Please be aware, this story references certain real world current events. Specific names and locations are intentionally omitted. In no way are these references intended to make light of those events or minimize their importance; they serve as a backdrop to the story, nothing more. Also, this story contains violence and physical abuse resulting in the death of characters. Please do not proceeed if this offends you.
The race riots that had erupted throughout the country in the wake of the brutal killing of an unarmed black man by police led Christian and Gwen to hope that the racial utopia they had dreamed of throughout their years working on Masters degrees in Social Justice was, at long last, becoming a reality. When they heard of the autonomous zones that were springing up spontaneously in many cities—neighborhoods that barricaded themselves off from the authorities, zones where people of color need not fear government oppression—they just knew they had to be part of it. As young, educated, successful white professionals they knew that their value to this New World Order could only be measured by the degree to which they were actively anti-racist. They had participated in protests and demonstrations organized by various activist groups in the past—thin, nebbish, bookish Christian imagining himself as a soldier for civil rights—but what was happening on the streets now required a whole new level of commitment. Christian and Gwen packed their Patagonia gear, their never-used tent and their balaclavas, and loaded up their Prius hybrid. They were going to join the revolution.
"It's like marching off to a crusade," Christian observed as he streamed Moby over the car's JBL sound system.
"Oh! Don't say that," Gwen cautioned him. "That's a microaggression against Muslim POCs!"
Christian turned red. "Of course! What was I thinking? I tell you, Gwendolyn, checking my white privilege is an on-going struggle. Thank you so much for being there for me, for being my guiding star." He smiled at her, almost taking her hand to acknowledge his gratitude, but resisting the overt sexual overture as a remnant of toxic masculinity.
The drive from the small college enclave in which they lived to the nearest urban center with a nascent autonomous zone was only a couple of hours. As they entered the city, they observed heartening signs of the on-going struggle: anti-police graffiti, demolished storefronts, burned out police vehicles. They parked the Prius in a vacant space about a half block from the makeshift barricades that had been erected on the fringe of one of the city's gentrified commercial neighborhoods. Various debris had been confiscated to erect the barricades, everything from concrete barriers to chain link fencing panels to large plywood sheets, much of it topped with loose barbed wire. Christian and Gwen were awestruck by how much had been accomplished in so little time.
Outside the barrier, a handful of people milled about, some taking video, others rummaging through the remains of stores and shops, their windows broken, their shelves mostly empty. Three men stood at an opening in the barricade, all of them black, dressed in fatigues, and all armed with what Christian, ignorant of firearms, could only identify as military-style assault rifles. It cheered both Christian and Gwen to see long-maligned and disenfranchised people of color in possession of such arms, controlling access to a neighborhood free of the racism and the hate that had oppressed their people for so long. They approached the entrance.
"Whatchu crackers want?" asked the largest of the men, broad-shouldered, and sporting long dreadlocks and Ray-bans
Rather than bristle at the racial expletive, Christian accepted it as his due, knowing from his studies that many black men expressed their justified resentment of white privilege and systemic racism by the use of such epithets. Christian observed that in addition to their Kalashnikovs, each of the men sported sidearms in shoulder or belt holsters, as well. "Ahem, well, I'm Christian. And this is my girlfriend, Gwendolyn," he greeted them, the three black militants sizing up the mid-20 something white girl in her skinny jeans and Black Lives Matter t-shirt. "We've come to be part of your movement, to offer our services, in any way we can. We're, uh, down with the Cause."
The black guards smirked at one another. "Oh, are you, white boy?" one of them laughed. "Are you 'down' with the Cause, brah?"
Christian sensed the derision in their tone, but, of course, this was to expected. They had a natural and understandable animosity to the white elite culture that he and Gwen represented. "Why, yes! You see, we are both trained in social justice issues. I feel we have a lot to offer in your struggle here." Gwen nodded her head, adding, "We are well-versed in revolutionary struggles, and would be thrilled to share our insights and ideas with the leaders of your movement."
One of the men unhooked a thick chain that barred entry to the zone. "Okay, you sound sincere, but," he said, lowering his AK-47 across Christian's chest, "there's a fee...for white entry."
"Oh!" Christian said. "Of course, perfectly understandable. Here," he offered, withdrawing his Montblanc blue leather wallet. As he thumbed through the cash, the dreadlocked militant snatched the wallet from Christian's hands. He smoothly extracted all the cash and flipped it back empty at Christian, who fumblingly caught it, barely, with both hands. "Yeah, this'll do," he said. "You can enter." He raised the rifle.
As Christian and Gwen proceeded through the makeshift gate, the rifle dropped again, this time barring Gwen. "Sorry, shorty. That was only enough to cover your white boy. You gots to pay yo' own way." The black men all sniggered.
Gwen reddened. "Oh, I'm afraid I didn't think to bring any money with me," she apologized.
One of them, with a shaved head and large, black beard, said, "That's okay, girl, you don't gotta pay in cash. All you gotta do to get in is...take off yo' shirt."
Had a white man made such a suggestion, of course, Gwen would have been livid, accusing him of impropriety that amounted to ****. Black men like these, however, obvious street ruffians, could not be expected to appreciate such cultural niceties. Sensitivity to the racial and cultural oppression of these men necessitated that she conform to their expectations and consent to their demands. Gwen began unbuttoning the top of her blouse when the bearded man simply tore her shirt open in one sudden movement. Christian stepped forward, uttering, "Now, please, gentlemen...!" He was shushed by the third man, barrel-chested, with heavily tattooed arms. "Stay in yo' fuckin' lane, white boy," he warned.
Gwen wore no brassiere, and her small, alabaster breasts were framed by her now open shirt. Each of the armed men ran his hands over Gwen's exposed tits, tweaking her pink nipples between their large, black fingers. The dreadlocked militant nodded approvingly, "Small, but not bad for a white girl. Okay, shorty, you can go in wit yo' little white bitch boyfriend. Have fun. You might want to head to the city park. Show's going to begin in a little while."
"Show?" Gwen asked, tying her shirt off at the midriff since the buttons had been torn off.
"Yeah, you'll see. Should be another good one." He gave Gwen a firm smack on her rounded ass
Christian and Gwen made their way down the street. With dusk approaching, there were large crowds gathered around a number of bonfires, most set in trashcans and dumpsters. People milled about makeshift food stalls, talking and eating. A dreadlocked Rastafarian, accompanying himself on guitar, stood surrounded by a small crowd as he performed I Shot the Sheriff. The crowds were racially mixed, but it soon grew apparent that most of the couples were interracial, black men accompanied by young white women. A number of shirtless white men were working in what appeared to be an impromptu garden, planting seeds and watering soil. Two large, armed black men watched over their work almost, it appeared to Christian, like plantation overseers. When he pointed this out to Gwen, she dismissed it as the "embedded iconography of slavery that is an intrinsic part of the American collective unconscious." Christian began to doubt that interpretation when one of the black men sharply backhanded a skinny white boy just for requesting a drink of water.
As they approached the park, they noticed a large crowd gathered around a pedestal. At the foot of the pedestal were the shattered remains of a statue of George Washington, spray-painted with phrases like Founding Racist and Father of Oppression. In its place, on the pedestal, stood a young white man with long blonde hair and ruddy cheeks. His hands were bound with electrical tape and his mouth was gagged with a bandana. An older black man, professorial, in his 40s, bearded, stood at the foot of the pedestal, addressing the audience. “Who’s that?” Christian wondered aloud.
“That’s Dr. Okoro, white boy,” a young black woman hissed at him. “Now, shut your cracker mouth, I wanna hear this shit.”
"Even here," Dr. Okoro was saying as Christian and Gwen took a spot near the back of the gathering, "in this place of peace and harmony, the white man bedevils us." A chorus of angry shouts arose from the crowd. "I am afraid it is the case, brothers and sisters! The accused stands before us today in all his perfidy, full of race hatred and animosity, in all his pilfered privilege, suspected, my brothers and sisters, of uttering that chilling epithet, the appellation that should never escape a white boy's profane lips: nigger!" The crowd gasped and cried out as one. "I call the witness!" A young woman with long, straight blonde hair stepped out of the audience. The white boy's eyes widened.
As she took her place beside the bearded black man, she said, "My name is Tammy. And Mason," she indicated the bound white boy, "is...was...my boyfriend."
"In your own words," the Dr. Okoro directed her, "tell us what happened."
"Well, sir, Mason and I came to BLAZE”—the acronym for the Black Liberation Autonomous Zone Enclave—“because we wanted to fight the power, we wanted to stand alongside our black brothers and sisters against the police and against American racism." The crowd cheered "right on" and "black power." The girl continued: "We'd been here for three days when I met J'Marcus…just last night." A tall, black youth, shirtless, with long, beaded cornrows, stepped forward, taking his place beside Tammy. He grinned at the crowd, and held a fist up in a black power salute to applause. He wrapped an arm around Tammy's shoulder, pulling her close to him. The crowd muttered its approval at the sight of a black man asserting his right to white flesh. "Well, when J'Marcus said he wanted me...," more sounds of approval rose from the audience, "...there was no way I could refuse such a strong, virile, masculine black man. J'Marcus and I were in my tent...we were, well, y'know..."
"Fuckin'!" yelled J'Marcus with a bellowing laugh. "I had the white girl on all fours and were slammin' her bussey from behind like she was a bitch in heat!" The audience cheered. "And dat's when her loser white boy walks in...before I even have my nutt!" The crowd booed. Someone even hurled a glass bottle at Mason, hitting him in the groin with a loud thwack. Everyone laughed. Tammy nodded, continuing, "It was embarrassing, I mean, there I was trying to find…racial harmony with J'Marcus, and Mason starts throwing a fit, yelling at J'Marcus and me about how I'm his girl and I'm supposed to be loyal to him, and lots of other junk he got from our parents' stupid white morality." Boos and catcalls issued from the audience, Gwen joining in enthusiastically. Christian shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, naturally, J'Marcus got right up and slugged Mason a couple of time, I mean, what real man wouldn't?" Tammy said.
"Popped 'im right in de face," J'Marcus confirmed. "White boy had it comin', aight?"
"So, with Mason, y'know, like, laying there unconscious, J'Marcus and I, well, we continued going at it."
"For like another hour," J'Marcus laughed. "When I finally had my nutt, I split to get some tacos. Love me some tacos al pastor!"
"And I just rolled over and went to sleep," Tammy went on. "I kinda forgot all about Mason layin' there on the floor of the tent. But when he woke up, he started yelling at me again, saying stuff like, like, I don't even want to repeat it."
Dr. Okoro placed his hands on Tammy’s shoulders, reassuring her. "Now, come on, white girl, don't hold back now. If we're going to mete out white boy’s punishment, we need to know exactly what happened."
"Yes, sir," Tammy agreed. "It's just so...ugly. He called J'Marcus a...a monkey, and a...y'know, the...the n-word." Gasps sounded all around.
"And just to be clear, by the n-word, you mean your white boyfriend, this white boy just here behind us, referred to J'Marcus, this young, black king, as…a nigger?" Tammy nodded her head, looking up at the older man. "Y-yes, sir," she said, "yes, he did!"
On the pedestal, Mason shook his head vigorously, desperately trying to speak through his gag. "Quiet, white boy," warned the bearded man. "A white male's right of defense is not recognized by this court!" Cheers again rang up from the gathered crowd. As committed as he'd always been to racial justice and the overthrow of white hegemony, Christian began to fear that this whole thing was a farce. This wasn't racial justice, this looked like mob rule. He looked at Gwen, but she seemed entranced by the proceedings, joining the crowd as they alternated between cheers and boos.
Dr. Okoro raised his hands authoritatively for quiet. “My brothers and sisters, as the appointed judicial authority of this autonomous zone, I am ready to pass judgement. This…white animal…has violated the most basic tenet of our society: it has insulted a superior being, and it has done so using the vile language of the slaveholder, the klansman, the colonist. We have tolerated the presence of…whites among us…of those who profess to be allies. But sometimes the wolf wears sheep’s clothing, and we are reminded, my brothers and sisters, that racism and hate are simply part of a white’s DNA, we can no more expect them to change than we can expect the proverbial leopard to change its spots.” A chorus of “amens” and “hallelujahs” rang out.
He paused for effect. “And, so, it is with regret, with sorrow, but with righteous conviction, that I sentence this white boy, this…Mason…to death by hanging!” Cheers erupted from the crowd at the verdict, the biggest ovation, yet. Hundreds of fists were thrown up in a salute to Black Power. J’Marcus pulled Tammy close to him, and covered her mouth in a deep, celebratory kiss. Mason’s eyes widened in horror, just as a large, muscular, shirtless black man climbed the pedestal behind him and slipped a noose around his neck.
It was not a proper noose, but rather a mere loop tied in a length of steel cable confiscated from a nearby construction site, almost as if the verdict were never really in any doubt. The muscular black man yanked Mason off the pedestal by what was essentially a leash, pulling him to his knees. He gave the helpless white boy a hard kick to the ribs, knocking him over. While Mason struggled to recover his breath, the man holding the cable tossed one end over the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. “Lynch him! Lynch him! Lynch him!” the crowd chanted as one. Christian looked around, observing that even the whites in the audience were eager for blood. Even…Gwen?
Dr. Okoro cleared his throat for the crowd’s attention. “Ahem. To reiterate, within the boundaries of the society we have established here in BLAZE, and in order to correct centuries of racial abuse and injustice, there is only one recognized crime: any transgression of white against black. And there is only one punishment: death. Zavier, you may proceed with the sentence.”
At the Dr. Okoro’s instruction, Zavier pulled on the cable, yanking Mason first back up to his knees, then to his feet, then into the air. At first, Mason dangled a few inches above the ground, but as Zavier continued to pull—his thick, brown, well-muscled arms straining—Mason found himself several feet in the air, the cable tearing at his neck, drawing blood. Already finding it difficult to breath with the electrical tape around his mouth, he was now gasping desperately for any oxygen. Christian, so committed to racial justice, found himself unnerved by this horrible public lynching. Is this really the justice he’d been fighting for all these years?
He turned to Gwen. “Honey, this is horrible! Let’s get out of here.” Gwen barely looked at him, her eyes fixed on the tableau before her. “What? You’re kidding, and miss the best part? This is awesome!”
J’Marcus and Tammy joined Zavier, grasping the end of the cable, and helped yank Mason even higher, Tammy laughing at the ridiculous sight of Mason’s legs dancing a jig in mid-air. Once Mason dangled about five feet off the ground, people began hurling things at his convulsing body: cans, bottles, rocks, bricks, whatever was at hand. In his agony, the hanging white boy was all but oblivious to the debris that struck him. Even an empty beer bottle that shattered across his skull drew little response from the dying boy as his desperate fight for oxygen was the only thing that occupied his body as it began to shut down.
When Mason’s legs stopped trashing and he had turned a deep shade of purplish-blue, the crowd began to disperse. Gwen turned to Christian, excitedly. “Oh my gosh! Can you believe it! An actual lynching,” she said. “That was amazing! We got to witness payback for all the innocent blacks who suffered at the hands of white mob violence. What an experience!” Christian looked around, not sure that he agreed with Gwen’s assessment of this perversion of justice, but hesitant to be a wet blanket. “I suppose,” he answered.
Gwen pointed out that there were tents set up on the far side of the park. “That might be a good place to set up ours. Why don’t you go back to the car and get our equipment?”
“What? And leave you here? Gwen, I don’t think it’s really safe. We should stay together.”
Gwen looked peeved. “Not safe? Why, Christian, because of all the scary black men? You’re not being racist, are you? I thought better of you! I’m perfectly fine. I’ll just wait for you by the campsite. I’ll pick out a good spot to set up the tent.”
“O-okay,” Christian relented. As he made his way back to the entrance, he felt the hostile eyes of black men on him now that he was not in the company of a pretty white woman. None of this was how he imagined it in his utopian fantasies of a colorblind society. But, just maybe, he tried to tell himself, this was the way it had to be: you can’t build something new without dismantling what was in its place before it. As he approached the gate, he noticed the same three black men in fatigues guarding the entrance that had greeted Gwen and him on their arrival.
“Where you going, cracker?” the bearded one asked.
“Oh, sorry,” Christian explained, “we left our supplies in the car. I’m just going to retrieve them.”
The dreadlocked guard shook his head. “Yeah, about that, white boy: once you enter the autonomous zone, you don’t leave. BLAZE does not recognize the authority of the United States. This is your home now.”
Christian laughed nervously. “Seriously, guys, I’m just—”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking, boy?” the guard asked.
Christian hesitated, then sheepishly attempted to squeeze past the guards, thinking he might re-enter through a different gate. Before he’d gotten more than a couple of feet, one of the guards slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Christian’s head, knocking him to his knees. “I fucking warned you, cracker!” He gave Christian another whack over the head.
They grabbed the barely conscious white boy by the ankles and dragged his body back inside the barricades, leaving him in the gutter, as they resumed their positions, talking casually about how stupid white people are.
Back in the park, Gwen walked among the tents. Rather than the violence and disorder that gave Christian so much discomfort, Gwen saw an idyllic society in its early stages, where people of color were at last free of the systemic oppression that had marginalized them for so long. She saw people eating free food supplied by the community, openly enjoying cannabis with their neighbors, some even copulating in full view. Rather than chaos, Gwen saw promise.
“Hey, white girl, you looking for something?”
Gwen turned to the voice and saw J’Marcus standing before her. He appeared even taller than he had when he was giving his testimony before the crowd. His long, beaded cornrows hung down around his face. His shirtless body was dark brown, well-toned, and athletic. Numerous tattoos decorated his pectorals and muscular arms. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. Gwen could well understand why Tammy was attracted to him. “This ain’t no place for a white girl to be walking around alone. Why don’t you come to our tent for a spell? Maybe share a bowl.”
Gwen introduced herself. “I’m just waiting for my boyfriend, he should be back soon.”
“Oh. Your boyfriend a brother?” he asked.
“A brother? Oh! No, he’s white. He just went to the car.”
“Ah, then, he don’t matter none. C’mon, relax with us.” J’Marcus led the way, and Gwen, nearly entranced by his charming smile, and deep bass voice, followed. Upon entering the nearby tent, Gwen saw Tammy stretched out on a sleeping bag, inhaling from a glass pipe. “Oh, hey,” she greeted Gwen, “I saw you are the trial! You were with some loser white boy. Did you manage to dump him?”
Gwen blushed. “Dump…? Oh, no, that’s Christian. He’s my boyfriend. He’ll be back soon.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Tammy told her, passing the pipe to J’Marcus. “You’d be much happier with a real man like J’Marcus than some horrible white racist.” J’Marcus plopped down next to Tammy, taking a deep hit off the bowl.
Gwen wasn’t sure what to say. “Christian, he’s not so bad. A little stiff maybe, but…”
J’Marcus held the pipe out to Gwen, saying, “Have a seat, white girl, make yo’self at home.” Gwen took the pipe and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke wash through her, relaxing her. She hadn’t used weed since her freshman year as it gave Christian a headache.
“I’m sorry that your boyfriend turned out to be such a racist,” Gwen said to Tammy, “It’s good that he paid the price for that.”
“Mason?” Tammy giggled. “Oh, he never said any of that. I just made that shit up because I wanted to be with J’Marcus. I’m, like, so over white boys.” Gwen wasn’t sure how to process this new information. On one hand, it struck her as morally wrong, lying about a hate crime that led to a boy’s execution. On the other hand, Tammy lied because she had chosen a black man over a white man. Appraising J’Marcus, Gwen thought, How could such a choice possibly be wrong?
“Hey,” J’Marcus said enthusiastically, “y’know what I’d like to see? I’d like to see you two white bitches making out on each other!” The two young blonde women looked at each other. Gwen reddened yet again. “Ah, well, I’m afraid I’ve never…”
Tammy put a hand on Gwen’s leg. “It’s okay, I have. I mean, not since high school, and it was only fooling around at, like, slumber parties and stuff, but…” She leaned in and gave Gwen a peck on the lips.
J’Marcus perked up. “Aight! That’s a good start, boo, but Imma wanna see more then that.” Tammy untied Gwen’s torn shirt, letting it fall open to reveal her bare breasts. As she leaned in again for a deeper, longer kiss, she reached into Gwen’s open shirt and cupped a breast. Letting the weed lower her inhibitions, Gwen returned Tammy’s kiss, welcoming the younger girl’s tongue into her mouth. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” said J’Marcus approvingly.
As the two women kissed with increasing passion, they pawed at one another’s clothes, peeling them off to reveal more and more pale, white flesh. J’Marcus sucked at his pipe as he enjoyed the show. This is what white bitches be for, he thought to himself, provide some entertainment for a brother. Once naked, Tammy and Gwen maneuvered themselves into a 69 position. Gwen, having never been in such proximity to another woman’s vagina, breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of raw sex. Feeling Tammy’s mouth close on her own clitoris, Gwen began licking at Tammy’s vagina gingerly, experimentally.
Between watching the two white girls eat one another’s snatches and the fine weed, J’Marcus was feeling euphoric. This is exactly the kind of shit that brought him to the BLAZE, well, this and being able to fuck up some white boys. He reached out and freely groped the alabaster bodies on the sleeping bag beside him, not really paying much attention to where one started and the other began. The black cock in his basketball shorts strained against his crotch.
Gwen become bolder at ministering to Tammy’s sex, nibbling playfully at her clitoris as it became swollen, and dipping her tongue lewdly into Tammy’s vaginal lips. She felt J’Marcus’ strong black hands roam freely over her body, running through her blonde hair, cupping the fullness of her ass, pinching gently at her hardened nipples. This was nothing like the tame, vanilla sex she had with Christian on alternate weekends, always with discussions of consent beforehand. This was liberating and revelatory and beautiful. As her mind went briefly to thoughts of Christian, she forced them away, committing herself to the moment.
Back at the entrance to the autonomous zone, meanwhile, Christian had made his way groggily to his feet, confused from the savage blow to the back of his head, ******* that he was suffering a grade 3 concussion. His vision blurred, he staggered down the street, away from the black guards who had beaten him, but who were now oblivious of his plight, talking casually among themselves of all the white pussy they had been enjoying. Christian hugged lampposts and the walls of storefronts to stay upright, as unsure of where he was as of where he was going. He couldn’t make sense of what had happened to him, why he felt so strange. Gwen’s name flitted through his mind, and he knew that he should find her. She would help him.
But Gwen was busy feasting on Tammy’s wet snatch, finding that she both enjoyed eating cunt and took pleasure in providing sexual entertainment for the handsome, black man beside her. While her mouth was occupied with Tammy’s pussy, she worked a hand up the leg of J’Marcus’ basketball shorts and grasped his erection, hot and hard and thick in her hand. She stroked the shaft, gauging its length, estimating it to be over ten inches. The things she had always heard about black penises appeared to be true! J’Marcus’ cock was massive. She pulled on the thick foreskin that covered the bloated head, many times the size of Christian’s miniscule wiener. Overcome with cock lust, Gwen moved her mouth from Tammy’s crotch and buried her face in J’Marcus’ groin. “That a way, white girl,” the young black man encouraged her.
While Tammy continued to minister to Gwen’s wet pussy, Gwen yanked down J’Marcus’ shorts, freeing the thick, black truncheon of a cock that jutted proudly between his legs. It was magnificent, inspiring. Peeling back the dark brown foreskin, Gwen plopped the plum-size head into her slavering mouth, letting it stretch her lips and coat her tongue with viscous pre-ejaculate.
“Yo, that’s right, white girl, you feast on that motherfucker,” J’Marcus encouraged her crudely. Gwen had rarely performed fellatio on Christian’s tiny pecker, finding the act distasteful and slightly demeaning. Now, however, she found herself ravenous for the black cock of this stranger, craving the feel of its power and size in her mouth and throat. She was overwhelmed by a need to pleasure J’Marcus’ beast.
J'Marcus moved to his knees, working the fat head of his cock around in Gwen's mouth, letting her slobber all over it. White girls like her and Tammy, new to black cocks, were often inept cocksuckers, he had learned, used only to their white boyfriend's little kid dicklets; but what they lacked in skill, they often made up for in enthusiasm. Once the head of his prodigious dick was coated with a thick sheen of Gwen's saliva, J'Marcus slipped it out from between her lips and positioned it at the lips of Tammy's dripping pussy. He eased the tip of his dick into Tammy's cunt, just inches away from Gwen's face, his egg-sized balls resting on the blonde girl's chin as she looked up in wonder at his penetration of the snatch she'd just been feasting on. Tammy, her face still buried in Gwen's cunt, moaned with pleasure as the girth of J'Marcus' dick stretched her pussy. This was their first fuck since disposing of Mason, and it was going to be a rewarding one.
Instinctively, Gwen licked at J'Marcus' sperm-filled testicles, capturing them one at a time, and nursing them in her mouth. She'd never once paid Christian's balls the slightest attention, and would be hard-pressed to describe them in anyway. She was certain that they were small and irrelevant, the size of grapes, perhaps, and mostly hairless. After years of being dedicated to the idea that gender was a social construct, that there was no real appreciable difference between the sexes, Gwen was at long last learning what a real man was like. J'Marcus had taken Tammy from Mason by force, and participated in the white boy's cruel disposal. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted, and fuck anyone who dared to get in his way, what Gwen had long been programmed to dismiss as typical toxic masculine behavior, but which she now found excited some deep, primal part of her nature.
Christian was not the type of man to excite that response in anyone.
As he staggered through the park, he occasionally vomited blood and had to steady himself by grasping a tree or a signpost. Passersby in the autonomous zone gave him dirty looks, wondering what this white loser was doing intruding on their newfound Utopia. He scanned the park for Gwen, but saw no sign of her, only the sneering contempt of the young black men and women he passed, and the averted gaze of white activists who didn't want anything to do with this pathetic, beaten member of their own race, his clothes coated with dried blood, a bulging wound on the back of his head. They were here to usher in a new racial harmony, to make up for the racism of their parents, of the past; Christian's apparent dissipation did nothing to further that goal. When he staggered too close to one young black woman, she responded by shoving him, and yelling, "Step back, cracker! Don't you be touching this Queen with your skeevy white boy hands." Christian fell to his knees, only righting himself by an effort of will. He stumbled out of the park and onto the sidewalk, calling faintly, "Gwen, Gwen, where are you, honey?"
Gwen was mesmerized by the sight of J'Marcus' mammoth sex organ pummeling Tammy's neatly shaved pussy. As she continued to suckle J'Marcus' balls, she let her fingers play across the shaft of his cock, watching it disappear and return from the depths of Tammy's cervix. She knew that she would do anything to be on the receiving end of J'Marcus’ relentless, black fuckstick. Fuck Christian, she thought to herself: if he was a real man, she wouldn't have to debase herself with a stranger. But years of treacly, vanilla, carefully consensual sex had left her hungry for something this primal, this raw. With Tammy still licking at her clit, Gwen shoved two fingers into her own pussy, crying, "Oh, please, please! Fuck me, too!"
Hearing the mewling desperation in Gwen's voice, J'Marcus wasted no time. "Get up on yo' knees, white girl," he instructed, positioning the two blonde girls side by side on all fours. Tammy and Gwen smiled at one another, almost sisterly, as they felt the young black man kneel behind them. Working one hand around in Tammy's wet snatch, he positioned his colossal prick, almost the length and girth of a 40 ounce of malt liquor, at the entrance of Gwen's all-but-virginal pussy. As he pushed himself past cunt walls that had never before stretched for anything so voluminous, Gwen lost her ability to draw breath, growing light-headed. Tammy recognized that look, having experienced it herself for the first time not long ago; leaning close, she said to Gwen, "Breath, go on, let it out, it'll be fine. J'Marcus' cock is just reshaping your pussy to better accommodate a black man. This is why they say you never go back, baby. Once you've had a man like J'Marcus, you won't even be able to feel your little white boyfriend!"
Gwen smiled ecstatically, as J'Marcus buried himself to the base in her violated pussy. "Boyfriend? What boyfriend?" she only half-jokingly asked Tammy.
After several minutes of relentlessly jack-hammering Gwen's pink pussy, J'Marcus withdrew himself to again bury his dick in Tammy's accommodating cunt. Gwen hated the feeling of being suddenly empty, but was compensated when J'Marcus worked his thick black fingers into her swollen vagina, frigging her with his hand as enthusiastically as he fucked Tammy with his cock. "Go on, sweet thing," J'Marcus told Tammy, “tell white girl the truth."
Gwen looked quizzically at Tammy, who was groaning contentedly as J'Marcus sounded the depths of her black cock-distorted cunt. "The truth," Gwen asked. "What truth?"
Tammy smiled broadly. "None of this," she explained, "the protests, the riots, the autonomous zone, none of it, has been about racial equality or racial justice. It's always been about one thing: black supremacy! Isn't that wonderful?" Gwen thought about it, even as she spread her thighs to welcome more of J'Marcus' hand into her pussy. Was that true? Was everything she'd dedicated herself to, all the years of school, all the protests and seminars and theses, was it all really about the superiority of black people rather than the equality of all races? It had a ring of truth to it.
"White people," J'Marcus picked up where Tammy left off even as he returned his cock to Gwen's warm snatch, enjoying going from one warm pussy to the other, "are a sad, pathetic anachronism, a mutant offshoot of real people that we're never meant to survive. Dr. Okoro taught us that." He fucked himself deep into Gwen's womb. "That is why you’re are all so evil and oppressive, because you fear the power and might of real people. Of black people. But your time is coming to an end." He ground his loins against Gwen's ass, his balls slamming back and forth against her pale thighs.
"You see," Tammy said, beaming happily, "none of this has ever really been about black lives matter. Of course they do, no one could deny it. This has always been about making people realize that white lives...don't. They don’t matter." Hearing those words, Gwen came on J'Marcus' pistoning cock, spasming and gushing as he hammered relentlessly into her. Even as she came, Gwen repeated Tammy's words: "White. Lives. Don't. Matter."
Christian found himself wandering down an almost deserted street on the fringe of the autonomous zone. He was still looking for Gwen, but had no idea how to find her in this surreal, almost dystopian landscape, with barricaded streets, burned out cars and buildings, all of it made more confusing by the blood that dripped in his eyes.
In front of a secluded loading dock, a group of six young black and blatino skateboarders, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, practiced their shredding. They paused to look at the bloodied white dude as he staggered toward them. Two of them broke off from their powerslides and hippie jumps and manuals, to circle the confused cracker on their boards, like sharks, intentionally jostling him as they passed. One of them grasped the white man's wrist, liberating his Apple Watch. The other slammed him from behind, knocking him to all fours. "These our streets, white boy," he taunted Christian. "Whatchu want here?"
As Christian knelt there helplessly, the remaining boys skated closer, jumping his body as if it were an obstacle in a skate park. One of them grinded across Christian's back, knocking him flat on his stomach. Another boy grabbed the white man's wallet from his back pocket, but tossed it away when he discovered it held no cash. Disappointed at the lack of reward, he kicked Christian in the side. His bros joined in, kicking the vulnerable, prone white man in the thighs, legs, arms, and head with their Jordans, Vans, and Nikes, laughing when they drew blood. It was great fun for the teens to take out their long-held contempt for white men on this pathetic loser. "Fuck you and yo' privilege!" one of them yelled.
Gwen, meanwhile, continued to enjoy an orgasm the likes of which she'd never imagined, as it washed over her in cascading waves. “That’s right, white girl,” J’Marcus grinned, his beaded cornrows flinging back and forth as he fucked deep into the blonde girl. “Yo’ cum hard on that cock, show me how much yo’ need that black mamba!” Gwen cried out to a God she didn’t even believe in as the bloated head of J’Marcus’ cock sounded depths of her pussy never before reached. Feeling his own balls churning a dose of baby batter, he quickly withdrew from Gwen’s spasming, distended cunt and shoved himself deep into Tammy’s welcoming pussy.
“Fuck! Here it comes,” he said, “Take my baby-making juice, you white whore! Gonna plant my nigga bastard in your white womb, make you carry my black baby, end your fuckin’ corrupt white bloodline!”
Tammy’s head tossed back and forth. “God, yes! I feel it filling me, it’s gushing in my womb! Give me your baby, J’Marcus! Give me the baby of a real man! Fuck my white ******, fuck my white heritage!” Gwen marveled at Tammy’s words. The young blonde girl really hoped that the black thug was knocking her up with his baby. It was beautiful.
Lying together afterward—J’Marcus in the middle, a blonde girl on either side of him, their heads resting on his chest—Tammy explained that she was merely the first in what J’Marcus imagined as his own white girl harem, living here in the zone, where he would accrue his power, and birth many children. He envisioned himself a modern-day warlord. “It’d be really awesome if you joined us. You could be part of the harem. We both really like you. You’d be a great mother to J’Marcus’ babies.” J’Marcus grinned at Gwen, his eyes inviting.
“But…Christian. My boyfriend,” Gwen said, suddenly remembering his name.
“Fuck him,” J’Marcus laughed. “Has white boy ever made you come like I just did? ‘Sides, he’s probably already run away, gone home to hide after he saw what we done to Tammy’s loser white boy. C’mon, white girl: don’t you want to be part of my crew? Don’t you want to carry my black baby in yo’ lily white belly?”
Gwen reached down between J’Marcus’ legs and grasped his soft, black dick, many times bigger than Christian’s even flaccid, in her small white hand. “Yes, I want!” she agreed.
Not far away, Christian, beaten and broken, had crawled behind a dumpster to hide after the skaters had finally tired of assaulting him. Overnight, a pulmonary embolism, caused by the beatings he’d taken, resulted in deep vein thrombosis. The clot traveled from his legs to this lungs, and he died, gasping for air in his sleep. When black militants found his remains during a routine patrol of BLAZE several days later, they simply tossed him in the dumpster.
In the morning, Gwen joined J’Marcus and Tammy in the park, gathered with dozens of others in a circle around Dr. Okoro, who preached to the crowd about the virtues of black supremacy. It was a warm, summer day, the air filled with promise and hope for a better, a blacker future. This autonomous zone, like so many of the others that had risen up around the nation, promised new hope for Black America, the beginning of the fall of white supremacy, and a New World Order in the making. “This is just the start, my children,” Dr. Okoro promised, “our reach, our strength, our power, will encompass the world, a new world, a white-free world, an African world!”
Gwen laid a hand over Tammy’s bare midriff, rubbing it gently, hoping that a new life had been conceived there to help welcome this new world. Gwen accepted that she and her kind were a thing of the past, but by joining with J’Marcus, their children might help forge the future. She turned to J’Marcus. “Yes,” she told him, shyly, “I want to be part of all this. I want to be…yours.” J’Marcus wrapped a strong, black arm around the second of his white girls. The future looked good indeed.
The race riots that had erupted throughout the country in the wake of the brutal killing of an unarmed black man by police led Christian and Gwen to hope that the racial utopia they had dreamed of throughout their years working on Masters degrees in Social Justice was, at long last, becoming a reality. When they heard of the autonomous zones that were springing up spontaneously in many cities—neighborhoods that barricaded themselves off from the authorities, zones where people of color need not fear government oppression—they just knew they had to be part of it. As young, educated, successful white professionals they knew that their value to this New World Order could only be measured by the degree to which they were actively anti-racist. They had participated in protests and demonstrations organized by various activist groups in the past—thin, nebbish, bookish Christian imagining himself as a soldier for civil rights—but what was happening on the streets now required a whole new level of commitment. Christian and Gwen packed their Patagonia gear, their never-used tent and their balaclavas, and loaded up their Prius hybrid. They were going to join the revolution.
"It's like marching off to a crusade," Christian observed as he streamed Moby over the car's JBL sound system.
"Oh! Don't say that," Gwen cautioned him. "That's a microaggression against Muslim POCs!"
Christian turned red. "Of course! What was I thinking? I tell you, Gwendolyn, checking my white privilege is an on-going struggle. Thank you so much for being there for me, for being my guiding star." He smiled at her, almost taking her hand to acknowledge his gratitude, but resisting the overt sexual overture as a remnant of toxic masculinity.
The drive from the small college enclave in which they lived to the nearest urban center with a nascent autonomous zone was only a couple of hours. As they entered the city, they observed heartening signs of the on-going struggle: anti-police graffiti, demolished storefronts, burned out police vehicles. They parked the Prius in a vacant space about a half block from the makeshift barricades that had been erected on the fringe of one of the city's gentrified commercial neighborhoods. Various debris had been confiscated to erect the barricades, everything from concrete barriers to chain link fencing panels to large plywood sheets, much of it topped with loose barbed wire. Christian and Gwen were awestruck by how much had been accomplished in so little time.
Outside the barrier, a handful of people milled about, some taking video, others rummaging through the remains of stores and shops, their windows broken, their shelves mostly empty. Three men stood at an opening in the barricade, all of them black, dressed in fatigues, and all armed with what Christian, ignorant of firearms, could only identify as military-style assault rifles. It cheered both Christian and Gwen to see long-maligned and disenfranchised people of color in possession of such arms, controlling access to a neighborhood free of the racism and the hate that had oppressed their people for so long. They approached the entrance.
"Whatchu crackers want?" asked the largest of the men, broad-shouldered, and sporting long dreadlocks and Ray-bans
Rather than bristle at the racial expletive, Christian accepted it as his due, knowing from his studies that many black men expressed their justified resentment of white privilege and systemic racism by the use of such epithets. Christian observed that in addition to their Kalashnikovs, each of the men sported sidearms in shoulder or belt holsters, as well. "Ahem, well, I'm Christian. And this is my girlfriend, Gwendolyn," he greeted them, the three black militants sizing up the mid-20 something white girl in her skinny jeans and Black Lives Matter t-shirt. "We've come to be part of your movement, to offer our services, in any way we can. We're, uh, down with the Cause."
The black guards smirked at one another. "Oh, are you, white boy?" one of them laughed. "Are you 'down' with the Cause, brah?"
Christian sensed the derision in their tone, but, of course, this was to expected. They had a natural and understandable animosity to the white elite culture that he and Gwen represented. "Why, yes! You see, we are both trained in social justice issues. I feel we have a lot to offer in your struggle here." Gwen nodded her head, adding, "We are well-versed in revolutionary struggles, and would be thrilled to share our insights and ideas with the leaders of your movement."
One of the men unhooked a thick chain that barred entry to the zone. "Okay, you sound sincere, but," he said, lowering his AK-47 across Christian's chest, "there's a fee...for white entry."
"Oh!" Christian said. "Of course, perfectly understandable. Here," he offered, withdrawing his Montblanc blue leather wallet. As he thumbed through the cash, the dreadlocked militant snatched the wallet from Christian's hands. He smoothly extracted all the cash and flipped it back empty at Christian, who fumblingly caught it, barely, with both hands. "Yeah, this'll do," he said. "You can enter." He raised the rifle.
As Christian and Gwen proceeded through the makeshift gate, the rifle dropped again, this time barring Gwen. "Sorry, shorty. That was only enough to cover your white boy. You gots to pay yo' own way." The black men all sniggered.
Gwen reddened. "Oh, I'm afraid I didn't think to bring any money with me," she apologized.
One of them, with a shaved head and large, black beard, said, "That's okay, girl, you don't gotta pay in cash. All you gotta do to get in is...take off yo' shirt."
Had a white man made such a suggestion, of course, Gwen would have been livid, accusing him of impropriety that amounted to ****. Black men like these, however, obvious street ruffians, could not be expected to appreciate such cultural niceties. Sensitivity to the racial and cultural oppression of these men necessitated that she conform to their expectations and consent to their demands. Gwen began unbuttoning the top of her blouse when the bearded man simply tore her shirt open in one sudden movement. Christian stepped forward, uttering, "Now, please, gentlemen...!" He was shushed by the third man, barrel-chested, with heavily tattooed arms. "Stay in yo' fuckin' lane, white boy," he warned.
Gwen wore no brassiere, and her small, alabaster breasts were framed by her now open shirt. Each of the armed men ran his hands over Gwen's exposed tits, tweaking her pink nipples between their large, black fingers. The dreadlocked militant nodded approvingly, "Small, but not bad for a white girl. Okay, shorty, you can go in wit yo' little white bitch boyfriend. Have fun. You might want to head to the city park. Show's going to begin in a little while."
"Show?" Gwen asked, tying her shirt off at the midriff since the buttons had been torn off.
"Yeah, you'll see. Should be another good one." He gave Gwen a firm smack on her rounded ass
Christian and Gwen made their way down the street. With dusk approaching, there were large crowds gathered around a number of bonfires, most set in trashcans and dumpsters. People milled about makeshift food stalls, talking and eating. A dreadlocked Rastafarian, accompanying himself on guitar, stood surrounded by a small crowd as he performed I Shot the Sheriff. The crowds were racially mixed, but it soon grew apparent that most of the couples were interracial, black men accompanied by young white women. A number of shirtless white men were working in what appeared to be an impromptu garden, planting seeds and watering soil. Two large, armed black men watched over their work almost, it appeared to Christian, like plantation overseers. When he pointed this out to Gwen, she dismissed it as the "embedded iconography of slavery that is an intrinsic part of the American collective unconscious." Christian began to doubt that interpretation when one of the black men sharply backhanded a skinny white boy just for requesting a drink of water.
As they approached the park, they noticed a large crowd gathered around a pedestal. At the foot of the pedestal were the shattered remains of a statue of George Washington, spray-painted with phrases like Founding Racist and Father of Oppression. In its place, on the pedestal, stood a young white man with long blonde hair and ruddy cheeks. His hands were bound with electrical tape and his mouth was gagged with a bandana. An older black man, professorial, in his 40s, bearded, stood at the foot of the pedestal, addressing the audience. “Who’s that?” Christian wondered aloud.
“That’s Dr. Okoro, white boy,” a young black woman hissed at him. “Now, shut your cracker mouth, I wanna hear this shit.”
"Even here," Dr. Okoro was saying as Christian and Gwen took a spot near the back of the gathering, "in this place of peace and harmony, the white man bedevils us." A chorus of angry shouts arose from the crowd. "I am afraid it is the case, brothers and sisters! The accused stands before us today in all his perfidy, full of race hatred and animosity, in all his pilfered privilege, suspected, my brothers and sisters, of uttering that chilling epithet, the appellation that should never escape a white boy's profane lips: nigger!" The crowd gasped and cried out as one. "I call the witness!" A young woman with long, straight blonde hair stepped out of the audience. The white boy's eyes widened.
As she took her place beside the bearded black man, she said, "My name is Tammy. And Mason," she indicated the bound white boy, "is...was...my boyfriend."
"In your own words," the Dr. Okoro directed her, "tell us what happened."
"Well, sir, Mason and I came to BLAZE”—the acronym for the Black Liberation Autonomous Zone Enclave—“because we wanted to fight the power, we wanted to stand alongside our black brothers and sisters against the police and against American racism." The crowd cheered "right on" and "black power." The girl continued: "We'd been here for three days when I met J'Marcus…just last night." A tall, black youth, shirtless, with long, beaded cornrows, stepped forward, taking his place beside Tammy. He grinned at the crowd, and held a fist up in a black power salute to applause. He wrapped an arm around Tammy's shoulder, pulling her close to him. The crowd muttered its approval at the sight of a black man asserting his right to white flesh. "Well, when J'Marcus said he wanted me...," more sounds of approval rose from the audience, "...there was no way I could refuse such a strong, virile, masculine black man. J'Marcus and I were in my tent...we were, well, y'know..."
"Fuckin'!" yelled J'Marcus with a bellowing laugh. "I had the white girl on all fours and were slammin' her bussey from behind like she was a bitch in heat!" The audience cheered. "And dat's when her loser white boy walks in...before I even have my nutt!" The crowd booed. Someone even hurled a glass bottle at Mason, hitting him in the groin with a loud thwack. Everyone laughed. Tammy nodded, continuing, "It was embarrassing, I mean, there I was trying to find…racial harmony with J'Marcus, and Mason starts throwing a fit, yelling at J'Marcus and me about how I'm his girl and I'm supposed to be loyal to him, and lots of other junk he got from our parents' stupid white morality." Boos and catcalls issued from the audience, Gwen joining in enthusiastically. Christian shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, naturally, J'Marcus got right up and slugged Mason a couple of time, I mean, what real man wouldn't?" Tammy said.
"Popped 'im right in de face," J'Marcus confirmed. "White boy had it comin', aight?"
"So, with Mason, y'know, like, laying there unconscious, J'Marcus and I, well, we continued going at it."
"For like another hour," J'Marcus laughed. "When I finally had my nutt, I split to get some tacos. Love me some tacos al pastor!"
"And I just rolled over and went to sleep," Tammy went on. "I kinda forgot all about Mason layin' there on the floor of the tent. But when he woke up, he started yelling at me again, saying stuff like, like, I don't even want to repeat it."
Dr. Okoro placed his hands on Tammy’s shoulders, reassuring her. "Now, come on, white girl, don't hold back now. If we're going to mete out white boy’s punishment, we need to know exactly what happened."
"Yes, sir," Tammy agreed. "It's just so...ugly. He called J'Marcus a...a monkey, and a...y'know, the...the n-word." Gasps sounded all around.
"And just to be clear, by the n-word, you mean your white boyfriend, this white boy just here behind us, referred to J'Marcus, this young, black king, as…a nigger?" Tammy nodded her head, looking up at the older man. "Y-yes, sir," she said, "yes, he did!"
On the pedestal, Mason shook his head vigorously, desperately trying to speak through his gag. "Quiet, white boy," warned the bearded man. "A white male's right of defense is not recognized by this court!" Cheers again rang up from the gathered crowd. As committed as he'd always been to racial justice and the overthrow of white hegemony, Christian began to fear that this whole thing was a farce. This wasn't racial justice, this looked like mob rule. He looked at Gwen, but she seemed entranced by the proceedings, joining the crowd as they alternated between cheers and boos.
Dr. Okoro raised his hands authoritatively for quiet. “My brothers and sisters, as the appointed judicial authority of this autonomous zone, I am ready to pass judgement. This…white animal…has violated the most basic tenet of our society: it has insulted a superior being, and it has done so using the vile language of the slaveholder, the klansman, the colonist. We have tolerated the presence of…whites among us…of those who profess to be allies. But sometimes the wolf wears sheep’s clothing, and we are reminded, my brothers and sisters, that racism and hate are simply part of a white’s DNA, we can no more expect them to change than we can expect the proverbial leopard to change its spots.” A chorus of “amens” and “hallelujahs” rang out.
He paused for effect. “And, so, it is with regret, with sorrow, but with righteous conviction, that I sentence this white boy, this…Mason…to death by hanging!” Cheers erupted from the crowd at the verdict, the biggest ovation, yet. Hundreds of fists were thrown up in a salute to Black Power. J’Marcus pulled Tammy close to him, and covered her mouth in a deep, celebratory kiss. Mason’s eyes widened in horror, just as a large, muscular, shirtless black man climbed the pedestal behind him and slipped a noose around his neck.
It was not a proper noose, but rather a mere loop tied in a length of steel cable confiscated from a nearby construction site, almost as if the verdict were never really in any doubt. The muscular black man yanked Mason off the pedestal by what was essentially a leash, pulling him to his knees. He gave the helpless white boy a hard kick to the ribs, knocking him over. While Mason struggled to recover his breath, the man holding the cable tossed one end over the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. “Lynch him! Lynch him! Lynch him!” the crowd chanted as one. Christian looked around, observing that even the whites in the audience were eager for blood. Even…Gwen?
Dr. Okoro cleared his throat for the crowd’s attention. “Ahem. To reiterate, within the boundaries of the society we have established here in BLAZE, and in order to correct centuries of racial abuse and injustice, there is only one recognized crime: any transgression of white against black. And there is only one punishment: death. Zavier, you may proceed with the sentence.”
At the Dr. Okoro’s instruction, Zavier pulled on the cable, yanking Mason first back up to his knees, then to his feet, then into the air. At first, Mason dangled a few inches above the ground, but as Zavier continued to pull—his thick, brown, well-muscled arms straining—Mason found himself several feet in the air, the cable tearing at his neck, drawing blood. Already finding it difficult to breath with the electrical tape around his mouth, he was now gasping desperately for any oxygen. Christian, so committed to racial justice, found himself unnerved by this horrible public lynching. Is this really the justice he’d been fighting for all these years?
He turned to Gwen. “Honey, this is horrible! Let’s get out of here.” Gwen barely looked at him, her eyes fixed on the tableau before her. “What? You’re kidding, and miss the best part? This is awesome!”
J’Marcus and Tammy joined Zavier, grasping the end of the cable, and helped yank Mason even higher, Tammy laughing at the ridiculous sight of Mason’s legs dancing a jig in mid-air. Once Mason dangled about five feet off the ground, people began hurling things at his convulsing body: cans, bottles, rocks, bricks, whatever was at hand. In his agony, the hanging white boy was all but oblivious to the debris that struck him. Even an empty beer bottle that shattered across his skull drew little response from the dying boy as his desperate fight for oxygen was the only thing that occupied his body as it began to shut down.
When Mason’s legs stopped trashing and he had turned a deep shade of purplish-blue, the crowd began to disperse. Gwen turned to Christian, excitedly. “Oh my gosh! Can you believe it! An actual lynching,” she said. “That was amazing! We got to witness payback for all the innocent blacks who suffered at the hands of white mob violence. What an experience!” Christian looked around, not sure that he agreed with Gwen’s assessment of this perversion of justice, but hesitant to be a wet blanket. “I suppose,” he answered.
Gwen pointed out that there were tents set up on the far side of the park. “That might be a good place to set up ours. Why don’t you go back to the car and get our equipment?”
“What? And leave you here? Gwen, I don’t think it’s really safe. We should stay together.”
Gwen looked peeved. “Not safe? Why, Christian, because of all the scary black men? You’re not being racist, are you? I thought better of you! I’m perfectly fine. I’ll just wait for you by the campsite. I’ll pick out a good spot to set up the tent.”
“O-okay,” Christian relented. As he made his way back to the entrance, he felt the hostile eyes of black men on him now that he was not in the company of a pretty white woman. None of this was how he imagined it in his utopian fantasies of a colorblind society. But, just maybe, he tried to tell himself, this was the way it had to be: you can’t build something new without dismantling what was in its place before it. As he approached the gate, he noticed the same three black men in fatigues guarding the entrance that had greeted Gwen and him on their arrival.
“Where you going, cracker?” the bearded one asked.
“Oh, sorry,” Christian explained, “we left our supplies in the car. I’m just going to retrieve them.”
The dreadlocked guard shook his head. “Yeah, about that, white boy: once you enter the autonomous zone, you don’t leave. BLAZE does not recognize the authority of the United States. This is your home now.”
Christian laughed nervously. “Seriously, guys, I’m just—”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking, boy?” the guard asked.
Christian hesitated, then sheepishly attempted to squeeze past the guards, thinking he might re-enter through a different gate. Before he’d gotten more than a couple of feet, one of the guards slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Christian’s head, knocking him to his knees. “I fucking warned you, cracker!” He gave Christian another whack over the head.
They grabbed the barely conscious white boy by the ankles and dragged his body back inside the barricades, leaving him in the gutter, as they resumed their positions, talking casually about how stupid white people are.
Back in the park, Gwen walked among the tents. Rather than the violence and disorder that gave Christian so much discomfort, Gwen saw an idyllic society in its early stages, where people of color were at last free of the systemic oppression that had marginalized them for so long. She saw people eating free food supplied by the community, openly enjoying cannabis with their neighbors, some even copulating in full view. Rather than chaos, Gwen saw promise.
“Hey, white girl, you looking for something?”
Gwen turned to the voice and saw J’Marcus standing before her. He appeared even taller than he had when he was giving his testimony before the crowd. His long, beaded cornrows hung down around his face. His shirtless body was dark brown, well-toned, and athletic. Numerous tattoos decorated his pectorals and muscular arms. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. Gwen could well understand why Tammy was attracted to him. “This ain’t no place for a white girl to be walking around alone. Why don’t you come to our tent for a spell? Maybe share a bowl.”
Gwen introduced herself. “I’m just waiting for my boyfriend, he should be back soon.”
“Oh. Your boyfriend a brother?” he asked.
“A brother? Oh! No, he’s white. He just went to the car.”
“Ah, then, he don’t matter none. C’mon, relax with us.” J’Marcus led the way, and Gwen, nearly entranced by his charming smile, and deep bass voice, followed. Upon entering the nearby tent, Gwen saw Tammy stretched out on a sleeping bag, inhaling from a glass pipe. “Oh, hey,” she greeted Gwen, “I saw you are the trial! You were with some loser white boy. Did you manage to dump him?”
Gwen blushed. “Dump…? Oh, no, that’s Christian. He’s my boyfriend. He’ll be back soon.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Tammy told her, passing the pipe to J’Marcus. “You’d be much happier with a real man like J’Marcus than some horrible white racist.” J’Marcus plopped down next to Tammy, taking a deep hit off the bowl.
Gwen wasn’t sure what to say. “Christian, he’s not so bad. A little stiff maybe, but…”
J’Marcus held the pipe out to Gwen, saying, “Have a seat, white girl, make yo’self at home.” Gwen took the pipe and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke wash through her, relaxing her. She hadn’t used weed since her freshman year as it gave Christian a headache.
“I’m sorry that your boyfriend turned out to be such a racist,” Gwen said to Tammy, “It’s good that he paid the price for that.”
“Mason?” Tammy giggled. “Oh, he never said any of that. I just made that shit up because I wanted to be with J’Marcus. I’m, like, so over white boys.” Gwen wasn’t sure how to process this new information. On one hand, it struck her as morally wrong, lying about a hate crime that led to a boy’s execution. On the other hand, Tammy lied because she had chosen a black man over a white man. Appraising J’Marcus, Gwen thought, How could such a choice possibly be wrong?
“Hey,” J’Marcus said enthusiastically, “y’know what I’d like to see? I’d like to see you two white bitches making out on each other!” The two young blonde women looked at each other. Gwen reddened yet again. “Ah, well, I’m afraid I’ve never…”
Tammy put a hand on Gwen’s leg. “It’s okay, I have. I mean, not since high school, and it was only fooling around at, like, slumber parties and stuff, but…” She leaned in and gave Gwen a peck on the lips.
J’Marcus perked up. “Aight! That’s a good start, boo, but Imma wanna see more then that.” Tammy untied Gwen’s torn shirt, letting it fall open to reveal her bare breasts. As she leaned in again for a deeper, longer kiss, she reached into Gwen’s open shirt and cupped a breast. Letting the weed lower her inhibitions, Gwen returned Tammy’s kiss, welcoming the younger girl’s tongue into her mouth. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” said J’Marcus approvingly.
As the two women kissed with increasing passion, they pawed at one another’s clothes, peeling them off to reveal more and more pale, white flesh. J’Marcus sucked at his pipe as he enjoyed the show. This is what white bitches be for, he thought to himself, provide some entertainment for a brother. Once naked, Tammy and Gwen maneuvered themselves into a 69 position. Gwen, having never been in such proximity to another woman’s vagina, breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of raw sex. Feeling Tammy’s mouth close on her own clitoris, Gwen began licking at Tammy’s vagina gingerly, experimentally.
Between watching the two white girls eat one another’s snatches and the fine weed, J’Marcus was feeling euphoric. This is exactly the kind of shit that brought him to the BLAZE, well, this and being able to fuck up some white boys. He reached out and freely groped the alabaster bodies on the sleeping bag beside him, not really paying much attention to where one started and the other began. The black cock in his basketball shorts strained against his crotch.
Gwen become bolder at ministering to Tammy’s sex, nibbling playfully at her clitoris as it became swollen, and dipping her tongue lewdly into Tammy’s vaginal lips. She felt J’Marcus’ strong black hands roam freely over her body, running through her blonde hair, cupping the fullness of her ass, pinching gently at her hardened nipples. This was nothing like the tame, vanilla sex she had with Christian on alternate weekends, always with discussions of consent beforehand. This was liberating and revelatory and beautiful. As her mind went briefly to thoughts of Christian, she forced them away, committing herself to the moment.
Back at the entrance to the autonomous zone, meanwhile, Christian had made his way groggily to his feet, confused from the savage blow to the back of his head, ******* that he was suffering a grade 3 concussion. His vision blurred, he staggered down the street, away from the black guards who had beaten him, but who were now oblivious of his plight, talking casually among themselves of all the white pussy they had been enjoying. Christian hugged lampposts and the walls of storefronts to stay upright, as unsure of where he was as of where he was going. He couldn’t make sense of what had happened to him, why he felt so strange. Gwen’s name flitted through his mind, and he knew that he should find her. She would help him.
But Gwen was busy feasting on Tammy’s wet snatch, finding that she both enjoyed eating cunt and took pleasure in providing sexual entertainment for the handsome, black man beside her. While her mouth was occupied with Tammy’s pussy, she worked a hand up the leg of J’Marcus’ basketball shorts and grasped his erection, hot and hard and thick in her hand. She stroked the shaft, gauging its length, estimating it to be over ten inches. The things she had always heard about black penises appeared to be true! J’Marcus’ cock was massive. She pulled on the thick foreskin that covered the bloated head, many times the size of Christian’s miniscule wiener. Overcome with cock lust, Gwen moved her mouth from Tammy’s crotch and buried her face in J’Marcus’ groin. “That a way, white girl,” the young black man encouraged her.
While Tammy continued to minister to Gwen’s wet pussy, Gwen yanked down J’Marcus’ shorts, freeing the thick, black truncheon of a cock that jutted proudly between his legs. It was magnificent, inspiring. Peeling back the dark brown foreskin, Gwen plopped the plum-size head into her slavering mouth, letting it stretch her lips and coat her tongue with viscous pre-ejaculate.
“Yo, that’s right, white girl, you feast on that motherfucker,” J’Marcus encouraged her crudely. Gwen had rarely performed fellatio on Christian’s tiny pecker, finding the act distasteful and slightly demeaning. Now, however, she found herself ravenous for the black cock of this stranger, craving the feel of its power and size in her mouth and throat. She was overwhelmed by a need to pleasure J’Marcus’ beast.
J'Marcus moved to his knees, working the fat head of his cock around in Gwen's mouth, letting her slobber all over it. White girls like her and Tammy, new to black cocks, were often inept cocksuckers, he had learned, used only to their white boyfriend's little kid dicklets; but what they lacked in skill, they often made up for in enthusiasm. Once the head of his prodigious dick was coated with a thick sheen of Gwen's saliva, J'Marcus slipped it out from between her lips and positioned it at the lips of Tammy's dripping pussy. He eased the tip of his dick into Tammy's cunt, just inches away from Gwen's face, his egg-sized balls resting on the blonde girl's chin as she looked up in wonder at his penetration of the snatch she'd just been feasting on. Tammy, her face still buried in Gwen's cunt, moaned with pleasure as the girth of J'Marcus' dick stretched her pussy. This was their first fuck since disposing of Mason, and it was going to be a rewarding one.
Instinctively, Gwen licked at J'Marcus' sperm-filled testicles, capturing them one at a time, and nursing them in her mouth. She'd never once paid Christian's balls the slightest attention, and would be hard-pressed to describe them in anyway. She was certain that they were small and irrelevant, the size of grapes, perhaps, and mostly hairless. After years of being dedicated to the idea that gender was a social construct, that there was no real appreciable difference between the sexes, Gwen was at long last learning what a real man was like. J'Marcus had taken Tammy from Mason by force, and participated in the white boy's cruel disposal. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted, and fuck anyone who dared to get in his way, what Gwen had long been programmed to dismiss as typical toxic masculine behavior, but which she now found excited some deep, primal part of her nature.
Christian was not the type of man to excite that response in anyone.
As he staggered through the park, he occasionally vomited blood and had to steady himself by grasping a tree or a signpost. Passersby in the autonomous zone gave him dirty looks, wondering what this white loser was doing intruding on their newfound Utopia. He scanned the park for Gwen, but saw no sign of her, only the sneering contempt of the young black men and women he passed, and the averted gaze of white activists who didn't want anything to do with this pathetic, beaten member of their own race, his clothes coated with dried blood, a bulging wound on the back of his head. They were here to usher in a new racial harmony, to make up for the racism of their parents, of the past; Christian's apparent dissipation did nothing to further that goal. When he staggered too close to one young black woman, she responded by shoving him, and yelling, "Step back, cracker! Don't you be touching this Queen with your skeevy white boy hands." Christian fell to his knees, only righting himself by an effort of will. He stumbled out of the park and onto the sidewalk, calling faintly, "Gwen, Gwen, where are you, honey?"
Gwen was mesmerized by the sight of J'Marcus' mammoth sex organ pummeling Tammy's neatly shaved pussy. As she continued to suckle J'Marcus' balls, she let her fingers play across the shaft of his cock, watching it disappear and return from the depths of Tammy's cervix. She knew that she would do anything to be on the receiving end of J'Marcus’ relentless, black fuckstick. Fuck Christian, she thought to herself: if he was a real man, she wouldn't have to debase herself with a stranger. But years of treacly, vanilla, carefully consensual sex had left her hungry for something this primal, this raw. With Tammy still licking at her clit, Gwen shoved two fingers into her own pussy, crying, "Oh, please, please! Fuck me, too!"
Hearing the mewling desperation in Gwen's voice, J'Marcus wasted no time. "Get up on yo' knees, white girl," he instructed, positioning the two blonde girls side by side on all fours. Tammy and Gwen smiled at one another, almost sisterly, as they felt the young black man kneel behind them. Working one hand around in Tammy's wet snatch, he positioned his colossal prick, almost the length and girth of a 40 ounce of malt liquor, at the entrance of Gwen's all-but-virginal pussy. As he pushed himself past cunt walls that had never before stretched for anything so voluminous, Gwen lost her ability to draw breath, growing light-headed. Tammy recognized that look, having experienced it herself for the first time not long ago; leaning close, she said to Gwen, "Breath, go on, let it out, it'll be fine. J'Marcus' cock is just reshaping your pussy to better accommodate a black man. This is why they say you never go back, baby. Once you've had a man like J'Marcus, you won't even be able to feel your little white boyfriend!"
Gwen smiled ecstatically, as J'Marcus buried himself to the base in her violated pussy. "Boyfriend? What boyfriend?" she only half-jokingly asked Tammy.
After several minutes of relentlessly jack-hammering Gwen's pink pussy, J'Marcus withdrew himself to again bury his dick in Tammy's accommodating cunt. Gwen hated the feeling of being suddenly empty, but was compensated when J'Marcus worked his thick black fingers into her swollen vagina, frigging her with his hand as enthusiastically as he fucked Tammy with his cock. "Go on, sweet thing," J'Marcus told Tammy, “tell white girl the truth."
Gwen looked quizzically at Tammy, who was groaning contentedly as J'Marcus sounded the depths of her black cock-distorted cunt. "The truth," Gwen asked. "What truth?"
Tammy smiled broadly. "None of this," she explained, "the protests, the riots, the autonomous zone, none of it, has been about racial equality or racial justice. It's always been about one thing: black supremacy! Isn't that wonderful?" Gwen thought about it, even as she spread her thighs to welcome more of J'Marcus' hand into her pussy. Was that true? Was everything she'd dedicated herself to, all the years of school, all the protests and seminars and theses, was it all really about the superiority of black people rather than the equality of all races? It had a ring of truth to it.
"White people," J'Marcus picked up where Tammy left off even as he returned his cock to Gwen's warm snatch, enjoying going from one warm pussy to the other, "are a sad, pathetic anachronism, a mutant offshoot of real people that we're never meant to survive. Dr. Okoro taught us that." He fucked himself deep into Gwen's womb. "That is why you’re are all so evil and oppressive, because you fear the power and might of real people. Of black people. But your time is coming to an end." He ground his loins against Gwen's ass, his balls slamming back and forth against her pale thighs.
"You see," Tammy said, beaming happily, "none of this has ever really been about black lives matter. Of course they do, no one could deny it. This has always been about making people realize that white lives...don't. They don’t matter." Hearing those words, Gwen came on J'Marcus' pistoning cock, spasming and gushing as he hammered relentlessly into her. Even as she came, Gwen repeated Tammy's words: "White. Lives. Don't. Matter."
Christian found himself wandering down an almost deserted street on the fringe of the autonomous zone. He was still looking for Gwen, but had no idea how to find her in this surreal, almost dystopian landscape, with barricaded streets, burned out cars and buildings, all of it made more confusing by the blood that dripped in his eyes.
In front of a secluded loading dock, a group of six young black and blatino skateboarders, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, practiced their shredding. They paused to look at the bloodied white dude as he staggered toward them. Two of them broke off from their powerslides and hippie jumps and manuals, to circle the confused cracker on their boards, like sharks, intentionally jostling him as they passed. One of them grasped the white man's wrist, liberating his Apple Watch. The other slammed him from behind, knocking him to all fours. "These our streets, white boy," he taunted Christian. "Whatchu want here?"
As Christian knelt there helplessly, the remaining boys skated closer, jumping his body as if it were an obstacle in a skate park. One of them grinded across Christian's back, knocking him flat on his stomach. Another boy grabbed the white man's wallet from his back pocket, but tossed it away when he discovered it held no cash. Disappointed at the lack of reward, he kicked Christian in the side. His bros joined in, kicking the vulnerable, prone white man in the thighs, legs, arms, and head with their Jordans, Vans, and Nikes, laughing when they drew blood. It was great fun for the teens to take out their long-held contempt for white men on this pathetic loser. "Fuck you and yo' privilege!" one of them yelled.
Gwen, meanwhile, continued to enjoy an orgasm the likes of which she'd never imagined, as it washed over her in cascading waves. “That’s right, white girl,” J’Marcus grinned, his beaded cornrows flinging back and forth as he fucked deep into the blonde girl. “Yo’ cum hard on that cock, show me how much yo’ need that black mamba!” Gwen cried out to a God she didn’t even believe in as the bloated head of J’Marcus’ cock sounded depths of her pussy never before reached. Feeling his own balls churning a dose of baby batter, he quickly withdrew from Gwen’s spasming, distended cunt and shoved himself deep into Tammy’s welcoming pussy.
“Fuck! Here it comes,” he said, “Take my baby-making juice, you white whore! Gonna plant my nigga bastard in your white womb, make you carry my black baby, end your fuckin’ corrupt white bloodline!”
Tammy’s head tossed back and forth. “God, yes! I feel it filling me, it’s gushing in my womb! Give me your baby, J’Marcus! Give me the baby of a real man! Fuck my white ******, fuck my white heritage!” Gwen marveled at Tammy’s words. The young blonde girl really hoped that the black thug was knocking her up with his baby. It was beautiful.
Lying together afterward—J’Marcus in the middle, a blonde girl on either side of him, their heads resting on his chest—Tammy explained that she was merely the first in what J’Marcus imagined as his own white girl harem, living here in the zone, where he would accrue his power, and birth many children. He envisioned himself a modern-day warlord. “It’d be really awesome if you joined us. You could be part of the harem. We both really like you. You’d be a great mother to J’Marcus’ babies.” J’Marcus grinned at Gwen, his eyes inviting.
“But…Christian. My boyfriend,” Gwen said, suddenly remembering his name.
“Fuck him,” J’Marcus laughed. “Has white boy ever made you come like I just did? ‘Sides, he’s probably already run away, gone home to hide after he saw what we done to Tammy’s loser white boy. C’mon, white girl: don’t you want to be part of my crew? Don’t you want to carry my black baby in yo’ lily white belly?”
Gwen reached down between J’Marcus’ legs and grasped his soft, black dick, many times bigger than Christian’s even flaccid, in her small white hand. “Yes, I want!” she agreed.
Not far away, Christian, beaten and broken, had crawled behind a dumpster to hide after the skaters had finally tired of assaulting him. Overnight, a pulmonary embolism, caused by the beatings he’d taken, resulted in deep vein thrombosis. The clot traveled from his legs to this lungs, and he died, gasping for air in his sleep. When black militants found his remains during a routine patrol of BLAZE several days later, they simply tossed him in the dumpster.
In the morning, Gwen joined J’Marcus and Tammy in the park, gathered with dozens of others in a circle around Dr. Okoro, who preached to the crowd about the virtues of black supremacy. It was a warm, summer day, the air filled with promise and hope for a better, a blacker future. This autonomous zone, like so many of the others that had risen up around the nation, promised new hope for Black America, the beginning of the fall of white supremacy, and a New World Order in the making. “This is just the start, my children,” Dr. Okoro promised, “our reach, our strength, our power, will encompass the world, a new world, a white-free world, an African world!”
Gwen laid a hand over Tammy’s bare midriff, rubbing it gently, hoping that a new life had been conceived there to help welcome this new world. Gwen accepted that she and her kind were a thing of the past, but by joining with J’Marcus, their children might help forge the future. She turned to J’Marcus. “Yes,” she told him, shyly, “I want to be part of all this. I want to be…yours.” J’Marcus wrapped a strong, black arm around the second of his white girls. The future looked good indeed.
