The Many Victories of Professor Knight
Part I
Part I
Eugene and Samantha McNeely were delighted to be hosting a meet and greet at their home for Okoro Knight.
They first became aware of Professor Knight's work through his best-selling book White ********: Tomorrow's Answer for Today's Problems. As the book’s dustjacket explained, Professor Knight was born Roland Knight in Detroit, Michigan, but adopted the Igbo name Okoro, which means greatness. He opted to maintain his ******’s American slave name, Knight, because he had come to view himself as a knight at arms, fighting for the rightful supremacy of his race. He held several degrees from the nation's highest-regarded universities, demonstrating his eagerness to conquer white hegemony from within its tainted systems.
Academics themselves, the McNeelys were so impressed with Okoro Knight’s book that they flew to Toronto to attend a TED Conference at which he spoke. Afterward, backstage, the couple introduced themselves to the eminent authority on racial issues and invited him to speak at the university where they both taught, Eugene in the History Department and Samantha in the Women's Studies Department. Professor Knight agreed.
Although the talk was protested by several alt-right and white supremacist groups (mostly comprised of flabby, bearded, white male incels), Professor Knight drew an impressive crowd, filling the auditorium. The McNeelys had arranged for him to stop by their home afterward to meet a select group of deans, faculty, and graduate students, mostly from the Ethnic and Gender Studies Departments, those who had expressed interest or enthusiasm for the Professor's work and ideas, about twenty-five guests in total. He accepted the gracious invitation, always eager to spread his message to a receptive audience.
Sometime following the lecture, guests began arriving at the McNeely's in anticipation of meeting Okoro Knight. As the catering staff served champagne and hors d'oeuvres, the guests chatted among themselves about the Professor's bold ideas and controversial solutions regarding the future of race relations in the United States. "Tell me, Samantha," inquired Andrea Glade of the Sociology department, "is it true that he walked on stage accompanied by a nude white woman on a leash at his TED Talk?"
Samantha grinned at the memory. "Oh, he certainly did," she said. "It was quite provocative. The astounding thing was that he did not explain or even acknowledge her presence during his entire lecture. Occasionally, he would pat her head, almost absently, the way one might a dog. It was both fascinating and, well, to be honest, erotic." The other guests, even the head of the Women's Studies Department, nodded their agreement that for a black man to treat a white woman as a pet was sexually compelling.
Shortly, Professor Knight arrived at McNeely's large colonial-era brick home in a white limousine, accompanied by two, dark-suited black bodyguards, the bulge of holsters just visible beneath their jackets. Eugene and Samantha greeted him at the front door with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Thank you so much for accepting our invitation, Okoro," Samantha gushed. "Do you mind if I call you Okoro? We are such fans of your work."
"I'd prefer that you address me as Professor Knight, Samantha," he replied. "You are white, after all. Your academic credentials aside, it is only proper that you display proper deference to a black man such as myself, don't you think?" As he spoke, the Professor ignored Eugene's proffered hand, looking at it with distaste, as if someone held out a filthy dishrag. Rather than taking offense, both Samantha and Eugene found the haughty superiority of the strikingly handsome academic perfectly understandable and even appealing. Samantha apologized, while Eugene lowered his head demurely, and invited the distinguished gentleman in.
While the bodyguards assumed positions near the front door, the McNeelys ushered Okoro Knight into the parlor, introducing him to their guests. Barely a couple of inches under six and a half feet tall, the Professor was a striking man by any measure, He wore his dark hair in high, sponge-twist curls, and his short beard neatly trimmed. Beneath the black Armani suit, his body gave an impression of tautness, of sinewy power. He wore a collarless Hermes white shirt buttoned to the neck, with a heavy gold chain resting on his broad pectorals. The Professor's appreciation of fine jewelry was further exemplified by the diamond studs he wore in each ear and the gold, bejeweled rings on several fingers. He was a successful, wealthy man, and had no compunction about displaying that fact. The McNeely's female guests, faculty and students alike, were particularly enamored with the Professor's physical presence.
Professor Knight nodded politely as Eugene and Samantha guided him around the room, introducing him to their guests. He refrained from physical contact with any of the white or Asian guests, but happily took the hands of the handful of black guests, even telling them to refer to him as Okoro, a familiarity he denied to other races. The Professor was a Black Supremacist, a fact that he made abundantly clear. He refused a flute of champagne, telling Eugene that he would prefer a scotch, the older the better. His host scurried off to pour the eminent scholar his drink of choice.
While Eugene was searching for a bottle of Oban Scotch that he had received as a gift when he was awarded tenure a few years back, Jackson Brandt, a professor of Medieval History from Eugene's department, who had wheedled an invitation to the party, asked, "Professor Knight be honest now: you can't possibly be advocating white ******** in a literal sense, can you?"
The Professor turned to the overweight, rather slovenly white teacher, and replied, "Do I envision a future entirely free of the scourge of the white race? Yes, most certainly. But I do not favor anything as crass as ovens or mass graves. No, I prefer a Final Solution in which white males simply absent themselves from procreation, from the gene pool. This can take the form of abstinence or vasectomies or castration, either chemical or surgical. But the result will be the same as racial extinction: no more white lives plaguing the planet." Approving nods and whispers followed the Professor's declaration.
Professor Brandt went on to challenge Okoro Knight’s assertions. “And why exactly,” he asked, “would white men voluntarily participate in their eradication?”
Professor Knight smirked. “What makes you think that white women would give them any other choice?” he queried with some derision. Many of the women in the room, including Samantha, giggled at the Professor’s parry, even as many of the men flushed in embarrassment.
He continued, “But even white men, that most decadent, hedonistic, and profligate of creatures, will come to recognize that it is for the best of the species for him to absent himself from reproduction rather than pass on his corrupt, debased DNA. White males have grown weak, effete, unnecessary.” There was general agreement throughout the room.
When Professor Brandt began to object that such ideology was implicitly racist, Samantha shushed him for being rude to her guest of honor. “Please, my dear, do not trouble yourself,” Okoro Knight stopped her. “The temerity and insolence of white males never surprise me. They quite understandably fear a future in which they are obsolete, in which even their women and children reject them.” Professor Brandt fumed but did not respond.
Okoro Knight took a seat on a large, cream-colored, linen-upholstered sofa, spreading his arms along its curved back. “White boy,” he said, addressing Jackson Brandt with a contemptuous sneer. “Kneel before me. Apologize for being white.”
The white man in his cheap corduroy jacket grew apoplectic, sputtering, “I most certainly will not.” Most of the other guests booed at his obstinate defiance. Another white professor, Chad Lincoln of the Queer Studies Department, stepped forward, saying, “I will, Professor Knight. I’ll do it. I would be honored to!”
Professor Knight considered the offer. “Ah, a faggot,” he noted. “Yes, white faggots usually prove much more compliant than their heterosexual counterparts. Yes, faggot, you may take your place on your knees. I am certain it is a position with which you are quite familiar.” The other guests sniggered at the black man’s blatant homophobic jibe, an unpardonable offense from a lesser personage. Chad himself only grinned at the insult, as he lowered himself to his knees before the regal, reclining black man.
At just this moment, Eugene entered the room, carrying a tumbler of scotch for Professor Knight. He gasped at the sight of Chad Lincoln kneeling before their guest. “What’s going on?” he whispered to his wife.
“Chad is going to apologize for being white, honey,” Samantha explained. “Isn’t it just beautiful?”
“Go on then,” Okoro Knight instructed the wispy, middle-aged, gay academic kneeling on the floor.
“Professor Knight,” Chad Lincoln offered, keeping his eyes lowered, “I am sorry for being white. I apologize for all the sins that my race has committed against yours. I humble myself before you.”
Seemingly satisfied with the display of abject contrition, Professor Knight slid a foot toward the kneeling white man. Needing no further instruction, Chad bowed his head toward the black leather shoes and pressed his lips to the calfskin Ferragamos in a display of racial submission. Most of the onlookers nodded their heads in approval, the red-faced Professor Brandt a notable exception. Professor Knight looked around the room. “Who’s next?” he asked.
One by one, all the white guests took a turn kneeling before Professor Knight, Jackson Brandt excepted, apologizing for their race, and kissing his shod feet. The mostly Hispanic catering crew rolled their eyes and sniggered at the sight of highly-educated white people willingly debasing themselves. After each submission, each supplicant, like Chad, remained on his or her knees, simply moving aside to make room for the next. As this ceremony of sorts progressed, Professor Brandt snorted in indignation and stormed out of the house. Observing his exit, Okoro Knight smirked. “So easily conquered,” he said to himself.
Eugene took the opportunity to approach the seated academic and offer him the tumbler of scotch.
“What is this?” Professor Knight asked, looking at the glass with distaste.
“Your, uh, drink, Professor,” Eugene explained. “It’s an eighteen-year-old Oban Scotch,” he added, trying to impress.
“There is ice in the glass,” Okoro Knight said. “Did I request ice?”
Eugene stuttered. “O-o-oh, I’m sorry, I thought….”
“That was your first mistake. Thinking is not a thing that whites should do. They are not particularly good at it. Bring me a fresh glass…boy.” Eugene scurried off in compliance, as Samantha watched, amused at her husband’s unquestioning subservience to the dominant black man.
Once her remaining white guests had prostrated themselves before the unapologetic black supremacist, Samantha stepped forward and knelt before him herself. “I also apologize for being white, for my white privilege, and for my white ancestry.” With that, she kissed Professor Knight’s shoes.
Pleased with his host’s debasement, the Professor inquired, “Tell me, Samantha, have you had any white children?”
Samantha shook her head. “Eugene and I have discussed it, but we never seem to find the time.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he assured her. “It pleases me that you have not spoilt your womb with white life.” Samantha was thrilled at the Professor’s approval. Stealing a glance, she saw that his hand gently kneaded the crotch of his Armani slacks.
Noting that all the white men and women were still on their knees, Professor Knight observed that Steven Woo of the Asian Studies Department remained on his feet. “And what about you?” he inquired. “You remain standing. Have you nothing to apologize for?”
Professor Woo appeared confused. “But…but I’m not...white."
“Clearly,” Professor Knight conceded. “But do you mean to tell me that you have never harbored an ill-thought, said an ill word, about the black race, never benefited from the anti-black racism of this country?”
Professor Woo hesitated for just a moment but then dropped to his knees, feeling the judging eyes of his peers on him. “I apologize for every bad thought I have ever had and every bad word I have ever spoken about the black race, sir,” he said, before putting his lips to Professor Knight’s shoes.
The only guests still on their feet were black, three teachers, and two graduate students. Professor Knight asked, “How does it make you feel, brothers and sisters, to see your white colleagues on their knees, to hear them apologize for the sins of their race?”
“Just fuckin’ amazing, sir,” replied Teyana Blythe, a graduate student in African-American Studies. “Long past due.”
“I have to concur,” said Professor Coleman Ross of the Divinity School, a distinguished-looking black man in his early forties, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. “It is a curious thing to savor an apology that one did not even know that one required, and, yet, I look around at this room of contrite white faces, and I find I agree: it is just fucking amazing.”
“Tell me, my brother,” Professor Knight asked the theologian, “are you able to reconcile your religious beliefs with my advocacy of white ********?”
Coleman Ross considered the question for a moment, then answered, “I see no contradiction, Okoro. I find the extinction of the white race as you propose to be rather…elegant. My theological beliefs do not conflict with the theory of evolution, and, in the end, isn’t that all that you are suggesting? Natural selection. Survival of the fittest. Anyone would be a fool to deny the inherent superiority of the black race, the biological benefits of melanin, to say nothing of the demonstrable perfidy of the white race.”
Okoro Knight nodded in agreement. “You state my position most eloquently, brother,” he said. “Tell me, as a theologian, do you lend any credence to the Nation of Islam’s belief that the white man was the creation of the misguided black scientist Yakub?”
“Well, no, not in any literal sense,” Coleman replied. “But as an allegory? Perhaps. Humanity originated in Africa, after all, and whites evolved as people moved north, eventually mixing with other hominid species, such as Neanderthals and Denisovans. The genes of Africans are far less corrupted than that of the other races of the world. Purer. The myth of Yakub’s eugenics efforts may just be a way of interpreting the anthropological record.”
“An interesting thesis,” Professor Knight said. “And if accurate, my goal to breed the white race out of existence…?”
Professor Ross smiled. “Why, you would simply be correcting a genetic anomaly, an anthropological error, diluting the amount of non-African DNA, and welcoming the original diaspora back into the genetic fold. It is brilliant.” The two academics continued this fascinating exchange for several minutes, much to the fascination and education of the white on-lookers.
During this discussion, Eugene returned with a fresh tumbler of scotch, this time without ice. "Your drink, Professor Knight," he said, proffering the glass.
Okoro Knight regarded the drink absently, without taking the glass. "I must be going, now," he said simply, ignoring Eugene. "I hope you were all serious about your apologies. As educators, you are in a position to influence young whites about their responsibilities to the superior black race, to persuade them to contribute to the noble goal of white ********, including, but not limited to, opening their wombs for black breeding." He stood from the sofa still not acknowledging Eugene. Turning to Coleman Ross and the other black guests, he suggested, "My brothers and sisters, would you care to join me at my hotel to celebrate furthering our message of racial superiority?"
"It would be an honor, Okoro," replied Professor Ross with enthusiasm, the others nodding their agreement. They accompanied the Professor out to the limousine, followed by the two bodyguards. When Samantha and Eugene tried to follow them out of the house to wish the Professor farewell, the bodyguards dissuaded them with a stern shake of their heads. The McNeelys and their guests stood around bewildered, almost overwhelmed by the experience of learning from and submitting to such a profoundly accomplished, intellectual, and dominating black man.
Samantha shook her head. "I cannot believe Professor Brandt’s outrageous conduct," she exclaimed. "To insult such an honored guest in our very home. I have a mind to speak to the Chancellor about his behavior." Several of the guests voiced their agreement, quick to assert that there could be no room for such blatant white racism at the university. One by one, they thanked Samantha and Eugene for hosting such an enlightening event and took their leave.
Finally, alone with his wife, Eugene, still rather stupidly holding the tumbler of scotch, said, "It was as though I barely existed, Sam. He hardly acknowledged me. He barely spoke to me. I didn't even get the chance to apologize for being white. He seemed to hold me in utter contempt."
Samantha gasped. "You're not complaining, are you?" she admonished him.
Eugene sat on the sofa, rather shaken. "N-no," he tried to explain. "You don't understand. I'm not complaining, not at all. It felt...it felt right. Right and proper to find myself beneath the notice of such a great man. Such a great black man. It was eye-opening." Eugene took his wife's hand in his. "Professor Knight is correct: we need to do more. We need to help ensure that the future is black. We have to do our part to bring about…a white ********."
Excitedly, Samantha gave her husband a platonic kiss on the cheek. "I'm so happy to hear you say that, sweetie! I have just the idea!"
The next day after classes, Eugene McNeely walked across campus to the Divinity School, Ever since hosting Professor Knight's visit, he had found herself observing black men with much more interest. He had naturally always had an interest in them politically and socially, but now he found himself appraising them physically, even sexually. He noted how much stronger and athletic they were than white men, carrying themselves with more confidence and self-assurance. Black people, in general, struck him as more vibrant and alive than his own dull, uninteresting race. Black men were usually louder and brasher, too, as if they instinctively understood what Professor Knight asserted, that this world was rightfully theirs and they deserved to rule over it.
As Eugene entered the faculty offices of the Divinity School, he realized that he had never had cause to visit here before. He hardly even knew Coleman Ross. He and Samantha had invited him to the party because they had read a paper he co-authored on Black Liberation Theology and thought that Professor Knight's ideas might resonate with him. Judging by the course the night took, their instincts were correct. Eugene consulted a wall directory to locate the Professor's office, which was at the far end of a quiet, third-floor corridor, with windows overlooking the campus green.
He discovered Professor Ross' door ajar and found the man himself seated at a large, old-fashioned oak-top desk, covered with stacks of books. Professor Ross looked up. "Ah, Eugene," he greeted his visitor. "This is a surprise. Come in, have a seat. I'm pleased you came by. I wanted to thank you again for inviting me to such an enjoyable get-together. I had a wonderful time."
"Well, from what I understand," Eugene smiled, "everyone particularly enjoyed the discussion between you and Professor Knight. Samantha described it as quite eye-opening."
"I'm glad to hear that. We continued our discussions, as well as some less…academic pursuits, if you will, well into the night, back at the Professor's hotel. It was quite an evening for me and the others to hear so many of our white colleagues apologize for being white while on their knees. I cannot tell you how much that meant to us. To me."
"Well," said Eugene. "That gets to what brings me here this afternoon. You see, I, well, I never got a chance to apologize directly to Professor Knight. It was an oversight on my part. I was hoping...I was hoping that I could offer you my apology…for being white, for the benefits of my white privilege."
Coleman grinned, almost smirking. "You are more than welcome to apologize to me, Eugene. But don't you think you should show me the same courtesy that your wife and the others demonstrated for Professor Knight…on your knees before a black man?"
Standing, Coleman moved around the desk, positioning himself directly in front of Eugene. "I think that is the only way I might seriously consider your apology to be sincere."
Eugene knelt before Professor Ross. "Of course, sir," he said. "How thoughtless of me." Bowing his head, he continued, "I most fervently apologize for being white, for all the unearned privilege that being white has provided me, for any prejudices and stereotypes I may have expressed, for not doing more to help the black race."
"My shoe," Professor Ross indicated, sliding his foot toward Eugene. The debased white man lowered his lips to the toe of the black theologian's leather shoes. Professor Ross raised his other foot and placed it on the back of Eugene's head. "I have a feeling, Eugene, that you are not being completely honest with me. That, perhaps, you want to offer me something...more than just an apology. Am I right?"
With Professor Ross's foot pressing the side of his face to the floor, Eugene was unable to nod his head in the affirmative, so he replied, "Yes, sir. Yes, there is something that I wanted to…to ask...that I wanted to, uh, offer...you."
"And what exactly is that...white boy?"
"Well, sir, my wife, uh, she, I mean, we...."
"You want to offer me your wife, don't you, boy?"
Still unable to move his head with Professor Ross' foot pressing down on it, Eugene answered quietly, "Yes...yes, sir. I do."
Professor Ross smiled to himself. "Just as Okoro predicted."
"Predicted, sir? Y-you mean that he...."
"He knew that you would, that perhaps others from the party last night, would come to me. Would want me to fuck their wives. Would likely ask me to breed them. He is quite an authority on the perverse psychology of the white animal. Quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?" When Eugene agreed, Coleman Ross applied a bit of extra pressure to the weight of his foot on Eugene's face. "Tell me something, Eugene, and be honest: was it your idea or Samantha's to ask me to fuck her?"
"It was my wife's idea," Eugene admitted.
"And how do you feel about it?"
"It's what I want, too," Eugene said. "It is. I promise."
Professor Ross considered Eugene's assertion. "I believe you. Of course, it should go without saying that I will only fuck your wife with my bare cock. I will fill her full of my potent African sperm. Are you prepared for that? Will you remain complacent if I knock your white bitch up? Will you raise my black bastard child as if it were your own, knowing that even as a racial half-breed, he or she will be superior to you?"
Eugene was almost blubbering at Professor Ross' words. "Oh, yes! That is exactly what I want. Professor Knight helped me recognize just how worthless I am both as a white man and as a white husband. Helping raise a black child would give me some purpose, something worthwhile to contribute to the future."
"If I agree to fuck your wife until she is knocked up with a black child," Professor Ross warned, "I cannot take the risk that she might become pregnant with a worthless white life, can I?"
"Certainly not," agreed Eugene. "I promise to abstain from...from sex with Samantha...until she is pregnant."
"Not good enough, white boy," Professor Ross sneered, enjoying his role, his power over the sniveling white pig. “Ideally, as Professor Knight suggested, white males such as yourself would be castrated. As that may not be a realistic option, at least not yet, I will agree to fuck and breed your wife if you enter into chastity, if you cage your white cock…and entrust me with the key. What do you say…white boy?”
Eugene had long known that sex was not something at which he was particularly adept. He had not even lost his virginity until he was a sophomore in college. He knew that Samantha deserved better. The idea of entrusting another man, a black man, with the privilege of determining when or if Eugene should ever enjoy an orgasm somehow felt proper. “I would be honored to enter into chastity at your instruction, sir,” he acceded to Coleman Ross. “And for you to become my keyholder.”
“Very well,” Coleman said. “I will email you my home address. Bring Samantha to me tomorrow night at eight o’clock. I expect her to be dressed like the white whore she is, the sluttier the better. You will wait in your car in the driveway until I have finished with her. We will do this twice a week until she conceives my child. After that…we’ll see.”
Eugene’s heart raced, and his breathing was heavy, raspy. “Yes, sir,” he agreed.
With that, the black theologian removed his foot from Eugene’s face, allowing the history professor to raise his head. To Eugene’s shock, he saw that Coleman had removed his black prick from the fly of his slacks at some point. Even semi-flaccid, it was obscenely long and thick, sheathed in a rubbery foreskin. The scent of musk was strong and dizzying. “One last thing, boy,” Coleman Ross said. “I need you to kiss my nuts; I need to hear you thank them for producing the superior sperm that will give you your first child.”
Still, on his knees, Eugene leaned forward and pressed his lips to Professor Ross’ scrotum. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, for agreeing to impregnate my wife and providing us the honor of raising your offspring.”
Professor Coleman Ross smiled. “Good boy.”
The following week, the newspapers reported that Professor Jackson Brandt had been placed on unpaid leave and that his tenure at the University was in danger of being legally revoked. Several witnesses had come forward stating that he had indulged in a racist tirade against the eminent visiting author and lecturer, Professor Okoro Knight—some even claiming he had used the n-word—which would place him in violation of the morals clause of his employment contract with the university. Setting the paper aside, Okoro Knight, sitting in his five-star hotel room in Brussels, where he was scheduled to give a lecture that evening, smiled to himself at yet another victory for the black man. Between his legs, knelt a collared blonde woman on a leash, naked, slurping contentedly on the Professor’s long, dark brown erection. He ejaculated down her throat at the thought of the ruin visited upon the upstart white man who had dared to challenge him. One victory at a time, he thought to himself. They will all eventually fall.
The Many Victories of Professor Knight, Part II
"Good evening, and welcome to tonight's show," the popular conservative television host began, "Tonight, we welcome a controversial voice in the ongoing debate concerning race relations in this country, and, in fact, the world. He is the author of a national bestseller with the provocative title, White ********: Tomorrow's Answer for Today's Problems. He numbers among the most sought-after lecturers on racial issues and has spoken before the British Parliament, the European Council, and the United States Congress. He is scheduled to attend the signing of a San Francisco reparations law next month that reportedly will give qualifying African-American recipients as much as five million dollars in cash…each if you can believe that. Please welcome Professor Okoro Knight, via satellite from his home in Oakland, California. Professor Knight, welcome to the show."
The split screen featured the stuffy conservative host on the left, and a handsome, bearded, well-groomed black man in a dark Armani suit, on the right. Professor Knight replied, "It is my pleasure."
"Let's get right to it, shall we?" said the host. "A lot of people on the radical left dismiss what is sometimes called the Great Replacement as nothing more than white paranoia, as a right-wing conspiracy theory. What I have gleaned from your book and your speeches, however, suggests that there is more to it than that. Much more. Would you care to elaborate?"
"Make no mistake," Professor Knight responded with a tight smile. "In this single instance, the white supremacists are correct: replacement is not a mere fringe conspiracy theory. It is our goal. It is what we are striving for, the eradication of the white race through the careful application of the justice system and miscegenation, or sexual selection if you will. We aim to supplant you and your perfidious kind in the seats of power and influence with the inherently superior black race."
The host looked at him, mouth agape, as if stupefied. "Well, now," he said, "you certainly do not shrink from the subject or hold back, do you?"
"In my experience," Professor Knight explained, "it is best to be as direct as possible with whites. Your kind are not particularly skilled at discerning subtlety of thought."
The host smiled wryly, enjoying the insult, believing that it would expose Okoro Knight for the extremist that he was. "Now, Professor, when you refer to using the justice system, you mean...?"
"I mean using the existing justice system to correct the injustices of the past 500 years. Reparations laws like the one soon to pass in San Francisco are making their way through the legislatures and courts of several states and large cities. Your racist Jim Crow prison system is gradually being dismantled. The generational wealth that you whites have hoarded for yourselves, your children, and your grandchildren is being redistributed. These and other laws will finally tip the scales of power that have been perverted for far too long, and contrary to what nature intended.”
"What nature intended? So, you really believe...?"
"Just what I said," Professor Knight replied impatiently. "The African is the original human. Those who came afterward, white, red, or yellow, are a mutation, a perversion of the first people. By breeding your kind out of existence, we restore the natural balance."
"Breeding," noted the host. "This is where miscegenation comes in, I take it."
"That is correct," Professor Knight nodded, tersely. "As has been noted by scientists and reported in the media, white birth rates are declining precipitously. I would contend: auspiciously. The testosterone levels and sperm count of the white male, never high to begin with, have plummeted. You are a corrupt, effete, increasingly sterile race, one whose oppression of other people, and exploitation of the planet, is nearing its long-awaited conclusion. Your women, however, remain of some use, and serve some purpose, as incubators that will help the proliferation of an expanding black race. African DNA will continue to obscure your heritage with every new generation."
"Well," the host sighed, almost in amusement. "That's quite an agenda you've set yourself, Professor. One might point out that it is far cry from Dr. King's dream of the races living in harmony."
Professor Knight could barely suppress a smirk. "White devils have been picking and misrepresenting the words of Brother King to their own benefit for too long," he said with a dismissive wave. "Dr. King was a man of peace, as am I, a man of peace. But the Reverend also recognized and excoriated the duplicity and treachery of the white man. Where he and I part ways: he held out hope that you were still redeemable. I know with certainty that you are not."
The show's host, certain that he had provided the Professor more than enough rope to hang himself, interposed, "So, let me get this straight: you admit that you are a black supremacist. You concede that you believe in the redistribution of personal wealth. And you openly advocate for the ******** of the white race. Do I have this right? You support, what some call, white extermination?"
Professor Knight smiled broadly, leaning toward the camera. "Support it? I celebrate it. I shout it from the rooftops." He continued almost in a whisper, "So if you were to be honest with your viewers... do you."
The host appeared bemused, something of a signature look that seemed to endlessly amuse his rather simple-minded, easily entertained audience. "I most certainly do not. I abhor racism of all types. Black supremacy every bit as much as white supremacy. What you advocate, Professor, is monstrous, and all people of good conscience should, uh, ah--what on earth?”
The image of Professor Knight had suddenly been replaced by video of a pale, tubby, middle-aged man in a frilly pink teddy wearing pink playboy bunny ears atop his head. The man pranced about awkwardly, giggling and shaking his flabby rear to a power pop standard with a driving beat. The image shifted, displaying that same man, lying over the lap of a powerfully-built black man, shirtless, in a leather harness. The black man spanked the white man across his bare, upraised buttocks, as the latter intoned, "Thank you, sir! I've been a bad bunny! A very bad bunny!" Even without his usual blazer and tie, even bereft of his signature condescending smirk, the man in the pink teddy was immediately recognizable as the popular conservative television host on the other side of the split screen.
“What the hell is this?” he yelled in the studio. “How did this…this shit…get on the air? This is…this is all fake! It’s..it’s a deep fake! Get it off my screen! Get it off the air! Now!”
The image shifted again, this time showing the man in the teddy groveling on the floor, licking and kissing the same black man’s large, bare feet, while a lithe woman with straight blonde hair sat astride his lap, the point where their bodies met pixelated to obscure their genitals. “That’s where bad bunnies belong,” the woman teased. “What do you think, baby,” she said, wrapping her arms around the black man’s strong shoulders. “Do you think we should just call him Cucker from now on?” Her dark-skinned lover snorted.
The face of Professor Knight reappeared on the screen. “What were you saying…Cucker?” he chuckled. “Fake, you say?”
The host’s face was flushed bright red, his breathing heavy. “You…you black bastard,” he shouted, his usual composure gone.
“Careful, Cucker,” the Professor cautioned the host. “Your whiteness is showing. Oh, and there is a great deal more video like that available, uncensored, at my website, black-knight.com. Just click on the link ‘exposed’ to view all the explicit footage of our host’s debauchery and hypocrisy.” Just before signing off, Professor Knight said, “Oh, and be sure to purchase my book to learn how the scourge of the white race can finally be eradicated.”
The host’s breathing had become labored; he loosened his tie as he worked to compose himself. “This is all…an elaborate fraud,” he said into the camera. “A far left effort to discredit the important work that…that we do on this show, standing up to, to hate mongers like…Okoro Knight. I won’t…I will not dignify th-that disgusting video with a denial. Anyone who knows me will recognize it as a…perverse forgery.” Wiping his brow, he continued, “I think that brings tonight’s show to…to an end. Thank you. Good night.”
Standing up from his desk, the host began ranting at his crew. “How the fuck did that nigger bastard get that shit on the air!” he screamed. “Can’t you people do your fuckin’ goddamn jobs? You’re fired! You’re all fired, every damn one of you!” He continued yelling as he barreled through the studio toward his personal office. When one of the producers attempted to follow him, pointing out that the show still had twenty minutes to go, the host screeched, “Not now! Leave me the fuck alone! Fuck off!”
Slamming the door to his office, the host tried to collect himself, his mind racing. How the hell did Knight get that footage? he wondered. The black man in the video was Dante, one of the bodyguards he had hired for his ****** in the wake of left-wing demonstrations outside his home. After a few weeks, Dante and the host's wife had began a sexual relationship, with the host's consent. Eventually, the cuckoldry had evolved into dom play and even light crossdressing. all fantasies that he had long suppressed. Dante must have betrayed them, secretly videotaped their sessions, and given or sold them to Okoro Knight. That was the only explanation.
When the intercom buzzed, the host yelled, "I don't want to be fucking disturbed!" He typed the web address that his guest had given during the broadcast into his desktop computer. The site appeared to be the professor's own black propaganda blog, with posts celebrating news such as the reported decline in white birth rates and the great uptick in white male suicides. Under an image of the host's own face was a link that read 'exposed' in a bold red font. With some trepidation, he clicked on it. The link brought him to a selection of thumbnail videos, each one titled 'exposed.' Grimacing, he clicked on the first thumbnail.
The video displayed the same session that the Professor had shown on air: the host in a bright pink teddy, wearing rabbit ears. This clip, however, was longer. "I'm a pink-skinned bunny," he heard himself say, as he pranced around in his ludicrous outfit. "I'm such a very bad bunny."
"And what happens to bad bunnies?" asked a deep bass voice that he recognized as Dante's.
"B-b-bad bunnies get punished," he replied.
"They most certainly do," Dante intoned, moving into view. He wore black leather jeans, a studded leather harness framing his chest. He reached out and wrapped one leather-gloved fist around the host's fleshy throat. "And tell me, you bad bunny: how exactly do bad bunnies get punished?"
"Th-they have to watch their wives get, get fucked," the host grunted out, Dante's strong hand restricting his breathing.
As one might expect of a professional bodyguard, the black man had an impressive build, packed with muscle, and with the confidence to match. "Yes," he snarled. "And who should fuck the bad bunny's wife, hmm?"
The host's face a deep shade of crimson, he choked out, "A black man, sir."
Dante forced his victim to his knees. "And why a black man, you cracka faggot?"
"B-b-because," the sniveling white man sobbed, "b-black men are stronger...and b-bigger...and better, sir."
"Damn right we are," Dante chuckled wickedly.
The clip ended there. As irate and indignant as he was to have his personal life violated, the host felt his small penis grow erect reliving his humiliation at Dante's hands. He clicked on the next video. The host watched as Dante raised a booted foot and forced his face to the hardwood floor. Dante sat back on the sectional sofa, resting his arms akimbo on the sofa's back, looking down at the groveling white man, who nightly used his show to speak out against black causes and interests, to denigrate the black race. The bulge in the leather crotch of Dante's trousers was quite real. It clearly turned him on to humiliate the conservative cuckold. "Use your tongue to clean my boots, faggot," Dante instructed.
The host whimpered, but enthusiastically applied his lips and tongue to the leather of Dante's black boots, moving his mouth over the toe of each boot. When Dante raised his feet to offer him his boot bottoms, the host hardly hesitated. He ran his soft, pink tongue over the sole and heel of the dominant man's boots, moaning with perverse satisfaction at his own debasement.
"Now, take them off, cuck," Dante ordered. The middle-aged white man obeyed, unlacing the boots with his tongue, and slipping each one off, followed by the socks.
With the black man's bare feet before him, the cuckold inhaled deeply, savoring the pungent scent of Dante's sweat. Dante inserted his feet into the white man's mouth one at a time, wiggling the toes around, distending the host's jaw. "That's right, you pathetic worm," he sneered. "Show me your proper place." It simultaneously appalled and excited the host that his peers in the news industry, his fans, even his own children might be watching these humiliating videos at this very moment. His career could well be in shambles, and here he was massaging the erection in his slacks as he relived his abject submission to a dominant black man.
He moved on to the next thumbnail. This began with Dante instructing the host to remove his leather jeans for him. The white man undid the snap at Dante’s waist and unzipped the jeans. Keeping his head lowered, he slid the jeans down Dante's well-muscled legs, revealing a bulging scarlet pouch that contained his prodigious genitalia. This was not the host's first time kneeling before the black man's musk-scented crotch, but each time left him light-headed and humbled.
"Take it out, bunny boy," Dante told him. "We need to prepare it for your eager wife, don't we?" The host nodded. He unsnapped the pouch that concealed Dante's mighty cock, allowing the semi-erect member to plop free and snake along Dante's thick inner thigh. The host grasped the black man's formidable shaft in a soft, almost girlish white hand, feeling it fill with blood and throb with power. He stroked it the way he knew Dante enjoyed, making it stiff for his blonde wife.
While her husband prepped her lover's swelling cock, the attractive blonde woman entered the room, curling up on the sofa alongside Dante's muscled, brown body. Although her face could not be seen in the clip that Professor Knight played on the show, she was easily identifiable as the host's wife, Susan, in this fuller video. Her long, blonde hair cascaded along her shoulders and down her back. She wore only black lace panties, her petit alabaster breasts completely bare. As her husband continued to stroke the black man's erection to full staff, Susan pressed her lips to Dante's mouth, their tongues visibly entwining. On his knees before the couple as well as sitting in his office before the desktop monitor, the host watched the hungry kiss with equal parts fascination and jealousy.
"Have you punished him, yet?" Susan asked.
"Not yet, baby," Dante answered. "I was waiting for you. I know how you like to watch."
"Oh! Do it now, baby," she encouraged. "I want to see you punish the bad bunny!"
Grasping a fistful of the white man's full head of hair, Dante dragged the host up from the floor, pulling him over his knees, his face dangling mere inches above Susan's own lap. "You've been such a bad bunny, sweetie," Susan teased. "Saying so many bad things about black people like Dante on your dumb little show. That's why he has to punish you."
Dante lifted the host's pink teddy, revealing his bare upturned rear end, pale and flabby. "This shit's gonna hurt you a lot more than it's gonna hurt me, faggot," Dante chuckled. With that, he brought the flat of his palm down on the white man's buttocks with a resounding smack. He spanked him the way one might a recalcitrant child. The video clip ended on the twentieth such slap.
Taking a deep breath, and unable to resist rubbing the bulging nub in his slacks, the host moved on to the next clip. It opened with him once again prostate on the floor at Dante's feet, only this time, his exposed rear end radiated a bright red from the beating he had endured. Although he had worn the teddy at Susan's insistence, he recalled, the spanking he received at Dante's hands had been his own idea.
Now, he watched as he groveled on the floor, while his wife replaced him astride her lover's lap. Instead of offering her ass to be beaten, however, Susan mounted Dante's jutting erection, the lips of her shaved pussy gripping it tightly. The couple kissed noisily as the host's wife moved her bare cunt up and down the length of the obscenely swollen black pole.
"Oh, baby," she moaned. "No white man has ever filled me so much! Certainly not that loser," she added, turning to glare at her husband, upon whose back Dante had rested his large, bare feet as Susan began to ride his now fully turgid prick. Dante mauled Susan's breasts, his large black hands kneading the fleshy mounds. The black man gave the host a kick, knocking him over. "Get your mouth on my balls, faggot," he demanded. "Show your gratitude for my fucking your wife so good."
The cuckold buried his face between Dante's powerful thighs, licking and kissing the man's egg-sized testicles, feeling them pulse with life-giving sperm. The mounds of his wife's ample ass slammed upon him repeatedly as she moved up and down on Dante's cunt-busting prong. "That's right, Cucker," Dante laughed, "respect the nuts that are going to flood your wife's womb with my babies!" The hosts humiliated sobs could only just be heard over his wife's salacious moans.
In the office, entranced by the video he had not even known existed, the host reached into his waistband and feverishly stroked his little penis between his thumb and index finger. Even though these videos could well portend the end of his long career as a voice for the conservative right, it aroused him to witness his own humiliation, and the pleasure his wife took in her well-endowed lover. With a sob, the host ejaculated in his dress slacks just as the video ended.
There were more video thumbnails to peruse, but before he had the chance to move on to the next one, he received a notification that he had a telecall. It was his wife’s caller identification. Poor Susan must be humiliated that these videos were now circulating for all to see, even their own children. He logged into the call.
“Honey,” he began. But instead of his wife’s face on-screen, he found himself greeted by Dante’s grinning visage. Rather than the black leather he sported in the video, the black man wore a light blue dress shirt, maroon tie, and grey vest, all tight on the bodyguard’s muscle-swollen body. Dante appeared to be sitting in the host’s home office, at his large oak desk.
“Hey, Cucker,” the man smirked. “Please, don’t call me honey.”
“You…bastard,” the host hissed. “You have some gall showing your face there after betraying our trust. Where is my wife? What have you done with her?”
Dante reached into the cedar desktop humidor, retrieving one of the host’s Cuban Montecristo cigars. He lit it patiently, ignoring the man whose home he occupied until the cigar had a steady ember. In an exhalation of thick, rich smoke he said, “Shut up, cuckold. Remember your place.”
“I should call the police,” the host sputtered. “Have you arrested. Thrown in jail!”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” Dante answered. “Put yet another black man behind bars. Ain’t going to happen this time, Cucker.” With the cigar held between his thick fingers, he motioned toward someone off screen. “Come here, baby, let’s school this faggot.” The host bristled at the insult Dante had used freely during their sessions. This was no long play.
Susan entered the screen, completely nude, her body lean and toned, very fit for a woman with four adult children. She sat on Dante’s knee. “Hi, sweetie,” she greeted the host. “Great show tonight, don’t you think?”
The host’s mouth hung open in astonishment. “Susan. Wh-what the hell are you doing? That black bastard videotaped us. He gave it to that son of a bitch professor. What’s he done to you?”
Susan wrapped her arms around Dante’s strong neck, while the black man ran his fingers over her neatly trimmed snatch. “What’s he done? Why, sweetie, he’s given me the best sex of my life. Better than the thirty years I wasted with a white loser like you.” Dante pressed his mouth over Susan’s, kissing her lewdly as he maintained eye contact with her husband.
When they broke off the kiss, Susan continued. “Dante didn’t record us, honey. I did. I didn’t plan on providing them to Professor Knight, not at first. I was just going to use them to secure a good divorce settlement, so Dante and I could be together.” The black man smiled broadly at that, drawing contentedly on his cigar as he dipped two fingers into Susan’s pussy.
“D-divorce?” the host replied. “B-but…!”
“It was someone else who suggested that we share the tape with Professor Knight once he was booked as a guest on the show,” Susan explained. Just then another woman walked on-screen, taking her place on Dante’s other knee.
The host’s youngest ******** was the spitting image of her mother, lean-bodied, with smooth, almost ivory skin and long blonde hair. She wore red lace underwear that left little to the imagination. “Hi, Daddy,” she greeted her astonished father before turning to Dante, and exchanging a salacious kiss, their tongues meeting wetly. The black man set his cigar on an ashtray in order to slip his free hand beneath the seam of the younger woman’s panties. “It was my idea to give the sex tape to Professor Knight,” she confessed. “Dante and Mom thought it was just a great idea.”
The host often affected a dumbstruck attitude during his interviews, but as he watched the black bodyguard freely grope his wife on one knee and his ******** on the other, before his very eyes, as they all admitted to conspiring to ruin his career, his very life, he was truly at a loss for words. Why on earth, then, had his small cock once again grown turgid? His body was betraying him every bit as much as his ****** had.
“You see, ***,” the younger blonde continued, “Professor Knight spoke at my college a few months back. He was really persuasive. After reading his book, I just knew that I had to do everything I could to help betray our degenerate race. Starting with you. When Mom told me about her affair with Dante, I knew that we had to expose you as the fraud you are. Professor Knight was all too happy to be part of it.”
"Sweetheart," the host protested, "no, honey, no. You don't know what you're saying. You've been brainwashed. You...you...."
Before he could proceed, his beloved ******** ******** flipped him her middle finger, and joined her mother in kissing the powerful black bull, the new man of the house. Dante reached over and, with a smirk and a wink, cut the video feed.
The host sat in his office, tears streaming freely down his face. When the intercom buzzed, he shouted, “I said I don’t want to be fucking disturbed!”
“Uh, I’m sorry, sir,” his secretary responded. “The head of the network is on the phone. He needs to speak with you. Now.”
When he arrived home that evening, the host discovered that the locks and access codes of his house had been changed, and no one responded to his knocks. Most of his clothes had been left on the front porch, not in the good luggage, but in trash can liners. He felt as if he had lost everything.
The following evening, in his own home in the hills overlooking Oakland and the Bay Area, Professor Okoro Knight reclined on his chesterfield of dark burgundy leather in his back parlor. He wore an uncinched black silk robe, with nothing beneath, revealing a taut dark brown body. Between his legs knelt a young redhead, one of several local white college students that the Professor had converted to black supremacy and kept on call to service his sexual needs. The nineteen-year-old slurped contentedly on the Professor's long foreskinned cock, protruding from his lap like an obscene extra limb. He sometimes thought it would be convenient to maintain a small kennel of subservient whites on the property to administer to his various needs. Something to think about.
As he enjoyed the submissive redhead's oral ministrations, Professor Knight clicked his wall-mounted television on, switching to the politically conservative network on which he had appeared as a guest just the night before. As the introduction to the host's show began, the Professor instructed the redhead to turn around, remaining on the floor, and raise her ass toward him. When she assumed the instructed position, he leaned forward, pointing his prong downward, and penetrated the lips of her pussy with the plum-sized head of his cock. The girl, whose name he had not bothered to learn, moaned deeply. He sometimes imagined how satisfying it would be if all whites had their vocal chords removed.
Rather than the usual host, an attractive blonde woman appeared on-screen, another of the network's conservative personalities, so popular with the country's increasingly disaffected white population. As Professor Knight sloshed his prick around in the pussy of the teenaged girl, the blonde woman apologized for the broadcast of the previous evening.
“It should go without saying,” she explained, “that such filth has no place on this network. The previous host of this show was in clear violation of the morals clause of his contract. As such, he has been removed from his position. I think we all deeply regret that he was given an on-air platform in this time slot for as long as he was. We cannot stress more firmly how completely we disassociate ourselves from his behavior and his words.”
Professor Knight took great delight in such disgrace visited upon such an influential voice of the far right. As he plunged ever deeper into the redhead, grasping her hair in his hand, using it the way one might use the reins of a horse, he imagined the host’s despair, imagined visiting similar ruin on white men across the country, across the globe. The host’s career was destroyed, his ****** life lay shattered, his wife would take a sizable part of his fortune, including his home. With the humiliation and defeat of such an adversary, such a profound victory for black America, Professor Knight felt the Black New World Order inch closer to realization.
With a satisfied grunt, the victorious black man deposited his potent seed deep in the white girl’s pussy, where it would journey from her cervix to her fallopian tubes in search of its rightful prey.
