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From the Journal of Jaxon King,
by Skorpio
Part Twenty-Three
On Juneteenth, Mom threw a big backyard cookout for our friends and neighbors. I'm told if there are more than seven people, it's a cookout, not a barbecue. There was so much food that Marcus and I practically stuffed ourselves. Everyone brought something: ribs, fried chicken, greens, potato salad, sweet potato pie, cornbread. That's the way it works. The music blasted off with Nas and Jay-Z, moved on to old-school R&B with R Kelly and Dru Hill, and finally classic disco hits.
Marcus brought along his boy, Darkeem, with some news. I had seen Darkeem around school, a tall, lean brother with braids who played ball but mostly kept to himself. He was one grade above us. The news was that Marcus told Darkeem about his hold over our former history teacher. When Marcus explained how the truth came out, I could not fault him for coming clean. I would have done the same.
Darkeem was relieved there were no white folks at the cookout. He was complaining about his parents having white friends over all the time, and how the house always smelled when they left. His coach was white and did not know shit about the game. The white guidance counselor actually discouraged him from applying to college and told him to learn a trade instead.
Then, Darkeem dropped the bombshell: "One of these days I want to see a cracker do what he's told."
"What would you tell him to do?" Marcus pursued.
"I'd tell him to suck my dick!" said Darkeem.
"What if I told you that I had a white faggot as my own personal slave and cocksucker?"
Darkeem: "I'd say you were crazy. Don't get me wrong, I'm down with the whole idea, cuz, but I'm from Missouri and you'll have to show me."
Marcus: "Let's go talk to Jaxon."
I got a good feel for Darkeem simply from shaking his hand. His firm, decisive grip showed integrity and character. Our eyes met in mutual judgment, and then we smiled. We were brothers. He carried a rolled-up, worn paperback edition of poems by Gil Scott Heron, which was another point in his favor. Like the old saying goes, deep calleth unto deep.
"What Marcus told you is true," I said. "He really does have a white fag for an actual slave. So do I, except, well, mine didn't start off as a fag, or at least he didn't think he was. It's complicated. The bitch is at work right now, making my money, but he should be home soon. I'll introduce you, and if you want a blowjob, it's on the house."
"Can we go somewhere to smoke a blunt?" asked Darkeem. "I'm gonna need to get elevated for this shit. If you niggas aren't messin' with me, this is the deepest shit I've heard since... since I don't know when!"
Another rule of a cookout is nobody goes indoors except to use the bathroom or fetch another chair, but I took Marcus and Darkeem to see the slave quarters in the basement anyway. Mom does not like me smoking in the house, but I knew she would make an exception in this case. She has been hinting strongly that we need to bring more brothers into the fold, and I think she is right.
"This is where my slave sleeps," I said. Pussy's mattress bed was made up as neatly as possible, considering it had no sheets, no pillow, and the blankets were worn and ragged. I jangled the chain. "We lock his collar every night. Can't have some white slave loose while decent folk are upstairs sleeping, you feel me?"
"I know that's right," said Darkeem, sparking a blunt. "So tell me everything. Who is this cracker? Where did you find him? And most importantly, how can I get me one?"
I recounted the entire story at some length because herb makes me loquacious. Marcus had much more to say as well. By the time we were done, Darkeem was stunned speechless. The three of us sat on chairs and crates communing in silence for a few minutes.
"This is the way it's supposed to be," said Darkeem, at length. "I've never understood why we are not in charge. But I know our time is coming. Don't get me started on faggots. They definitely need to be put in check. I've had creepy white guys wanting to suck my dick since I was a kid. I might have let them too if I knew they wanted to be treated like a slave."
At that moment, my Pussy trudged wearily down the stairs, home from a long day of scrubbing toilets and mopping floors. He probably sucked Raymond's and Trent's dicks as well since they have been putting his mouth to good use. Pussy was not scheduled to work at Burger King, so he probably hoped to retire early after performing his usual evening chores. The second he saw us gathered around his bed, he dropped to his knees.
"Does he always do that?" asked Darkeem.
"He's not permitted to stand in the presence of Superior Human Beings," I explained. "He won't look you in the eye either, not unless you tell him. It's all about respect."
"I know that's right," said Darkeem. "So what does he do around here?"
"Anything he's told," put in Marcus. "Anything you can think of. He's a slave."
I listed Pussy's household chores: washing dishes, vacuuming, taking out the trash, washing the car, mowing the lawn, everything but cook meals which Mom insists on doing since she since doesn't trust white folks around the food.
"And he sucks dick! And he takes it up the ass!" added Marcus, enthusiastically.
"Blowjobs on demand are Marcus's favorite thing about owning a slave," I said.
"I like the sound of that myself," Darkeem grinned.
"It's dope, don't get me wrong," I elaborated. "But I have more practical concerns."
I mentioned the wages from Pussy's full and part-time jobs accumulating in my savings account, but Darkeem seemed more interested, at least for the moment, in blowjobs on demand.
"You said he wasn't always a fag?"
"Yeah, he used to like chicks. Maybe he still does, I don't know for sure."
"Why don't we ask him," suggested Marcus.
"Yo, Pussy!" I hollered. "Do you still like girls?"
The flustered look on Pussy's face was adorable, with those big brown eyes trying hard not to gaze upon at me with obvious devotion.
"No, Sir," he said, sheepishly, eyes averted to the floor. "I'm a faggot, sir."
"Were you always a faggot?"
"Yes, Sir!" He said that with emphasis, like he meant it.
"Pussy, I want you to meet Master Darkeem," I said. "You're gonna show him what a good cocksucker you are."
"Yes, Sir."
Marcus and I took our leave so Darkeem could get his dick sucked. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, we heard the all too familiar duet of slurping and groaning. Marcus asked what I thought about Darkeem. I said, "I think we're gonna need to find him a slave."
From my lips to the ear of the Almighty! Thirty minutes later when Darkeem rejoined the party, the first thing he said was, "I want my own slave."
I informed Darkeem of my plans for Mr. Prentiss, who will be my French teacher in September. Subjugating that fairy should be easy-peasy. He has a reputation for making the jocks who have to take his class uncomfortable.
But Darkeem wasn't having it. "I want a straight whiteboy choking on my shit just like that one you keep in the basement. I want a slave who sucks my dick because he has to, not because he wants to."
"That's a tall order," Marcus pointed out.
"I think Darkeem has someone in mind," I remarked. "Am I right?"
"My guidance counselor, Mr. Gunsel," said Darkeem. "I want that motherfucker. That's MY bitch!"
"Can you wait until school starts?" I asked. Marcus looked at me like I was shot out.
"Why wait?" said Darkeem.
"Because when school starts, we'll have access to the computer in his office," I replied.
That was all I had to say. Darkeem, Marcus, and I were kindred spirits.
Darkeem left me with the book of poems by Gil Scott-Heron. I was only familiar with his masterpiece "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised," but I fell in love at once with "Whitey on the Moon."
"A rat done bit my sister Nell (with Whitey on the moon). Her face and arms began to swell (and Whitey's on the moon).
Part Twenty-Four
Pussy has not been writing in his diary much, and when he does it's mostly gibberish. He is too tired at night to write, for one thing. But I also don't think he has anything more to say. His mind is shot. He is becoming more robot than human.
One of his more coherent entries filled an entire page with nothing but the words "I am such a faggot" scrawled over and over until they became illegible. Another read: "Thank you, Master King for making me useful. Thank you for letting me give Trent and Raymond blowjobs every day. Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for giving me a home. Thank you for being my Master. Thank you for helping realize what a faggot I have always been. Thank you for EVERYTHING."
I don't have much to do with Pussy lately. He still gets fucked two or three times a week. That's not going to stop, and every now then I feel like getting a decent blowjob. I've been thinking about having all his teeth extracted so he can give better head. Mom says Uncle Derrick probably knows a dentist who will perform the surgery. Should I get dentures for the slave, as well? I don't want to. At least, not right away. Decisions, decisions.
Mostly, I have been having a blast this summer. Thanks to my hard-working slave, I have plenty of cash to spend. I treated Marcus and Darkeem to a day at Great Adventure where we met some shorties from out of state. It was great. Mom had another barbecue. Went to the boardwalk at the shore, but came back early because there were too many white folks. I wrote Ta-Nahesi Coates a mawkish letter praising his incisive essays at The Atlantic and incredible work on the Black Panther comic book. He never answered, but that's cool. Someday when I'm an author, I'm going to answer all my fans.
Speaking of books, I read an interesting novel this week. Forty Acres, by Dwayne Smith. It reads like a John Grisham legal thriller about a black attorney who gets invited to join a cult of supremacists with a secret compound where caucasians are enslaved against their will. Brilliant premise, but I didn't appreciate the ending. I don't think it's the ending Dwayne Smith wanted to write, either.
In any case, a book like this is part of a new zeitgeist. It seems I'm not the only brother who thinks we would be better off in charge of the white population. There is no end of thugs on the internet preying on white homosexuals. Marcus and Darkeem didn't need to be convinced. My mom is down with this. And then there is Uncle Derrick sending us Cracker Kibble and a slave-owner catalogue from a company called Nubian Zenith Products for the New World. I keep asking Mom what Uncle Derrick is about, but she says he will tell me when it's time. All I really know is that he travels all over the world. I haven't seen him since I was a kid.
Part Twenty-Five
Feels like summer is never going to end. I got stoned last night and watched Berry Gordy's "The Last Dragon" for the thousandth time. It's so awesome. Bruce Leroy is seeking the kung fu master who will take his martial arts to the highest level of sublime perfection. His sensei tells him: "There is one place you have not looked, and it is only there that you shall the find the master that you seek!" But it is Vanity who says seductively, "You sure look like a master to me," that makes Leroy realize he has always been the one and only Master. "Catches bullets in his teeth? Nigga, please!" I might watch it again later.
I was playing horse with Darkeem in the park across from Holman's house while we waited patiently for Marcus to get done doing what he was doing. After two hours, I finally phoned Marcus, who said he was almost finished. It was another hour before he actually emerged. "You're spoiling that silly faggot," I laughed.
"He loves my dick," Marcus shrugged, bouncing the ball, as the three of us started walking to McDonald's.
"If he loves your dick that much, he should be paying for it," put in Darkeem, quite seriously.
"He does," smirked Marcus, flashing a wad of twenties. "Like the saying goes, there's no such thing as a free dick."
"That's a `free lunch,' you mean," said Darkeem.
"Same thing," said Marcus. "I'm feeding him dick for lunch."
The three of us fell out. Faggots ARE funny.
I wondered why studies have not been done on the range of reactions faggots provoke in men. Disgust, pity, anger, contempt. There is something about a faggot that makes you want to physically assault him, up to and including using him like you would a whore. It's a primitive reflex. But sometimes it's hard to come down too hard on a faggot because they can be so ludicrous, you simply have to laugh at them. The way they prance and lisp is hysterical. The look of sheer ecstasy on their face when they open their mouths to receive your dick.
Darkeem had a brilliant theory that faggots use humor as a protective defense mechanism. If a faggot is entertaining, there is less chance of his getting pulverized. He thinks a lot of comedians and comic actors are probably faggots. Maybe court jesters back in days of yore were simply funny queers.
Darkeem: "What do you think about fags getting married and shit?"
Me: "If two gay dudes fall in love and mind their own business, I don't have a problem with them. So long as they keep a low profile and don't go causing trouble. It's the faggots we need to take care of."
Darkeem: "What's the difference between a gay dude and a faggot?"
I broke down the way I see things in the simplest terms. Gays and faggots are both into dick. Nobody really knows why, but it's probably not a choice. Letting a guy suck your dick is a choice. But sucking a dick can't be a choice because no man would consider that an option.
Mr. Holman was telling me and Marcus that blowing straight cats is every homosexual's dream. But gays dudes leave us alone while the faggots keep coming after us. Faggots are a growing nuisance. They have no business prowling restrooms and locker rooms. There ought to be fag free zones. I see old white fags checking me out at the mall, and I'm only 15. That's messed up. I'm not saying we should outlaw faggots altogether. They serve a function. We just need to keep them in line.
We reached our destination. Pussy was working in the back, draining the grease from a deep fryer. He wore the red and yellow smock with striped sleeves and Golden Arches cap like a billboard advertising his employer's product. The look on his face was blank like that of a drone. He appeared to work diligently and efficiently, but without a glimmer of light in his eyes. He is practically a robot now. I don't think he even feels shame anymore. He wanted to be a black man's slave from jump. That was his heart's desire. He didn't suspect what that might entail, but that's not my fault. Now he is a puppet named Pussy. It's hard to believe I almost felt affection because of his loyalty. Stupid whiteboy. He got what he deserved.
Pussy is getting paid $12 an hour. It would have been a lot less if Mom had not spoken to the manager, Sam Wilcox, who happens to be another one of her old friends. Mom explained that "Zach" was working off a debt to the family, but I have a feeling Wilcox knew exactly what's going on. Maybe because Mom also requested "Zach" not be allowed to prepare food, and Wilcox said: "I feel the same way, sister." Someday I will find out why everyone is so loyal to Mom, and why they treat me like royalty.
For some reason, thinking about the whiteboy's wages accumulating in my bank account started making my dick throb. I told Marcus and Darkeem, "I'm gonna fuck the shit out of that bitch tonight."
"You wanna pull a train on his ass?"
"Why not," I decided.
Darkeem was down with the idea. Mom is out of town, not that she would mind. Marcus dashed back to Holman's house for beer. Keeping plenty of beer in the fridge at all times was one the old queer's responsibilities. It was also more incriminating evidence to keep his ass in line, just in case. You never know with these fags because they are not stable creatures. They don't think straight.
We sat around the basement with our shirts off, drinking (but not too much), smoking herb out of Darkeem's bong (way too much), and got ourselves worked up talking about girls at school, waiting for Pussy to return. Dusk at the narrow, ceiling-level windows deepened into night until the entire basement was pitch black. I unscrewed the light bulb which would come on when Pussy flipped the switch at the top of the stairs. We wanted this to be a surprise.
It was almost midnight when we heard Pussy come into the house. He tried the light switch several times, sighed heavily, and proceeded tentatively down the stairs. Every time he stumbled or bumped into something produced a little grunt of exasperation. And that stench? My slave better not have brought food home, because that is strictly forbidden, and he knows what will happen if he disobeys.
Pussy seemed to sense us in the darkness, waiting in the cut. I doubt he smelled our sweaty bodies or even the reefer, not with the stink of French fries clogging his tiny nostrils. Maybe caucasians retain some atavistic awareness of impending danger like most prey in the food chain? I know he could not see us. We were not just concealed in darkness. We were the darkness itself.
"Massuh King? Is that you, sir?" Pussy squeaked.
That's a good slave, I thought, for remembering to address his owner as Massuh. He really is a good slave. He surrendered to me willingly, and there were plenty of times he could have rebelled, but he never did. Now it was time for my loyal, complacent white drone to get another lesson in what it means to be the subhuman property of a man prey to unpredictable acts of terror at any moment.
Marcus and Darkeem seized Pussy in the dark and tossed him onto the mattress while I stood back. I did not want Pussy to know that I was present, not yet. He did not struggle as every stitch of clothing was torn away, fabric shredding and buttons popping. I heard the sound of a palm slapping Pussy's rump. Darkeem growled, "Don't run from me, boy!"
I held up my lighter to shed some light on the subject. Pussy was face down with his plump white ass hiked up. Marcus held his wrists so he could not move, while Darkeem with pants around his ankles was spreading Pussy's cheeks apart, getting into position for rear entry.
The lighter sputtered out. Just as well. I did not need to see Darkeem fucking Pussy. It was enough hearing it go down. Pussy was moaning and groaning, but I could not tell if that was from pain or pleasure, or if it was real or feigned. It's probably all that and more, I concluded.
Darkeem powered his angry thrusts with verbal abuse. "How's that feel, you white piece of shit! You like black dick up your ass, don't you, whiteboy! I've been wanting to rape one of you bitches for a long time, you fucking cunt!"
It did not take long for Darkeem to bust a nut. He roared like a wild animal when it happened. Pussy squealed as his cheeks were slapped more than once. "I'm not done with you, cracker," said Darkeem. "I'm gonna fuck you again soon as it's my turn. We just getting started."
Marcus immediately took his place, and he too had a few choice words. "Someone said you used to like chicks, but that can't be right because you're nothing but a faggot. This is what you want, ain't it? Some dick from a real man, you fucking queer? You think your nasty hole is good as pussy? You don't deserve to get fucked, but you're a faggot, so I know that's what you need."
No doubt Pussy identified Marcus and Darkeem, at least by their voices if not their dicks, but he had to be wondering where his precious Massuh was in all of this. I'm sure his feeble mind was spinning with crazy thoughts. It seemed like Marcus took forever to get done fucking. That brother must have the stamina of a bull. He pounded away, keeping the beat on the one, tirelessly, and was not even breathing hard when he came.
"It's your Master, slave," I said, leaning over Pussy's back to whisper into his ear. He gasped with relief. My dick pressed against his hole. With a sharp thrust, I was deep inside, and Pussy cried out, "Thank you, Massah! Thank you, Massuh!"
"Monotony and terror," I went on, grinding with long, deep strokes, "that's the life of a slave. Working for your master's profit day in, day out, with little rest and no other reward but probation to go on being productive, never knowing when you might be raped or disciplined or worse!"
I like fucking. It really is better than a blowjob when you come right down to it. It's nice knowing that I can have either whenever I want. That's the way it should be. Sexual frustration isn't good for a brother. That's why we need white slaves, and a good ass fucking is what whiteboys need to calm their nerves. Everybody wins.
"Are you ready for my load?" I asked, edging the instant of climax. "Here it comes! I'm busting caps in your ass!"
No words can adequately describe that moment when you feel like you are part of the universe, at one with the stars and tides, a vortex unto yourself, victorious, ascendant, bursting with the power to quicken life, and whatever measures you had to take in order to experience that sensation is worth it. If shooting my seed into the rectum of a male slave feels this fantastic, I can only imagine how it must feel cumming inside a woman.
I'm seeing an obvious hierarchy in the means of achieving sexual release. Masturbation is not actually sex, because sex involves two persons in contact. It leaves a man unsatisfied, and it's not like sex is that hard for most brothers to come by. Not with plenty of females and more than plenty of faggots ready to get down. Hand-jobs don't count for much, no matter whose hand is on your dick.
Blowjobs are dope, but like Bill Clinton insisted, fellatio is not actually sex either. I have not gotten head from a female yet, but I assume faggots have better skills since sucking dick is all they ever think about. Plus, you can tell a faggot how to suck your dick right, and he will do it. I've learned from experience that telling a sister to do something does not end well.
Laying passively while someone services your phallus is not sex. Sex is fucking. It's a dynamic. Mouth, cunt, anus, the yin-hole does not matter. It's the yang-act of penetration and rhythm that drives a man to explode with fire and lava, bringing pleasure and pain, life and destruction.
I was done for the night, but Marcus and Darkeem were just getting started. One of them, I could not be sure in the darkness, was already pounding away. Pussy's grunts and moans, matching each thrust, now sounded like he was definitely enjoying himself. It did not take long for that straight whiteboy to enjoy taking a dick up the ass. Not long at all. That's all I'm going to say about that. I reminded Marcus to properly secure the slave when they got done, lock the front door behind them unless they wanted to crash on the sofa, and then I went to bed.
I slept for a few hours and woke around six. I could hear noise from the basement, so I went to investigate. Marcus and Darkeem were still screwing the slave. I don't know if they took a break, or had been at it all this time. Daylight crept through the windows. Pussy was being drilled aggressively at both ends.
"Fellas!" I hollered. "Finish up. Let's have some chow. The slave has to get ready for his day job."
Part Twenty-Six
Mom said that I am in too much of a hurry to grow up. I told her there is only so much I can accomplish in the body of a teenager. "I want to do more, but youth holds me back." She laughed, and said, "All in good time," while graciously pointing out that I have grown almost three inches in the last year. "My voice is deeper too," I added with bass.
On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I woke up around five feeling feverish from a dream about cheerleaders cavorting in the girl's locker room. My dick was rock hard and I had to something about it. I wished we didn't have to keep Pussy locked up at night, because I could have phoned him to come upstairs. Since the mountain could not come to Muhammad, I tip-toed to the slave quarters, shook Pussy awake for twenty minutes of deep throat satisfaction, and went back to bed.
When I woke again around nine, I could smell Mom's sweet potato waffles with marshmallows luring me to the kitchen. Mom kissed me on the cheek and said, "Happy Birthday!" I said, "I'm ravenous!"
"I'm not surprised," she remarked. "Was that you I heard earlier, tip-toeing around?"
"I was trying not to wake you."
"I'm the Mother, Jaxon," she said. "Nothing goes on under my roof that I don't know about."
"Did Pussy get off to work on time?" I asked, shoveling food into my mouth.
Like clockwork," she said, adding scrambled eggs to my plate. "He's very punctual. But he looks like he could use some sleep. Are you letting him get enough rest?"
"Define `enough.'"
"Good point," my mother conceded. "But are you disciplining him enough?"
"Probably not."
"That's what I thought," she said. "What is it about him? Is it those pitiful puppy dog eyes? Do they remind you of when the two of you used to be friends?"
"Mother, please." I rolled my eyes; she was being facetious. "That invertebrate and I were never friends! Can you imagine?"
Neither of us could contain our peals of laughter any longer. The idea of me and any whiteboy, let alone a spineless submissive like Zach the Pussy, ever being friends was convulsively funny. I had tears in my eyes, I laughed so hard. Me, friends with Pussy!
They say a dog is a man's best friend. A dog could easily be my friend. Or even a horse. But not a whiteboy. That's pushing the definition of friendship into the Twilight Zone.
Mom produced a package from Uncle Derrick. Inside was a card (and a check for the usual amount), and ten copies of a single book: Survival Guide for the 21st Century American Young Black Male, by Cadez El Zamir. The card read: "Congratulations on your 16th revolution around the Sun! Keep one for yourself. Share the rest with your squad." I opened at random to a page titled "History of the Caucasoid," and liked what I saw.
As the day progressed, more gifts (and checks!) arrived. Some came from distant relatives I have not seen or heard from in years. A few with large colorful stamps were posted from faraway places where I didn't know we even had kin. But Mom knew each and every person from both sides of the family. Aunt Sasha and Uncle Fred from Alabama. My second cousin Maurice (Aunt Zenobia's step-son) from Tampa. The Hasbrouck-Smiths from upstate New York. Nnamdi Achebe from Nigeria, whom Mom said was "an old friend of the family," meaning "that's all you need to know for the time being." Bottom line: I have a shit load of Thank You notes to write. Naturally, Mom has all the necessary stationery.
Mom wanted to throw a party, invite lots of people over, but she knows how I feel about being in the spotlight. Anyway, birthday parties are for children. I got a shape up at the barber shop, which was on the house because Mom called to tell them what day it was. My mother is always going to be one step ahead of me, isn't she.
While I was downtown, I ran into Marcus and another cat named Yusuf, a junior with brown, bumpy skin and a high natural. We shot hoops and went back to his crib to smoke herb. Smart brother, wants to be a lawyer, needs to get laid, and doesn't have much patience for white folks. He might be a candidate for our Inner Circle, and Marcus thought so too, judging by the look shot at me whenever Yusuf said anything remotely derogatory about whites or homosexuals.
Marcus came with me to buy comic books. I acquired an armful for both of us. I could never spend as much as I liked on comic books before. But now I have a white slave who works seven days a week so I can buy whatever my black heart desires. I told Marcus about my dream of a sovereign black nation where every white male registers to have a portion of his income deducted and directly deposited to a random brother's bank account.
"You mean like a cracker tax?"
"You could call it that."
"What about the faggots?"
"Homosexuals get taxed double. Unless they're owned."
"I like when the faggots buy us shit," said Marcus, eyeing the promising cover of his new, hardbound Black Panther graphic novel.
We sat on a bench by the fountain in the park to scope the honeys walking by, one stunning sister after another, and I kept thinking that I was going to spot that girl I saw in study hall. She was watching me write in my journal. When I looked up, she flashed a smile. Now, I can't get her out of my mind. I don't even know her name.
Under the sultry August sun with cicadas buzzing from the trees, beautiful women in short shorts and halter tops, music pouring from passing cars, and the aroma of barbecues, it was like time stood still. Summer reigned eternal. There was time and enough for everything. Anything seemed possible, except for my mystery woman to make a cameo appearance.
When I eventually got home, Mom had one more gift for me, but she made me close my eyes before setting it in my lap. An Alaskan Malamute puppy, four months old with brown and sable fur, big pointed ears, gleaming almond eyes, large, cream-colored paws, and a frisky tail like a plume. I held him up, and he licked my face. I fell in love with the little fellow right from the start.
"That's the breed you always talked about, isn't it?" asked Mom.
"Yes! He's perfect!" I said. "His name is Shaka!"
At that moment, Pussy returned from his day job. I called him into the living room to meet Shaka. Mom frowned at the sight and smell of the whiteboy, and promptly left the room. I held Shaka snuggling in my lap. I wasn't going to let a slave touch my dog.
"This is Shaka. You're going to clean up his shit from now on. Check the backyard morning and night. Take a small garbage bag, and pick up the dog shit with your bare hands. Use the hose to wash your hands. Make sure you do a good job. If I find dog shit, I'm going to make you eat it. Understand?"
"Yes, Massuh King," said the eighteen-year-old.
I meant what I said. I will make him chew and swallow puppy turds until he pukes. I know that I count on Pussy. He knows his place. He has been very dependable. So far. He is miserable, of course. Always working while others play. Made to do disagreeable things. But this is what he wanted. He wanted to suffer as a slave. He wanted to be used and degraded. He should be thanking me for making his fantasy a reality. He might even want me to make him eat shit.
"Did you work hard today?" I inquired.
"Yes, Massuh," he said. "Every day, sir."
"Scrubbing toilets, mopping the halls?"
"Yes, I did Massah. Masters Trent and Raymond have me doing some of their work too, sir. I'm very busy."
"Did you give them blowjobs today?"
"Yes, Massuh. Every day, sir."
He spoke matter of factly with no intonation or sign of shame. Giving head was simply one of his routine duties, although I can tell when he blows me, that he is enjoying it on some level. Either that, or he just loves me so much, that blowing me is collateral pleasure. I don't know how much more of a faggot Pussy can possibly be, but it might be fun to find out.
"I've been thinking about the brothers you work with at McDonald's," I said. "I bet they might like getting their dick sucked, you know? Do you want me to talk to them, or can you can you handle that on your own?"
Pussy tensed up. His thick eyebrows wrinkled in dismay as he processed the idea of offering blowjobs to his black co-workers. It was more than likely to get his ass kicked right then and there, or jumped after work. He did not want that, but he did not know what answer I wanted to hear, either. I let him stew for a minute, enjoying his consternation.
"Don't worry about it," I said, "I'll speak to the fellas sometime like I did with Trent and Raymond. You turned out to be a really good cocksucker, you know that, right?"
"I guess so, Massuh." Pussy hung his head, knowing that I spoke the truth. He has gotten good. Why do I get the feeling there is one little ember of heterosexuality stubbornly refusing to go out. I will have to let Pussy watch some porn again to remind him of what he will never have. It's the least that I can do.
"When do you have to be at McDonald's?"
"Seven o'clock, Massuh."
"Good, we have some time. Let's go to your spot. You can suck my dick before I take Shaka for a walk."
That was how I spent my birthday. For a sixteen-year-old brother living in America, I must be doing something right. School starts in two weeks. I have my whole life ahead of me. It's good being a King.
THIS CONCLUDES THE JOURNAL OF JAXON KING KEPT DURING HIS FRESHMAN YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. IT HAS BEEN EDITED TO FOCUS ON EVENTS IN HIS LIFE WHICH MAY BE OF INTEREST TO STUDENTS OF BLACK DOMINATION IN THEORY AND PRACTICE.
FOR THOSE WHO DARE TO FOLLOW ALONG THE PRECIPITOUS TWISTS AND TURNS OF JAXON KING'S INSPIRATIONAL STORY OF SELF-DISCOVERY AND ASCENSION, SELECTIONS FROM HIS SOPHOMORE JOURNAL ARE CURRENTLY IN PREPARATION.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Shout out to White Jimmy for his slavish dedication to proof-reading the text of this story while its author tended to other matters.