop, however, Luke snarled, "Drive around the block a time or tow, cracka. I haven't had my nut, yet." Terry complied, as Luke wrapped a black fist in his date's long blonde hair, directing her to suck faster and harder.
As they completed a circuit of the block, Luke let out out a low groan. "Swallow that shit, you white bitch," he growled. "Swallow my fuckin' babies. There's some sweet birthday nut for your eighteenth." Terry heard the girl slurp Luke's load down her throat as they pulled up to the front of the club. As the girl sat up, Terry opened the rear door for them, observing Luke stuff his prodigious cock back into his slacks while the girl reapplied her lipstick and ran a hand through her hair. The couple stepped out of the Land Rover and approached the front door, ignoring the long line. Luke greeted two large, well-muscled doormen, who welcomed the young couple, and held the doors open for them, much to the consternation of the waiting crowd.
"Hey, nigga," one black woman called out. "Why da fuck dat brotha get to waltz right in?"
"Because, bitch," one of the muscle-swollen doormen replied snidely, "that brotha owns the fuckin' club."
Terry pulled the Land Rover across the street, finding a parking space in which to wait. Even from there, he could hear the persistent beat of dance music and hip-hop from inside the one-time factory. The odor of weed was as strong as the music was loud. He noted that many of the other vehicles on this side of the street were occupied by lone white men, too, taskcrackas like him probably, he mused. With nothing else to occupy his time, he observed the men and women waiting in line to get into the club.
A young light-skinned black man had his arm around the short black girl who had voiced annoyance when Luke breezed past those in line. He wore a red track suit, white Nikes, and several gold chains around his neck, while her ample buttocks fit snugly in a black leather skirt. She appeared aggrieved at having to wait in line to enter the club, while the young man grinned and joked, working to lighten her mood. She would have none of it, continuing to pout. Terry sympathized with the young man, never having had much success himself at making women happy.
Behind them a tall, dreadlocked, very dark black man leaned against the wall, with a pale-skinned redhead, in a revealing white dress, wrapped in his thick arms. The couple kissed hungrily, his hands kneading her rounded ass. A group of three young men in line behind them talked among themselves, occasionally casting envious glances at the interracial couple. They were clearly hungry for some white pussy themselves. Further back in the line, Terry observed a quartet of young women, mostly white but at least one of whom appeared Latina, laughing and dancing among themselves. He imagined his last girlfriend, Allison, with this group, waiting to get into a black dance club to meet the kind of men who, as she put it, could satisfy her in ways Terry never had. Not once.
Terry thought of Allison without recrimination. She was right to dump him. He had nothing to offer her that could compare to even the least of these confident, robust, virile, handsome black men. He was just another white loser in a world that already had more than its share of white losers. Serving as a willing minion for the same type of men that his girlfriends forsook him for was really about the only thing Terry, and men like Terry, had to offer.
Further back in line, stood a tall, regal black women dressed like a dominatrix in black leather jeans, a black leather bustier, and six-inch heels. She ran her hands possessively over a young, collared and leashed, white woman with dyed-pink hair pulled into a ponytail. Some black people, Terry had heard, had begun to practice white slavery openly rather than participate in half-measures like TaskCracka. Terry wondered if this lesbian kink couple was such an instance. He pondered if he might ever choose to forego even the illusion of free-will and independence that he enjoyed now, and opt for perpetual slavery to the black race instead. Although it might be counterintuitive, he suspected that there might be something ultimately liberating in living a life of such dedicated servitude.
It was almost one o'clock when Luke exited the club, laughing, his arm around his date's waist. Without sunglasses, Terry noticed, Luke's eyes were bright, sharp, observant. Luke and his date were accompanied by another couple: a well-muscled black man well over six-feet tall, with a dark-haired white girl on his arm. Terry held the rear door open, and all four slid into the backseat. Returning to the driver's seat, he pulled out of the space, following the GPS directions to the next address, a private residence in a wealthy suburb.
"Who da white boy," the tall man inquired.
"My latest taskcracka," Luke explained. "My chauffeur for the night."
"TaskCracka," his friend said. "Yeah, I heard o' dat shit."
"You got to give it a try, Lamond," Luke recommended. "Hook you up with white boys eager to serve the black race. All kinds of shit. Grocery shopping. Laundry. Cleaning your crib. You never have to lift a finger to do any of that crap again. And it's absolutely free, man. Fuck, some of the white boys will even pay you for the honor of being your maid. Ain't that right, cracka?" said Luke to Terry, giving the driver's seat a little kick.
"Yes, sir," Terry agreed quickly. "Anything to be of service, sir."
"See?" Luke grinned. "Course, most white boys are pretty dumb, and sometimes you gotta correct them a bit. But that can be fun, too, know what I'm saying?"
The conversation turned to the club, the music, the DJ, as Terry pulled onto the highway. After a while, when things had grown quiet, Terry stole another glance in the rearview mirror, and saw that the men had directed the two women to kiss one another. Luke and Lamond ran their brown hands indiscriminately over the pale flesh of the two young women whose lips were pressed together, their tongues darting into one another's mouths. As Luke's fingers moved under the dress of the young blonde, fingering her snatch, he said, "Yo, find a place to pull off the road, white boy. I gotta get me some of this pussy right fuckin' now!"
Terry pulled off the highway at the next available exit, and into the empty parking lot of an office park. Leaving Terry where he was, the two couples stepped out of the car, laughing, horny, clearly a bit intoxicated. "Put on some music, cracka," Lamond instructed. Terry turned on Luke's streaming service, filling the parking lot with neo soul rhythm. Terry wondered if this was the sort of music that Luke produced.
Outside the vehicle, Luke had his date up against the front of the hood, his lips to her neck as his hands caressed her breasts. Lamond sat his date on the side of the hood, and slipped her jeans down around her ankles, allowing his mouth access to her pussy. From his perspective, Terry could see Lamond's tongue flick over the girl's clitoris and dip inside the lips of her pussy. The girl rested one hand on the black man's cornrows, while she played with her erect nipples under her halter top with the other. In the Land Rover and over the music, Terry could more sense than actually hear Lamond's lapping tongue and the girl's lurid moans.
Although he remained wary of earning Luke's ire, Terry could not help but watch as Luke lowered the fly of his white slacks and worked his scimitar-like prong out of his fly. Sliding the white girl's dress up over her thighs and above her hips, Luke stepped in-between her legs and stabbed his long member into her pussy. The blonde threw her head back as she sought to retain her balance on the Land Rover's hood, wrapping her long legs around Luke's back to pull him deeper into her. With the girl's buttocks now exposed, Terry got a clearer view of her spade tattoo, which he had heard were becoming near ubiquitous with white girls of her generation. The music, sexy and languid, seemed to complement the couple's slow, rhythmic fuck. As he ran his fingers through the girl's long blonde locks, Luke caught Terry watching them through the windshield. With a contemptuous smirk, he flipped Terry his middle finger. Terry lowered his gaze shyly.
The Land Rover began to rock gently as Luke fucked his girl. Terry looked up to note that Lamond's girl had dropped to her knees by the side of the vehicle, and had her lips wrapped around his meaty member, sucking it greedily. After a few minutes, Lamond held her head in place with his large hands, and began face fucking her mouth. Again, Terry felt a stirring of arousal in his groin, one that had become unfamiliar in recent months. Witnessing this display of interracial lust was so much more visceral than the videos he would sometimes watch. It was clear to him why all his girlfriends had thrown him over for black men, why the same thing was happening to white men all across the country. Black men, black cocks, black sex were simply superior in every meaningful way.
With the next glance he stole, Terry saw that the two men had bent the women over the front of the hood, and were fucking them from behind. Lamond's big hands grasped his girl by the waist as he ploughed into her, while Luke held the blonde's long locks like the bridle of a horse, pulling her back into his groin. Luke had unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a taut, wiry, dark brown body. The top of his girl's dress had been pulled down, allowing her fleshy white breasts to bounce freely as she was fucked. Terry touched himself surreptitiously through his slacks, thinking how unlikely it was that he would ever again feel the tight wet warmth of a woman's pussy around his small penis. As far as women like these were concerned, he was invisible, irrelevant, obsolete.
Luke's date noticed Terry spying on her, and pointed him out to Lamond's girl. They sniggered at him, regarding any weak, soft-bodied white man who willingly enslaved himself to anonymous black alpha males as an object of ridicule. Terry actually found their disdain, his utter defeat and desolation, more arousing than any prurient interest he had in their young, fertile bodies or their interracial copulation. As the white women laughed at him, and the black men flipped him off, Terry ejaculated in his slacks. He experienced something almost like satisfaction at the shame and humiliation he was enduring.
After both men enjoyed their nut, the two couples lingered outside, talking and sharing a blunt. When they returned to the back seat, Luke smacked Terry across the side of the face. "That's for watching us, white boy," he said. "Next time, keep your pervert eyes in your cracka head."
Lamond shook his head. "So many o' dem white boys is real sickos, man. Spyin' on a brotha when he's just tryin' to enjoy some prime pussy. A man don't need dat shit." The girls merely laughed.
As the foursome derided white men in general and Terry in particular, Terry pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the highway. Following the GPS directions, he eventually pulled up to a large, gated Edwardian house. No, he thought to himself, not a house so much as an estate. Lights shown from all the windows, and music could be heard dimly from inside.
Terry identified Luke Rather to a security guard at the entrance, who checked the name against a list. When the wrought iron gate opened, the guard directed Terry to pull around to the side to park after he dropped the guests off at the front door. Terry proceeded up the long drive, and jumped out of the car to open the door for Luke and his friends. As he drove around to the side, he noted that all the couples who mingled on the vast lawn in front of the great house were interracial: black men with women of various ethnicities, including Asian, Middle-Eastern, Hispanic, and especially white. Some of the men even seemed to be accompanied by white femboys or sissies. Terry thought he spotted a well-known basketball star among the crowd, an arm around two different women, as well as a famous rapper and even a congressman.
Terry pulled the Land Rover into a spot alongside various luxury vehicles, including a number of limousines. He noticed other white drivers huddled in small groups nearby, talking furtively among themselves. "I tell you, it's downright disgusting," he heard one of the men complain, as he exited the Land Rover. "The way these white girls throw themselves at these...these fuckin' apes." The man was stout, balding, probably in his fifties. "These...whores don't have any self-respect." He spat on the graveled drive.
"You're going to get yourself a beating with that kind of talk," another man cautioned him. "Those attitudes, they don't fly nomore. You can't let it get to you, Sid. You gotta know your place."
"My place?" Sid snorted. "Niggers took my job. Niggers took my place. In my wife's bed. In my ********'s life. I got three grandkids: all niggers. Can you believe it?"
"Yet, here you are, driving for a black man," one of the other drivers noted.
"I gotta work, don't I, Davey?" Sid responded. "I still got bills to pay. Worst of all, my boy, my only son. He's a nigger's punk, a faggot for black dick. I woulda disowned the little fairy, but the dirty queer, he disowned me first."
"Shut it with that talk," the first man shushed him. "You're going to get us all in hot water." He turned to Terry, who approached the small group. "Hey, don't mind us, buddy. Just some bellyaching, y'know?" Terry simply nodded. "Who do you work for?" the man inquired.
"Oh, uh, I'm not...uh...I don't...I'm just driving through TaskCracka," Terry explained awkwardly.
"What?" yelled Sid. "That fuckin' racist app shit? You give away for free what the rest of us have to do to feed ourselves? That's just some motherfuckin' slavery shit, you fuckin' faggot!" The other men tried to calm him, but Sid was growing louder and louder. Terry found himself backing away in the face of his anger.
Suddenly, Sid felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and turned, ready to fight.
"Problem, gentlemen?" a giant of a black man inquired. His head was smoothly shaved, and the muscle of his enormous body was evident even beneath his dark suit and tie. Terry noted what might have been the bulge of a holster beneath the man's jacket.
Sid was appropriately cowed. "N-no," he said. "Just, er, letting off some steam."
The black eyes narrowed. "Well, keep your voices down. The guests don't need to be disturbed by the help. The white help, especially. I would hate to have to speak to your...employers."
As the man returned to the front lawn, Terry asked, "Who was that?"
"The head of security," Davey explained. "He was a heavyweight boxer. Smart not to mess with the likes of him." Sid turned with a scowl, and slinked off to the car he drove.
"TaskCracka, huh?" one of the men inquired of Terry. "So, you volunteer to, like, serve...them?"
Terry nodded. "Well, I work in a warehouse in the daytime. Takes up a lot of my time, y'know. But, well, it feels good to be of service, to make myself, I dunno, useful."
"So, you're, like, what, okay with the whole black supremacy thing? With them pushing us aside?"
Terry shrugged. "I don't think it matters much whether I'm okay with it or not. It's happening. I'm just...I guess I'm just trying to find a niche for myself."
"I hear you," another of men piped up, younger than the others. "That's pretty much why I took this job. There aren't many real jobs left for white guys like us, y'know. And, God knows, women hardly take an interest in a white dude anymore."
Another of the men explained, "My wife left me for my boss. They're here now, in fact. I drive for them. And, uh, other things, too." He turned to Terry. "So, yeah, I know where you're coming from. A niche seems to be all we can hope for...right?"
Terry nodded his agreement. "So...what is this place? Whose lives here? I thought I recognized some of the guests."
"Well, the place is owned by a bigtime real estate developer, a white guy," one of the men explained. "He donates the place out once a month or so for these parties. All the men bring their favorite, uh, snow bunny to be bred by as many men as possible. I got to tell you: I'd love to be a fly on those walls. I bet some crazy shit goes on inside there." Terry imagined Luke's eighteen-year-old date availing herself of one black man after another in an effort to breed a black child. It struck him as simultaneously debauched and beautiful.
The white men continued to talk among themselves. As the evening wore on, some of the guests would wander around to the side of the house, oblivious of their presence. One couple fucked standing up, leaning against a trellis for support; other couples fucked in the colorful Adirondack patio chairs that were laid out along the side of the house; some even fucked simply kneeling or lying on the well-tended lawn. None of them gave the white drivers any more attention than one might a curious pet. Their proximity was an irrelevancy.
As dawn began to break, the drivers were gradually summoned to pick-up their employers by the front of the house. Terry watched Sid pull out of the drive in a luxury town car. His scowl was gone, and he appeared complacent, even cowed, as he held the rear door open for a sharp-dressed, middle-aged, bearded black man and a youthful, voluptuous, blonde. As he watched them pull away, Terry received a message on the TaskCracka app to meet Luke by the front. He pulled the Land Rover onto the circular drive, and got out to open the door for his client.
Luke Rather exited the house not with the girl with whom he had spent most of the night, but with a dark-haired, olive-complexioned woman of about thirty, in a designer black evening gown and stiletto heels. This was no mere snow bunny, Terry thought to himself. This was a mature, experienced Queen of Spades. The couple paused at the car, the woman wrapping her slender arms around Luke's broad shoulders. They kissed, Luke grasping the woman's thigh in his right hand, while he pulled her close with his left.
When the kiss broke off, the woman told Luke, "She's a promising one, Lucas. You've got a real eye for talent. We'll take good care of her, you have my word."
Luke kissed the woman once more, before climbing in the Land Rover and signaling Terry to drive. "Home," he instructed simply with a wave. The young black man scrolled through his phone casually as he lit a cigar. After some time on the road, he looked up, catching Terry's eyes in the rearview mirror. "You're wondering what happened to Jessica, ain't you, white boy?" he inquired of Terry. So, that's her name, Terry realized. Jessica. It was the first time he had heard it all evening.
"It's really none of my business, sir," Terry responded.
"You got that right, cracker. But, I'll put your mind at ease. You see, Evangeline--that's the sexy bitch you saw me with just now--she takes snow bunnies like Jessica and trains them to become full-fledged Queens of Spades, just like herself." Luke drew on his cigar, the pungent smoke clouding about his handsome face. "Once she's turned her into a proper bitch, she'll set her up with a white boy from the right kind of ******. You know, one with real money, property, privilege. As a Queen of Spades, it will be her responsibility to teach that white boy his proper place in the New World Order, if you know what I'm saying, transferring his money, his stocks, his trust fund to the cause." Luke grinned, as much to himself as to Terry. "When the time comes, maybe she even convinces the white boy that the world is better off...without him."
Terry nodded his agreement. "It sounds like a noble goal, sir. I take it you've, um, done this before?"
Luke chuckled. "Fuck yeah, sure have. Just doing my part to take what is properly ours and to help eradicate your vile race." With that he turned back to his phone, ignoring Terry.
When they pulled up to Luke’s building, Terry rushed to open the door open for his client a final time. “Park the car, cracker, and leave the keys with the concierge.” Luke instructed. He paused, holding a hand out expectantly. Terry reached into his jacket and handed Luke an envelope, saying simply, “Thank you, sir, for allowing me to serve you. I hope my service was adequate.” The young black man inspected the contents of the envelope. Appearing satisfied, Luke turned with a smirk, and headed into the posh lobby of his building. The envelope contained $200 in fresh twenties, a gratuity from Terry for the privilege of being of service to a black man.
Later that day...
Terry was awakened only a few hours later by a notification on his phone. He rolled over in bed, reaching for his cell to check his messages. A DM had come through on the TaskCracka app. “White boy: the Land Rover needs cleaning after last night. There are smudges on the hood from me and my boy doing those bitches, and the driver's seat reeks of Caucasian. Fuck, but you white boys do stink. Be here in an hour to clean my car, and I might let you drive me around to the clubs again tonight.”
Terry grinned widely, and hurried to get ready. It was good to have a purpose.
