Sunday, October 11, 2015

The New World: Honky Express

The New World:  Honky Express
By Sir Kinyon

    Slave 21 is owned by the Honky Express Bike Messenger Service.  The Honky Express was the first of it's kind after the institution of white slavery, and now it boasts the largest distribution system of it's kind in the country, with offices in every major city in the US. With the help of clients like and Netflix, it rivals the efficiency of both FEDEX and UPS.
    As it speeds through the small town streets Mansfield, Texas, slave 21 tries to fight off thoughts of nostalgia and of it's old life.  It needs to stay focused.  Slave 21 was born Brandon Anders right here in Mansfield. That was 27 years ago.  At the age of 23 Brandon had been arrested and enslaved for nonpayment of child support. He was bought at the local municipal auction by the messenger service and went right into training.  At that point Brandon Anders ceased to exist and a new slave was created.  It's official name was Mansfield Honky Express # 21.
    Slave 21 pedals through the painfully familiar streets completely naked except for it's collar and back pack. It has long overcome any feeling of humiliation or embarrassment about appearing naked in public.  Such is the life of a slave.  It's training was complete in that regard. As it pulled up to the law office of Andrew Miller, slave 21 parked it's bike and entered through the gray metal slave door which was just a few feet to the side of the ornately carved mahogany main entrance.
    Walking up to the door, the slave paused to take a deep breath and steel itself for what it knew was to come. It walked through the door and waited to be acknowledged.  After about 10 minutes of standing at attention in a small, featureless room, a curt black woman came in and told it that Attorney Miller was waiting in his office.  "Don't touch anything." She told it.
    Slave 21 took the time to take off it's back pack and put it in the corner.  As it entered Mr. Miller's office, it went straight to it's knees.  Mr Miller, a tall, slim but muscular black man, looked quite dapper in his charcoal gray suit.  Of course he ignored the slave for a few moments before acknowledging it's presence.  He was scanning some files on his desk.  "Get over here and suck my dick, boy." He said without looking up from his papers.
    "Yes, Master"  Slave 21 said and in an instant, it was on it's knees between Mr. Miller's legs.  It gently unzipped the man's pants and pulled out his surprisingly large dick. He looked at it in awe.  The slave had serviced large dicks before but this one always scared it a little bit.
    "Suck it, bitch!"  Mr. Miller sounded a bit agitated.
    "Sorry, Master."  The slave said nervously and then completely engulfed the huge penis in it's well-trained mouth.  Mr. Miller threw his head back and moaned,  Instinctively, he brought his hands down and grasped both sides of the slave's head.  Within seconds, he was thrusting his 12 inch dick up into the boy's mouth and down it's throat.  The slave, for it's part, tried desperately not to choke to death while at the same time trying to remember it's training and give the man as much pleasure as possible.
    Then, without warning, Mr. Miller grabbed the slave by it's blond Mohawk and yanked it head back.  Then he stood up with the slave in tow and then threw it face down on the polished mahogany desk.  Then the slave felt a sharp pain as if something was tearing it's asshole open.  Mr. Miller had unceremoniously rammed his dick into the slave's asshole...balls deep.  
    Mr. Miller continued to pound that slave's ass for what seemed like an eternity, then he suddenly pulled out, leaving it's hole gaping.  He then grabbed the slave and manually flipped it over onto it's back.  He pushed the slave's ankles toward it's ears, exposing it's already battered and bruised asshole.  Miller then plunged his huge dick back into that welcoming hole and continued his assault.
    It was a painful experience for the slave, but it's training held.  The Messenger service had not only put the slave through rigorous conditioning training that allows it to ride for miles and miles without stopping, but it also went through extensive sexual training as well.  The owners of the messenger service know that their slaves will be used for the sexual satisfaction of their clients, so they wanted to make sure that the sexual service was top notch.  Even though the slave was in pain, it remembered to push out as the man pushed his dick in and then to squeeze tight on the out stroke.  This gave his user the most pleasure possible.
    During this intense fucking, Mr. Miller's large black hands had crept up and closed around the slave's neck.  Even though it knew that this was coming, the slave is terrified.  As the man's vice-like grip tightened around the slave's neck and cut off it's air supply, the slave could feel it's panic level rise.  It also knew however, that for this particular client, the choking meant that he was about to cum and the ordeal would be over soon.  And true to form, just as the slave began to feel as it was about to lose consciousness, Mr. Miller began to grunt loudly.  The grip grew tighter and the slave's eyes began to bulge.  Then, with one last brutal thrust, Mr. Miller plunged his huge member deep into the slave's already brutalized asshole and held it there as he shot rope after rope of thick hot cum into the slave's gut.  The slave used it's well-trained sphincter muscles to massage the man's massive meat as it pulsed.
    With a shudder, the man's orgasm began to subside.  Only then did his grip on the slave's neck loosen. When Mr. Miller  pulled his dick out of it's hole, Slave 21 slid smoothly off of the desk and to it's knees on the floor.  It used it's mouth to thoroughly clean the gigantic muscle that had just plundered it's asshole. 
    "The package is on the table." Mr. Miller said dismissively and he pulled his pant's up and went back to his reading.  Not even bothering to look up at the slave. Just like a man would use a screwdriver then ignore it until it was needed again.
    Having been dismissed, Slave 21 retrieved the package from the side table and returned to the small room through which he had entered the building.  Off to one side, almost hidden, was a slave maintenance station that included a shower equipped with an enema nozzle.  Since the institution of white slavery, most businesses had these slave maintenance stations installed in slave areas to avoid having their customers exposed to such unpleasantness.  Slave 21 was used to the routine, so it put the package in it's back pack, cleaned itself out using the enema nozzle and left.  On to it's next destination which was across town at another lawyer's office where it would undoubtedly be used in much the same way.  Slave 21, the former Brandon Anders, is nothing more than a cog in the wheel of a thriving slave based society.  It knows it's place.  It knows it's function.  It knows that there is no going back.

The End

Thursday, August 27, 2015

The New World: Carl's New House Boy

The New World:  Carl's New House Boy
by Sir Kinyon

    Carl and Andre had been friends since high school.  More like brothers, actually.  Now, in their late thirties, their friendship had settled into an easy familiarity that you only see in very close best friends.  They had even managed to buys houses directly across the street from one another.  Both Men had been moderately successful in business and both live very comfortable lives.  Andre owned a large auto body shop where he employed two free white boys who he also sponsored.  These honkies both lived rent free at the shop and served as overseers for the crew of fifteen slaves...also housed in the slave quarters behind the shop.  Carl is a professional photographer. He owns two honkies that he uses in his business, and one that serves as his personal servant.
    One Sunday afternoon, the two friends were sitting on Andre's porch smoking a blunt.  It had become their routine.  Nothing like passing a fat blunt between friends.  Carl, as usual, had his head buried in a newspaper.
    "Hey man," Carl said, looking up from his paper. "Says here that the U.S. military raided that Saudi palace and freed all the captured Ethiopian slaves."
    "Ha, " Andre said, passing the blunt. "I bet the prince is PISSED!"
    "Damn right he is."  Carl puffed the blunt and held his breath for a second. "He filed a complaint with the U.N. but we know they can't do anything."
    "We warned 'um" Andre said.  Then, his attention caught by something in the street.  He reached over and tapped his buddy with the back of his hand. "Say, bro. check this out."
    Carl looked up from his paper to see a tall skinny white boy walking toward them.  He was fully clothed, so he couldn't have been a slave, even though his hair was only a tad bit longer than "slave standard".  He was wearing baggy jeans and white wife beater with another flannel shirt tied around his waist.  It was too hot to wear as since he was walking, the two friends assumed that he had come from the bus stop on the corner.  Being the only fully clothed honky in site, he stuck out like a sore thumb.
    "What's up, fellas?"  He said as he boldly walked right up to the porch.  Carl felt a quick rush of anger then had to remind himself that this was a free white and not a slave.  "Is one of you, Andre' Anderson?"  He spoke with a country twang that belied his urban wigger attire and tatted up  arms and chest.
    "That's me." Andre' said. "You a long way from home ain't you, boy?"
    The white boy obviously bristled at being called "boy" but he recovered quickly.  "The lady at the reparations department said that you would be expecting me, I'm Jarvis Chandler."  He stuck out his hand for a shake, but when Andre ignored it, he somewhat awkwardly stuck it back in the pocket of his baggy jeans.
    "Aw hell."  Andre said.  "I fuckin' forgot."  The law stated that every Caucasian American over the age of 18 had to have a Black sponsor.  But blacks were only able to sponsor 3 whites at any given time.  This left thousands of free whites without sponsors.  Those whites left without sponsorship were to register as wards of the state.  As more black sponsors became available, the unsponsored whites would be assigned to them.  This was the case here.  One of the whites that Andre' sponsored had recently been enslaved, so that left him with only 2.  Jarvis, here was that boy's replacement. "Like I need another honky."  Andre was no friend to the whites.  Neither was Carl, for that matter, but at least he was less openly hostile about it.
    Carl, for his part, just eyed the white boy appraising.  Carl is bisexual, but he prefers guys.  Free white boys held a strong attraction for him, especially butch, tough looking redneck white boys like this one. That country twang and the tats made Jarvis Chandler Carl's type.  He felt the beginnings of a boner.
    "Hey," Chandler said hunching his shoulders. "I'm just here cause that bitch at the department told me to come." He stood a bit straighter pushing his chest out kinda cocky like.  Carl liked what he saw. "I just need a sponsor on paper.  You stay out of my life and I'm gon' stay out of yours."
    "I don't think I like your attitude, boy." Andre said, rising to his full 6 foot 3 inches.  He stepped off the porch and stood toe to toe with Jarvis who was dwarfed by the much bigger black man.
    "I just..." Jarvis tried to speak
    "Naw, fuck that!"  Andre said menacingly. "Get yo' white ass out of my yard! Tell that bitch at the department to send me another honky.  One with some respect!"
    Carl looked on in amusement as he saw the look of defiance on the white boy's face morph into one of fear bordering on panic.  "Hey, wait" Jarvis said, reaching out to grab Andre's arm.  Good thing for him, he thought better of it and left it at his side. "If you send me back, you'll be my third rejection.  They gon' make me a slave."
    "I don't give a shit!" Andre said.
    At that moment, Carl came down the porch steps and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.  "Hold up, " he said, his voice calm and measured.  "Jarvis, you look thirsty.  That's my house right there."  He pointed to the two story red brick home across the street.  "Go on over there and get yourself some water.  Let me talk to my friend here."
    "Thanks" Jarvis said nervously.  "Is the door unlocked?"
    "Oh no," Carl said, a bit exasperated.  "Use the hose by the driveway."
    Jarvis was taken aback by being expected to drink from the hose but thanked him anyway  and turned to cross the street.  He couldn't help but notice all the mancured lawns being tended by naked white slaves.  There were even some old ladies walking down the street with leashed white men, uh slaves, in tow.  Jarvis had been a teenager when the whitey laws were passed, so he still remembered a time when whites had been in charge.  When the world was normal.  A time before the world went to shit.
    Jarvis had grown up in a rural area where there weren't many black people.  And the few that were there pretty much stayed on their side of the tracks.  He had always been taught that whites were superior to blacks.  Nobody actually said those words, of course, it was just understood and everyone lived accordingly.  But Jarvis, always one to question things, wondered why the black dudes at his school were always bigger, tougher, better at sports.  They even seemed to be more popular with the white girls.  Jarvis could get girls, but he was always skinny and a bit awkward.  The black guys were always cool, laid back.  He hated them.  He admired them, but he hated them.  Not that he would ever admit it, but he secretly wished he could be black.  He hated them for that too.  And NOW they were running the fucking world!   Jarvis couldn't believe that he had fucked up again.  He HAD to do something about his attitude if he wanted to find a sponsor.  He got to the house across the street and went to the spigot on the side, turned it on and drank some of the cool water.  He HAD to find a sponsor if he didn't want to be a slave.  It wasn't easy being a free white in this day and age, but it was better than being a slave.  Just keep the niggers happy and stay free, he told himself.
    After drinking his fill, Jarvis walked back across the street where the two big black men were waiting. He could only hope that the situation had calmed down.
    "Everything's okay now."  Carl said as Jarvis came back into the yard.  "My friend here has decided to be your sponsor."
    Jarvis smiled.
    "Don't be too happy, boy."  Andre' said.  "I still don't like you.  You better keep your nose clean or I'll have your lily white ass enslaved and on the auction block before you can say 'Polly want a cracker!' is that understood?"
    "Yes sir!"
    "Lemme see your papers."  Andre held out his hand. 
    Jarvis reached into his back pack and pulled out an envelope and handed it to him.  Andre' looked at the papers then pulled out his cell phone.  The sponsorship process had been streamlined to the point where all he had to do was call the number listed, give whoever answers the case number and his own sponsorship number and it was a done deal.  While Andre was on the phone with the reparations department, Jarvis turned to Carl and thanked him.
    "Don't thank me yet."  was all he said in response.
    When Andre got off the phone, he walked back up on the porch and sat down.  Carl sat beside him.  Of course, Jarvis continued to stand.  "I see you're not married, that's good." Andre' said as he perused  Jarvis' papers.  "You live in the White Settlement projects and you work at the pawn shop."
    "Yes sir."  Jarvis said. "The pay is terrible."  He was obviously trying to lighten the mood.
    "Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore."
    "Sir?"  Jarvis looked confused...and a bit worried.
    "My friend here needs a new houseboy.  Congratulations, you're hired."
    "What? But..."  Jarvis looked alarmed.
    "No whats and no buts, boy." Andre said.  "It's a done deal.  You are gonna live in his house and work as his house boy under his conditions.  You'll do everything he says without question or I'll have you enslaved and you'll end up being his house boy anyway.  Is that understood?"
    Hesitation.  "Y-Yes sir."
    "Good boy.  Now get your ass back on that bus, go tidy up things in the projects and report to Carl across the street by 5pm tomorrow."

    Jarvis knocked on Carl's door at exactly 5pm.  The bus had gotten him there a bit early, so he had walked around the block.  Even though he didn't actually see a lot of slaves, it was obvious that they were around.  It would take a small army of them to keep a neighborhood this clean and well manicured.  Not a blade of grass out of place and not a stray bush leaf to be seen anywhere.
    The door was opened almost immediately by a slave.  The guy was obviously a slave because he was completely naked except for his thin stainless steel collar, with matching nipple and cockrings.  "Mr. Chandler?" The boy asked.  When Jarvis nodded, the slave said that his master had been called away on business, but had instructed him to get Jarvis settled in.  When Jarvis asked the slave his name, he said that his master had named him cracker.  He was about 6 feet tall and somewhat lanky with red hair styled in a neatly trimmed into a low cut Mohawk.  As Cracker turned to lead him through the house Jarvis couldn't help but notice the base of a butt plug sticking out of his asshole.  When Jarvis asked about it, Cracker simply said "my master prefers it this way."  and left it at that.
    The two passed out of the large foyer, through a well appointed living area complete with recessed lighting, a state of the art sound system and modern stainless steel and black leather furniture.  It was at that moment that Jarvis noticed that all of Cracker's stainless steel adornments had black leather looking accents.  Wow, he thought to himself.  So cracker is just a piece of furniture, like that couch or that chair.  Jarvis felt a swell of anger, but managed to keep things under control.  This is the world that he lives in now.  He just needs to deal with it.  "What's your job here?"  He asked Cracker in an attempt to keep things light.
    "I am my master's personal valet and body slave."  Cracker said matter of factly.
    Jarvis knew exactly what that meant.  Cracker is Carl's butt boy.  "You like being his body slave?"
    "What I like doesn't matter, sir."  Was his serious reply.  "I am a slave...I obey."
    "Okay, "  Jarvis said, a bit exasperated.  "It's just you and me.  You can speak freely."
    "Thank you sir," Cracker responded.  "But even though you are white, you are still a free man.  I am trained to treat you as such."
    Well, Jarvis thought to himself, so much for trying to bond with this slave.  When he asked what his own duties would be, the slave explained that Jarvis's duties would most likely be to just keep the house clean and in good condition.  The master would go into detail with him.  The slave also said that his master's other house boys had been free men as well.  This struck Jarvis as kind of strange, but he didn't give it much thought.  He was too busy admiring Carl's house.  It was much bigger than it looked from outside.  The black leather and stainless steel theme seemed to permeate the entire house.  There were four large bedroom suites.  Cracker explained that one belonged to Carl, of course, and the other two belonged to Carl's two sons, both in college. Stupidly, Jarvis allowed himself to assume that the fourth suite would be for him.  He began to get excited at the thought of living like this.  The suite had it's own bathroom, sitting area, 60 inch flatscreen tv complete with gaming system.  He was visibly crestfallen when Cracker informed him that this suite was reserved for guests and that the master's freeman houseboys usually stayed in a small bedroom adjacent to the slave quarters in the basement.  The bedroom was sparse, but it was clean with a comfortable looking bed, a dresser for his clothes and a small cable equipped television set.  There was even a very small bathroom.  It reminded him of his bedroom back in the projects. It was nothing compared to the plush bedroom suits upstairs, but it was much better than the slave quarters which consisted of three cots and a maintenance station.
    As Cracker was leading Jarvis back upstairs via the back staircase, he heard the telltale beep that served as an alert that the garage door was being opened. "Master's home!" Cracker was so excited that he almost squealed.  "Follow me, please." 
    Without waiting for a response, the slave was gone.  Jarvis had no choice but to follow cracker into the kitchen where he knew the garage entrance was.  By the time Jarvis caught up, cracker was already on his knees with his head bowed.  When Carl came through the door, Cracker immediately welcomed him home by bowing to kiss his feet. He looked up at his master with what could only be described as adoration.  Carl bent to pat cracker on the head, the walked past when he saw Jarvis standing there.  He stuck out his hand in greeting.
    Jarvis, relieved, shook the black man's hand.  Casually, he said, "I ain't gon' be expected to do that, huh?"
    "What?" Carl asked, "kiss my feet? Hell no!"  He laughed good-naturedly. "Cracker's a good honky, aren't you, boy?" He said with a snap of his finger which brought the ginger slave to heel immediately, still on his knees of course.  "I assume he has shown you around the place?"
    "Oh yeah,"  Jarvis said, his nervousness waning a bit. "Real nice place you got here, sir."
    "You can call me Carl. You hungry?  I brought dinner."
    At that moment, Jarvis realized that he WAS hungry.  He hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning. "Well, yeah."  He said, eyes widening a bit in surprise.  He hadn't been expected to be treated so well.
    "Cracker, take this and set it up for Jarvis and me."  He handed the bag of food off the the slave, who hurried into the dining room to set things up. "When you're done, take some honky chow down to Benji and Rebel."
    "Yes, Master!" came the reply.
    Carl explained that Benji and Rebel were his other two slaves that he used in his photography business.  He also explained that from now on their care and discipline would be one of Jarvis' responsibilities.  Of course he would receive all the instruction needed to do the job adequately.  This made Jarvis nervous.  He had seen slaves all over the place, of course, but he had never spent any time around them.
    As the two ate, Carl explained that Jarvis would be expected to keep the house clean, Carl's two cars were to be washed twice a week, the pool was to be cleaned at least twice a week during the summer...the list went on and on.  Jarvis was relieved, though, when Carl handed him a list of phone numbers that included a pool service and a maid service.
    When Jarvis expressed his trepidation where the slaves were concerned, Carl said "Nonsense!  My slaves are very well trained.  The know how to act around free men.  You just be firm and remember that you are the boss, no matter what happens.  They'll fall right in line.
    As the briefing came to an end, the large stone that had been forming in the pit of Jarvis' gut was beginning to loosen up.  Carl had proven to be a very personable guy.  He treated Jarvis like a man and not just a honky.  Jarvis could definitely see himself living and working here.  He even had other white boys to talk to.  Even though they were slaves, he had decided that he would just treat them like men.  Yep, Jarvis thought to himself, I could get used to this.
    After his chat with Carl, Jarvis went downstairs to get settled into his new room.  He had anticipated meeting Benji and Rebel, but they out in the garage gym going their forced workouts.  Jarvis hadn't brought much with him, so there wasn't much to unpack, so when he was done, he just laid back on the surprisingly comfortable bed an dozed off.
    Jarvis woke with a start.  He was immediately aware that he was not alone in the small bedroom.  He wiped his bleary eyes, expecting to see the two slaves standing there, probably wanting to get a look at their new "overseer", but what he saw was two big black men standing over him.  It was Carl, his boss, and Andre', his sponsor.  Both men looked at him strangely.
    "Hey, fellas," He said, forcing a smile.  He was trying to  conjure up the cordial rapport that he had built with Carl.  "What's up?"
    "My dick." Andre said and before Jarvis could react, both men were on him.  Jarvis, being a rough and tumble country boy, had always considered himself to be pretty tough, and never had any trouble taking care of himself.  He was no match, however for these two big black dudes each of which outweighed him by at least 40lbs. Yet still, Jarvis thrashed and kicked.  It was no use, Andre had straddled his chest and held his arms immobile while Carl straddled his legs which kept them still while he unbuckled the belt and unbuttoned the pants.
    "What the fuck are ya'll doin'?" Jarvis yelled in confusion.
    "Shut up, bitch!" Andre' growled. 
    "But you can't treat me like th..." Jarvis tried again but was cut off by the shocking realization that Andre' had just spit in his face.  SPIT?! Did this black muther fucker just spit on me?!  What the fuck have I gotten myself into, Jarvis thought to himself.
    Carl was having the time of his life!  Jarvis was just the kind of white boy he liked.  Redneck, masculine, tattoos.  A bit dirty looking.  Carl had been looking forward to this ever since he had first laid eyes on this honky yesterday.  The fact that he was not a slave made no difference whatsoever.  In fact, that just made it better, more arousing.
    With practiced ease, Carl and Andre' stripped the still struggling white boy, revealing his pale, thin but tightly muscled legs.  His legs were almost as heavily tattooed as the rest of his body.  Most of the tats looked to be home made, some native-American in nature.  Once they had the boy stripped, they turned him over onto his stomach.  This left his cute little white boy butt exposed.  Without hesitation, Carl, who was in "possession" of Jarvis' lower body, wet his index finger with a bit of spit, and stuck unceremoniously inserted it into Jarvis' asshole.  Now, Carl was very practiced at inspecting slave flesh, could tell that this was virgin territory.  Well, not for long, he thought to himself.  While sitting on Jarvis' legs to keep them immobile, Carl undid his own jeans (he never wore underwear) and unleashed what he secretly referred to as his "Black Monster",  Well, why not?  His dick was eleven and a half inches long and almost as thick as his wrist.  The huge thing flopped heavily out of his jeans.  The color contrast was striking.  The deep, dark (almost black) chocolate of Carl's dick hovering stiffly over the pale smooth alabaster of Jarvis' asscheeks. 
    After giving the white boy cheeks beneath him a few brutally hard bare-handed slaps to redden them a bit, Carl reached into his shirt pocket and took out a condom.  Usually, when he fucked a slave, he never used condoms.  But this was no slave, and Carl was not in the mood to get shit on his dick.  After Carl had deftly sheathed his huge sword, he positioned it at Jarvis' tight little pink pucker and thrust forward...HARD!
    Jarvis screamed.  The sudden burning pain was so intense that he thought he was gonna black out.  In fact, he did a couple of times, but each time he regained consciousness the pain was still there.  That first thrust, however, was the absolute worst.  It felt as if someone was cutting into his ass with a hot knife while simultaneously kicking him in the gut.  He knew that it was Carl brutalizing his ass because even from his position on his stomach, he could crane is neck to see Andre' holding him down.  "Stop it!" he managed to scream between breathless grunts.  "I'm not a fag!"  Andre' just growled that he didn't give a shit as he continued to watch as his friend pummel this cute white boy's ass.
    The brutal thrusting continued.  In his mindless haze, Jarvis envisioned a piston moving methodically in and out of his ass.  The pain, while still VERY intense was becoming a bit more bearable.  As the piston continued it relentless assault on his anus, Jarvis became aware of the sensation of being completely filled on the inward stroke and emptied on the out stroke. The pounding pain continues, in, out, full, empty.  The pain was still there, of course, and Jarvis hated it, but there was something else. Pleasure?  No, couldn't be.  Jarvis was not a fag.  This was rape pure and simple, and as soon as he could get away, he was going straight to the police!  But still, in spite of the pain, there was this underlying pleasurable feeling when he was full that became distinctly less so when he was empty.  Before long, the thrusting began to intensify.  The pain became unbearable. Jarvis, in an attempt to maintain his sanity, had begun to try to concentrate of the fleeting pleasure of the "full" feeling, but now it was too much.  He could hear Carl grunting even louder with each thrust, even as Andre' yelled "Hell yeah, fuck that pussy!"  The last thing he heard before slipping into a pain-induced unconsciousness was Carl, roaring like a lion.
    "Damn, that was hot!" Carl said as he pulled his slowly softening dick out of the unconscious white boy. "You wanna have a go?"
    "Hell, no!"  Andre' laughed and sneered at the same time. "Not after the mess you made of his ass!"
    "Yeah," Carl chuckled. "That's what you get when you break in a virgin.  I'll have Benji and Rebel clean him up. Hey..." he said looking at his watch. "The game comes on in ten minutes."
    Jarvis slowly regained consciousness.  He was still laying flat on his face.  He tried to get up, but it was just too painful to move. "Let me help you, sir."  The voice startled him and he immediately started trying to fight, it was no use though, he was just too weak.  "Hold on, sir.  Let me help you." The unfamiliar voice pleaded.
    "Who the fuck are you?"  Jarvis asked, gingerly sitting up.
    "I'm Benji.  My master told me and Rebel to take care of you.  Rebel is running a bath for you."
    "Benji?  Oh, one of Carl's slaves"  With the mention of Carl's name, Jarvis was flooded with emotion...mostly anger. "What the fuck, man?" He said.  I'ma go to the police.  They can't do that shit to me.  I'm not a fuckin' slave.  Them niggers gon' pay for this shit!"
    "I would keep it down If I was you." Came a voice from the doorway to the small bathroom.  It was Rebel.  "Master doesn't like that kind of talk."
    "He should have thought about that shit before him and his friend decided to rape a free man."
    "If you wanna remain free," Rebel said striding toward him. "You better calm down.  Believe me, I know."
    Jarvis took a moment to look these two over.  Both slaves were tall and muscular.  Benji, still sitting next to him on the bed was muscular but trim, completely bald except for the customary slave's buzzed mohawk which revealed that his hair was dark brown just like the slight scruff on his face.  Rebel was almost a perfect match except that his mohawk was a bright blonde.  Both slaves sported nose rings which made them look a bit bulls.  They both also had ringed nipples and matching thin metal collars that looked to be made of copper.  Other than that, they were both completely naked and both sported numerous tattoos.  This was no surprise since most master's these days kept their slaves completely naked.  "What do you mean?"  Jarvis asked rebel.
    "Come on, let's get you into the tub."  Rebel said.  "Don't try to walk, we'll carry you."
    Jarvis was too tired and in too much pain to argue.  The two men managed to lift him up off the bed and carry him to the small bathtub in his bathroom. The water was a bit too hot as they lowered his naked body into it which caused him to cry out, but he soon got used to it. "What did you mean, 'if i wanna remain free?' He asked Rebel, again.
    "I meant that, if you don't want to be enslaved like me, you had better get used to it."
    "Like you?" Jarvis asked puzzled.
    Rebel explained that Carl had originally been his sponsor.  One day, Carl had decided that he wanted to fuck Rebel, so he raped him, pretty much just like they had just done to Jarvis.  Rebel, whose name had been David at the time, decided that he wasn't gonna stand for it.  The very next day, he went to the police, who referred him to Cracker Control.  The CC officer escorted him back to Carl's house.  Rebel had thought that they were going to conduct an investigation, but instead, they told Carl about his attempt to file a complaint and then they asked Carl if he wanted to file a petition to have Rebel enslaved.  Carl agreed and the next day Rebel found himself standing naked in slave court.  Carl used his right of first purchase to buy the new slave, then had him sent to a training facility to have his "attitude adjusted."  The time spent at this facility had been sheer hell for Rebel, partly because of his constant cries of injustice.  During his training, because of his volatile nature, Carl had instructed the trainers to have Rebel castrated. And his balls replaced with metal orbs.  That had seemed to knock all the fight out of him.  It also seemed to knock a bit of the fight out of Jarvis as he looked nervously at Rebel's crotch as the slave washed him with surprising gentleness.
    "You can touch them if you want."  Rebel said
    "My balls.  I know you want to touch them."  Rebel's blue eyes took on kind of a far away look. "Besides, you're a free man. I can't refuse you anyway."
    Jarvis was curious he had to admit.  He reached out and gingerly touched Rebel's ballsack.  When that elicited no response, he actually palmed them.  They were definitely hard like metal and surprisingly heavy. "And they did this to you just because he said so?"
    "Of course they did."  Rebel said completely without irony. "He was paying them, and he's my owner.  It's that simple."
    "And you're not, pissed off about it?!  I mean, what gives him the right to mutilate a man like that?  It's crazy!"
    "Sir."  Rebel responded with surprising equanimity. "That is the reality that we live in.  I am a slave, my body belongs to him, he can do whatever he wants with it.  I have no say in the matter.  Now that may seem unfair to you.  Believe me it seemed unfair to me as well, but I soon learned that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it."
    "But it's just so wrong." Jarvis seemed deflated. "How do you cope with it?"
    "I obey,"  Was the simple answer.  "Besides, he threatened to have my dick cut off if I didn't act right.  Now stand up, let's get you dried off."
    Benji and Rebel helped Jarvis out of the tub and he stood there uncomfortably while Benji very gently dried him with a large towel.  "Why are you doing that?"  Jarvis asked
    "You are a free man, sir." Benji responded as if that explained it all.
    "Okay, look. "He said.  "I ain't been around slaves much."
    "It's alright, Sir."  Benji responded as he toweled Jarvis's feet from his position on his knees.  "Rebel and I will fill you in."  He smiled and looked up into Jarvis' eyes and asked, "shall, I suck you off while I'm down here, sir?"
    Jarvis was shocked. "What? No...HELL NO!  I ain't no fuckin' faggot!"  He pushed past Benji, who was still on his knees and went back out into his bedroom.  His head was spinning.  What the fuck had he walked into?  In one day, he had moved away from everything he knew.  He had a new job that he didn't want.  He had been raped by two black men and was pretty sure that he couldn't do anything about it, and now here was this slave freely offering to blow him!  What the fuck man?  When he went back into his room he saw that the bloody sheets on his bed had been changed and the bed had been turned back.
    Rebel was standing by the bed.  He bent to help Jarvis into bed.  As Jarvis lowered himself, his hand accidentally brushed against Rebel's low hanging balls. "Oh shit!" he said. "I'm sorry, man.  You alright?"

    Rebel looked down at Jarvis.  "There is nothing there to hurt, sir."  He said plainly as he gently pulled the cover up over Jarvis's shoulders. "Now, I advise you to get some sleep."
    It felt so strange to be tucked in by a man, but Jarvis was too sore to protest. "What should I do?"  He asked as Rebel turned to leave. "About the rape, I mean?  Am I supposed to just act like it never happened?"
    "Exactly, sir." Rebel said without turning around.  He paused. "Then get used to it."  And with that, he was gone, and Jarvis fell into a fitful sleep.
    The next morning, Jarvis woke early to the unmistakable aroma of bacon.  This was quite unusual seeing as though all Jarvis could usually afford for breakfast was the generic corn flakes and powdered milk that they give you down at the rec center.  It wasn't good, but it was free.  Of course, Jarvis had been working down at the pawn shop, but the pay was bad  and anything free was a big help.  He rolled out of bed only to realize that his entire body was one big sore spot.  It only took him a moment to remember what had been done to him the night before. The anger again welled up from the pit of his stomach. Act like it didn't happen and "get used to it."  Rebel had advised him.  But how the hell was he supposed to do that?  He is a man, and you can't just rape a man and get away with it.  He felt like he would be less than a man if he didn't do something.  But what the hell could he do?  He decided that he would just play it by least for now.
    Following the smell of bacon, Jarvis made his way down to the kitchen.  When he got to the kitchen door, he saw Carl sitting there looking like new money in his dark grey pinstriped suit.  He was casually reading the newspaper while he ate his breakfast of what looked like bacon, scrambled eggs and toast with jelly and a big frosty glass of milk.  The food looked so good, but Jarvis was so nervous that just stood there and stared.
    "Jarvis!"  He was brought back to reality by Carl's deep voice.  "Don't just stand there lookin' stupid."  He waved him over.  "I thought you were gonna sleep all day.  Get over here and get some breakfast.  I know you're hungry."
    He was starving.  But how was this man talking to him so casually?  Like he and his friend hadn't assaulted him the night before?  Jarvis moved forward slowly across the large kitchen to where Carl was sitting in the breakfast nook.  He noticed that cracker was sitting on the floor at his master's feet, content.
    "Come on, sit down."  Carl said to Jarvis jovially.  "Cracker!  Get up and fix Jarvis a plate."  Within what seemed like a few seconds, Cracker had fixed Jarvis a heaping plate of bacon, eggs and toast.  He asked if he wanted milk or orange juice. Jarvis chose juice.  "You sleep okay?"  Carl asked as Jarvis sat across the table from him.  Jarvis nodded.  "You get to meet Benji and Rebel?"  Another nod.  "They're good boys, they shouldn't give you much trouble.  If they do, don't be afraid to use that cane that I keep in your room."
    As he ate the surprisingly delicious breakfast, he marveled at the fact that things were so casual.  It was almost surreal.
    "Cracker here, usually makes breakfast,"  Carl continued,  "but it's your job to make sure that dinner is ready when I get home.  I usually have lunch down town."
    "Them some pretty fancy duds for a photographer." Jarvis said.  He felt like he just HAD to say something. Especially since Cracker had retaken his place at Carl's feet happily ignored.
    "Hahaha," Carl laughed.  "I don't get behind the camera very much anymore.  I'm director of photography for a large advertising firm."
    "Oh, my bad."  Jarvis said.  Right then he felt a strange sensation.  He felt like he was a bout to say something that he probably shouldn't.  He felt it coming, but he couldn't stop himself.  "So we're just not gonna talk about what you did last night?"
    Carl shot Jarvis a bemused look, but went right back to his newspaper.  "We can talk about it if you want."
    How could he be so calm, Jarvis thought to himself.  "You committed  major crime last night."  Jarvis said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, but failing miserably.
    "Nope."  Carl replied calmly without looking up from his paper. "Twenty years ago, maybe.  But today, all you white boys are fair game for a man like me."
    "What the fuck does that mean?"  Jarvis said, suddenly standing to his feet.  Before he could make a move though, Cracker who had until now been sitting docilely on the floor beside Carl's chair, had sprang up and was standing menacingly between Jarvis and Carl.
    "Down, boy."  Carl said to Cracker as he casually reached over the table and plucked a sugar cube from a bowl in the center.  "Heel"  Cracker reluctantly backed down and returned to his spot on the floor.  "This honky ain't that damn crazy.  Open."  On command, cracker opened his mouth wide and Carl popped the sugar cube in.  "Good boy."  Cracker savored the small treat like it was the best thing he had ever tasted in his life.  Jarvis figured that when he only got to eat bland slave chow, a sugar cube must taste like heaven.
    "Sit down, Jarvis."  Carl's jovial demeanor had disappeared completely.  "If you move to threaten me again, I'm gonna beat your little honky ass black and blue THEN call cracker control and tell them that you attacked me."
    "But you can't..."
    "Shut the fuck up when I'm talking."  Carl still hadn't moved from his chair. "Now listen, boy.  Yes you are a free man, but make no mistake EVERYTHING in this house belongs to me, and that includes YOU."
    "That's bullshit...!"  Jarvis began, but was stopped suddenly when Carl, like a flash, had closed the distance between them and landed a viscous back-handed blow to Jarvis's right cheek.
    "I SAID, shut the fuck up!"  Carl took a breath while he shot his shirt cuffs then made a motion like he was wiping dust from his suit. Jarvis just sat there holding his swiftly bruising jaw.  He had a shocked look on his face.  "Now, as I was saying,"  Carl continued as if nothing had happened, "Although you are a free man, you belong to me."  He paused to see if Jarvis would try to speak again but the stupid honky had apparently learned his lesson.  He just sat there with red eyes looking like a wounded little kid.  Carl almost felt sorry for him, but he had to learn that his world would be quite different from now on.  "I will treat you like a free man, for the most part. You can come and go as you please as long as your duties here are complete.  You need to know, however, that I like the look of you.  You've got a cute little white boy ass that I find irresistible and when I want do fuck it, I will...regardless of your free man status.  I know that sounds unfair to you, but I've got news for you Jarvis, the world has been an unfair place for a very long time, you just didn't notice until YOU got hit in the head with the short end of the stick.  It was all fine and good when you honkies ran the world, but now you wanna scream unfair.  All I can say is get fucking used to it.  You are here for good, at least until I get tired of you.  Now you have two choices, boy,  you can except this new reality and enjoy this life as a free man, OR, I can get Andre' to petition the court as your sponsor and have you enslaved.  I'll buy you and have free reign over that sweet little ass of yours anyway.  I gave Rebel the same options.  He made the wrong choice."   He paused for effect.  "Oh, did he mention that I have his balls in a little jar on the shelf in the punishment room?"
    Carl got up from his chair, wiping his mouth.  "I'm leaving for work now.  If you're still here when I get home, I'll assume you made the smart choice.  If not, I'll call Cracker Control and get the ball rolling.  Either way, I'll have steak for dinner.  I like it rare."  Carl gave Jarvis a pointed look, turned on his heel and was gone.  Cracker scurried off behind him.
    Jarvis was in total shock.  This could NOT be happening to him.  How the fuck was he supposed to just let this shit fly?  Here he was sitting at another man's breakfast table in another man's house.  A man, by the way, who just last night forced his dick up his ass!  It was all just too crazy for words.  He had to do something.  He had no clue what he had o do, but he had to move from the spot he was stuck in and DO SOMETHING!
    Getting up from the chair, Jarvis looked awkwardly around the dining room.  He was angry, his ass was sore, he was emotionally numb.  More than anything, though, he was confused.  He needed information.  He walked into the den.  He remembered that he had seen a computer in there.  He found it and breathed a sigh of relief  to find that it was not password protected.
    Jarvis is no computer wiz, but he knew how to use Google.  He began to research the laws concerning sponsorship.  It turns out that the sponsor DID have the right to petition the court to enslave his charge. It turns out that everything that everything Carl said was  true.  He could easily have Jarvis enslaved for just about any reason.  This took all the wind out of Jarvis' sails.  Here he had built up all this righteous indignation, only to find out that he didn't have a leg to stand on.  It was either be this black man's bitch, or spend the rest of his life as a slave.  Jarvis did NOT want to be a slave.  He would do anything to avoid it.
    Several hours later, when Carl got home, he followed the heavenly aroma to the dining room and was greeted by the sight of Jarvis standing next to the table.  In front of him were two and a half inch thick ribeye steaks with loaded baked potatoes and steamed broccoli.  Jarvis had found the steaks in the freezer, the potatoes in the cubbard and the broccoli in the veggie crisper.
    Carl looked pleased but said nothing.  The two ate in relative silence. Each man lost in his own thoughts while cracker rushed to serve them both.  Carl's thoughts were consumed with his unusually full work load and Jarvis was concerned with how he would get along with this man who was now, for all intents and purposes, his owner.  "Say," Carl said as they both finished their dinner, "There's an SFL game on tonight, you wanna watch with me?"
    The Slave Football League is very much like the NFL, except that all of the players and coaches are slaves.  Because of this, there are fewer rules and the contestants often end up bloody.  Jarvis hated to admit it, but the SFL was one of his guilty pleasures.  He knew that as a white man, he should not contribute to the degradation of his own race, but he couldn't help it.  He would even bet on a game when he could spare a few extra bucks.  He had, however, never sat and watched a game with a black man.  It just seemed wrong, somehow.  But how could he refuse this gesture from Carl without ruffling any feathers?  He decided that he couldn't.
    "Sure!"  He was trying not to sound nervous.  "Who's playing?"
    "The Dallas Crackerboys and the Pittsberg Peckerwoods."  Carl said, getting up from the table. "The Peckerwoods are three point favs, but I got 1000 bucks on the Crackerboys."
    Jarvis followed Carl into the den which was right off the dining room.  The room was dominated by the biggest flatscreen TV that Jarvis had ever seen.  It took up almost the entire wall.  there were three plush black leather recliners in the middle of the floor facing the TV.  Carl took one and Jarvis followed suit leaving one chair between them. "You smoke, Jarvis?  I got some 'G' that I brought back from Kingston last month."
    Jarvis knew that 'G' was short for Ganja.  He loved to smoke weed, but since it had been legalized across the country, they were taxing the shit out of it, and he could hardly afford the cheap domestic trash, let alone the good shit from Jamaica.  "Hell yeah!" He said.
    Carl sent Cracker to fetch Rebel.  "The boy rolls a mean blunt" Carl had said.  Cracker knelt down in front of the TV and turned on the game.  The Crackerboys were already up by seven.  When Rebel came into the room he was carrying an aluminum cookie tin and a small metal serving tray.  The slave fell to his knees and kissed his master's feet in greeting, then he bowed deeply to Jarvis.  He moved the chair between the two men, and knelt in the empty space and proceeded to roll two of the fattest blunts Jarvis had ever seen.
    Once Rebel had finished rolling the blunts, he lit one for each of the free men.  He knew what his next task was, and he hated it, but what was he to do?  At least Cracker had brought him a glass of water.  He positioned himself for a long stay and opened his mouth.
    Jarvis took a long drag off the blunt and tried not to cough as he held the smoke in.  Now THIS, he could get used to, he thought as the wave of euphoria overtook him.  It was then that he realize that there was no ashtray. His considerable high was almost blown, however when he looked over at Carl and saw him dump his ashes into Rebel's open mouth.  Jarvis looked on in disbelief.  Not only did Carl dump his ashes into the slave's mouth, but Rebel dutifully swallowed those ashes.
    Jarvis was in shock.  He could keep his mouth shut.  "How can you do this?"
    Carl was so engrossed in the game that he almost didn't hear the question. "Huh?"
    "How can you treat a human being like an object."
    "This IS an object."  Carl said, motioning toward the slave kneeling between them. "A living breathing object, but still an object."  He motioned for cracker to turn the volume down on the tv. "See Jarvis, that's something you need to get a handle on.  Like it or not we live in a slave society.  That is reality.  And in reality, this is just a slave, a piece of property, human livestock whatever you want to call it.  MY property, and I can do anything with it that I want.  I can take a knife and slice his throat if I want and the only consequences I'll suffer is having a blood stain that won't come out of my expensive imported rug."  He looked down at the now obviously terrified slave.  Then he put his hand out to stroke the honky's head, almost lovingly. "No need to worry, boy.  You're too valuable to me for that."
    Jarvis was a bit taken aback by this show of affection. "But it all just seems so unfair."
    "No more unfair than the 250 years of slavery that black people suffered under white rule, and all the discrimination in the years since.  Don't forget that.  Now, the fact of the matter is that this is life, fair or not.  Yes, honkies like you have been reduced to second class citizens, hell, THIRD class!  But slaves are not citizens at all, shit, they are not even human beings anymore, is that what you want? Cause if it is, I could always use another fucking ashtray."
    Jarvis knew that Carl was right.  He also knew that He would make good on his threat.  Hell, the proof was kneeling right there between the two of them.  If Carl would do this to Rebel, he would not hesitate to do it to Jarvis as well.  Jarvis just sat there without saying anything for a moment.  Then, looking Carl directly in the eye, he reached over and dumped his ashes directly into Rebel's open mouth.  It was his acknowledgement of everything Carl had just said, and his submission to the status quo.  After that, he sat back in his recliner, watched the game and enjoyed one of the best blunts he had ever had.
    Over the next two weeks, things settled into a regular routine.  Carl set up a household account so that Jarvis would have all the money he needed to do his job.  He did all the shopping and prepared the meals for Carl and himself.  He did some light cleaning, but he hired a service to do any heavy stuff.  He set up account with a pool service to come out twice a week to clean the pool.  It was the best job Jarvis had ever had.  He enjoyed a life of relative luxury, especially compared to the life he lived before.
    Things were going really well for Jarvis, he had an easy job and no bills.  He even made enough money to buy a cheap cash car.  It was a piece of shit, but it was way better than riding the bus.  It was great having a little bit of cash in his pocket.  Carl made sure that his whitey taxes were paid in full and on time.  In fact, it was Carl who had taken the money out of Jarvis' weekly check to save for the car.  Actually Carl had turned out to be a really cool guy.  He treated Jarvis like an equal and gave him full reign over household things.
    Even with things going so well though, Jarvis couldn't help but think that something bad was gonna happen.  Like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. After 3 months of being Carl's did.  In all this time, The three slaves had apparently managed to keep Carl sexually satisfied.  That is until one night when Carl came in late from the corner bar.  He didn't do this often, but it wasn't unheard of.  When Jarvis heard him come in, he ran upstairs to see if he needed anything.  Jarvis had learned that Carl liked him to be somewhat solicitous.  When Jarvis got upstairs, he found Carl sitting on the side of his bed.
    "Hey, Carl," He said, sticking his head in the door but not completely entering the room.  "You need anything before I hit the hay?"
    Carl, obviously drunk, gave Jarvis a strange look.  A look that made his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.  "Yeah, I need something."  Carl said.  "Come in."
    Hesitantly, Jarvis stepped in.  "Whatcha need?"
    "Take your clothes off."
    Damn, Jarvis thought to himself.  He just KNEW that things had been going too well.  What the fuck was he gonna do now.  Shit, he didn't have much choice, did he? "Carl." he said feebly.  "You're drunk.  Why don't you get some sleep, huh?"
    "I will," Carl said as he got up and walked, wobbly toward Jarvis, who instinctively took a step back.  "I'll get some sleep in a minute.  But I wanna see you naked first."
    "Carl, please."  Jarvis pleaded.
    "Shut up, boy." Carl said putting a finger to Jarvis' lips.  "I said I wanna SEE you naked...not HEAR you naked, hehe."  He chucked at his half joke.
    Jarvis, however, was not laughing.  He was terrified.  He had tried to prepare himself for this.  Tried to tell himself that it was a small price to pay to live a better life than any other white person he knew.  He thought that he had convinced himself that he could handle it.  Even as Carl started impatiently ripping Jarvis' clothes off, he just stood there rigidly.  He knew that there would be trouble if he resisted.  He looked down and saw his favorite T-shirt fall around his bare feet in tatters.  He allowed his eyes to wander back up to look at himself in the mirrored headboard on Carl's bed.  His thin, but muscular torso was covered in tattoos.  He looked like a man.  But as his boxers were ripped off, revealing his flaccid but still respectably sized dick, he didn't feel like one.  He didn't know WHAT he felt like, but not a man.  To make things worse, that very same dick that he used to think of as his best friend began to betray him, and stiffen.
    No matter what Jarvis had prepared himself for, he simply REFUSED to be a willing participant in his own degradation.  So as Carl spun him around and pushed him onto the bed on his back, Jarvis stiffened a bit, but he willed himself to not resist.  He went limp and allowed Carl to do as he pleased.  He gasped breathlessly as Carl basically fell on top of him, bringing the two men face to face.  Jarvis tried to plead with his eyes, but they were met with a blind lust that he knew that he would never escape.
    Carl used his knees to spread Jarvis' legs enough to position himself between them.  Then he reached back on either side and grabbed Jarvis' legs behind the knees and lifted them until the ankles rested on his shoulders on either side of head.  Carl was still looking Jarvis in the eye, but Jarvis turned his head to the side. "No," He said gruffly, "look at me, boy.  I want you to KNOW who the REAL MAN is."  He grabbed Jarvis' chin and forced his head around so that he could look into those eyes.  "Damn, boy."  He said, his voice softening a bit.  "You got me so hot, I'm leakin' all over the place.  He reached down and gathered a bit of his own precum on his index finger.  "Taste it."  He told Jarvis, holding the slick and shiny finger up to the honky's tightly clenched lips.  For his part, Jarvis just stared at him a strange mix of fear and defiance clouding his face. "I said, taste it bitch!" Carl tried to shove his finger into Jarvis' mouth, but once past the lips he was met with an impenetrable wall of teeth.  Undaunted, he roughly moved his finger around, spreading his precum all over Jarvis' teeth and gums.  That done, he reached down to his own dick and began to rub the tip of it between Jarvis' ass cheeks.  Jarvis had a little white boy ass, so this position left his hole totally exposed and accessible.  Soon, Jarvis' asshole was slick with Carl's ample precum.  Carl used his finger to move it around a bit.
    As all of his was going on, Jarvis couldn't help but realize that, even though Carl was mad drunk, he was definitely being more gentle than he had been the night that He and his friend Andre' had raped him.  Compared to that, this was downright loving.  That comparison changed rather abruptly, however, when next Carl rammed his rock hard ebony monster balls-deep into his asshole, effectively ripping him apart. Jarvis let out a scream that was more bitch than he, himself, had ever thought he was capable of.
    After one or two good hard pumps, Carl leaned in bringing his face down to meet Jarvis'.  This put more of his weight on top of Jarvis making it a bit more difficult to breath.  Carl, his hands free now, reached up and grabbed Jarvis wrists,  pinning them to the bed.  Jarvis couldn't believe how strong Carl was.  He found himself basically folded in half with his knees tucked under his own arm pits leaving his bare feet waving in the air on either side of Carl's head, and his arms pinned to the bed above his head by the wrists.  He was completely immobile, and completely at the mercy of the man on top of him.
    Carl looked down into Jarvis' face, so masculine with it's mustache and goatee.  His strong, square jawline delineated by his pencil line beard.  Jarvis' was the face of strength and masculinity.  A strong face.  A MAN's face.  Carl looked down into this strong man's face, opened his mouth and hacked the biggest loogy he could muster and spit directly into the center of it.  "Honky Bitch!" He said gruffly and then began to piston fuck that cute little white boy ass.    Jarvis couldn't believe this was happening to him.  Carl had just spit in his face! Like he was some piece of shit.  A fucking piece of meat.  Hell, Carl was treating him like he was some two bit slave whore.  Then it hit him, just as the initial pain began to lessen, that is exactly what he was.  A slave whore.  Worse even, a slave has no choice.  Jarvis is a free man, and here he lay being brutally fucked by a man.  And he lay there of his own accord, a free man being used like a slave whore.  But he knew that there was nothing he could do about it.  If he wanted to maintain some semblance of his freedom, this is something he would just have to endure.  He would have to become the slave whore that Carl wanted him to be.  Something broke in Jarvis that night, and as his body relaxed, he felt his tension slipping away, he felt his pain slipping away, he felt his pride slipping away.  Thrust after thrust, Jarvis allowed himself to enjoy the fullness of being filled by Carl's massive member and long for it's return when it was pulled out.  He felt himself turning into the whore that Carl saw him as.  And when next, Carl hocked up a loogy, Jarvis didn't turn his face away from it, he opened his mouth and willingly accepted it.  Jarvis the man was gone, replaced by Jarvis...the whore.
    When it was over and Carl had shot he seed deep into Jarvis' now gaping asshole, he climbed into bed beside Jarvis...and pushed him out onto the floor.  "When you get downstairs, send cracker up here to clean me up."
    Jarvis stood there on wobbly legs, shaking and cold.  He looked at Carl's long muscular form sprawled out on the bed, naked and glistening with sweat.  He seemed to be looking at it with new eyes.  It seemed somehow beautiful.  Strong and virile.
    "I'll do that for you."  He heard himself say.  He took Carl's silence as approval.  He went into the bathroom, wet a towel with warm water and came back into the room to find Carl snoring lightly.  Jarvis took the towel and starting from the neck, wiped down Carl's entire body, gently so as not to wake him.  It was when he got to the midsection that he noticed that Carl's dick was not only huge, but it was BLACK, at least two shades darker than the rest of his body with a slightly lighter thick mushroom head.  After wiping it clean with the towel that he had just refreshed, Jarvis knelt between Carl's wide spread legs and leaned his face towards that beautiful piece of meat.  The strong musky aroma met his nostrils and filled his head.  When his face got close enough, his tongue darted out tentatively.  He just had to taste it.  A bit salty but otherwise pleasant.  He wanted to put it in his mouth, but that would have to wait for another time.  Jarvis took one last whiff of Carl's manly scent and continued to wipe down his legs and even his big black feet, kissing the tip of the right big toe for good measure.  The task completed, he got up and turned to leave.
    As he got to the door, he turned at the sound of Carl's groggy voice. "I knew you'd come around, boy."  Jarvis didn't respond, but smiled nervously and left the room.  That night, he jacked off thinking of being filled with Carl's huge dick.
    As time went on, Carl got into the habit of fucking Jarvis several times a week.  It wasn't something they talked about, it was just something that was done.  The two men still watched sports together and basically became friends, except that whenever Carl got horny for Jarvis' ass, he simply took it.  And Jarvis, the whore, loved every minute of it.  He had even gotten Cracker to give him some pointers on keeping himself clean on the inside.  Carl expressed his gratitude with more frequent fuckings.  Even though Jarvis maintained his free status, he willingly became Carl's eager slave whore...and he wouldn't have it any other way.


Friday, May 8, 2015

The New World by Sir Kinyon with junior wayne

The New World: The Beginning
 part 1
  By Sir Kinyon
with junior wayne

Senator Royce Collins was in a great mood. He had just finished reading the Founding Father's quarterly report and everything was on schedule. He was on his private plane flying from his estate in California back to Washington, DC. He had gone home during the break between senate sessions. The break was only for a couple of weeks and most senators just stayed in town, but not Royce, he liked to go home as often as possible. It was a total escape for him. As an original member of the Founding Fathers, the pressures of “the plan” were very taxing. A lesser Man might fold under the stress, but not Royce Collins. Not only is he a big man physically, he stands 6'3" tall and is 240lbs of muscle, but he also has a big personality.
His coal black skin is flawless and smooth and he has an easy smile full of straight white teeth that women and many men find irresistible. A top notch, politician, he has a knack for getting people to see things his way.
After reading the report, Royce closed his laptop and gestured for his cabin steward. The steward, who Royce called Ben, appeared immediately. Ben is white, about 27 years old, 5'10" tall and weighs about 140 lbs. His body is on the slim side but without an ounce of fat on it. Ben has dirty blonde hair that has been buzzed into non-existence. Had the boy not been clean and well groomed his physical appearance would have naturally lent itself to the 'white trash' stereo type. But with his neat and clean appearance, buzzed head, hairless face and tight, lean body, Ben measured up to being quite a handsome boy, for a whitey.
"How may I serve you Master?" Ben said as he dropped to his knees in front of Royce and bowed his head.
"How long before we get to DC?" Royce asked, setting his laptop on the seat beside him.
"We're still about an hour and forty-five minutes out, Master."
Good, Royce thought to himself. Just enough time for a blow job and a nap.
"Alright, boy, get on this dick for a while."
The white boy's eyes widened slightly and then fell back to a normal size, a small smile curled the right side of his soft red lips. He was clearly pleased to hear the Senator's command.
"As you wish, Master." Ben said and immediately unzipped Royce's suit pants, pulled the fabric y front of the senator's very expensive designer underwear aside and untucked his 11in dick and lowered his mouth on it and began to suck slowly, but earnestly.
Royce laid his head back and enjoyed the attention of this beautiful white boy. Royce had bought Ben at a super secret honky auction in Texas about a year ago. There had not been a lot of bidders so he was a bargain at $50,000. The boy had been incredibly buff. Almost unnaturally so.
In his younger days, Royce had spent a lot of time in the gym. He had been such a gym rat that he had even contemplated going into competitive bodybuilding. Royce decided against it, but during his long daily workouts, he had met many a body builder who was hopped up on steroids. When Royce had first laid eyes on Ben at the auction, he knew immediately that his huge muscles weren't natural. If it hadn't been for the boy's striking green eyes and angular features, Royce might have dismissed the boy as damaged goods. But after getting a good look at him, he decided to make a bid. Royce had determined not to bit too much. In fact, his $50,000 bid was to be his last one. Of course he had won the bid, then taken Ben back to his California estate. There his slave trainer was given the unusual task of THINNING the boy up. Talking to the slave on the flight, Royce had learned that the honky's former owner had forced him to take steroids as he wanted him to really beef up. Forced workouts had done the rest. Now after a year of practically starving the boy but forcing him to continue to work out, he was back to his natural trim self.
After the boy had finished milking his Master's dick and cleaning it thoroughly with his tongue, he leaned back onto his heals, bowed his head and awaited further instructions. Royce looked down at the bowing honky and a warm buzz ran thru his body. Such a well trained honky slave, Royce thought to himself. “Head up honky, let me look at you” Royce said, still relaxing in the afterglow of the boy's expertly executed mouth work. Royce looked the boy over. Although Ben was looking up at his Master, the white boy did not make eye contact with his superior, he instead focused on the tie pin dotting Royce's very expensive silk designer tie. Damn, Royce thought, this honky's eyes are so striking. There seemed to be at least five separate shades of green streaming the boy's iris's.
Royce watched the motionless honky. He was indeed well trained. Royce brought his hand over and pinching ben's chin with his finger and thumb, Royce pulled down the white boys jaw as he said a single word “open”. The white boy complied with fluid movement. “show me that suck hole boy” Royce grunted, still reeling in his satisfaction. Ben knelt there, at the senator's feet, naked, legs slightly spread, hands clasped behind his straight back, head slightly tilted back as he opened his mouth as wide as he could.
“mmmmm' Royce vocalized his approval. He knew the boy had an equally hot and yielding asshole. Royce lightly slapped the boy on the cheek a couple times.
“Thats a good honky” ben closed his mouth and lowered his head. After such a good blow job, Royce leaned back in his recliner secure in the knowledge that by the time they landed in Washington, D.C., the naked honky silently kneeling before him would be safely locked away in his cage in the cargo hold, awaiting the return flight to California.
Royce couldn't wait until all of his kind were in their rightful place , naked, enthralled, bowing and scraping for the approval of their Black Masters. Royce took in a deep breath, just contemplating this inevitable future filled him with as much excitement and longing as it had the first time he was introduced to 'the plan', It wouldn't be long now, however, not long at all.
Many years ago, a small but powerful group of black men united and decided to change the world. This group of Black Men had decided the white man had been in control for way too long. Under the white man's stewardship, the world was in an awful state. The environment, the economy, a new war breaking out every other day, and all being orchestrated by whitey.
Well, his time is almost up and he doesn't even know it, Royce mused.
The white man is so smug and arrogant that he can't even feel the winds of change. Tomorrow, just after the opening bell, a bill will be introduced into the senate that will make it mandatory for every white American to pay reparations to the black man. Thanks to The Founding Fathers, this bill will pass. Six years ago, a watered down version of this same bill had been introduced. Of course it failed miserably (just as planned), but the introduction of it has served it's purpose. It put it in the minds of Black America that reparations were indeed owed from the white man.
Over the last several election cycles, the 'Fathers' have systematically inserted it's own people into strategic positions in the government. The Senate, The House of Representatives, The Supreme Court and even the Presidency. All these positions and others less apparent were now firmly under the control of The Founding Fathers. Now don't make the mistake of thinking that all of the Founding Fathers' agents were Black. Quite the contrary. For many years now, there has been a very strong underground movement towards Black Supremacy. In fact, it was through a website called "Black Man's Revenge", that a young Royce had been introduced to the group of men that had become The Founding Fathers.
It would surprise most people to find out that there was a much larger number of white people involved in the movement than there was black people. These honkies looked forward to the day when they could live their lives of service to the Black Man in the open. There are thousands of whites involved in the Founding Father's plan. Of course,each of these thousands had to go through extreme measures to not only insure their silence but to insure their total loyalty. All had voluntarily sold himself into slavery to The Founding Fathers. These honkies were allowed to go about their lives as usual, but were completely subject to the Men of the Founding Fathers. Some of these thousands of honkies had even sold their children into slavery. Imagine how many children came up missing everyday in the United States. The devotees who sold their children were instructed to report their children missing just as they would have if it had not all been part of the plan. These children were sent overseas to different training farms all over the world. Royce was certain that his own Ben was a product of just such a facility.
The point is that many of these senate and house seats were now filled with these white slaves. This went all the way up to the Vice President of the United States who, three months ago when the then current president was caught in bed with an under aged hooker.
The then President was impeached and convicted of statutory rape in spite of the fact that a polygraph test "proved" that he had never met the girl. If anybody not within the conspiracy had known just how deep and far reaching the Father's hands had gone, they would have been terrified and rightly suspected the 'hooker gate' as it had become known in the media, as a coup d'etat, but instead, the smug and all knowing white men continued to argue and posture. Now, the newly ascended President of the United States is the fully owned property of The Founding Fathers.


The New World:  The Beginning
part 2
By Sir Kinyon
with junior wayne (cracker)

five years later
The riots that had resulted from the passage of the Reparations Act had finally subsided a couple of years ago. From the very beginning, it had been awful; whole sections of cities like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Dallas, had burned to the ground. There had been widespread looting and pillaging. Of course, the Founding Fathers had prepared for just such an eventuality. In fact, they had worked it into their ultimate plan.

The worst of the looters were rounded up by an elite group of soldiers culled from the Army and the Marines. All of these fighting men had been hand picked by the Founding Fathers and had been in secret training for the past two years. Of course all of these Men were Black, and had a strong sense of black superiority. The looters that were rounded up, were placed into holding facilities across the country. Mostly young men and women (all white, of course), these were mainly scared and confused kids. The majority of these were released some time later with a new attitude. A couple of years in jail will do that to a person.

The Reparations Act made it law that every Anglo-American man and woman over the age of 18 will submit 25% of his earnings to the newly formed United States Department of Reparations. This "whitey tax" would be automatically deducted from their income so there was no refusal. Those who were caught defrading the whitey tax would be subject to seizure of their property and possible imprisonment. All of these reparations funds would be paid to the USDOR and then redistributed to poor African-Americans, in an attempt to improve their way of life. A large portion of this money was also allocated to the educational centers that were springing up all over the country to help underprivileged Blacks learn valuable job skills.

 In just five years, Black American enrollment in college had risen 35% and graduation numbers were up by 15%. Conversely, white student enrollment had dropped in almost equal numbers due to the fact that so many white students had to leave school to help their families make ends meet. This, and the fact that college scholarships, although not considered taxable income, were subject to appropriation by the Reparations Department. Conventional wisdom was that reparations were funds owed to the Black Community as repayment for what was done to the black peoples in the past. How many promising black students were deprived of higher education because they couldn't afford it, or because they had to work to help their families, hell or simply because of the color of their skin? Now, a portion of these funds that are set aside to send a white student to college will be used to help Black students do the exact same thing. If this appropriation of funds meant that fewer white students get to go to be it. It was not callous or cruel, but it was calculated. The founding fathers were wise men. Not one detail of their great plan was by chance. Each detail worked towards the goal, a quite chipping away of the established white privilege and power to give the chance of life to a blossoming new renaissance of the black race.

Senator Royce Collins was sitting at his desk in his office in Washington D.C. Finishing up some papers that required his signature. While he worked, he enjoyed the ministrations of Senator John McDanials. Senator McDanials is the recently elected junior senator from Virginia. John is 35 years old,stands about 5'11 with a gym-fit body, brown hair and green eyes. Very handsome with movie star good-looks. The fact that he is a relatively powerful senator, however didn't excuse him from dick sucking duties under the desk of his superiors. Senator John McDanials is, in fact, the fully owned property of The Founding Fathers. He had been slinking around the edges of the Black Supremacy movement since he was a teenager. When he was twenty and in college, he had finally gotten up the nerve to approach a Black Man on the internet. That man 's name was Tyree and he soon became John's trainer then his owner.

Tyree Enfume was not just the Chief of Police in a podunk town is southern Virginia, he was also a ranking member of The Founding Fathers. One of his responsibilities was to seek out promising white college students and recruit them into the movement. John McDanials had been just such a recruit.

Before John had met Tyree, his life had been pretty boring. He had been a journalism major with plans to become a writer. Even though he was very handsome and could easily get any girl he wanted, he simply wasn't interested. It was men that interested him, but not just any men...BLACK MEN. For some reason just the sight of a black man made him melt. It was their power, their strength, their virility, the ease to which they took to command. It was something that no white man could match. There were times when John would lay in the bed and finger his asshole imagining it was a black man inside him. Tyree changed all that. Not only did John's dating habits change, but so did just about everything else in his life.

 John was smart, handsome and had a clean record. He was a music major, but Tyree made him change it to Pre-law with a minor in political science. Under the firm hand of his black master, John McDanials was soon making his way through the political landscape, gaining popularity as he went. he even married. John had never wanted to, and he protested in the only way he dared...he begged.

"Please Master. I don't think I can pull it off. I'll mess everything up."

 Tyree's response:  "The decision has been made, boy." John knew not to pursue it further. Tyree was very skilled at causing great pain without leaving a mark. The truth is, John should never have worried. His wife, Christina, had already been chosen for him by his superiors. She, herself, was the property of The Founding Fathers. Tyree, a confirmed bisexual, very often enjoyed using them both...often at the same time. A year after they were married, John graduated from law school and shortly thereafter, Christina gave birth to little John Jr.

When Senator Collins finished his papers, he leaned back in his chair and within moments, his face began to contort and with the tiniest of grunts, he shot cord after cord of hot cum down the white boy’s throat. Once John had dutifully cleaned Royce's dick, he sat back on his heels and waited with his head bowed.

"Get up, boy." Royce said, dismissively.

"Yes, Master." John said, as he got to his feet cleaning the cum from the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

 Royce handed the stack of papers he had just finished signing, to John.

"I want you to personally deliver these to Congressman Vandersloot. He is scheduled to introduce the new Sponsorship legislation next week."

"Yes Master." John said as he tucked the papers under his arm and headed for the door.

"And, boy," Royce said as john got to the door. "Have your ass at My suite at 8pm, tonight. I need some stress relief and your little pink hole will do just fine."

John fought to keep himself from smiling. He felt his hole contract and relax as the image of a pounding from Royce flashed across his mind's eye.

"As you wish, Master." And with that he was gone.

The New World: The Beginning
part 3
by Sir Kinyon
with junior wayne

The sponsorship legislation that Royce had spoken about would go further toward the ultimate goal of the Founding Fathers. The new sponsorship law will require every white American to have a Black sponsor. Revenues from the reparations program had begun to decrease. This meant that more and more whites were shirking their responsibility to pay their reparation payments on time. In the eyes of the Reparations Department, this meant that whites had proven too irresponsible to handle their own finances. Having a Black sponsor would not only ensure that he would pay his reparations as he should but also ensure that his other finances were properly handled.
Of course, in a government that wasn't tightly controlled by the Founding Fathers, this whole idea would have been completely ludicrous. But in a society who's views had been carefully molded, peppered with the budding scientific theories of white inferiority, it made almost perfect sense. Black society had finally begun to have a sense of it's own superiority to the white man. The truth was beginning to be taught in high schools and colleges across the country, and finally Black people were beginning to wake up and see through all the lies that they had been fed throughout history.
The white man had not been the savior of the world, but rather a scourge; a plague that had brought the world to the brink of destruction. Well now it was time for the Black Man to take his rightful place. The ghettos and the inner city were now increasing populated by whites who were becoming poorer and the suburbs were being filled by Blacks who were becoming more and more wealthy. As more and more black students were receiving a proper education, one that included heavy doses finance management, corporate America was becoming more and more black. The Reparations Act had the unexpected result, (unexpected to everyone but The Founding Fathers, of course) of creating an even bigger divide between the races.
The Department of Reparations had begun building private schools all over the country. Of course, because these schools were built with reparation funds, only black students were admitted. These schools offered accelerated programs, that not only taught "the three 'R's," but also placed great importance on finance, business, environmental issues, and physical fitness. It was the way American children should be educated. After only five years of this intensive education, American children(Black American children) were finally able to compete with the Japanese and other Asian countries.
Of course in parallel the predominantly white inner city schools had begun to lose their funding and resources. These schools after losing their charter due to plummeting grade point averages began shuttering their doors. A few remained open but became vocational oriented schools, teaching white youths useful trades in service and labor. A new bar was set for the education of white children, a bar that was much lower than that of affluent Black America, and with this new standard, on paper, the white inner city students appeared to be holding their own with their more privileged Black counterparts. Any noise about the 'unfair standards' of education in white and Black America were all but ignored.
There was another issue that the sponsorship law brought to the forefront. In the public record of the congressional hearings convened to decide how best to implement the Sponsorship Act, there had been a heated debate on the deadline for whites to obtain a sponsor. It was decided on one year. That would also bring up the issue of punishment. There was one thing that had changed very little since all of these changes had begun. The crime rate had remained virtually unchanged, the demographics had changed a bit since more and more petty crimes were being committed by whites and less by Blacks due to the rising level of education. But the fact is, the prisons were still very overcrowded. And now they were talking of creating a whole new crime for people to commit! One that would undoubtedly send the nation's prison system into a tailspin. It was a white senator from Virginia who had come up with the ultimate solution: SLAVERY.
Of course this caused a great uproar, but after the smoke cleared, Senator John McDanials was able to put forth a brilliant, well-thought out and completely scripted explanation of how the re institution of slavery would not only ease the strain on an already beleaguered and underfunded prison system, but how it would also be a boon for the economy. These inmates who are a serious drain on our resources, would very quickly BECOME one of our resources. Of course the argument that this future slave population would be mostly white came up, but was quickly quelled when Senator McDanials, a white man, made them see that members of ANY race who committed a felony that carried a sentence of five years or greater would be subject to lifetime enslavement.
It would HAVE to be lifetime enslavement, immutable and without appeal, or it would not serve as an effective deterrent for crime. It was time for America to take the hardline against crime. Senator McDanials spoke with such eloquence and passion about protecting our children from the ravages of crime, again all scripted , that no one dared argue with him. The Sponsorship Act not only passed, but a constitutional amendment re instituting slavery was passed unanimously. The implementation of the Slavery amendment was scheduled to coincide with the deadline set for whites to obtain sponsorship. The fears of white America that slavery would be unfair and heavily against whites, were calmed by the fact that even though only whites were required to obtain sponsorship, ALL races were subject to the slavery laws.
All races were indeed subject to the slavery laws, or so the law had stated. The Founding Fathers, wise in their formation of the great plan were very much aware that law in concept is quite a different thing indeed from law in practice.


The New World: Sponsorship
by Sir Kinyon
Throughout modern history it has been known that teachers are notoriously underpaid. It's really a shame. We are tasked with molding and shaping the minds of the young people who will be build our future, and the school system in it's unmitigated wisdom couldn't be bothered to pay us more than a pittance. My name is Dwayne Malcolm and I am a high school English teacher. I have a Master's degree in American Literature and I get paid only a couple thousand dollars a year more than a common factory worker. Of course I work at a public school in a low income neighborhood, so it is to be expected.

From what I can see, I am a pretty popular teacher. I always tried to make my classes fun. And being a big black man, with a shaved head, mustache and goatee, it doesn't look so ridiculous when I start rapping Shakespeare.

When the reparations law was passed, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. I never thought that the white people in this country would allow such a thing to happen, but there it was all over the news. And as expected, as soon as the news broke, there was widespread rioting. Even here in Fort Worth, Texas, the whites went ballistic. Human nature is kinda funny. Back in the '60's during the Watts riots black people were destroying their own neighborhoods and whites thought it was the stupidest thing in the world. Then in the '80's when Los Angles erupted, the same thing happened. Now the tables have turned, and White Settlement and Benbrook(white suburbs) lay in ruins.

This riot, however, hit a bit close to home for me. One of my former white students was in the riots and he saw his father shot and killed. It was a terrible thing, but if history teaches us anything, it's that the American people will stand, face to face, with ugly, terrible events, brush them off and simply deem them necessary for their continued freedom. In these changing times we all saw many thing we thought we'd never see. For many, a welcomed change, for others ,well, lets just say the shifting sands of our culture seemed to move with unprecedented speed during the first few decades of what historians eventually termed 'the transition period' and these accelerated changes were not without their share of growing pains.

I can still remember, sitting in my living room, simply staring at the reparations check in my hand. It was accompanied by a short letter explaining the new law, where the funds were coming from and why. I must have read that letter ten times and it still made me shake my head in disbelief. Of course I'd heard the television reports and read the articles in the papers, but until I had evidence in my hands, my views on this new reparations bill were pessimistic. As I sat with the check and letter in my hand, my pessimism was swept aside. After all those many, many years, a kind of justice was being offered, the likes of which I had never hoped to know and as we all discovered in the months that followed, it wouldn't be the last gesture of justice we'd see, not by a long shot.

Shortly after I got my first reparations check, I used it and My savings and bought a bookstore. The student who's father was killed in the Benbrook riots, Mike O'Connor, was my first full-time employee. Mike was eighteen years old, tall and lanky with a swimmer's build. He wore wire frame glasses that made him look kind of bookish, but couldn't conceal his striking green eyes. While most white kids his age seemed to be into the goth style with their long greasy hair dyed jet black, Mike had dark brown hair that was cut in a very businesslike style. He was always neat and clean. I remember that he was this way even as a junior in high school when he was my student. Very smart, conscientious and well mannered. I was not surprised to learn that he had been awarded a full scholarship. And I was saddened when I found out that because of the Reparations Act, and resulting circumstances, he would not be able to go. He was a very promising student with a bright future ahead of him. When he found out about the opening of my bookstore, he came to me asking for a job. I was happy to hire him. Now I am obviously not against the Reparations Act, in fact, I owe My new found prosperity to it, but that doesn't stop me from feeling sympathy for this boy, especially after so recently losing his father. Even though his dad was killed by a black shop owner who was just trying to protect his property during Reparation Riots, it's still hard on a kid to lose his dad.

One day when Mike came in to work it was obvious that he had been crying. "What's the matter Mike?" I asked. He just looked at me with sad eyes as he shook the water off of his umbrella and put it in the holder by the door.

"My mom has to sell her house." He said. "A representative from the Reparations Department came to look at our house last week. Mom got a letter this morning that said that the house had been valued at $100,000, and that we now owed $25.000 to the department." Tears sprang to his eyes. "We can't afford that, not even close. So we'll have to sell the house to pay it. I don't understand how they can do this to us. It's so unfair." I felt bad for him. But the truth is, LIFE is unfair. From what I could tell, the Reparations Act was designed to balance the least a bit
"I'm sorry that this is happening to you and your mom so soon after your dad's death, Mike. But you have to see the purpose of the reparations." I said. "Black people not only lost their homes, but they were also taken from family, friends, everything they knew and taken to a very strange land to toil for for the benefit of someone else."

"But I didn't have anything to do with that", he said, looking at me in surprise. "My dad worked hard to buy that house, he didn't take anything from anybody!"

"I'm sure he didn't, Mike." I said, "But you need to realize that this country was built on the backs of slaves, black slaves. It was their sweat and tears that made this prosperity possible. No, you personally didn't enslave anyone and use them for your own personal gain, but you have undoubtedly benefited from their pain. Now it's time to pay back some of that which you have received."

The boy was looking at me, horrified. Of course I never expressed these views when I was a teacher. I would have been run out of there on a rail, but now the climate is changing very quickly and it is much easier for a man to express his views without fear of reprisal.

"But Mr. Malcolm, I..." Mike began, but I cut him off.

"But nothing." I said. "I was your teacher once, and now I will be your teacher again, and if you want to keep this job you will learn your lesson well.” Mike sat down on the folding chair behind the counter and looked up at me with silent pleading eyes. The boy was hurting. The shadow of uncertainty clouding his brow. I imagined how helpless and detached he must feel, probably for the first time in his life. I looked down at the boy and smiled. My heart truly went out to him. “In the months that you have been working here, you have read every comic book in the place. I know you have, I've seen it. No more.” I said, making a grand gesture with one raised hand. My pointer finger triumphantly raised into the air. “Starting now and for as long as you are working for Me, your free time will be spent learning black history. I have hundreds of books that tell the TRUE story of Black America, not the white man's history of the black man." I looked at him, stone faced then said, "Now, the choice is yours, Michael. You can expand your mind and continue to work here, or you can leave now."

He stood there and looked at Me for a moment. So long in fact that I thought I would have to find another assistant. But then, without saying a word, he walked over to the shelf and slowly, almost reverently, pulled out a very old book and brought it over to me. I looked down at the worn cloth bound hardcover book and cracked a thin smile.. The blue fabric was almost rubbed from it's corners and the gold leaf had all but disappeared from the printing on the front cover and spine. Taking the book in my hand I opened the book to it's title page and read aloud. “Roots: The Saga of an American Family by Alex Haley.” I lifted my eyes from the book to see the anticipation clutching Mike's face.

"This is a good place to start, boy... AFTER we finish the inventory of course."

That was almost four years ago, now. In that time I purchased three more bookstores across the Metroplex. Mike, still a loyal and trusted employee, was now, in fact, the manager of my smaller store in Arlington. His reparation payments were still causing him a bit of a problem even though his salary was considerably more than it was four years before, and despite the fact that he no longer had to take care of his mother, who had tragically passed away over a year ago, he was still living in White Settlement, where low income housing had been set up for poor whites
It's funny that most people don't know that White Settlement, which is a small township on the outskirts of Fort Worth, was set up many years ago as just that, a white settlement. At that time it was "whites only" and very exclusive. Over the years some blacks had made enough money to live there and the law made it impossible to keep us out. Blacks had been blamed for the decline of a once rich and affluent community. Way back in the 1990's some black residents petitioned for a name change, but the white folk that lived there wouldn't hear of it, citing the fact that if blacks didn't like the name they could just move. Now, all these years later, the honkies in White Settlement have gotten their wish. Their precious little suburb is once again an all white community, but this time it's because no self-respecting black person would be caught dead there. And if you ever DO see a black person there you could be sure that he was there to buy drugs or pick up a white hooker. Personally, I couldn't tell you what the place looked like other than what I see on the news every night. Let Mike tell it, it's an okay place to live, but I suspect he just doesn’t want me to think ill of his home.

Mike may have been struggling economically, but his education in black history has really come along well over the last few years. It was obvious that through reading our history and chronicling our accomplishments (most of which, he had assumed were by white people), he was gaining a healthy respect for our Great Race. I was very proud of the effort Mike had put into his black education and I was ever more proud of how easily he absorbed and reflected the truths he was ingesting.

One Morning, I was sitting at my kitchen table, eating my usual breakfast of half a grapefruit and a cup of coffee, when the local news channel interrupted the morning show I was watching with a special report. In a joint session that uncharacteristically lasted into the wee hours of the night, The United States Congress had passed two very controversial laws. There was one that said something about whites requiring some sort of sponsorship, which seem strange at first, but I practically dismissed it, seeing as though it didn't affect me. It was the second one that caught my attention and held it. The re-institution of SLAVERY?!! What the hell were they thinking? SLAVERY, here in the land of the free and the home of the brave? How the hell was that supposed to work out? The more I thought about it the more pissed I got, well that was until I flipped over to CSPAN where they were airing portions of last night's hearing.

A senator that I had never heard of before, a McDaniels from Virginia, was explaining how enslavement would only be an option for violent or habitual criminals. He spoke of how the economy would be affected and that this would be the best crime deterrent to date . I had to admit that crime HAD become epidemic. Prisons were over crowded and getting worse, and the crime rate was at an all-time high. After this great speech, I began to see the logic of it all. Even though I still had my doubts about the implementation of the new law.

On my way to work that morning, my favorite sports program was interrupted by the DJ announcing that the whites were at it again. "What the hell are they rioting about THIS time?" I said to Myself out loud. Then the DJ said that this was a violent reaction to the announcement of the newly passed Sponsorship Act, but he didn't go into any detail about what all that entailed. Since the whites were rioting again, I decided to call Mike and see where he was. I swore I would fire him, if I found out he was out there running the streets. Turns out I needn't have worried at all. In order to compete with the big chains like Barnes & Noble or Borders Books, my store in Arlington is open 24 hours, and since his graveyard shift cashier had called in sick, Mike had to work her shift.

He really has turned out to be a good manager. Anyway, he spent the night at the store and then this morning, when he had heard about the rioting and looting, he did exactly as he was supposed to do: Lock the doors, pull down the metal shutters and wait it out. Even though that store was in one of the better neighborhoods in Arlington (better, meaning predominantly black), I had still implemented this contingency plan. I called all the other stores and they were shut down tight and seemingly in no danger, so I decided to drive out to the Arlington store and see Mike. Over the years I had developed a fondness for the boy. I say, boy, even though he is 22 now and has grown into quite a handsome young man. Yes, I am straight, but I DO dabble in a bit of boy pussy every now and then. And even though, I have heard that White Settlement is the best place to get it, I NEVER go down there. I always use a reputable agency downtown. That way, I know that the hookers are clean, and there is NO POSSIBLE WAY, that my ex-wife will find out. But anyway, I never messed around with any of my students, former students, or employees. So even though Mike is very cute and has that trim but athletic body that I love in a whiteboy, I have never given any indication that I liked him. But I digress...

I went to sit with him at my Arlington store because I wanted to get his perspective on the changing state of affairs and since he was a student of politics, he could give me a better understanding of what was going on. My other managers (all black, of course), have their stores well in hand.

When I got to the store, I called Mike on my cell to let him know that I was coming in so that I didn't scare him when I started fiddling with the back door. Since the store was closed and inventory had been done a couple of days before, there wasn't much to do, so Mike and I settled down in his office, with a couple cups of coffee and watched the news. The riots were wide spread, but apparently not as violent as many of them before. I asked Mike why he thought this was
"Well, I called my neighbor Tony and asked him to check on My apartment. He said that he was staying in. That kinda surprised me, because he was always up for a good day of looting," He smiled sheepishly, "But he's really an okay guy, but he gets riled up about stuff. Anyway, I asked him why he was sitting this one out, and he told Me that it was because of the slavery thing. He knew that if he ended up in jail, this would be his third looting charge. He didn't know how the whole slavery thing was gonna work, but he didn't want to find out either."

"Well that makes sense," I said. " Now tell about this whole sponsorship thing. What exactly is it? How does it work?"

Mike went on to explain that Congress had passed the Sponsorship Act. The Act decreed that starting exactly one year from today any Anglo American eighteen years of age or older, found without the sponsorship of a licensed African American will be deemed in violation of the law and subject to punishment up to and including lifetime enslavement. I was in complete shock. How had I missed all that when I was watching the news this morning? Hell, If I was a white, I'd be out there rioting too. I asked Mike just what does it mean to have a sponsor. He said that the details haven't been published yet, but it's clear that you will need a sponsor to oversee your finances.

"But white people still have the majority, population-wise, in this country; how is that gonna work?" I asked, still not fully grasping the idea. It was just so new, so unheard of.

The day went on without any problems at any of My stores. Since parts of White Settlement were still burning, I had invited Mike to come back to my house. Things had calmed down by the next day, so I drove him downtown where it would be easy to get a bus home. A week later, I received a packet in the mail from the U.S. Department of Reparations. I knew it was something different, because it wasn't time to get my check yet. It turns out it was my "Sponsorship Packet". I had heard that we would be getting something like this. I had actually been looking forward to it because even though, I had no intention of becoming a sponsor, I wanted to know what it was all about. I sat there on My couch at home and read over the packet. As I read, I thought to myself, damn, no wonder they were pissed.

According to the info packet, a white had to find a black sponsor within the next year, or risk enslavement. It looks like the sponsor would be very much like a parent. He will have veto power over all major purchases of a certain amount. Job and residence changes will need approval, DAYUM even a change in marital status will need to be approved by one's sponsor. I couldn't believe it. The list went on and on. The sponsor would have damn near total control. And it turns out that since whites outnumbered blacks three to one, each black person over the age of twenty-one can sponsor up to three anglos. A Sponsorship license will also be required. Here there was a personal note informing me that because of My education level and financial status, I will be exempt from the greater portion of the sponsorship training. Of course sponsorship is COMPLETELY voluntary, but it is strongly encouraged. Well, they can keep it. I thought to myself as I stuffed the papers back into the large envelope. I have no intention of becoming a sponsor. Not ever. I took the envelope and tossed it into the large bottom drawer of the secretary in my study.

Over the next three months, I had many a white person petition Me to be his sponsor. Of course I denied all of them. Actually without even a second thought. Hell, I was running four very successful bookstores, I didn't see the benefit of taking time out of my busy schedule to to take some sponsorship class. It just seemed like a big waste of time. One evening I was being entertained by a hot twenty-three year old that I had hired from the agency downtown. This happened to be one of my favorite rentboys. Not because of his red hair, or his slim but toned body, not because of his pale skin or the light sprinkling of freckles that was splashed across his shoulders, not even because of his hot mouth or tight asshole that loved to grip the base of my dick as I pulled out of him. No. What made this rentboy my favorite was his completely submissive nature. Whereas other rentboys that I have used have often had a misguided air of self importance, this boy was only concerned with pleasing Me. Maybe it was because I treated him like a human being, or maybe it was because I always gave him a big tip, I don't know or even care. I liked it, and that made him my favorite. Anyway that evening after I had fucked his brains out, he looked at Me with tears in his eyes. "Sir", he said, "I would never ask, but it is very important and I have run out of people to talk to." When I just looked at him quizzically, he continued. "Well, my boss at the agency is already sponsoring three of us. He said that the rest of us are on our own. He said that if we wanted to continue working for him, we would have to find one of his regular customers to to be our sponsor otherwise it would jeopardize his business."

"And you want me to be your sponsor, right, boy?"

"Yes sir."

"No, I won't do it." I said flatly. I was surprised to see a look of pure panic creep into his pale features.

"But sir," he said. "You're the only regular customer I have left. If you won't be my sponsor, I'll have to find someone else. That means that I'll have to find another job. But I don't know how to do nothin' but this."

"I'll give it some thought, boy." I said, I couldn't believe I said it but I did. "Now it's time for you to go."

"And just so you know, Sir," The rentboy said as he was putting his clothes on. "My boss said that if you are my sponsor, you will be entitled to use My services free of charge." Then he was gone.

Two weeks later, I found myself, sitting in a sponsorship class, thankful that I only had two more to go. As much as I hated sitting there in that class, I was actually learning a lot. The facilitator, Martin, was a very serious proponent of Black Superiority. His class always included a long winded, but informative lecture. He spoke about how the black man has been held down for so long that he has forgotten his own legacy. And that while we were struggling trying to bring ourselves up, the white man had damn near destroyed our world.

Whitey had taken over and look at the state the world was in. The rainforests were being cut down at an alarming rate, the ozone layer was full of holes, there were currently thirty-two active armed conflicts going on in the world and thirty of them could be traced directly to the white man. Now it was time for the Black man to rise and take his rightful place at the head of the table. And becoming a sponsor was just the beginning.

The state of the world is such that there HAD to be a change. This is not just about the Black Man's Revenge, it's about setting the natural order right. The black Man in his place and the white man in his. Martin told us that whether we had noticed it or not, whitey had become a second class citizen. Martin also had a long list of facts showing how the whites have proven that they are unsuited to rule anything, including their own lives. As his sponsor you will run it for him.

All of this was very eye-opening for Me. I had never been prejudiced towards white people. And I had definitely never realized that all the world's problems could be traced back to the white man. Maybe it WAS our turn. Surely we could do no worse! Well here was our chance to see. I decided that I would be a sponsor, but If I was gonna do it, I was gonna do it right. I had a responsibility, and part of that responsibility was to do what was right by whitey.

When the last class had ended, Martin dismissed the class and congratulated all of us on finishing the mandated course on sponsorship. He told us it was our responsibility to make sure that whitey learned his proper place in our society and to never forget ours. I'll never forget what he said last.

“I've taught u everything you need to begin your journey, but I know you will discover along the way that the power was always yours, good luck.”

No one lingered after he dismissed the class. The refreshment table was bare of it's usual coffee dispenser and Styrofoam cups and trays of brownies and cookies. I walked thru the door and into the hall, thinking to myself that I should say something to Martin, perhaps. A farewell or a thanks, but I kept walking like everyone else. It's funny how you get a sense of kinship with strangers when you share something en masse. I went directly home. On the drive home, Martins words ran thru my mind, inspiring and exciting my imagination. In no time I had made the fifteen minute journey home and found myself pulling my car into the driveway.

My house is a big one. There are four bedrooms and two and a half baths. I had been so busy lately with the class and all, I hadn't had time to do any cleaning at all. And I didn't feel like doing it then either. The place was a mess. I didn't have any children myself, but my sister has two twin boys and they loved to spend time with Uncle Dwayne. That's why I bought this house in the first place, now they each have their own room plus a guestroom. They were last over a few days ago. Hence the mess. I immediately thought that I would call an agency and hire a temporary maid. Then the thought hit Me. I called the agency where I hire My rentboy and told the concierge that I would be coming for Chris in the morning to take him to court to petition for sponsorship. They said that he'd be ready.

The next morning, I drove downtown to the agency and Chris was stand there waiting for me. Or at least I think it was Chris. Usually when I saw him, he was wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt, but today he looked quite respectable in a button down shirt and slacks that had both been neatly starched and pressed. At twenty-two, Chris had always looked like he was in his late teens. Now he looked like a proper young man. And a sexy one at that. He was tall and trim, but quite athletic. He had longish blonde hair that he had apparently had cut and styled for this occasion. When I drove up, I saw his face brighten then he turned and almost sprinted back into the building. Less than a minute later he came out again, but this time he was walking a step behind a short, pudgy, but impeccably dressed black man. I immediately recognized him as Jerry Bing, the owner of the agency. I got out and walked around to greet him. It turns out that he had come out to personally thank Me for what I was doing and assuring me that Chris would always be at my disposal free of charge. As the little man was talking, I couldn't help but compare him to one of those sleazy used car salesmen. I had never liked 'Big Bing' as he loved being called. I thought he was a pompous arrogant ass, but he provided what I considered to be a valuable service. Well, he would be surprised before this day was over.

The Sponsorship court was being held in the local Reparations Department Building. When Chris and I walked in, I was surprised to see so many people there. The place was packed. I expected to see a judge or at least a court reporter, but there was none of that. Instead, the place was set up like a driver's license office. We were expected to just take a number and wait. So that's what we did. I found a couple of seats way in the back and we sat down. After a few minutes, I looked over at Chris and I asked him how he had ended up as a rentboy.

"Well, sir", he said, "when I was seventeen years old, my mom met this guy and moved him in with us. My mom had always had a lot of boyfriends, but few ever stayed longer than over night or a few days. This one, Tom, actually moved in with us. He was good to her, I suppose, because he kept her stocked with drugs. Mom was a real big meth head, and Tom was a meth cook, so they were perfect together. One night, shortly after Tom had moved n, he came into my room. He woke me up and told me that my mom was on her period and he didn't want to fuck her. Of course I asked him what the fuck that had to do with me, and he said that since he couldn’t fuck HER then he would have to settle for me. Now don't get me wrong, Sir, by this time I had become accustomed to getting fucked by men. There had been times when mom couldn't afford a fix so I would get it for her the only way I could. With my ass. No matter how badly my mom treated me, I loved her dearly, and I would do anything for her. But when Tom had moved in, I figured that mom would have a constant supply, so I wouldn't have to worry about it. Well on this particular night, mom must have sent him into my room. Anyway, long story short, I refused him. He got so angry that he slapped me. Well I wasn't gonna take that from him so I jumped up and hit him back. Tom was much bigger than me, and a tough son of a bitch. Well apparently he knocked me out and when I came to, I was looking up into his face as he was fucking away at my ass. I was on my back and he had my knees pushed up under my armpits. I tried to get up, to resist, but he was too heavy to push off and too strong to get away from. I just had to lay there and take it. When he had finished, he pulled out of my ass and left without a word. I was too sore to move, but also too angry to let it pass. After I had recovered a bit, I found My mom in the kitchen and told her what had happened, that Tom had raped me. She told me that he wouldn't have done that if i hadn't refused him in the first place. I was so upset that i just went back into My room and cried. The next morning, my mom told me that I had to leave. It appears that Tom woke up with a black eye and remembered that I had hit him. He said that he didn't want to be in the same house with me any more and either I had to go or he would. Actually it was little surprise that she chose him over me, he was not only her boyfriend but he was her dealer as well. So I found myself out on the street that very same day. I had never been very good in school as I almost never went, mom didn't care so why should I? The only thing I knew how to do was take dick, so that's what I did. I became a street hustler out in White Settlement. Back then it wasn't nearly as run down as it is now, but there were a few streets were a boy like me could make enough money for a meal and a room for the night. Well one day, this big Mercedes pulled up at my corner. It was Jerry. of course, I didn't know him then, I thought that he was just another trick. Well apparently he liked what he saw and offered Me a job and a place to live. The rest is history."

I was struck and a bit saddened at how a person's life could go so wrong. This boy never had a chance it seems. I was glad that I had made the decision that I had. My revery was broken, when I heard my number being called. Chris and I went to the indicated window and a very bored looking black woman with too much make up and false eyelashes, asked me for my sponsorship certification. When I gave her the card, she looked it over and then asked if I had read the Sponsorship packet and understood it. Then she turned to Chris and asked if he had read the requirements and understood fully what his duties and restrictions were. He said yes, but then she asked him again and told him that any breech of this agreement, no matter how small was punishable up to and including imprisonment. He nodded his agreement and quickly signed the paper. That was it. Quick and easy. Afterward, as we were driving along I30, I took the Henderson exit to head back into downtown Fort Worth. Chris knew that I was taking him back to the agency.

"Sir, I was hoping that we would celebrate or new arrangement by having a little fun back at your house." He had that look of innocence in his hazel eyes that could make a man's heart melt. Of course, I know that there was no true innocence left behind those eyes.

"There will be plenty of time for that, boy, " I said, "Since you'll be living with me."

His face spun in my direction. "Sir?" He asked, a look of total confusion on his face.

"There has been a change of plans, boy" I said. "You have spent your last night at that place, and you have serviced your last client."

"But I don't understand, Sir." His usual carefree expression was gone, replaced by a face that was contorted with a mix of fear and confusion.

"All you need to understand, boy, is that as your sponsor, I get to choose where you work, and where you live. Your wages are your own except for your sponsorship fees, which come directly to me."

His voice strained and pleading. "But Sir, you agreed that..."

"I know what I agreed to, boy, but I have changed My mind." I was really beginning to like this feeling of control. Martin was right, it was inside me, just waiting to come to the surface. I knew that I was doing what was best for the boy, rescuing him from a life of prostitution, but there was something else at work here, and it was a powerful feeling. Control. It wasn't absolute control, but it was the next best thing. All My life I have been pretty dominant in bed, it was just very natural for Me. But I had resisted that tendency in other aspects of my life. I always wanted to be liked. And that meant being able to "fit in". I went to a predominantly white college and in order to be liked, I had to appear to just be a really nice guy. And as a big black man, it's difficult to be non-threatening in the eyes of an ignorant white. So I stifled my dominant nature. But now, things were changing and changing rapidly. The white man had lost his stranglehold on modern society. He was holding on with all of his strength, but his grip was slipping fast. I no longer felt the need to "fit in" or "assimilate" It was time to let my Dominant nature breathe and this boy would be the start of it.

"I need someone to take care of my home. Someone to cook my meals and clean my house. I looked over at him and smiled. “You're hired."

"But sir, " Chris said, looking very worried now and even slightly angry. "You can't do that. We agreed that I would continue to work for..."

"That's enough, boy," I snapped. "I am your sponsor. I decide where you work and even where you live. You will be my houseboy. You will live in my guestroom. I'll pay you minimum wage, minus your sponsorship fees, and a modest amount for room and board."

"But sir..."

"Shut up, boy. I'm not done. You will come and go as you please as long as your work is done. But you are always on call, 24/7." I paused, and looked over at him. We were almost to the agency, but I pulled over into a parking lot. I needed to be able to look the boy in the eye, and I couldn't do that and drive at that same time. When I had parked, I looked over at him. "Look, Chris, this is for your own good. I am saving you from yourself. I know that you don't want to live the rest of your life as a whore. You may not like what I'm doing, but this is the way it will be. Unless you chose to defy your sponsor, which is your right; but the consequences will be severe. So make your decision right now. I can take you to the agency and let you gather your things and come home with me, or you can get out of this car right now. I'll even give you a five minute head start before I call the Reparations Department. Did you know that they have a special task force that enforces sponsorship laws? Chris's eyes were wide and his mouth hung open slightly. The boy stared at me with a stunned expression that was almost comical.

“Its your decision.” I continued. “But keep in mind, I WILL call the R.D. and they WILL find you and you'll be sent to prison. Then in six months when the slavery law comes into effect...who knows? I may buy you and you'll serve as houseboy anyway. So what's it gonna be, Chris? The choice is yours." I emphasized this, by unlocking the doors
Chris sat there for a moment without moving. I began to wonder if I had come on too strong. Would he risk going to prison, just so that he can remain a prostitute? Either way, I had made a decree and I had to stand by it. If he got out of the car, I would give him five minutes then call the R.D. Police. I had heard that in some circles they were being called "Cracker Control". It was fitting actually, because they only had juristiction over whites who ran afoul of the Reparations Act.

I sat there waiting to see what the boy would do. I was just about to say something when he turned to me and said, "If I go with you, and work as your houseboy, will you still fuck me, Sir?"

"Every chance I get, boy." Hell, may as well tell the truth, right?

A little crooked smile began to form at the corners of the boy's mouth. "Then I guess I'm all yours, Sir!" He said as his body visibly relaxed and he settled back into the seat.

"Good boy," I said as my Lexus roared to life and I pulled back out into the downtown traffic.

"Sir?" Chris said just as we pulled out in front of the agency. "What about Jerry? He's gonna be pretty upset to lose the money that I bring in."

"Then he should have had sense enough to sponsor you himself. He was gonna lose you anyway if he hadn't found a sponsor for you. But whatever the case my be, you don't worry about Ol' Jerry. I'll handle that slimy little weasel."

When we entered the agency, I sent Chris upstairs to pack his things. As I was standing there waiting for him, Jerry Bing came down the stairs. He had obviously spoken with Chris.

"Mr. Malcolm," he said. "I thought we had an agreement."

"We did, Mr. Bing, " I said, intentionally matching his formal tone. "I have chosen to change it. I'm taking him and he's gonna work for me."

At that moment, Chris came bounding down the stairs carrying a threadbare duffel bag. This was all the kid had in the world.

"That all you've got, boy?" I asked. Now ignoring Jerry.

"Yes, Sir." Chris said, then he shifted his eyes nervously at his former boss.

"Then come on let's go." I said, and turned to leave. As I was turning, I felt Jerry grab my arm.

"Hey, mutha fucka, you betta..."

That was a mistake.

Before he could finish the sentence, I had him up against the wall on his tiptoes with My forearm wedged under his chin. "Don't EVER touch me, you slimy little two-bit pimp." I spat these words from between gritted teeth. "And if you ever contact this boy again, I'm gonna stick my foot so far up your ass that you're gonna be shittin' boot leather for a month." With one last push against his throat, I let him go and turned to leave. "Come on here, boy." I said as I passed an awestruck Chris, who was standing there with his mouth open.

When we got back to my house, I showed Chris to his room. Of all the rooms in my house this was the smallest one. It was actually a utility/storage room just off from the kitchen and across from the laundry room that had been converted into another bedroom. The few boxes I did have stored in there could easily be transferred to the attic. Chris's first task, I thought to myself. My nephews had pretty much claimed the other two rooms for themselves, and of course he would not be sleeping in MY room, so that left this one, no choice really. Besides,he doesn't need a big room, and this was better than the dorm he undoubtedly slept in back at the agency. I told Chris to just put his bag down on the bed and follow me for a tour of the house. I intentionally changed my tone from one that I would use with a guest to one that I would use with a servant, because as of this moment, that is exactly what he was. With my house being such a mess, I would never give a visitor a tour, but as I said, Chis was now a servant. I could tell that he was worried about having to clean all of the things that I was showing him, particularly that kitchen and my nephews bedrooms. I told him that I expected the entire house to be spotless.

"But Sir, it's a lot of work." He said finally.

"Of course it is, boy," I replied leaning against the the door to the laundry room. "That's the whole point. If it was easy to clean, then I would do it myself. But why should I lift a finger when I have a cute little whiteboy like you to do it for me?" I smiled and patted his cheek.

"But Sir, I..."Chris began.

"No buts, boy." I interrupted. I had to nip his protests in the bud. I believe that you have to begin as you mean to continue. "This is your job now, so you'd better get used to it. Start now, I want this house clean by this evening."

Right away I realized that Chris was not kidding about not knowing how to clean up. This was handled easily when I sent Chris to a learning annex provided by the Reparations Department as part of my sponsorship package. The department offered, not just classes for black men and women but also many classes for sponsored whites. The classes were free of charge and listed in a booklet that came in my sponsorship packet. Over the next several months Chris settled into a routine, benefiting immensely from the housekeeping, cookery, and valet classes. Now he keeps the house spotless, just like he knows I like it.

Back at the store, things were going well. So well, in fact, that I was considering opening a fifth store. I was very pleasantly surprised to find that more and more people were reading. Black people were reading more because of the superior education they were receiving, and more whites were reading because fewer of them could afford things like computers and flat screen TVs.

One day I was visiting my Arlington store where Mike was the manager. We were sitting in my office there drinking coffee, when something occurred to me.  "Mike," I asked, "Am I mistaken or have you not found a sponsor yet?"

"Not yet," he said looking at me over his coffee mug.

"You DO realize that there is only about a month left to the deadline, right?"

"Yeah, I do." He paused for a moment. "I was gonna ask you right after the law was passed, but you seemed so hell bent on not being a sponsor, that I never asked."

"But you know that I am a sponsor now, right?"

"I do, Mr. Malcolm." He was looking nervous now. "I met Chris, remember, when you sent me to your house to pick up those invoices for that big shipment from Bantam. He told Me that not only was he sponsored by you, but that he was also your houseboy. I have to be honest with you. I know exactly where all this is going. Ever since the very first reparations law was passed, I could see the writing on the wall. Now with the new slavery law coming into effect on the same day as the deadline for all whites to have a sponsor, it is all too clear.”

Mike's expression was stoic and there was a sadness to his voice. “You made me read the books. You made me learn the histories. I learned my lessons well, Mr. Malcolm. But the truth is, I simply don't want to end up as some black man's houseboy. I want so much more from life. I know that I need to find a sponsor, but I have been procrastinating. Putting it off as long as I possibly could."

"Mike," I said, putting my mug down on the desk and looking him directly in the eye. "You know that I like you. You're the only honky manager that I have, but you're also my favorite. But I've got to tell you I didn't know you were this stupid. You say that you see the writing on the wall, well surely you can see that if you miss the deadline, you're gonna be enslaved. There's no way to get around it." I sat there and watched as this young man began to cry.

"But it's all so unfair, Mr. Malcolm. I did everything I was supposed to do. You know that I was a good student. I never missed a day, and never missed an assignment. And now I am about to have to sit by and watch as my personal freedoms are eroded away down to nothing. I understand the concept of reparations. I know that the white man hurt your people in ways that can never be repaid. I get that, but it hurts. It hurts because I know that I never mistreated anyone. Never stole anything from anyone. Why do I have to suffer?"

"I know it doesn't seem fair Mike," I told him, now actually feeling a bit sorry for the boy. "But even though you haven't personally stolen anything, you must realize that you have been the beneficiary of all of the theft. If a man steals a bike and gives it to his son, does the son have the right to keep that bike even though his father has been caught and the rightful owner wants it back?"

"Of course not." Mike said, wiping the corners of his eyes and staring down into his coffee mug.

"Right, that child was ecstatic when his daddy gave him that bike. He loved it. But the truth is, it just doesn't belong to him, it never did. Even though it's not his fault, he's got to give it back. Even though he didn't steal it...didn't even know it was stolen. He still can't keep it. Mike, you are that kid, trying desperately to hold on to that bike even though the police are here to give it back to it's rightful owner."

By this time Mike was openly sobbing. I felt sorry for him, but what I had said was true. He was the beneficiary of the privilege that was stolen from the Black Man. And now it was time to pay up. Even so, it was still difficult to watch this kid in front of me crying. It was pathetic actually. I decided to try to help him.

"Look Mike," I said with a sigh, "I'll agree to be your sponsor. And because you are a good manager, I'll keep you on here. That way you'll have a job. And if something happens and you DO get enslaved, I will have first right of purchase. So you would be covered there as well."

"I just don't know what to do." Mike said, still sobbing.

"Well," I said getting up and walking around the desk. "Whether you know what to do or not, Mike, the fact remains that if you don't have a sponsor by the deadline, you're going to be enslaved. I feel for you, I really do. But, frankly, you're being stupid. Once the deadline hits, if you don't have a sponsor, you will not be able to work here. Or anywhere else for that matter. There are substantial fines for business found to be employing unsponsored whites. And the reparations police will be doing random checks of whites on the street. And if you are found without a valid sponsorship card, you WILL be arrested and enslaved. So the choice is yours."

Mike looked up at me. I saw it in his eyes, he knew that he really didn't have a choice. There were still tears in his eyes.

"This is it for us, isn't it Mr. Malcolm? Whites, I mean. We're all headed toward slavery." That last was an emphatic statement, his eyes, red and wet, peering into mine, pleading for a word of comfort.

"Yes Mike," I said "I'm afraid it is."



Newly Enslaved
 by Sir Kinyon

Mark Peterson had been a law abiding citizen all of his life. Well, at least until the laws changed. At 25, he had been assistant foreman at a large construction company and life was good. He had just put a down payment on a big house and his girlfriend Jill had just agreed to marry him. When the Reparations Act had passed, he didn't like it of course, but what could he do? It was pretty tight at first, but with both him and Jill working, they actually got by pretty well. Of course, the big wedding they had in mind had to be postponed, but he swore to her that he would find a way to get it done. When the sponsorship law was passed, Mark and Jill had protested just like everyone else they knew. When it was all said and done though, both Mark and Jill set about the humiliating business of finding sponsors. Mark had asked his boss at work, and he had agreed. The trouble was, Mark and Jill wanted desperately to be sponsored by the same person, and Mark's boss was already sponsoring two of his coworkers, and the limit was three. Jill had asked her boss at the hospital, and they had the same problem there. The deadline was fast approaching. Mark knew that if they didn't find a sponsor by the deadline, things would get really bad. They could even get enslaved. And THAT would be a disaster.

It was one month until the deadline and they both decided that they would just have to be sponsored separately. Mark went back to his boss, but it was too late, he had already signed on as sponsor to a third employee. One day with about a week before the deadline, Mark found his sponsor. His crew was between jobs, so Mark was working in the office. He hated working in the office because it meant paperwork. Mark was a smart guy, but he was also very physical. He stood about 6' tall and weighed no more than 175 lbs. When he first got hired at the construction company, the other guys razzed him because of his smaller size. While it was true that he looked nothing like a construction worker, his work ethic made up for that. Not only was he much stronger than he looked, but he was a very hard worker. And he would do what others didn't want to do, and would get it done faster than anybody else would. That is where he had gained a bit of respect from the other workers. It was also this strong work ethic, that had made the boss consider him for the job of assistant foreman. Well, that, and the fact that he wanted a whiteboy to deal with the other whiteboys on the job. Either way, it was good for Mark, it had meant a raise, but it also meant paperwork, which he hated.

On this day, a week before the deadline, The boss had hired a new worker. As it turned out it was the boss's nephew. This was no surprise to Mark, though, there were many niggers on the site who were related to the boss in some way. While Mark was in his office working on next weeks payroll, there was a knock at the door. When Mark said "come in", in walks this tall black kid. He was at least 6'2" and looked as if he weighed about 180lbs. He was lanky but he looked strong. He had come in to bring his new hire paperwork to Mark for processing.  "So Elijah, is it?" Mark asked as he scanned the kid's application.

"Yeah, but everybody calls me Eli." The guy had a quick, easy smile which contrasted nicely with his coal black skin.

Mark looked down at the forms in front of him and realized that they had already been filled out. When he looked up in question, Eli informed him that his Uncle had sent him here for another reason. He had just turned 18 a little over a week ago, and he was only sponsoring two honkies. he wanted to get a third before the deadline came in.

"My uncle said that you still needed a sponsor. You could be my third." Mark was taken aback for a moment.

"You only have one more space?" He asked. "But my fiancee' needs a sponsor, too."

"I can't do anything about her." Eli said. "And if you don't want me to sponsor you, there are plenty other honkies desperate for a sponsor this close to the deadline." He punctuated his statement, by rising from his chair, his long lanky body moving with an easy grace.

Mark HATED being called a honky, especially by this little punk who didn't even know him, but he had to admit that the kid was right. This could be has last chance.

"No," he said also rising from his chair and coming around the desk. "I need a sponsor, I really do." Eli looked down his nose at the honky standing in front of him.

"I'm not sure I like your attitude, whiteboy." He turned as if to leave.

Mark panicked.  "No!" he said, actually grabbing Eli's arm. The young black man rounded on him with anger in his eyes. When he looked down at Mark's hand on his arm then back up at Mark, the whiteboy realized that he had fucked up. He dropped his hand.

"I'm sorry, Eli," he said then. "It's just that I AM desperate." He went on to explain why he and Jill hadn't gotten sponsors yet, and that now that the deadline was so close they just had to do what they had to do.

"Stupid honky" Eli said. "You could have both had sponsors by now and wouldn't have to worry about anything. I'll be your sponsor, but you're gonna have to be smarter than you have been. And let me tell you somethin' whiteboy. If you ever put your fuckin' hands on me again, I'ma kick your ass and STILL call cracker control, you understand me , boy?"

If the situation had been different, Mark would have punched this arrogant nigger in the mouth, even though he probably still would have gotten his ass kicked, you just can't let another dude talk to you like that, can you? But the way things were now, Mark needed, Eli. He swallowed his pride like a jagged little pill and looked up at Eli and said, struggling to keep the growing anger out of his voice, "yes sir."

One week later, when Mark got home from work, Jill was sitting in the living room crying. He knew that she was scared, and rightfully so. He was too. He had found a sponsor even though an awful one, be she hadn't. It tore Mark's heart out to see Jill like this. She had always been such a vivacious and stunning beauty, her long cherry blonde hair was bone straight and just grazed her shoulders. She had the most beautiful green eyes that were set off perfectly by her alabaster skin. Now those same beautiful green eyes were red from crying.  The light had gone from them.  Her hair was greasy and stringy like it hadn't been washed or even brushed in days.

"Oh, baby," he said sitting himself beside her on the couch and wrapping his arms around her. "We'll figure something out." He was trying his best to be reassuring, but the truth was that he had no clue what to do. He had considered trying to flee to Canada, but that would do no good because the borders were closed to whites. And Canada was now in such debt to the U.S. that they were gladly sending whites back down here if could not prove Canadian citizenship. So that would just put them right back in the same position.

"But what, Mark?" She said, wiping the tears that just wouldn't stop flowing. "Tomorrow is the deadline, and I still don't have a sponsor. Today has been so embarrassing. I found Myself asking random clients as they came into the salon today. My boss told me that I had to stop because I was making them uncomfortable. I was on my lunch break, I went outside and began to ask a black people as they walked down the street. But, babe, you wouldn't believe it! There were white people all up and down Main street stopping passersby. They were doing the same thing I was, begging for sponsorship. It wasn't long, though before the reparations officers drove up and we all scattered. It was just so humiliating, Mark. So unfair!"

"I know," Mark said, holding her tighter. "The niggers have changed everything. I understand that they got a bad shake in the past, but why should WE have to pay for it? "

"But it's even worse than that, Mark! I heard that, starting tomorrow, the reparations police are going to be doing random checks of white people to make sure that they have a sponsorship card. If I get stopped, I don't know what's gonna happen." She started crying anew, now. She knew that there was no need in trying to go in to work tomorrow. Her boss, a fat black bitch named Keisha, had already told her that starting tomorrow, it would be illegal to employ a non-sponsored white. So now, not only was she unemployed, but it would be extremely dangerous for her to even leave the house.

"We'll figure out something Jill." Mark said.

Over the next couple of weeks, things seemed to be going well. Of course, things were very difficult because, since Jill never left the house, Mark had to do everything...including work. There was nothing that Jill could do since she couldn't get a job. Now he was having to pay all the bills on his own small income.  Not to mention reparations payments and sponsorship fees.  But at least he still had Jill, that was all that mattered. Mark didn't know how much longer it could go on this way, though. He had always been somewhat short tempered, and now the niggers were coming up with even more bullshit. When the slavery law was first passed, it was understood that it would be implemented fairly. But as soon as they sentenced the first nigger to enslavement, they dug up some old law that stated that no person of African decent, would ever be enslaved. After all the appeals were exhausted, the Supreme Court upheld the law! There are FIVE fuckin white men on the Supreme Court! What the fuck is up with that? It was enough to make a man go crazy.

Mark had just pulled into his driveway and was unloading some groceries, and up pulls a Cracker Control patrol car. Cracker Control. That was now the official name of the reparations police. With all of these new laws, political correctness was now thrown to the wind. Words that used to be considered offensive like "honky", and "cracker", were now not only commonplace, but but they are being used officially! Oh but there would be hell to pay if a white person dared use the word "nigger" in public.

When the officer got out and approached the door, Mark met him just before he reached the front porch. "Something wrong, officer?" Mark asked, hoping that his sheer hatred of what this man stood for was not creeping into his voice.

"Nothing wrong, boy," the officer replied. "Just a routine check. Let me see your sponsorship card." Mark HATED being called "boy", but there was nothing he could do. He handed his card over and watched as the officer slid it through the scanner. The thing beeped three times in quick succession indicating that the card is valid. As all this was going on, Mark hoped that Jill had peeked out the window (she knew to stay away from the door), and saw that Cracker Control was here. Then she would hide.

The officer handed Mark his card back. "Anyone else in the house, boy?"

"No sir," Mark replied. "My wife is visiting her parents." He could have said that he wasn't married, but if the officer decided to go inside, it would be obvious that he was lying. This way, he likely won't go inside at all. And it worked. The officer seemed satisfied as he just turned and got back in his car and pulled off.

Mark was in a fury, he should not have to go through shit like that. He is an American citizen goddammit! This is supposed o be the home of the free and the land of the brave! As soon as he was sure that the officer was gone, he sprinted into the house, "Jill!" he called out. "Jill!" She had been hiding in the storm cellar behind the house. She ran inside and hugged Mark tight. She explained that she had heard him talking to someone outside and peeked out the window. As soon as she saw the Cracker Control car, she ran out back and into the underground storm shelter.

The very next day, Mark came home, just like he always does. He parked his car in the drive, this time looking around to make sure that there were no CC patrol cars around. Then he saw his neighbor Daphne, running toward him from across the street. Daphne was a tall thin woman with bleached blonde hair, pale face, and thin lips that were ALWAYS bright red and curled around a cigarette. Today though, she had this horrified look on her face.

"Mark," she said, "something terrible has happened!"

"What is it now, Daphne?" Mark said, exasperated. Daphne was known to be not only the biggest gossip on the block, she was also the biggest drama queen.

"She's gone, Mark." Daphne had this stricken look on her face. "They came and got her about two hours ago!"

"Came and got h... Oh shit!" Mark turned and ran across the lawn and into the house. "Jill!" He yelled "Jill!" As he ran through the house, yelling for his wife, he knew that it was no use. His world became darker and darker with each empty room. He even went out back to check the storm shelter. It was no use. She was gone. Brad went back into the house and collapsed onto the couch. He buried his head in his hands. He was certain that he couldn't go on without Jill. They had been together since high school. She was his first love, the love of his life. What was he gonna do now?

After a few moments, Mark came to his senses. He couldn't just sit there and wallow in self pity. He did the only thing he could do. He got on the phone and he called his sponsor. He knew it was a long shot, hell, his sponsor didn't even like him very much, but at least he might be able to point Mark in the right direction. As it turned out, the nigger was quite sympathetic. He called the reparations department and found out that Jill had been arrested and sent to the Cracker Control detention center downtown. Yes, Mark could visit her after her arraignment the next day, but no, he could not bail her out. This was bad news for Mark, but then it got worse. His sponsor told him that any whitey found after the deadline without a sponsor was automatically sentenced to enslavement, no jury, no trial, no appeal.

The next morning, instead of going to work, Mark made a beeline for Cracker Control Headquarters. he was thinking that he would be able to sit in on Jill's arraignment, but it was not to be. Turns out that arraignments were closed to the public. After it was over, Mark was called to the back where he was lead to a long narrow room where along each of the long walls were makeshift cubicles each with a chair a narrow platform and a window. As the Cracker Control officer who was escorting Mark led him to one of the far cubicles, he saw that each of the chairs was occupied by men and women doing exactly what he was doing. He also noticed that, invariably, each of them was in tears. When he got to the last cubicle, Jill was already there waiting. It pissed Mark off to realize that he wouldn't even be able to touch her, let alone hug and kiss her. Of course she was in tears, Jill had always been very emotional. When Mark sat down, he asked what had happened. Jill said that the officer who had checked Mark's sponsorship card had seen her peek out the window. The next day, he had come back and knocked on the door. When Jill ran out the back door to hide in the storm shelter, another officer was waiting for her in the back yard. When it was determined that she had no sponsorship card, they hauled her off to jail. They didn't even read her her rights.

As it turns out, Jill didn't even have a right to an attorney. There was a magistrate who had simply sentenced her to permanent slavery. What's worse, that sentence was to begin exactly 24 hours after the arraignment. The purpose of the that 24 hour period was to allow the newly enslaved to say goodby to their loved ones. It was the most painful 2 hours of Mark's life. Especially since, Jill had informed him that she might be pregnant. She wasn't sure though, because she didn't get the chance to check the home pregnancy test before she was carted off. He could at least look at it when he got home. Tragically, that was the last time Mark ever saw Jill, and of course he never got to see their unborn child. Mark found out that any offspring born to a slave was, by definition, a slave.
As one would expect, all of this threw Mark into a deep depression. He still went to work, but he was a shell of his former self. He eventually lost the house. Well more accurately put, his sponsor, Eli, took it. Under the law, a sponsor could claim his ward's property if said ward proved no longer able to maintain it. This was no big thing to Mark. Actually, the house was too big of a burden to him anyway. Not only had national sponsorship fees increased by 5%, but the company he worked for demoted him because the owner of the company, Eli's uncle, said that it was unseemly for a honky to hold a position that was higher than his sponsor. It was all just so unfair. But Mark had become accustomed to being treated unfairly, it had become the norm. So he moved out of his beautiful suburban home that he and Jill had shared and moved into a tiny little apartment in the projects.

These were the same projects where he used to hear about all the drugs and crime, and niggers killing themselves over this color or that color. But now it was different. Now all he saw was dirty white faces. Oh there was still drugs and crime, for sure, but now it was the whites who were doing all the stealing and the selling and the using. Mark's apartment was a one bedroom efficiency that looked as if the entire thing would fit nicely into the living room of his old house. It was just so demeaning. The niggers could get away with anything they wanted. It was all just so unfair.

After about 2 weeks, Mark finally started to come out of the deep depression he was in. Of course, he was still missing Jill badly and he got more and more pissed off every time he thought of his unborn child that he will never get to see. But he had gotten better at keeping his mind off of things. The construction company that he worked for had just started a new project for the city. It was a huge project that required all four crews, and Mark was still getting plenty of overtime. That was fine with him, because it kept him busy and put a little extra money in his pocket
The city was changing everyday it seemed. New buildings going up, old buildings being torn down. And one other thing that was changing was that slaves were becoming more and more visible. Right after the slavery law went into effect, you knew slaves were there, because you saw them working on road crews and other places, but the only way that you could really tell that they were slaves was because they were chained together in coffles. But now they were even more visible because whereas the slaves used to just wear regular clothes, now they were required to wear singlets. It was very similar to what the wrestlers used to wear. How humiliating it must be for them. Not only were they taken from their homes and families and made to work almost around the clock, but now they were required to wear these skintight things that left little or nothing to the imagination. And they were STILL all chained together, well, on the work crews at least.

One evening, as Mark was walking to the bus stop after leaving the construction site, he was passing all the government buildings downtown. As of late, he has been seeing that the yard crews are now almost totally made up of slaves. White slaves of course. As he walked by, Mark couldn't help but watch the slaves as they worked away. And these slaves weren't all chained together since they were doing all kinds of different things. In front of one building there was a hedge right up against the sidewalk. As Mark got closer, he thought he recognized one of the slaves that was trimming the hedge. Yes, it had been years, but there he was. It was his best friend from high school.

Eric Mason had been Mark's best friend. They did everything together. They were both on the swim team and the tennis team. They were the two best players, so they were always competing with each other to prove who was best. But despite the competition, the two were best buds. After graduation, Eric had moved away and Mark had not heard from him. Now, here he was, wearing a very skintight singlet and a collar.
"Eric!" Mark said as he got close enough so that he didn't have to yell. "Eric Mason, it's me Mark Peterson. How you doin' buddy?" At first Eric just looked at him, but then recognition dawned.
"Mark?" He said. "Wow, it's been a while!" The two men stood there and caught up for a bit, until Eric looked up and saw a black man walking toward them. "Oh shit," Eric said then. "It's My owner. I don't want to get in trouble."
It was only then that Mark realized that his old buddy Eric was actually a slave, even though as far as Mark knew all that meant was that you had to work your ass off for no pay. The man walking up was probably about 5'6" tall and he couldn't weigh more than 135 lbs. He wore jeans and a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. "Move along, boy." He said to Mark. "My honkies are trying to work." At first Mark just looked at the guy, surely he wasn't talking to him like he was a slave.

"Excuse me?" He replied
"You heard me, boy. I said move along."

"Please, Mark." Eric said, obviously terrified.

When Eric spoke, the little black man's head snapped around and looked at his slave in surprise. "What the fuck did you say, slave?" As he asked this he was unhooking something from his belt holster. "I know that this is just another honky," he gestured toward Mark, "But he is STILL a free man, and you need to refer to him as 'sir', not by his first name." By the time, he said this, he had pulled what looked like a miniature whip from his belt and began to beat Eric with it.

Mark stood there in total shock, not only was this puny little nigger beating his friend, but Eric was standing there taking it.

"Hold on," Mark said Trying to stop the man from hitting Eric.

"Mind your own fuckin' business, whiteboy." The man said as he continued to beat Eric about his shoulders and arms, which were totally exposed because of the singlet.  Eric knew better than to try to shield himself from his master's punishment.

Then Mark realized that Eric was being beaten because of him. Well he couldn't just let that happen, could he? He reached out his hand and caught the black man's hand in mid swing. The man looked at Mark with an outraged look on his face, and in one smooth motion he snatched his wrist out of Mark's grip and then back handed him across the face. Mark was so shocked by the blow that he was rocked back for a moment. Apparently the little nigger was stronger than he looked. But wait... Mark thought to himself, did he just hit me? At that point he saw red. All of the anger and frustration that Mark had been feeling for the last few years came boiling to the surface. Not only did Mark have 6 inches on the guy, he was also very strong from years of working construction. Before he could stop himself, he had punched the little man across his jaw, knocking him to the sidewalk. Then it was on. Mark pounced on the virtually unconscious man and began to beat him in the face.

As Mark was beating the poor man, he suddenly felt a jolt crash through his body. It was like nothing he has ever felt. It was as if every inch of his body had burst into flames...only all on the inside. He was barely conscious of the fact that he was on the ground in broad daylight twitching in the fetal position. After a few minutes, the pain began to subside and the lightning bolts that were flashing in his eyes began to fade. He was looking up into the dark brown face of a Cracker Control officer. Before he could do or say anything, the CC officer had him handcuffed and in the back of his squad car.

Mark spent the next two days in a tiny holding cell. He had been informed that he had the right to an attorney and that if he couldn't afford one, an attorney would be appointed by the court. When his attorney arrived, not only was Mark surprised that it was a woman, but he was also taken aback by her youth and beauty...well for a nigger bitch anyway. Anita Spelman was 26 years old, and fresh out of law school. She stood about 5'2 and surely weighed no more than115 lbs. Her skin was the color of rich caramel, and she had close set almond shaped eyes that led one to believe that she might be of Egyptian decent. Of course, she had no idea what her ancestry was beyond African. The white man had stolen that history from her. Just like they had stolen everything else they had. Now that the Black race had finally risen to it's proper place, she knew that the world would be much better off
Anita walked up to the holding cell. While she waited for the guard to fumble with the keys, she had time to look at the guy inside the cell. He was really a pitiful site. Apparently he had put up a fight because, although there were no outward bruises as far as she could see, he was laying there on the bench like he's in pain. Anita knew enough about Cracker Control to know that they were very skilled in using pain for training and discipline purposes without causing visible scars that would lesson the value of slave property. When the guard finally got the door open, Anita strolled in confidently.

"Mark Peterson, correct?" She was casually scanning his file as she said this. "I'm Anita Spelman, your court appointed legal counsel." As she said this, Anita purposefully kept her distance, not because she was afraid...she wasn't, but because she could smell his honky funk from across the room.

"Yeah," He said. "You look too young to be a lawyer."

"My looks are the least of your concerns, Mr Peterson." Anita said without looking up at him as she was still studying the file in her hand. "What you SHOULD be concerned with is keeping your lily white ass off the auction block."

"I'm sorry Ma'am." Mark said, changing his tune. He was wincing from the pain in his ribs. "It's just that this is all so unfair. It's just a big misunderstanding."

Anita looked at the honky before her skeptically. He was so pitiful looking, though, that she found herself feeling a bit sorry for him. Of course, she didn't want him to see this pity, so she kept perusing his file.

"Ok Mr. Peterson, let's clear up this misunderstanding. Tell me what happened."

Mark went into his story. He left nothing out. As he spoke, his lawyer listened intently absentmindedly twirling her hair around her finger. Mark thought to himself, for a nigger bitch, she was kinda cute. When he had finished his tale, Anita just looked at him.

"So let me get this straight, Mr. Peterson. You distracted a slave from his work and when that slave's master began to discipline his own personal property, you interfered by grabbing him by the wrist?"

"Yes ma'am," Mark replied earnestly, "but it wasn't like that really, I was just..."

"What you were doing, Mr. Peterson, was breaking the law. A master has the legal right to discipline his property in any way he sees fit. Period. And THEN, Mr. Peterson, you GRABBED HIS WRIST?!" Anita was becoming more animated. It took a mighty effort on her part to calm herself.

"Yes but..."

"I'm not finished, Mr. Peterson. And then when he defended himself, you beat the man nearly unconscious! And I have a copy of his medical report right here. It says that you broke his jaw. He is okay now, but not at home yet."

"It was a big misunderstanding!" Mark pleaded. "He hit me first! You can ask my buddy Eric. He saw the whole thing."

"Mark," Anita said, almost laughing. " Surely you're not stupid enough to think that a slave would be allowed to testify in court? And even if he were, he would be an absolute idiot to testify against his Master. No, Mark, the court will never get to hear anything that slave Eric has to say."

"So what can I do?" Mark was beginning to get that sinking feeling. He should have known that he would never get a fair shake in Niggerland. "This is so unfair!"

"Unfair?!" Anita stood gathering her papers to leave. "You brought this on yourself. Where have you been the last few years? You honkies have very little rights, and honky slaves have absolutely no rights whatsoever. So what in the world made you think that you could prevent a Black Master from disciplining his slave."

"But Eric is My friend, and I couldn't stand by and watch him being beaten."

"NO, the slave known a Eric WAS your friend. Now he is the property of his owner. No more than cattle to be used, bought, and sold. And now, because of your stupidity, so will you."

Mark was horrified. "But you're my lawyer," He pleaded. "Isn't there something you can do?"

"Mark," Anita said, reluctantly allowing a bit of sympathy. "Listen, I wish there was something I could do to help you, but the material witness in this case is a Cracker Control officer. He actually saw you assaulting this man. No one else stepped up to say that he hit you first. Your former friend Eric cannot testify in court.. By law. The reality is that you are going to be enslaved. There is nothing I can do about it, but prepare you for it."

"I can appeal it thought right?" Mark was grasping at straws.

"There's no appeal for enslavement, Mark." Anita replied. Once the verdict is handed down, you become a slave at that moment. An appeal would require you to testify in court and slaves are not allowed to testify. So no appeal."

"It's all just so fucking unfair." Mark had buried his face in his hands. He didn't really want this bitch to see him cry but he couldn't help it. "So what's next?"

"Trial, enslavement, auction."
The very next day, Mark was called down to the courtroom. Gone were the days of long trials and endless appeals. Now that slavery had been reintroduced as a punishment for crime, the court system had been streamlined and ran like a well-oiled machine. Whereas in the past, a person accused of a crime could sit in jail for up to 2 years before ever going before a judge and even then, it took months and months after that, now the accused (depending on the length of the investigation), may sit for a couple of weeks at the most. In open and shut cases such as Mark's, the wheels of justice moved very swiftly indeed. Mark had been arrested only 3 days ago and here he was on trial for aggravated assault. A crime that held a sentence of 10 years in prison which made it an enslaveable offense.
Mark sat, stone-faced in the chilly courtroom, Anita by his side at the defense table. She had been nice enough to go by Mark's house and pick up the one suit that he owned. He wanted to look presentable even though she had told him that it was a moot point. The Assistant District Attorney was sitting across the isle at the prosecution table. When the court was called to order, and the case had been read, the ADA stood to his full height of at least 6'3". His body was obviously very athletic even though it was covered in an immaculately tailored charcoal gray pinstriped suit that whose color contrasted nicely with his flawless milk chocolate skin.
When he began his opening arguments, he spoke with such eloquence and authority, that if Mark had closed his eyes, he would have sworn that this was Perry Mason or somebody like that. The audience which was mixed with both black and white (whites at the back, of course), seemed to be hanging onto his every word. By the time this lawyer was done, Mark knew that his goose was cooked. Anita did her best, but it was obvious from the facts of the case that there was really nothing she could do. In fact, because this incident happened in front of the man's slaves, this made the assault aggravated. The prosecution had called 3 witnesses: the victim, the Cracker Control officer and an old woman who had been just passing by.
When it was all said and done, the judge addressed the court saying that in this changing society, it is very important that Masters Rights to do as they wish with their own property be rigidly upheld. And that this was a case of infringement upon those rights. Being so, an example had to be made. Since this was a case brought forth by the Reparations Department, there was no jury present. The judge, a distinguished middle aged black man with salt and pepper hair, had the power to hand down both verdict and punishment. "I hereby find the defendant Mark Alfred Peterson guilty of aggravated assault. And do hereby sentence him to lifetime enslavement."
As Mark stood there and heard the verdict and punishment, his stomach felt as if it had dropped into his shoes. Anita had prepared him the best she could for this, but it was worse that he thought. It felt like the world was closing in around him. And in fact it was. Mark was in such a daze that he barely heard the judge continue speaking. "In accordance with the law, the former man Mark Peterson will begin his slavery immediately." Then Mark felt his body being moved as two bailiffs grabbed him by each of his arms and began to strip his clothes off. Wait, Mark thought to himself, what the fuck are they doing?
"Hey!" Marked yelled "What the hell is going on here?"
"Silence, boy!" The judge intoned. "Slaves are not allowed to speak in My courtroom...ever!"
Of course, as the two bailiffs continued to methodically strip Mark's clothes off, he continued to yell obscenities. At the judge's command, one bailiff reached into his belt and pulled a ballgag free. By this time Mark was naked. The bailiff commanded mark to open his mouth and when mark refused, the bailiff reached down and grabbed Mark's balls and squeezed...HARD. Of course, Mark opened his mouth to scream and when he did the bailiff put the ballgag into his mouth and the other bailiff smoothly fastened the leather straps behind his head.
Mark could not believe this was happening to him. He had seen slaves working before. None of them had been naked. Sure they were working hard, but Mark was no stranger to hard work. But now here he was standing completely naked and gagged in public. They were treating him like some sort of animal. He couldn't believe it! Little did he know that his ordeal was about to get worse. After the bailiffs had gotten him calmed down a bit, they manhandled him over to what looked to him like an electric chair. Of course the sight of it caused Mark to renew his vain attempts to escape the grasp of these two hulking bailiffs. With practiced ease, they got him strapped into the chair. Once there, Mark found that he could not move. He was completely immobile. While he was sitting there, terrified, Mark looked around the courtroom. The people were just sitting there looking at him like this was some sort of show or something. It wasn't much of a surprise to see the niggers looking at him like he was some sort of animal, but it was really hurtful to see the whites just sitting there allowing this to happen to him.
Couldn't they see how unfair all of this was? Couldn't they see how he was being treated? They should be on their feet giving these niggers what they deserve. They should be rioting in the AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! Mark's mental tirade was interrupted by an explosion of the most horrible pain he had ever felt in his life. It was a searing pain that just grew hotter and hotter. It started in his shoulder, but moved so quickly throughout his body that he could no longer tell where it was coming from. Mark's head had been secured to the chair, so he couldn't look around. Soon, the stinging and burning eased into just a dull ache.
After a few moments, Mark was unstrapped from the chair and marched out to the middle of the floor where he was held upright by the two bailiffs. Facing the audience this way, Mark felt his nakedness even more powerfully, he looked down at his shoulder and was able to make out the "S" that has been burned into the flesh of his shoulder. They had branded him! Like he was cattle or something. Then Anita's words from the day before had come back to him.
"NO, the slave known a Eric WAS your friend. Now he is the property of his owner. No more than cattle to be used, bought, and sold. And now, because of your stupidity, so will you." That is what she had said. And now here he stood, naked and branded. He was now cattle...just like Eric. But hell, at least Eric was allowed to wear a singlet. After a moment, Mark heard the judge speak again.
"Here stands before you the slave formerly known as Mark Peterson. According to the law this slave's former sponsor, Elijah Sparks, has first right of purchase." The judge looked up from the papers in his hand and scanned the audience. "Is Mr. Sparks in attendance today?"
Mark hadn't even noticed that Eli was in the audience until this moment. Maybe Eli would buy him. That would most likely mean that he could go back to work at his old job. Mark knew that there were slaves working for the company, but he rarely saw them. And he knew that they were well treated. maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Mark felt a slight relief when Eli stood. He was always surprised that a guy so young (Eli was only 19), had such a commanding presence. Even today, he was wearing a dark brown tweed suit that would have looked natural on a college English professor. The judge informed Eli that if he chose not to exercise his right of first purchase, then the slave would be immediately put up for sale at auction. When Eli indicated that he would indeed exercise his right, Mark felt his spirits soar. If he had to be a slave, at least he would be a slave in a familiar environment. He felt immensely relieved when the judge asked if Eli wanted to put his new purchase through the state sponsored training program, and Eli responded that this slave already knew enough to do the job that he would be doing. Now Mark KNEW that he would be back working at the company.
Once the purchase was completed and Mark's temporary collar had been fitted, he was taken down stairs. He felt completely humiliated in his very tight fitting singlet, that left nothing to the imagination, but he was actually happy that he was no longer naked. On top of everything else, the guards had shackled his ankles. They had also bound his wrists behind his back and then connected them to his neck collar by a short chain that forced his wrists high on his back, and placed a lot of pressure on his elbows and shoulders. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Eli was standing there with another gentleman The other man was actually built very much like Eli, tall and lanky but obviously muscled. It was also obvious that this other man was quite wealthy. His gaudy Rolex watch was immediately visible, and his bright yellow suit was expensively tailored.
Whatever the case, Mark was happy to see Eli.
"Hello, boy." Eli said. "I knew this would happen sooner or later. I tried to keep you out of trouble, but you see where that got me."
Mark wanted to speak. Wanted to thank Eli for buying him, but of course the ballgag was still in place so he could only make grunting noises.
"Shut up, boy." Eli said as he turned to speak to the other gentleman who he hadn't even bothered to introduce. Mark figured that since he was only a slave now, those pleasantries were no longer necessary. "So what do you think, Forrest?"
The other man spoke with a very deep voice.
"He'll do fine Eli." The man said. "You paid $7,000 to buy him from the court with your sponsor's discount. I'll give you $12,000. You make a nice profit and I get a bargain."
Then to Mark's horror, Eli agreed and money changed hands! Had he just been sold?! It sure seemed like it. Mark's fears were confirmed when the man, grabbed him by the arm and turned him around as if to look at his backside.
"Yeah, this one is gonna make Me a lot of money. If he had went to auction, I would have had to pay at least $18,000." He then patted Mark's ass. For his part, Mark did a very good job of holding his temper. Well the fact that Forrest was at least a foot taller than him and had at least 30lbs on him, he knew instinctively that this big nigger wouldn't fold up like the little one on the street did. That and the fact that he was bound with his hands behind his back and connected to his collar, would make it impossible to defend himself, let alone go on the attack. So Mark's better judgment prevailed and he just stood there stoically.
Eli simply nodded in agreement. He wasn't too sure about the use of slaves in this manner, but hell, he just made $5000 in the last 10 minutes without having to lift a finger.
"Now Forrest," he said, "now you know this honky is a feisty one. Are you sure you can handle him?"
A broad smile stretched across Forrest's face, revealing dazzlingly white teeth that were perfectly straight.
"Look here, Bro," He said leaning in conspiratorially, "between you and me, I've been in the slave business for a very long time. I can handle this cracker. He'll be meek as a lamb after he gets that lily white ass of his torn up a few times."
Mark couldn't believe what he was hearing. Ass being torn up? Forrest must have seen the horrified look on Mark's face.
"Oh, Eli, the honky looks surprised. He's just realizing that he is gonna be a pleasure slave in My brothel"
Slavery had changed many things over the last year or so. The world's oldest profession was one of them. Of course, prostitution was still illegal for people. But slaves were no longer considered people. As the judge had said during Mark's trial, it was very important for the success of slavery, that owners are completely free to do as they please with their own slaves. The new law made it abundantly clear that when one becomes a slave he forfeits all his human rights. So, if a Citizen wants to offer the use of his slave, he has every right to.
"Yeah, My clients are gonna love him."
The fact that neither of them spoke to him directly was not lost on Mark. He guessed that he would have to get used to that. This was all so surreal. And it became even more so, when he saw Forrest reach into his pocket and pullout a leather strap of some kind. Then to his horror, he realized what it was...a LEASH! As his new owner stepped toward him with the leash in his hand, Mark stepped back. Just as he did so, he felt a sharp pain on the side of his face. Forrest had slapped him...HARD.
"Hold still, bitch!" The shock of the slap, caused Mark to pause. Then Forrest reached up, grabbed Mark by the back of his neck to hold him steady and attached the leash to Mark's collar. With that done, Forrest turned back to Eli and said goodby. Then,
"Come on, boy." to Mark. When the slave hesitated, Forrest stepped up to his face. "You will come, slave, and if you give Me any trouble at all, I will not hesitate to beat your ass right here in this lobby. Do you understand Me, honky?"
What else could Mark do? Gagged, shackled, his arms arms held high on his back by a chain attached to his collar. And now this man was tugging at him with his leash. He knew that even if he COULD fight, he'd lose. That open-handed slap was was enough to show him two things: 1. that this black man was very strong physically, and 2. that he wouldn't hesitate to punish Mark physically.
Apparently, it took Mark too long to answer Forrest's question, because it was promptly followed by another vicious slap across the face.
"Answer Me, when I talk to you, boy!" Of course he was still gagged, so Mark quickly nodded his head to indicate that he understood. Mark inwardly shuddered, he knew that he would have to be very careful indeed to keep this crazy nigger off his back. Forrest gave a slight tug on the leash and Mark followed obediently.
"Oh yeah," Forrest called back to Eli, "you know that as this slave's former sponsor, you have rights to all of his belongings."
"Yeah," Eli said, "They told Me that. I already went over to his trashy little apartment, but that cracker didn't have much of anything that I wanted. I just left the door standing open when I left so that all the other honkies in the neighborhood can go in and get whatever they want."
"Cool," Forrest said, nodding his head in approval. The poor honkies were probably happy for whatever they could get. And it's not like this slave is ever gonna need it. Alright, peace out, Bro. Come on, boy." And they left.
Mark followed along behind his new owner, completely dejected. He thought of all the things that he and Jill had accumulated. All the memories. Now it was all gone. What was worse was that he was now being paraded through the streets of downtown like this. On a leash like some kind of animal. He was barefoot and struggling to keep up with Forrest's long strides. Before long, they walked up to this glass high rise building. Mark had seen these huge downtown buildings all his life, he had even worked on the construction of some of them, but he had never really been inside one of them.
"Don't get used to coming through this door, boy." Forrest said tugging his new slave's leash. "Unless accompanied by a Black Man or Woman and leashed, honkies use the slave entrance on the side through the alley." The lobby of this building was beautiful. Apparently someone had spent a BUNCH of money on this place. It was dotted with wing-backed chairs and plush leather sofas. Mark would have wanted to stop and take it all in but his new owner never slowed his pace. He just strode right through the lobby with Mark in tow, right into the elevator. When they boarded the glass elevator, Mark heard his owner say, "sixty-fifth floor" and the elevator sprang into motion. When the doors opened, Mark was surprised to be in an even more richly appointed office than the lobby was. Everything here was marble and leather. The room just screamed money and power.
"No time to waste, boy," Mark heard his new owner say. "It's time to get you broken in." Mark hated the sound of that. On the trip over from the courthouse, he had tried to prepare himself mentally for what was about to happen to him. He had run several scenarios through his head, but each of them ended with him being caught, beaten to within an inch of his life and then simply brought back here. He decided that the best thing he could do was go with the flow. Maybe something would come up and he could escape or something...Mark was pulled from his revery by a sharp pull on his leash. He followed his owner into what must have been his private rooms. It was set up just like a home. A rich person's home. Mark was ushered to a spot right in front of a large mahogany desk. Forrest unclasped the leash from Mark's collar, then went and sat down behind his desk.
"Okay, boy," He said, leaning hack in his plush leather office chair. "I usually don't give my honkies this much attention, but since you are so new, I thought that I would cut you some slack." Forrest got up from his chair and walked over to Mark. He reached behind the slave's head and unbuckled the strap there that held the ballgag in the slave's mouth. As Mark stretched his jaw to work out the strained feeling, Forrest just leaned back on his the edge of the desk, directly in front of the boy. "My name is Forrest Wilson, and I am your new owner. I own you lock, stock, and barrel." As he said this, his fax machine came to life and began to spit out the ownership papers. "And there is the proof," Forrest said without even looking back. "I don't believe in punishing slaves unnecessarily, but when it is needed punishment will be swift and severe. I won't take no mess from you honky slaves."
"I don't..." Mark began to speak, but he was interrupted by a vicious back-handed slap from Forrest.
"That is lessons one and two, boy" Forest said calmly. "Number one rule, boy, you only speak when spoken to. You are NOT allowed to initiate conversation with a free man. And number two, I am your MASTER. You will address me as such. Any failure to do so, will result in punishment. Also any of My clients who have purchased your services from me will be referred to as 'Master'. All other free man will be referred to as 'Sir'. Is that clear, slave?"
Mark hesitated, but only for a moment. Then through gritted teeth, he said,
"Yes." Before he could take another breath, he was knocked sideways by another back-handed slap.
"Now," Forrest said "let's try that again. Do you understand these rules, boy?"
Mark couldn't believe this was happening to him. This nigger is fucking crazy. And strong as hell.
"Yes, Master." He said. What else could he do? He had no doubt that this man would continue to knock him around if he did do as he was told."
"Good boy," Forrest said as he got up from the edge of his desk and walked around to sit in his chair. I see you're not as stupid as you look." Forrest eased into his plush leather desk chair. He pushed a button on his intercom.
"Come in here please."
Within seconds, the door opened and in walked two of the biggest black men that Mark had ever seen. Each was at least 6'5" tall and built like professional wrestlers.
"Slave," Forrest said, "Meet my security team. You may call them 'SIR'. And I would advise you to stay in their good graces. They aren't nearly as patient with dumb animals as I am. And they are well trained in dealing with slaves. I have over twenty honky slaves here and these two are the only security I need."
"Now, " Forrest said, "I know you have questions, but I assure you that they are completely irrelevant. All you really need to worry about is doing exactly what I tell you without hesitation. And any Master that has purchased your services is to be treated as if he were me. If you follow that simple rule, you will be okay here. Now, as I'm sure you have realized, I run a brothel. It is the largest one in the country and it is completely legal. I have only male slaves here, and my clientele is strictly male. That means there is a whole lotta ass fuckin' goin' on doesn't it fellas?" Forrest laughed as he said this, and his two guards broke out laughing as well.
Mark, however, didn't find it funny at all. He was terrified. He had never really thought about the possibility of slaves being used for sex. ESPECIALLY not male slaves being fucked by men! Mark had never really had anything against faggots, well, as long as they kept the fuck away from him. Now these three niggers were talking about a "whole lotta ass fuckin'". He didn't know what he would do, but he knew one thing, he would never give his ass up willingly. He had a sinking feel, however, that, it wouldn't matter one bit whether he gave it up willingly or not. His fears were soon confirmed.
"Alright," Forrest said, "I can't waste time sitting here shootin' the shit with you, boy. It's time to get down to business. It is not yet legal for honkies to appear on the street naked, but here on my private property it's another story. Strip him." Before he could even think to protest, Mark felt two pair of very strong hands grabbing at him and ripping his singlet away. Within seconds he was standing there completely naked. He had wanted to say something, anything to these men to stop them from treating him like this, but he remembered his earlier lesson. Mark had never been completely naked in a room were all the other men were clothed. It was one thing to strip off in the locker room at the gym along with all the other guys, but here, this was a completely different situation. And in light of all the talk of ass fucking, Mark just KNEW that the three men were looking at his body with that in mind. He wanted desperately to cover himself with his hands, but of course it was impossible since his hands were still cuffed behind his back and attached to his collar by a short chain. Mark was completely vulnerable. Totally at the mercy of these crazy niggers.
Once the honky was stripped, Forrest got up from his desk and walked around to stand in front of him.
"Yes," he said to his guards. "This boy looks better up close than he did in the courtroom." Forest grabbed the boy's arm and pulled it to him. He wanted to inspect the "S" brand that had been burned there not two hours ago. It was still seeping pus, but there was no blood. Looked like it would heal nicely. "This will need to be looked after later." He said to no one in particular. He knew that his guards knew exactly what to do with a new slave. He began to run the flat of his hand over the honky's chest and flat stomach. "This boy is really in good shape," he said to the guards who both nodded in agreement. "See how the broad shoulders and the narrow waist form this triangle? That is very sexy, and is gonna make this boy especially popular." Forrest moved his hand down to his new honky's groin area. "I want this bush shaved off completely, it's too scraggly. A clean shaven look will be more appealing on this slave. And I want him cut of course. No uncut honky dicks in My house, he he he"
Mark couldn't believe what he was hearing, were they really talking about having him circumcised? Now he REALLY wanted to say something, but he knew that would only result in more pain. When ordered to he turned around. Then he felt Forrest's strong hands kneading the muscles in his back and then commenting on how well formed they were. Mark felt like some kind of bull being inspected. Then he heard something that sent a bold of terror through him.
"Bend him over."
Then he DID try to speak. To protest in some way, but before he could get the words out, his body was rocked by a gut punch so vicious that if he had eaten anything since the night before, he would have thrown it up then. Before he could recover, he found himself roughly bent over the desk. His bare feet were flat on the floor and his ass was in the air, spread wide and totally exposed.
One of the massive guards had his hand on Mark's neck holding his head immobile against the polished marble.
"This is My favorite part." Mark heard his owner say. "One of the benefits of buying brand new honky slaves directly from court. Most of them are virgins. And I get to take his cherry. I like to do this Myself and I don't use much lube or anything, because I think it is important for a slave to remember his first fucking by his Master. Spread his cheeks for me, Carl."
The other security guard not gripping Mark's neck, came around the side of the desk, leaned over Mark, grabbed a cheek in each hand, looked up at Forrest and smiled a crooked. knowing grin as he pulled each ass cheek apart, exposing Mark's virgin ass pussy. Forrest stepped forward, looked down at mark's upturned hole and whistled.
“prime honky pussy right there boys, prime honky pussy...” Mark's pink pucker involuntarily flexed as he heard his ass being talked of as a pussy by his new owner. Forrest noticed Mark's pussy twitch and chuckled. “bitch is getting excited now, look at that little pink hole winking at me” Forrest laughed a hearty laugh and his two guards joined in. Forrest was close enough to Marks naked ass that Mark could feel the heat radiating from his Master's proximity. The Black Man leaned over his new fuck toy, petted his head for a moment then jammed two, then three fingers into the honky's mouth. “suck” was all Forrest said and Mark new he must comply. Mark began sucking, moving his tongue up and down on the Black Man's fingers. Forrest nodded his head. “thats it cracker, get 'em good n wet”

Mark was horrified, his life was in a constant free fall and now here he was, naked, enslaved and to add insult to injury he was about to be a sex slave. Hate, regret, fear and a myriad of indescribable emotions flooded Marks mind as he felt Forrest, wipe his spit covered fingers up Mark's ass crack. Mark felt his Master's finger probing his hole. Felt the Black Man's thumb toy with his opening, swirling the ass hairs around his pucker. Forrest looked up at Carl “when you do his bush, get his ass shaved as well, I don't mind a fuzzy honky hole but this bastard's got a full sized welcome mat back here!” The Black Men laughed. Forrest drew his hand back and landed a resounding SMACK! To Marks right butt cheek.
Forrest unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, grunted slightly as he lifted his thickening dick from his boxer shorts. With one hand Forrest tucked the boxer waist band under his dark, hairy, low hanging nuts and with the other hand gave a rapid succession of tugs to his dick making it rise to full erection. Forrest spat in his hand and reaching forward rubbed the spit on his fat, blunt, dick head. The Black Man leaned forward and pressed the end of his manhood onto Marks, until today, one way street.
Within seconds Mark's world came to a standstill. Time telescoped and Mark was acutely aware of everything his senses were absorbing around him. He even felt his Master's dick enter his pussy. For something like a second there was only the sensation of movement then the pain that Mark could only quantify as sound raged in his head from a source behind his spine shooting bolts of ragged lightning into his very core. Mark tried to close his legs, to shimmy over the desk, to escape the pain. He couldn't even vocalize beyond hissing cries that ended in throaty clicks that faded to rasps just to begin all over again. Forrest pushed Carl away from Mark's ass “I got the bitch from here bruh...” Carl stepped back a pace and watched the show.
Marks legs were shaking, the veins in his neck and face were prominent and his face was bright red. Mark's arms were bound and tucked neatly together, high up on his mid back, secured by a strap to his collar, but even still Mark attempted to thrash them around, in a vain attempt at freedom. The security guard holding Marks neck, gripped the honky's neck tighter and pressed down a bit harder. Mark felt his access to air begin to tighten. “whoa, easy boy!” Forrest cooed as he pumped Marks violated sphincter. His whole body was cold and Mark felt tears rolling down his face. Once he stopped moving so much, Mark felt the Black Man's grip on his neck give just a little, allowing him better air flow. The pain continued, rough, hot, unyielding. Mark lay there, broken, bound, helpless feeling his new Master's sex, feeling his hands pull at his waist, slapping his ass. Mark heard Forrest grunt “aaaaah yeaahh bitch....” then Mark felt the hot spurts of his Master's load as Forrest came, balls deep in Mark's brand new fuck hole.
As Forrest pulled out he slapped Marks ass one more time “not bad honky, not bad at all. Don't worry though, you'll get better...” The Black Men again laughed. “This won't be the last Black dick your gonna have up that tight little pink pussy!”

“damn boss, you gave that cracker a real good cherry poppin'!” Carl said, in congratulatory style. Forrest pulled Mark up off the desk and pushed him down on the floor at his feet. “clean me up honky” Mark was dazed, in physical shock. He looked up at his new Master with his new face, a face Forrest had seen hundreds of times. A broken, expressionless, blank slate streaked with tears and blotched red. Mark stared at the Black Man for a moment, unsure of what to do. Forrest, didn't miss a beat, he pulled his hand back, and back handed Mark, throwing him off balance and tumbling him to the floor. Carl was behind him in an instant and pulled him up by his shoulders “no time to rest cracker...” Carl said jokingly. Forrest leaned over, and grabbed Marks wet and confused face with one hand and squeezed his cheeks together making Marks mouth into a comical bright red pucker “I said... clean me up!” Forrest shook Mark's face as he said this for emphasis.
Forrest stood back up straight, folded his arms across his chest. Mark looked up at the Black Man, his Master and saw his imposing figure, legs apart, manhood jutting forward, slick with cum ,froth and blood... Mark froze for a second again then, with fear and a kind of curious reverence. Mark didn't get a chance to look back up at Forrest before the back of Forrest's hand was once again rocketing Mark to the floor. “with your mouth dumb ass! NOW!” Again Carl hefted Mark to his knees. The other guard was chuckling behind Forrest, amused by the honky's stupidity.
Pale as a ghost, eyes vacant and half lidded, Mark leaned forward, opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around his Master's hard dick. Mark closed his eyes and pushed away all thoughts in his head until he felt nothing. He slowly licked and pulled his stretched mouth over the hard Black dick. Mark could taste the froth and blood and he could smell his own ass on his Master's manhood and wanted to vomit .
Forrest reached up and grabbed mark's ears and without warning began to thrust. Like a piston Forrest attacked Mark's face fucking deep and sliding in and out of his throat. The honky's eye's bulged and he began to gag, sputter and flail. Carl held Mark's shoulders and firmly kept him down on his knees. Mark's cheeks puffed out and his eyes reddened and teared as he struggled for breath. Moments later another volley of hot jizz shot from Forrest's impressive johnson. The first shot was straight down Marks throat, the second and third hit the back of his throat and the last hits flooded his mouth. Cum came spurting out mark's nose as the honky gurgled and choked for air as Forrest continued to thrust in and out of Mark's face. Forrest gave a little sigh, pulled his dick from Mark's mouth, patted the honky on the head and pulled up his trousers, tucked his manhood back into his boxers and dressed.
Forrest moved back around to his desk, shuffled some paper and organized it's surface. Without looking up Forrest commanded his guards.
“Get him cleaned up and have the doctor take a look at his pussy, bitch looks like he's on his period” The guards laughed and it was then that Mark felt the small trickle of warmth on his inner thighs. He looked down and saw a mixture of cum and blood and although he figured he should be humiliated and disgusted, instead, Mark, newly enslaved honky sex toy, felt nothing.
Those first few days had been unbelievably awful for Mark. Not only had Forrest fucked him brutally, but the two guards had also taken their pleasure with him. And they were even more brutal than Forrest was. They took turns fucking his ass and his mouth. Then one Sir would rest a bit while the other one fucked him, and then vice versa. The purpose of this was to teach the honky that his mouth and asshole were to become his main sexual organs. He was never allowed to cum, himself, and to emphasize the point, for the first week or so, Mark's wrists were shackled to a bare pipe next to his mat every night so that he wouldn't touch himself.
That first day, Mark was fully convinced that he would die. He actually thought that these three men were gonna fuck the life out of him. He learned very soon though, through experience and also chatting with the other slaves during rare downtime and between mandatory workouts, that not only would he survive, but he could thrive. To his surprise, Mark was even learning to get used to being fucked.
Mark was absolutely terrified when he was called in to be prepared for his first client. He knew that he had been trained well. Hell, in fact, he had been fucked by every Man and slave in the building. He had not only learned to take dick in the ass, but he had learned how to bring pleasure to a man. And not just to do it to avoid punishment, but to do it with enthusiasm. He had learned to watch a Master's reaction closely while he sucked his dick. That way he would learn what brought that particular Master pleasure and he could concentrate on that.
The way things were set up, when a Master would purchase the services of a honky, that master was given the choice to use the slave in one of the plush suites right there in the building, or he could take the stave to his own home. Whenever, a Master chose to take a slave away from the building, he was required to take him shackled and on a leash.
Mark's first client had chosen the second option. This made mark very nervous. He had spoken to many other slaves who had horror stories about certain clients. And he had seen slaves come back needing serious medical attention. Of course Master Forrest frowned on this, but his client, knew that they were responsible for any medical bills incurred from the use of a slave. This was fine and well, but Mark didn't want to be injured or abused.
In his weeks at the Pleasure Palace, he had learned to be a good slave. Gone was his tendency to question everything. He had learned obedience. Gone was his habit of dwelling on the "unfairness of it all." He had learned acceptance. Gone was his penchant for rebelliousness. He had learned submission. Mark was now a honky pleasure slave...nothing more.
The client arrived at exactly the moment he was scheduled to. Mark was collared, shackled and leashed. Because he was going outside the building, he was dressed in a tight singlet. Printed on the front of the singlet and stretching across Mark's torso was the words “Pleasure Palace” The former being stacked above the latter. The singlet felt oppressive to Mark, slightly itchy and pulling at his skin. After all this time in the Pleasure Palace, Mark had become used to a natural state of nakedness and the singlet, to Mark, felt even more binding than the collar he always wore or even the shackles he now had on his ankles. Mark was gagged, his arms bent behind his back and wrists attached high up to the back of his collar with a short chain. The client yanked the leash hard and Mark and his Master for the week end exited the plush lobby and walked out onto the city pavement. Mark trotted along behind the Black Man, trying to keep up his pace while wearing the shackles and with his arms unable to provide balance. The hot sidewalk burning Mark's bare feet with every step. Now and then Mark would stumble and the client would grumble a curse at Mark and yank the leash harder.

As they passed one of the municipal parks, Mark looked over and to his complete humiliation, he saw Eric, his former friend that he was trying to protect when all of this happened. Inwardly, he hoped that Eric wouldn't see him. But they were passing so close that there was no way it could be avoided. Just as Mark thought that they would pass unnoticed, Eric looked up. He did an actual double-take that would have been comical if the circumstances hadn't been so serious. This time there was instant recognition. Eric had been bent at the waist toiling away at a flowerbed with a hoe. He stood straight up and stared at Mark as he passed. They were so close that mark could actually see tears beginning to flow down Eric's face. He mouthed, "I'm so sorry" then cut his eyes away as his master was approaching. Mark couldn't help but think about how all of this could have been avoided. Still looking at Eric, who had went back to his work. "I'm sorry too," he said to himself, although there was no one to hear.
The End.


Honky Chow
by SirKinyon

    My name is Marcus Williams.  I've always been a pretty unassuming guy, not ugly, but definitely not a pretty boy.  Always made good grades in school, but because I wasn't a buff football player and my skin was more black than brown, the girls I grew up with never really paid too much attention to me.  It always amazed me that my own people would ridicule me for being "too black".  Well, all that began to change when the reparations laws were passed.  Before, many black people secretly envied the white man because of his privilege and economic power.  This secret envy, over the years crept into our social interactions.  Many black people were said to be "color struck," meaning that they were only attracted to people who were "high yellow."  This left us darker brothas out in the cold.  But now that whitey is being put in his proper place, that has all changed.  You see fewer black women with perms on their hair, or even hair weave.  Now the "natural" is even more popular than it was way back in the 1970's.  And Black is beautiful again.  When I first heard about the reparations law, I thought somebody was playin tricks.  Hell, I didn't believe it till I got my first check, but there it was, a check from the United States Department of Reparations.  That first check was only $500, but it was very much needed.  At that time I lived in a small apartment just off the river.  I woke everyday to the stench of sewage and dead rats.  Of course, that was all that floated down the river in those days.  Brown sludge and trash.  My apartment was basically one not so big room with ratty carpet that just barely covered the concrete floor.  My twin sized bed was in one corner and my bathroom was in another.  My "kitchen"  consisted of a tiny little portable fridge and a hotplate for cooking, since i couldn't afford to spend money on a stove.  I hated that place, but it was all I could afford.  The only work I could get back then was temp jobs.  Every morning, I would get up and go down to the manpower station and wait around with 30 other dudes(mostly black and mexican) for somebody, anybody, to hire us.  Usually it was somebody who needed a roof fixed or some handyman work done.  It was back-breaking work and low paying.  But it kept a roof over my head and the lights on...barely.

    After the reparations started, my life changed for the better.  I started going to the Reparations Center after work.  They had a good adult education center, and I decided to take some classes.  I had hesitated at first because I didn't have a high school diploma, but then I found out that I didn't need one.  All I needed was to be African American.  I found that I had a real interest in science.  Particularly chemistry.  I was fascinated by the things you could accomplish just by mixing this or that.  The problem was, there was no way that my newfound interest in chemistry was gonna improve my my financial situation, so in addition to the chemistry classes, I decided to take a transmission class.  I have always been good with my hands and I enjoyed fixing things.  Soon the reparations checks started being enough to pay my bills, so I didn't have to go out on temp jobs anymore.  This allowed me to become a fulltime student.  Before long, I was practically teaching the class.  I could tear down a diesel engine, clean it and rebuild it all by myself in less than two days.  In fact, I was so good that my instructor got me a job with the city, taking care of all thier vehicles and keeping them in tip-top shape.

    By the time they passed the sponsorship law, I was doing great.  I had finally moved out of that grungy, stinky little one room apartment, and moved into a nice 2 bedroom condo, just on the outskirts of downtown.  I even agreed to sponsor a couple of whiteboys who had been working for me in the shop.  That was an easy gig, seeing as though, they both were hard workers and they gave me no trouble.  Well almost, but this missive is not about my advintures with a couple of honkies, so lets move on.  When the slavory law went into effect, I didn't see too many changes, well not immediately anyway. 

    I remember hearing about a big trial in New York City.  There had been this black man, a two-bit hood, who had gotten busted trying to steal a car.  It turns out that this was his third offense.  And according to a new law, any third time offender was sentenced to at least 10 years which now meant that he was subject to enslavement.  Of course the guy couldn't afford an attorney, so he had one that was court appointed.  Well just as the judge, one of the few white judges left,  was about to sentence this black man to enslavement, his court appointed lawyer, spoke up and sited an almost 30 year old law, that stated that no American of African decent would ever legally be enslaved.  It turns out that back then, the racial tension in this country had almost reached the boiling point.  In an attempt to keep the violence in the black ghettos from spilling over into the white suburbs, the government made what it considered to be a grand gesture.  Of course, in thier eyes this was a law that would never be used, because slavory would never be instituted again in the United States.  It was just an empty gesture that would never mean anything, but would definitely curry favor with the black voters.  Now it was coming back to bite them.  Of course, the white judge ignored the counselor and sentenced the black man to 10 years which opened up the probability of enslavement.  Of course there was no possibility of appeal for an enslavement sentence, but right before the man went to his enslavement hearing, the court appointed attorney disappeared and from out of nowhere came this shark...a real Litigator.  He was one of those lawyers who you just KNEW billed $250 an hour.  And indeed it came out in the media that he did.  He said that he took the case pro bono because he felt that this black man needed to be protected from this overzealous honky judge.  The media should have known something was up when this black lawyer had the BALLS to call this white judge a honky.  To make a long story short, the lawyer filed a last minute appeal on behalf of the man.  The issue:  the legality of enslaving this black man. The case went all the way to the supreme court where it was overturned.  It was determined that the original law was to be upheld.  As a result, the black theif was sent to prison, but NOT enslaved.  Of course, those stupid honkies tried to protest.  They figured that if they raised enough of a ruckus, that maybe the whole slavery law would be overturned, but it didn't work.  Now, not only was it ONLY legal to enslave non-blacks, but a great number of these honkies who got arrested now had their firsrt strike.

    When the slavory laws first went into effect, I had expected to see slaves all over the place.  But it wasn't like that at all.  Most slaves at that point had been convicts, some dangerous and some not.  So the only slaves we saw were construction crews.  Of course, many of the dangerous jobs like mining and hazardous waste disposal  were said to be done by slaves.  The City even bought up a bunch of them and put them to work.  It was strange at first, seeing road crews working away all chained together.  Then they decided to use some of those slaves in my mechanic shop.  At first I was against it, I wasn't sure how to deal with an actual slave.  Now don't get me wrong, I can handle myself, physically.  I wasn't scared, but it was different when you had a bunch of them.  But it seems like they had thought of almost everything.  There was a Cracker Control officer assigned to the machine shop to "watch over things".  He was a great guy named Trent.  He told me that he had been in the an Army Ranger before he was recruited by a representive of the Reparations Department.

    Trent was tall and handsome.  The type of guy that I used to be jealous of when I was in high school.  He was built like a track star, obviously muscular but not overly buff.  A thin waist that was accentuated by broad shoulders and big arms.  And he had big thighs that always seemed to be straining to get out of his form-fitting uniform pants.  Even though he could be almost brutal with the slaves whenhe needed to be, Trent was actually a very nice guy.  He had a easy smile and an infectious laugh.  Okay, at this point you may be thinking that I sound as if I was a bit fond of Trent.  The truth is, I was very attracted to him.  I am bi sexual...there, now you know.  It made no difference really, this new society had the surprising side effect that black society was becoming much more accepting of gay people.  I would find out MUCH later that it was all in the plan.  Anyway, I never actually came on to Trent.  Even if he DID turn out to be gay or bi, he would undoubtedly be a top, and since I am a total top, myself, it wouldn't work out anyway.  So I just left it alone and admired him from afar. 

    "They knew this was gonna happen," Trent said to me one day.  It was very easy to do my job now, because all the slaves were always shackled to their work stations.  I still had two free honkies working for me, the two who I sponsored, but now their main job was to oversee the work that the slaves were doing and also to fetch parts and anything else the slaves needed. 

    "What?"  I asked. 

    Trent and I were sitting at my desk chillin'.  "This whole slavery thing." he said idly fingering his slave prod.  He had explained to Me that the slave prod was really a cattle prod that had been modified to have specific effects on the human nervous system.  He assured me that any slave who had experienced it once, would never want to experience it again.  "It's been in the works for years.  And it's been a long time coming.  It was a change that needed to happen.  Whitey had his chance, and look what he did with it.  It's our turn now, and we're not gonna make the same mistakes that the honkies made."

    As we were sitting there, My computer beeped.  It was a memo from the higher ups.  Turns out the  mayor was upset that we weren't saving as much money as they had projected from switching to slave labor.  Just as I finished reading the electronic memo, the door opened.  I looked down at my watch and saw that it was dinner time.

    "Alright you slaves!"  I heard Trent's voice call out.  "Chowtime!  Those of you at tables, stay where you are.  Those shackled to a vehicle, wait to be moved."  Each slave was shackled to his workspace.  For some, that meant having a long chain running from the leg of the metal table he was working on, to a shackle around his own ankle.  For others, this meant being shackled to a long chain attatched to the axle of a car or truck or whatever city vehicle they were working on.  The slaves worked 12 hour days which meant that they ate all three meals right here with me.  Of course there was always groans and grumbles, but these honkies had it easy.  The slaves on the road crews were chained together by a metal pole that was run through little rings on their metal collars.  They took their meals out in the hot sun sitting by the side of the road.  So these boys ought not complain. 

    Of course, I had seen these boys eat before, but today, I was watching them just after reading a memo from the mayor about cutting costs.  It occured to Me that these slaves were eating good.  Very good.  There was baked turkey, looks like four nice slices on each tray, a large helping of mashed potatos, green beans, two peices of cornbread and a piece of cake for desert.  Hell, they're eating better than I would be if I weren't eating here.  As they all sat down to eat, I went over to one of the honkies, and casually asked if he was enjoying the meal.

    "Yes, sir," he said.  He was a big guy with dusty brown hair and a missing tooth.  "This is a hellava lot better than that shit they fed us in the joint."

    "But you work longer hours here, don't you?"  I asked.

    "Yeah, but the work is easier," He said barely keeping  himself from spewing cornbread crumbs all over the place. "Plus, when we leave here and go back to the dorms, we get a hot shower and we get to watch tv till we go to sleep."

    "So, being a slave is not so much different from being in prison, then?"  I asked, actually getting a little angry.

    "Oh it's way better!"  He said, laughing.  "I get to work for the city, doin' somethin' I'm good at.  And look at these clothes, they from a thrift store, sure, but they still btter than what I had when I was locked up.  And they got a whole crew of guys that wash all our work clothes three times a week."  Damn, I thought to myself, these slaves have an easier life than I do.

    That night after work, I went down to the human resources office.  They were just about to close but Shanequa, at the front desk had a little crush on me so she stayed there for a while and answered My questions.  Through her, I found out that the City had bought 200 slaves from the prison system then paid to have them sent through some sort of training program that the reparations department had set up.  I asked Shaniqua if she had gotten the memo about the cost overruns, and she said yeah.  I told her about the way the slaves were fed and that was probably the biggest portion of the budget right there.  She said that was true, and it had been discussed in the big meeting they had in the corporate office today, but it had been decided that certain cutbacks would be made to save money, things like, longer working hours, a uniform for the slaves that would differentiate them from the free honkies, things like that.  But it was decided that the one place that they could NOT cut back on was feeding the slaves.  They had to make sure that they were fed properly in order to have strength for the hard work that they do.

    She had a point, of course, but there had to be something that could be done.  The City was basically spending $70 to $100 a day to care for each slave on the roster.  That included caring for the clothes and goddam cable service in the comfy dorms.  This was a little less than they would pay in salary to a freeman, but it was still too much.  I saw many areas where cuts cold be made.  Starting with the food.  During my time at the training center, I had learned that I had a pretty high aptitude for chemistry.  And there was an idea forming in my head.

    For the next two weeks, I was a man on a mission.  I knew what I wanted to do, but I wasn't sure how to do it.  I spent most of My free time either at the library doing research, sitting at the computer doing research, or in my kitchen slaving over a hot stove.  I found that once I had set my mind to what I wanted to do, it was difficult to think of anything else.  Even Trent noticed that something was different.  Well, I guess it was obvious since instead of shooting the shit with him while the slaves worked away, I now always had my head buried in a book.  He also noticed that I was slimming down a bit.  When he asked me about it, I told him that I was on a diet.  It wasn't a lie actually, and he believed it because I hadn't taken a meal with him and the slaves, in over a week.  Don't get me wrong, it was hard as hell to watch these guys eat fried chicken, porkchops, mashed potatos and the other damn good food the City was wasting on honky slaves.  But I knew that it would be worth it in the end. 

    After a month of eating only my secret concoction, it was finally time to see the results.  I had gone to the doctor for a full check up, beforehand.  I had always been a pretty healthy guy.  I liked to stay in shape by working out a couple times a week, so after the doctor had given me a clean bill of health, he was surprised to see me back exactly a month later.  But there I was.  After taking all of My vitals, and doing all the blood tests, the doctor seemed perplexed.  He said that My blood pressure, which always ran a bit high but not high enough for medication, was down on the low end of normal.  My bad cholesterol was down and my good cholesterol was up.  The good news went on and on.  The doctor was astounded.  He said that I was healthier than a man ten years younger than me.  I asked him to document everything, negative and positive, for me and he did.  The only negative he could come up with was that I was too stubbern to tell him my secret.  I promised him that I would tell him as soon as I had the patent.  He thought I was joking, but a week later, I had just that.

    Of course, I had to wait for over a week to get an appointment with my boss.  Leroy Fredricks, the city manager, is a pudgy little man with paper sack brown skin, a balding head, and a smug attitude.  Everyone knows that the only reason he got this job was because he is the mayor's cousin.  As it turns out, ol' Leroy was catching hell from every direction.  Especially with the budget issues.  Because of this, he seemed unusually open to listen to what I had to say.  I started the meeting by telling him about the idea that I had.  As expected, he resisted any changes to the slaves' diet, citing concerns for their health and ability to work.  The city had spent millions on these slaves and that investment had to be protected.  This is exactly where I had wanted this conversation to go.  Leroy was now on his soapbox about the health of the slaves.  It was then that I showed him the before and after results from My check-ups.  He was astounded.  He of course, saw that I was much healthier than now than I had been before.  And when I mentioned that my formula could be mass-produced at a very small percentage of the cost of feeding the slaves now.  Once I had my formula perfected, and began my month long trial, my grocery bill for that month had practically disappeared.  Of course I had done My research. Half a pound of my formula would provide adaquate nourishment for a a slave for a whole day, if fed twice a day.  The stuff could be mass produced for about $1.50 a pound.  I need to make a nice profit of course, so I would charge $5.00 a pound.  But that meant that the city would only be spending  $2.50 a day to feed each slave.  Where they are now paying about $7.00 per meal three times a day.  Couple this with serious changes in the way the slaves are clothed and housed, and the city's cost would be practically nothing.

    This excited the city manager, no doubt, but he was still unconvinced.  This was expected. I told him that he should let Me have two of the slaves in my crew to use as test subjects.  I would use two that were a bit overweight and could use some slimming down.  "But won't that make them harder to deal with?"  Leroy asked.  "I mean, it IS a bit unfair to have two eating your "Honky Chow" as you call it, while the others are eating hearty meals?"

    "Okay Mr. Fredricks," I said.  "That may be true, but the truth is, My honky chow is much more nutritious than any meal the slaves eat now.  And without all the extra stuff that they don't need.  And as for the 'unfairness' of it all, you need to remember that these are honky slaves we are talking about here.  We need to start thinking of them as just that.  The law no longer recognizes them as even being human.  They are property.  Nothing more.  But not only do we need to change the way we see them, THEY need to change the way that they see THEMSELVES!  They are more cattle than people.  The sooner they learn this and accept it, the better it will be for everyone.  Honky Chow will go a long way toward achieving that.  I've also got some ideas about other areas of slave maintainance, but that is for another day.  I am mainly concerned with Honky Chow right now.  Think about it Leroy."  I purposfully called him by his first name. "Don't you think that other owners of large numbers of slaves are having the same problem as we are?  Thying to treat slaves just like us, rather than the cattle that they are?  The concern needs to shift to keeping them as healthy as possible in order to get the most work out of them, thereby getting the best return on our investment.  When other owners get wind of honky chow, they're gonna be clammoring for it.  And it will all have started right here, with a decision YOU made."

    When it was all said and done, I had appealed to Leroy's power hungry nature more than anything else.  He had his eye on the Mayor's Office.  This just might be his ticket.  He approved my request to test honky chow on two of the slaves in my department.  When I got back to the shop, Trent was there keeping things under control.  It was amazing to me, how he did that basically with the power of his personality.  I pulled him to the side and told him of the plan.  He agreed with Leroy that it may cause some problems with the two selected slaves, but he was trained to handle any problems that may arise.  In fact, he suggested that at chow time, these two would be seperated from the others.  I said that I would do him one better.  I would seperate them totally.  There was an empty garage next door, that could easily be used.  The garage shared a wall with the main shop and the door could be easilly secured.  The two test slaves would not only work in there, but they could be housed there as well.  Easily locked in at night after their work is done.  it would only be for a month.  Trent agreed that was best.

    We chose two slaves that were in need of a bit of healthy living, and possibly a bit of discipline training as well.  The first one, Frank, had been arrested in the riots just after the slavery law had been announced.  It had been his third strike, as he had been arrested twice before for refusing to pay reparations.  The City bought him from the prison because he was a licensed mechanic.  Frank, at 45 years old, stood about 5'10" tall and weighed 230 lbs according to his file.  He was rough looking with his permanent five o'clock shadow and his dirty brown hair cropped short.  The second test honky, Sam, was 40 years old, 6' tall and weighed in at 265 lbs.  I had noticed that at chowtime Sam would often be the first to finish his food and would also eat the lestovers that any of the others had.  He was a big brutish type, that often complained about shit that he had no control over.  His mousy brown hair was always unkemt and he looked like a big ol' slob.

    Once chosen, I had these two honkies sent to the company doctor for complete checkups.  And just as I suspected,  both were suffering from high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and Frank, the oldest of the two was a borderline diabetic.  All of these things will cause costly problems for the City in the future.  Of course, these honkies were NOT happy about this change.  I remember on the very first day, they were understandably reluctant to change, but of course they didn't have any choice.  In fact it wasn't much different than the work they had been doing all along.  Frank was chained to a large garbage truck working on the hydrolics, and Sam was chained to  a pickup truck working on the transmission.  Of course there was some grumbling going on, but Trent and I allow it because we new what was coming.  When it was chowtime, and Trent and I got the other slaves squared away and eating their large meals, we went next door.  Frank and Sam were obviously hungry.  Trent walked up to Frank and handed him four small Honky Chow nuggets.  They actually looked like those Pecan Sandies that you eat at Christmas.  I had decided that this form would be the easiest to work with.  They don't take up much space and they can be easilly distributed.  "What is this, desert?"  Frank asked.  Sam just looked expectantly at me once I handed him his four cookies.

    "No." I said, standing back a bit from Sam.  I figured that I may as well tell them. "Look," I began.  "You are slaves now.  I don't owe you any explainations, but I will this once, so that you know what to expect.  The two of you have been chosen for an experiment. You have been seperated from the other slaves for a reason.  For the next month you will live right here in this room.  You will work here, eat here and sleep here."

    "Now wait a min..."  Frank began

    "Shut the fuck up, boy." Trent said calmly.  "Master Marcus is talking.  You will listen and not interrupt.  If he decides to let you ask questions he will let you know."  Then he looked at Me.  "Go ahead, Markus."

    "Thanks, Trent, " I said,  "Now, what you are holding in your hand is called Honky Chow.  It is what you will eat from now on."  It was kinda funny to both of their jaws drop at the same time.  "The four cookies you have in your hand represent one meal.  This meal contains all the nutrients your body needs and none of the trash it doesn't need.  The City has wasted too much time and money on you slaves.  You were purchased to save taxpayer's momey.  That hasn't happened yet.  With Honky Chow it will.  And you two are the fattest and most unhealthy slaves in My department, so I will use you as an example.  For the next month you will be isolated from the rest of the slaves and this is the only thing you will eat.  And you will only be fed twice a day"

    As I spoke, I watched the two slave's reaction.  These two had not only been chosen because of their general bad health, but also potential discipline problems.  Just as I had predicted,  Sam, the young hothead was the first to speak up.  "What the fuck do you mean only twice a day?"  As he said this, he took a step toward Me.  "You have no right to...AAAAAAAHHH!"

    As he stepped toward me, Trent sprang into action and, like a flash had delivered what looked like a gentle touch of his slave prod.  The result, however was anything BUT gentle.  The big honky's body stiffened and he went immediately to the ground and began to twitch.  It seemed as if he was trying to scream or say something, but all he could get out was gutteral grunts.  I gave him a moment to recover, then continued to speak.  "That's where you're wrong, whiteboy,"  I deliberately refrained from using his name, although I had done so many times in the past. "I have EVERY right to do what I please.  That's another change that will start here and now.   You honky slaves have had it way too easy.  That ends now.  You will be reminded on a daily basis that you are nothing but slaves.  Property."

    As I said this, Frank spoke up.  "I am STILL a MAN, you fuckin' nig..."  Before he could get the word out, Trent had given him the same touch that he had given Sam.  The result was the exactly the same.  Once he had recovered a bit, but while he was still on the ground, I continued.  "Lesson number one,"  I said calmly, "You will only speak when spoken to.  And when you DO speak, you will do it respectfully.  Any free man regardless of race will be referred to as 'sir', and since you are City property, any City employee will be referred to as 'Master'.  Any failure on your part will result in punishment.  And now that you both have had a taste of the slave prod, I'm sure you will want to behave."  I paused a moment for effect.  "Oh, and just so you know,  Master Trent has his prod set on low.   Tomorrow, he'll be bringing me my own slave prod.  I am not well trained like he is, so I will keep mine set to high.  And I assure you, I won't hesitate to use it."  As I was speaking, Trent and I stepped toward the door.  I looked at both slaves, both were now standing again, but they were both still visibly shaken.  I was gonna enjoy this.

    Over the next month, things had begun to settle into a nice quiet routine.  Of course the two honkies had to be prodded a couple more times before they gained the proper persprctive on life.  Sam, the younger of the two, had even been stripped and caned on his bare ass a couple of times.  This got some "act right" out of him pretty easilly.  Of course, they always felt a bit of hunger, but their bodies were showing definite signs of improvement.  Slimming down, more energy, things like that.  But it was their attitude that was actually showing the most improvement. Both referred to Trent and I as "Master" without having to be reminded.  They never spoke without being spoke to, and when they did speak, they never looked us directly in the eye.  I knew that with proper training a honky could be taught to be properly submissive.  I had even went and bought two sets of dark blue coveralls.  This is all the slaves wore from that point on.  Every other night after work, they were required to wash these coveralls and hang them in front of the big shop fan to dry.  This would save even more money in the longrun.

    Once the month was up, I took the two slaves back to the company doctor and had them examined again.  The results were exactly as I suspected that they would be.  The two slaves were much healthier than they had been before the expirament began.  This proved that my own results had not been an anomaly.  They were real and reproducable.  I presented My results along with the two honkies to Leroy, the City Manager.  He was so impressed that within an hour, we were in a meeting with the Mayor himself.  The Mayor had been impressed with the the two honkies' overall submissive demeanor upon first sight.  Then when I presented My personal results and the results from the honkies, he was very impressed indeed.  At this point he was willing to try just about anything.  The city council was on his ass about the budget.  And he was up for re-election in less than a year.

    After some discussion/debate on cost and profit, the Mayor decided to not only purchase Honky Chow and use it as the sole means of feeding the City's slave workforce, but he also wanted in on the ground floor of my new business.  He became an investor.  A silent partner.  Being the smart guy that I am, I had already researched some locations for my new Honky Chow plant.  I had even priced much of the equipment that I would need in order to mass produce Honky Chow.  All I needed was funds to get the ball rolling.  Now, between the The City's huge order, and the Mayor's investment capitol, I had all the cash I needed.

    A month later, when the finances were examined, it was determined that the City had been spending, at the very least $180,000 a month just feeding the slave workforce.  Now, however the city's Honky Chow bill was only $15,000 for the first month.  This, in itself, was enough to shut the City Council up, but the added health factors and increased productivity(the slaves work day had been lengthened from 12 hours Monday through Friday to 16 hours a day Monday through Saturday, and on call Sunday) insured that the Mayor was now The City Council's new hero.

    News spread quickly and I began to get orders from not only companies and farms that had large slave workforces, but also from other cities who had been experiencing similar budget issues.  After six months, it was becoming apparent that Honky Chow was gonna be a huge hit.  The orders had been so heavy that I'd had to purchase a larger building.  One that could not only house the Honky Chow plant, but could also house the 70 honky slaves that I had purchased to man the place.  It was a bit difficult, but I even managed to hire Trent away from Cracker Control to oversee the slaves at the plant.  I wanted to get him for a couple of reasons, number one because I knew how good he was dealing with slaves and I knew that My workforce would be growing and he could train other overseers.  Reason number two was because Trent and I had become very good friends...with benefits.

    One evening, just after I had hired Trent away from the city, I had invited him to My new house for coctails.  I didn't really have alot of friends because I worked so much.  Especially, in those early days of the Honky Chow corporation.  But I had just bought this big beautiful house and I waned to celebrate a bit.  After I had given him a tour of the large 4 bedroom house, Trent and I were sitting on the couch drinking beer( The Real Man's Coctail).  He mentioned the fact that this was a pretty big house for just one person.  I told him that I had grown up in a house where I had to share a room with three older brothers.  I DESERVED a big house and now that I could afford it, I have one.  He suggested that I buy a honky slave to take care of the place for me.

    "I don't need a honky here in My house."  I said, "I can clean up after myself."

    "True,"  Trent said, looking at me more directly now, "but there are other needs that a honky slave can come in quite handy for."

    I smiled at him over my Bud Light, "That's what I've got you for"  I said.

    "Yeah, but having a cute little slave boy would make things alot more fun."

    He was right of course.  Although Trent and I have alot of fun together when we can find the time, we are both tops.  That means tha there are certain things that we just can't do for each other.   I couldn't really argue with his logic, so two weeks later, I bought a 18 year old honky slave to use as my houseboy.  Trent had helped me pick him out at the auction, and then was instrumental in his training.  I never payed any attention to what the honky's born name was, but I changed it to cracker.  Of course he hated it at first, but a few sessions with the punishment cane across his lily white ass and he was jumping to the sound of his new name..   Trent had insisted on buying a honky that was very newly enslaved because they are cheaper.  I went along with it because I knew that he could handle the honky's training.  We chose a honky so young because they are easier to train and his resale value would be higher after he is properly trained.

    Cracker stood about 5'9" tall with a swimmer's build...slim but sinewy.  He had mousy brown hair and grey eyes.  I thought he was kinda sexy for a honky.  Trent had suggested that I buy a cage to keep him in until his training was complete.  A small, uncomfortible one.  The honky needed to understand that his life had completely changed.  Trent had said that since cracker was to be used as a sex slave as well, it was very important that I take his cherry as soon as possible, so I did that as soon as I got him back to My house.  It was a decent fuck, no lube of course.  Trent said that it needed to be painful for the slave so that he would always remember it.  I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that there was alot of screaming and begging and pleading.  Over the next month, Trent had basically moved in, to facilitate cracker's training.  I really enjoyed watching him train the honky.  He systematiclly turned cracker from a belligerant honky who had been enslaved for robbing a pawn shop, into an attentive, compliant and docile houseboy/sextoy.

    By the end of cracker's training, I had professed My love for Trent and he for me.  He moved in, and accepted a position as Head Overseer at my Honky Chow Plant.  We enjoyed our arrangement very much, especially now that we both had cracker to fuck.  We would cuddle and make love as two tops would, then fuck cracker's brains out.  When we're done with him, we kick him out of bed and he sleeps in the cage that we had built in under our bed.  It is a bit uncomfortible for him, but who cares, he's just a honky.  Then Trent and I would fall asleep comfortibly in each other's arms.

    Now, seven years later, The Honky Chow Corporation is close to the top of the Fortune 500.  We have plants in 4 states (2 in California), all run with slave labor, of course.  Trent and I are still together.  In fact, a new law was passed and Trent and I were legally married 2 years ago.  We live on a 200 acre farm where our 300 honky slave  workforce produces enough veggies and animal byproducts to supply all of our factories.  Our house is a sprawling colonial style mansion which takes a staff of 12 house honkies to maintain.  Cracker is very useful in keeping them all in line.  Trent and I adopted five year old African twin boys who's mother had died in childbirth.  Now they are thriving and under the parentage of Trent and I, they will grow up to be well-educated, healthy and strong.  We are even thinking of opening another plant here in Texas and manning it with all females.  That way, we can breed them.  I think that bred honkies will be all the rage in 20 years or so and we will be in the forefront of that industry.  By that time, it will be the twins running it, and not Me and Trent.

    What a legacy we are leaving for our children.  No, I am not talking about Honky Chow, or slave breeding, I'm talking about "We" as a society, leaving our Black children a world that is free of the tyranny of whitey.  The world is already a better place because of what we have done here in this country.  Of course the road has not been easy, and there are still wars to be fought with countries who think that what we have done here is wrong.  But the United States of America has again become such an economic powerhouse, that few nations can afford to defy us.  Just ask Canada and Mexico who depend on us so much that those two countries may as well be states!  Yes, the legacy we are leaving our children is a great one indeed.