Burnt Ends

Burnt Ends

BURNT ENDS

By JoeKid

(MM, racial, oral, anal)

Copyright 2007 JoeKid. All Rights Reserved.

Okay, what follows right below is an ongoing steal from DannyR and his Incest Tales and Another Mike the Soccer Coach stories:

Author's Reminder: Don't forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think? So when you're done, put your fingers to a dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing: joeewing45@yahoo.com.

DISCLAIMER: Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality. This story is a fantasy. It didn't happen. Never will. And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. Now that we're clear on what's what, and what's not, read on.

THE OTHER THING:

BURNT ENDS

"Yo! White boy! Thas mah bed yo white ass is messin' up."

My roommate had arrived. And his sycophants certainly thought he was funny, from the snickers and snorts. I glanced up at the doorway, and then went back to the book I was reading. Definitely him. My research was, as usual, both thorough and accurate.

DeWayne Thorne. "Thorn" with an "e" tacked on. I wonder if his daddy thought it looked more impressive to spell it that way. If he knew who his daddy was and his mama just made up a name for the birth certificate. But the powers that be (and shall be forevermore amen if they have anything to say about it) at dear old Cantrell U couldn't care less if he was a bastard, figuratively or literally. He was "the" DeWayne Thorne. Eighteen, almost nineteen. Seven fucking feet, three fucking inches tall. 240. Some ungodly number of points every game with Energizer bunny regularity. Basketball royalty. The best young basketball player in the country since [fill in your choice of one or more names from the long list of legends]. And Cantrell University had wined him, and dined him, and whored for him with obvious success, raising its legs or bending over for him at all hours of the day and night until he was so worn out he signed on the dotted line.

A four-year, all expenses paid basketball scholarship. Both public and very, very, very private perks. One of which is a guaranteed degree with honors in whatever field he chooses, although that, of course, isn't exactly part of the public documents. Isn't it amazing what a little research can find out, especially if you're not at all averse to getting your (figurative) hands dirty by hacking into the school's computer system? With all the recruiting scandals in the past few years, you'd think the powers would have figured out that it's not really a good idea to keep emails like that around, especially when you're too cheap to install a really decent security system. But not too cheap to invest millions of dollars of alumni money into an "upgraded" (translation from college-speak: Lazarus raised from the dead) basketball program with DeWayne as the centerpiece, heart, soul, foundation, keystone—the words had all been used.

He could also use his head as the cornerstone of the program, because except for whatever genetic programming had gone into his talent (a talent that allows him to make intuitive physics calculations accounting for the almost infinitely variable factors present in the moment just before he releases the ball toward the basket) and into his body (the talent to execute those calculations with near 100% success), there wasn't much there.

Witness what he just said. Apparently he doesn't speak English, just Bubonic. I know, I know, they call it something else, but as far as I'm concerned, what they speak is English after a really serious plague decimates the language, and mutates a lot of the surviving words.

I guess he's not used to being ignored.

He raised his voice, apparently believing that only someone hard of hearing would not respond to such clear Bubonic. "Muthafucka, I axed yo' nice to move yo ass offen mah bed, `n ah doan plan on axin' you again."

Silence from the sycophants. Breathlessly awaiting to see the terror on the young white boy's face as he realized the error of his ways and scooted his scrawny white ass off the bed.

Technically, it was my bed. I got here first, the room was empty, no clothes or whatever to mark anyone's territory, so it was my right to choose. On the other hand, the bed I chose was the one that's eight feet long. The other one...isn't. If DeWayne slept on that one a good part of him would be hanging off the end. The new star in the Cantrell firmament had to stay in the residence hall his freshman year; had to have a roommate—a rule, tradition, policy or whatever, and of such long standing that the powers couldn't put him up in the condo he and they would obvious prefer him to live in. So they did the next best thing and gave him the room of the floor captain (or as my research indicates, they are fondly called wardens). After some modifications, of course. Like the special bed; a wall-mounted flat TV; upper end computers. The second bed for the required roommate all made the room a little more cozy than it would otherwise have been, but still...a definite step up from the ordinary room with the showers and toilets down the hall. Our room had its own shower and toilet. I definitely liked this room. I definitely liked this bed. I'm reasonably sure the jock who was originally scheduled to share this space with DeWayne wasn't very happy in the commune-like area I shifted him to (a keystroke here, a keystroke there), but he'd get over it.

The silence wasn't quite...silent. Big old DeWayne was kind of grinding his teeth over how long it took me to answer him. Not that it was all that long. I sighed the kind of put-upon sigh that said I had better things to do than bandying words with him, put a marker in my book, closed it, set it down...all delaying things even more...and then looked up at him. Way the fuck up, of course.

"First, you didn't `axe' me anything. If you had, there'd be blood and bits of me all over the room. Second, if you meant to use the word `ask' you'll be better off if you learn how to pronounce it so people have an incentive to respond rather than just ignore you. Just think of your ass and put a `k' on the end. Third, who the fuck died and made you God so you could come in here and change things? If you wanted a choice of beds all you had to do was get here first. You didn't, I did. Last, if you and your friends are gonna move your shit in here, be a good roomie and keep the noise down. I'm trying to concentrate."

I picked up my book again. Opened it. Pretended to read.

This silence was silent. If the damned not-even mouse had been around it would have been silent, too. A reasonable three-count. Then a soft, "Muth-a-fuck!" I couldn't tell if the speaker intended to show respect for me for standing up for myself, or was simply expressing amazement over what a stupid, soon-to-be dead white boy I was.

Probably the latter. You see, "white boy" is fairly accurate. I'm 16; he's almost 19. I'm smart enough to have been here at 14, but spent two years of unnecessary high school studying pretty much what I damned well pleased so I'd be a little bit better prepared to cope. DeWayne here speaks Bubonic; enough said. I'm 6 feet tall. He's 7-3. I weigh one thirty; he weighs two forty. I have glasses; he doesn't. I'm white; he's black as the ace of spades. And no, I'm not just taking advantage of the cliché. He really is that black. Although if the bulging vein in his shaved skull burst he'd be an interesting red and black combination.

His lips were so compressed you almost couldn't tell how fat they'd be if he was relaxed. The muscles in his neck were standing out. His glare was probably murderous but I wasn't watching his eyes. At the moment his right fist looked like if he hit me in the stomach he'd just punch a hole all the way through to the other side and out my spine. I think the only thing that had stopped him from charging me already like a one-man buffalo stampede was that he was in shock. I'm fairly certain I was the first one since people learned what a great basketball player he was who ever told him no.

The shock was beginning to wear off, though, so time for the next step. I gave my attention to him in a way that made it obvious I thought I had far better things to do with my time, and asked him if he wanted to settle this just between us, or did he need his homeys around to protect him from a younger smaller boy.

Damn but that was a good diss. It took him a moment or two but he finally got it. Maybe even all of it. The "better things" bit told him that he bored me. The "between us" bit told him I wasn't afraid of him. The "homeys" bit suggested he was the fearful one.

He told his homeys, groupies, whatever the fucks, to get out and close the damned door. They did. And as soon as he heard the click of the door, he bitch-slapped me.

Fucking hard.

Gotcha!

"Now, muthafucka, you gonna move yo shit offen mah bed, `n you can jus' dump all of yo' stuff from mah side of the room over by the door, `cause t'morra y'gonna ask the Dean to get yo mizzable white ass a new roomie. Got me, bitch?"

I'd been hoping for the bitch slap (my "research" indicated he liked using it, and no one had ever called him on it, though his friends and victims had whined about it in emails) rather than a gut punch. So I was half-way prepared and was able to roll with it. Just a little. Unfortunately, not enough to avoid one fuck all amount of pain. And a bloody nose.

All the better to fuck you with, my dear.

"Gotcha." I paused, like I was afraid of him. Then asked if it would be okay if I turned off the computer and saved the stuff I'd been working on earlier. He waved his agreement and his smile got even more arrogant when I cringed a little. Damn but Miss Keller was a better drama teacher than any of us ever thought.

Maybe the circling wide of him was a bit much, but still, I thought it was a nice piece of business. I had no intention of turning the computer off, though. I just did a few things, a bit of this, a bit of that (you sure the fuck don't think I'm going to reveal my secrets, do you?), and then said, "Hey, DeWayne, why don't you take a look at your TV?"

Naturally, he did.

Naturally, he didn't like what he saw. Not surprising. There, in all his glory, was King DeWayne. On a screen split four ways, showing him (and little old me) from four different angles. Frozen. His hand on the door knob. I clicked, and the replay began. Him, me, the bitch slap, the blood, his tirade, everything until I walked over to the computer and did this and that.

"You look real good on camera, nigger."

His eyes widened. I guess he'd played around with the word with his friends, but from the expression on his face, no one in all his precious nearly-nineteen years had ever really called him a nigger and meant it. Not the way my tone said I meant it. Then the shock of the TV and the nigger-shock eased just a bit, enough for his arrogance and anger to start up...and for him to tense his muscles like he was within a hair's breadth of launching himself at me and pounding the shit out of me.

Two words stopped him. "Basketball, nigger."

Okay, so it was really the first word. But he needed to start getting used to hearing the second since he was going to be hearing a lot of it from me from now on.

"What you just saw...actually, everything from the moment I heard you and your homeboy niggers down the hall...isn't just stored on this computer. It's stored elsewhere. So even if you beat the shit outa me and trash this computer, you're still fucked six ways from Sunday."

For a moment it was touch and go as to whether that sank in. After all, he's not the smartest fart in the asshole. But then his muscles eased back. Just enough for me to relax a little. Not a lot, though. He wasn't completely broken. Yet. And I had to keep in mind the fact that he was not only a foot taller than me but nearly double my weight. And fuck all stronger than me.

"You know, it's probably a good thing you found out you look good on camera. When your basketball career, college and pros, goes permanently south...Antarctica south with a no refund no return policy...you can probably get a job modeling. Though mostly likely it'll be in porn. The folks who create real supermodels won't want to touch a proven racist nigger. And who the fuck would want a hate driven nigger as spokesman for their product. So trust me, as soon as I turn that video over to the Dean tomorrow morning, along with my complaint about a hate crime against me, you can kiss your ass, your game, most or most likely all of your friends, maybe even most of your family, good fucking bye."

He just stared at me. Eyes glazed. An expression that turned to fear as the drill finally broke through the bedrock into the dark, empty caverns below...and let a little light in. Not a lot. Just enough for him to connect the dots. Realize he was well and truly fucked.

"Unless...." I drew the word out, speaking gently, giving the nigger and his dying life a helping hand, tossing him a life preserver tied to a rope to pull him in, just not mentioning that at the other end of the rope was an anchor I could always toss in and watch it pull him down and drown him.

He licked his lips nervously, his tongue hot pink against the blackness of his face, the not quite black of his fat nigger lips. "U...unless?"

Good nigger boy, that's very good. You realized you're about to be blackmailed. Or niggermailed as the case may be...and is. I'd pat him on the head to show him how well he'd done, but he was still a little too dangerous to get close to.

"Sit down, nigger." He just stood there like the fucking stupid jungle bunny he is at heart and I had to tell him again. "I said, nigger, sit the fuck down. Unless you don't give a fuck about the `unless'...."

He backed up, started to sit on the bed, but I stopped him with a sharp "No!"

He looked back at me. Confused. He now knew it was wrong to sit on the bed, but he didn't know what was right. Poor little black puppy. But trainable. Yes, very trainable.

"On the floor, boy. Niggers don't sit in the presence of a white man unless he gives permission. They kneel on the floor, like the good niggers they are, knowing their proper place."

I went back to the computer, did some more this and that, and watched the TV screen show his shock when he realized he was being recorded again. His dismay was apparent. As was the fear and the anger and the confusion. I returned to stand in front of him. Hot as all fuck to have this big, fuck, this huge nigger buck on his knees in front of me, looking up at me.

"You understand what will happen to you if the video gets leaked, or if I turn it over to the school?"

He nodded, miserable.

"You want your life...well, most of your life back? To be able to play basketball? Go on to the pros if you're good enough?"

The almost-glare said he fucking well was good enough, right fucking now. But he visibly decided on safety as the better option, decided not to protest, and just nodded again.

"Good, nigger, good. Now, you remember the contract you signed with the University? Covered all the contingencies..." Confusion again. Jesus! "...all the possibilities for the four years you'll be here?"

Another nod.

"Well, we're going to add some more to the contract, not to cover possibilities, but to cover what is actually going to happen. Just one simple clause. You promise to do everything I tell you, and I promise not to give you up to the Dean. Fuck, I'll even throw in a promise not to give you up to the authorities since I just turned sixteen last week."

"A...authorities?"

"Now, now, nigger, don't worry. You'll find out all about that in just a minute. So what is it going to be? Me and my orders, or the Dean and the end of everything?"

Jesus wept. The nigger had to fucking think about it.

"Y...you."

"Very good, nigger. Now, take off your shirt."

"What? I ain't taking off mah clothes for no...."

I bitch-slapped him. He was so shocked at this young white boy bitch slapping him that he didn't move for a second. Just long enough for me to remind him of his promise, and the video, and to let him know that when niggers got uppity around me they got punished. "Now get the fucking shirt off!"

He did. Christ what a hot fucking nigger body. Huge pecs. Tits the size of one of those half dollars daddy has in a jar. "You ever play with your tits, nigger?"

Dumb fuck. No clue. "You know, darkie. Squeeze your fat titties when you're jacking your meat? Have someone else do it when you're getting a blowjob?"

He shook his head.

I squeezed his left tit. Hard. He gasped and tried to pull away but I kept hold. Told him to lean back against the bed and raise his hips up toward me. Reached down with my left hand so I was feeling up his cock and then squeezed his tit hard! Another gasp and I felt his dick move a little.

Hot damn. "Okay, nigger, we're wasting time with this playing around. Get your motherfucking darkie ass naked, because if you don't you're fucked with the Dean. Now move it, nigger!"

Something...a little bit more light on the subject...must have trickled in because he figured out he wasn't to get up to do it. Awkward for him, since I was standing close. Not my problem. He also must've gotten a clue from somewhere that I'd be unhappy if he bumped or kicked me while stripping. Which made it even more awkward for him to follow his orders. Again, not my problem. But he got the job done, and figured out he'd better go back to being on his knees.

"Play with yourself, nigger. Get your dick hard so I can see how much darkie meat I own."

He looked like he wanted to object, but didn't. He started fumbling with his cock, which was pretty damned limp. Not surprising, what with all the shocks he'd just gone through. But he was definitely trainable, and I wanted to get him to the point where I could just tell him to get hard and it would happen. Daddy's nigger is like that, and that's what I want for my own nigger.

I reached down and twisted both his tits hard. He moaned but his dick started to lengthen. I may be skinny, but I do have some strength. I hurt his nigger nips and he moaned louder and his dick got all the way hard. Impressive dick. I'd measure him later, but right now I figured he was bigger than daddy's nigger. Fan-fucking-tastic. Not that there's any competition between daddy and me. Nope. Not at all.

I told him to stand and put his hands at his sides. His cock jutted straight out. Thick. Heavily veined. Uncut. A fat pink knob when I pushed the skin back. Very big piss slit. I dropped to my knees, took the fat pink head into my mouth, played with the slit with my tongue. My nigger gasped. He gasped again when I took more of him into my mouth and started jacking at the base of his dick.

Daddy and grandpa taught me well. Niggers are unfortunately pretty fucking dumb as a rule (like my new one), so they get punished a lot. I'd have to find a place, though, where I could really punish my nigger when he was bad, as he was inevitably going to be, because he needed to know he could scream when he was being hurt, and yell when he was begging for my forgiveness. But sometimes when they did well, usually by accident, of course, you needed to reward them. Show them that their owner cared, that their owner only punished because their nigger forced them to do so. Nothing shows caring like a white man condescending to suck nigger cock.

My nigger didn't know all this yet. So the combination of my threats, getting bitch slapped, being ordered to get naked, getting his tits hurt and then having this young white guy sucking his cock left him pretty damned confused. Just the way he needed to be at the moment. I lifted my mouth away. Got down on my knees. Looked up at him.

"You ever get a blowjob before?"

Christ, it was like I'd insulted his manhood. "Fuck, yeah!"

"One of your homeys?"

Shock warred with outrage. "Fuck no, mothafuckah! I ain't no fuckin' fag!"

He winced at what he'd just said to me. The white boy sucking his dick. The white boy who owned his ass as long as he wanted to play basketball. I grabbed his balls and squeezed hard enough to make him suck in air and force himself not to cry out. Not enough to damage the spooge makers, though. He was going to need them in a few minutes, after all.

"Then, who?"

"One-a mah bitches."

"Then it wasn't a very good blowjob. So, you're going to get a good one now. I'm going to get down on my knees, you're going to put your hands on my head, and then you're going to fuck my face. And you're going to talk dirty. Tell me everything you want to do to me. Fuck me hard, fuck me right, because if you don't you're gonna be walking real funny, talking real funny, and hauled into the Dean's office tomorrow." I lightly squeezed his balls again. "Understand?"

He figured a nod was enough. Generally not acceptable; that's the way a white man might respond, but niggers need to be clear about letting their owners know they understand their orders. But he'd learn.

When I started sucking in earnest his hands on my hair were tentative at first, but then when he realized what a talented cocksucker was working on his nigger meat (thanks to my daddy's nigger) he got into it. And got smug because he finally figured out what was "really" going on, and it wasn't about threats to the Dean or anything else. It was all about a white fag wanting to swing on his meat. "Yeah, white boy, thass what yo' been wantin', idnit. Mah fat black dick down yo white fag mouth. Man, gonna fuck yo' face good, muthafucka. Yeah, white boy, you ain't so smart right now, is you. Nigger man fuckin' yo white trash throat, punch yo guts out, choke you wif mah fuckin' cock. Oh fuck yeah, fuck fuck fuck yeah."

He was ramming his dick in and out of my mouth hard, holding my head in place. I kept my hands off my own leaking cock and instead grabbed onto his thighs.

"Yeah, muthafucka redneck boy, gonna make you mah fag pussy boy cunt. Rape yo' fuckin' mouth now, rape yo' fuckin' boy pussy later. Let mah friends use you. Hold yo punk white ass down `n shove it full o' nigga dick. Oh godohfuckohshit, gonna cum!"

With that he rammed his long fat dick down my wide open throat, burying my nose in his smelly pubes and started pumping incredibly hot thick seed down me. I started struggling and he was so surprised by the change that he relaxed his grip enough that I could pull off his meat so the last of his spooge sprayed my face.

I looked up at his smug, arrogant nigger face. He had me right where he wanted me.

I punched him in the balls.

Not hard enough to permanently injure him. Probably not even enough to have him sing soprano in the nigger gospel choir for a couple of minutes. Just enough to make him grab his crotch with both hands and sag back onto the bed.

I stood up, looked down at him, sneering. "Remember the authorities, nigger?"

He was still too stunned, breathing too hard, to do more than nod. I decided to let him get away with this one.

"I'm six-fucking-teen, nigger. A big-ass basketball star, fifteen inches taller than me, twice my weight, just raped me. Yeah, nigger, rape. I'm fucking under-age for queer sex and you aren't. I turn that video over to the cops; they listen to what you said; I tell them how afraid I was, well, man, you're heading upstate to prison, do not pass fucking "Go," do not fucking collect zip. You understand me, nigger?"

Daddy was right. The first time your nigger really, truly understands you own him, that he's as much your fucking slave as if you had papers on him from buying him on a fucking auction block, makes your dick so hard it hurts and you know the true meaning of being white.

"Now get on the fucking floor where you belong, nigger."

Wincing with the pain in his balls, he scrambled off the bed and got on his knees in front of me, unsure of where to look, deciding to look down at his aching groin where his hands were back cupping his balls.

"Move your fucking hands away from your balls, nigger! Now! And keep your fucking head down. When you're with your owner you don't look him in the eyes unless he tells you to. Got that, nigger?"

He nodded. I refrained from hitting him. "Nigger, that's not good enough. A nod doesn't tell your owner if you understand your orders. You're so fucking dumb it could mean anything. What did I just tell you?"

"I...I ain't s'posed to look at...at...my owner `nless he lets me."

"Good nigger." I dog-patted him on his shiny skull...another thing that would shortly change...and from the tiny slump knew he understood what I'd just done; what that gesture said about him.

"Now, nigger, open my jeans, take out my dick, and give your owner a fucking good blowjob."

He didn't move, just started babbling. One last hurrah, though he had to know it wouldn't do any good. Had to know? Fucking hell. He was a nigger, so maybe it hadn't quite sunk in. "P...please. I ain't no fag. I ain't nevah sucked no dick, please don't...."

"Nigger, if I want you to be a fag, you will be. If I want you to suck my cock off in the showers down the hall, you're fucking gonna do it. Christ, nigger, what the fuck does it take to get through the wet sand in your skull to reach what little brains you may have? One last fucking time. I've got you on video bitch-slapping me and threatening me. I've got you on video face fucking me and threatening me. And when I get through editing those videos no one will ever know about all the rest that got recorded. Now suck my fucking dick, nigger!"

He didn't say anything more, just fumbled at the buttons on my jeans, finally got them open, reached around with those huge hands and tugged them down off. Not too difficult, of course, because even though the jeans are well-worn and tight, I'm still just a skinny-assed white teen. With a respectable seven inches of stiff white dick popping out in his face.

He took one shuddering breath, opened his mouth and lowered those fat fat fat nigger lips onto my dick. My turn for a shuddering breath. "Look up at me, nigger, while you suck. I want to watch your face as your owner slides his young white dick in and out of your nigger pussy mouth."

The torment in his eyes? Priceless.

All the more reason to make it worse for him. No passive blowjob after all. A good hard face fuck was what I needed. What I proceeded to get. My turn to hold his head, large black nigger head with thick pussy lips, hold it fucking tight while I used every bit of my strength to start ramming my dick into his mouth, into his throat, holding him for seconds at a time with my dick all the way in, his nose in my pubes, making him cough and choke and struggle to breathe, making him drool around my cock, then sliding out and picking up the pace. Pounded his face, watched my white dick thrusting through those fat, sore nigger lips and then I couldn't hold it back. I shoved my cock as deep as I could in his throat, ignoring his increasingly frantic struggle that somehow didn't manage to shove me away as in reality he could have done because some tiny part of him knew that if he rejected me, hurt me, I'd hurt him even more. He gagged, coughed up some of the cum and spit so it soaked my pubes, but finally just stayed still as I finished spurting and slid my still hard dick out of his mouth.

There was a moment of silence while he got his breathing under control, and swallowed my cum. "Well, nigger, when your owner allows you to offer your pussy mouth for pleasuring a white cock and that cock cums in your face hole, what do you say?"

He kept his head down, and gave me a sullen, "Thank you."

I told him to look at me. He did. I bitch-slapped him harder than the first time. "Not good enough, nigger. What do you say?"

"Thank you, sir?" His voice was a little shaky, the sullenness almost gone.

I backhanded his right cheek, and bitch-slapped the left again. "Christ, you niggers are so fucking stupid. Think it through, bitch. You can do better than that. Now do it the fuck right. What do you say when you're allowed to drink your owner's cum?"

"Th...thank you, massa."

"Very good. You finally got it right."

I bitch-slapped him again, enjoying the shock of betrayal in his eyes. He'd done it right, why was he being punished?

"Just to reinforce the message, nigger. Now see if you can't make it even better. Embel...expand what you said. Tell me how grateful you are. And don't take too fucking long about it."

More deep thought...if a quarter of an inch is deep. "Th...thank you, massa, for lettin' this h'yere worthless nigga suck yo white cock `n drink yo white cum."

"Very good, nigger." And he knew if he'd been a dog, he'd have gotten a pat on the head and a doggie treat.

Well, hell, he'd already had two nigger treats...a blowjob from his owner and a mouthful of cum from his owner...he didn't need another one. But I decided to give him one anyway.

"So good, in fact, nigger, that I'm going to let you have your master's teen cock again. In your pussy."

He'd been shamed by having to suck a white boy's cock; his manhood, his entire view of himself was about to be destroyed by having that same white boy stick his dick in his virgin nigger cunt. Or was it?

"Nigger. You ever been fucked before? And you fuckin' better not lie."

"N...no, massa." He was too frightened to lie.

"Good. Now is my dick wet enough to use on your nigger shithole cunt?" Nothing I loved better than a trick question. If he said "yes" and it wasn't, he was in for a lot more pain. If he said "no," he'd be telling his owner how to fuck him. Either way, punishable.

But he surprised me. "Iffen you thinks it is, massa." Damn. The one answer I couldn't punish him for. Well, fuck, of course I could. I owned the nigger cunt. But there has to be some rationale behind punishing your nigger. Unless, of course, you make it clear that you're not punishing him for any particular reason, but instead for no reason at all, you simply felt like it.

Fuck it all. It was slick enough. If it wasn't, at least to the point of causing me any discomfort, I'd solve the problem when it happened.

Following orders he straightened his cock under his belly as he laid down on the bed, spread his legs and made his virgin pussy available for his master's use. I fingered his hairy hole, poked and prodded a little at his tightly-clenched ass, dropped some spit in the general vicinity, got up over him, braced myself with my left hand, seated the head of my dick so that it was pushing his cunt hole open just a bit. Told him to relax his nigger cunt and on a count of three I was going to start easing my teen dick into my nigger's man pussy. Then I was going to give him the fuck of his life.

I lied. Oh, not about the fuck. About the three-count. I barely got the "one" out before I was raping my dick into his hot steamy shithole, balls deep.

My nigger screamed. Very satisfying. His owner had lied to him and hurt him. A valuable lesson. He needed to learn that his owner doesn't make promises to a nigger. That it is never ever about the nigger and what he might think his needs are, if a nigger can even think without a white man to guide him. It's about one thing and one thing only...the white man's pleasure.

The scream also brought a pounding on the door, and a voice that sounded like one of his homeys asking in Bubonic if he was okay.

I whispered in his ear as I started raping him. "Make it good, nigger. That door isn't locked..." another lie "...so if you don't want your homeys to find you with white teen dick in your spade cunt...."

He raised his voice so he could be heard, although his voice was a little shaky with the new full feelings in his man cunt. And the pain. "Everthin's aight, homey. Jes' the fuckin' TV up too loud. Meet you latuh, `n we get some beer. Gotta finish up here first."

"Aight, bro!"

Then he bowed his head. I kept on whispering, softly, insidiously, as I went on raping. Later, when he was thoroughly broken and trained, there wouldn't be the joy of nigger rape because he'll want his master's dick in whatever hole his master chooses, he'll want to be used. Just like daddy's nigger. But for now, it was my first nigger rape. And somehow I knew it wasn't going to be my last.

"You're mine, nigger. I own every fucking inch of your body. It doesn't belong to you any more. You don't touch it to pleasure yourself unless I give you permission. You don't date any more unless I tell you it's okay and when you're on the date you only do what I tell you it's okay to do. You're useless nigger trash, your only value is serving me, servicing me, being my nigger cum slut. The first thing you'll do every morning is wake me up by sucking my dick. You're also going to be my personal toilet. Because before I let you have your owner's cum tomorrow, you're going to swallow every bit of my piss, without spilling a fucking drop, or I will hurt you. The last thing you'll do at night is take my piss and my cum if I'm interested. If I need to piss in the middle of the night, you'll get your nigger ass up off the floor...because you don't really think a nigger is going to sleep in this bed, do you?...and drink it down."

I kept up a nice steady fuck pace. This could last for hours if I let it. Daddy was a good trainer. So was grandpa. Starting when I was five, they taught me how to take dick in both my holes and be a good boy cunt. Let their nigger...it's a small town, no way they could each have a nigger...teach me how to suck nigger dick, how to pleasure it with my boy pussy so I'd know how to reward my own nigger later on. Jackson is a hung nigger who knew how to give me dry orgasms one right after the other.

I was explaining all this to my nigger. Letting him understand his master.

Told him how I turned thirteen and started using grandpa and daddy and Jackson, fucking their holes, pissing in their holes like mine had been pissed in. Getting fucked or sucking dick when I asked for it, but no longer having to do it when they told me. Although I'd learned a lot watching how daddy and grandpa used their nigger, but learned more from doing it myself. Fucking mind blowing to have the sheriff on his big nigger belly while my teen cock was pounding in and out of his cunt. Yeah, my daddy and grandpa owned the nigger sheriff. And I had temporary ownership, until I could go away to school and graduate and find a nigger of my own.

Daddy was going to be so goddamned proud of me. Owning my own nigger when I was just barely sixteen.

My nigger was beginning to tremble a little, and squirm. Jackson had taught me how to find that little, or in my nigger's case, big nut inside nigger pussy. And use it. Poor nigger didn't want to admit that he had a hardon from being fucked by a teen white boy, but he managed to force a whimpering, self-disgusted "yes, massa" out when I asked him if he had a hardon, if he was enjoying white dick in his pussy.

I started raping his ass harder. Even though I could go for another hour or more, I didn't have the time. I told him to fuck me back, to squeeze and release his pussy muscles to help his owner get greater pleasure, to fucking well cum when I did. To let me hear how much he was enjoying being used by his new teen boy master, but not so loud he brought his homeys back to find him fucking enjoying his very first fuck.

I fucked his hole harder than any man cunt I'd ever fucked, high on the power of my first fuck of the first nigger I was going to own in my life. Fucked it still harder, reaching under his chest and hurting his fucking tits until he half-shouted half-whispered that he was cumming, and I came right along with him.

I pulled my dick out. It was messy, not too bad, but then I wasn't the one to lick it clean. Tears were streaming down my nigger's face, but he did as he was told.

When my cock was clean I sat on the edge of the bed, and he swiftly got down to where he belonged. I suddenly had a fantastic idea. I asked him whether any of his homeys were likely to flunk out by the end of the semester. He was probably startled but he was keeping his head and eyes down while I gently dog-caressed my nigger's head. He just said, "Leroy."

"Good. Then you can help me make sure that he does."

I knew he wanted to ask me why, but "yes, massa" was all he said.

I was gracious. It had, after all, been a damned good rape. I explained.

Grandpa had been fucking daddy for a couple of years, which made him about eight when this happened, but what grandpa really wanted was nigger boy pussy. So grandpa raped Jackson the day after his fifth birthday, and made sure he understood what would happen to his parents if he told. Even at that age, Jackson understood what would happen if it was the white sheriff's word against the word of the county's only nigger family.

Grandpa fucked them both regularly for the next five years, making daddy appear to be best friends with the nigger boy, so there was no question about why the two young boys were frequently at the sheriff's house, and Jackson often stayed overnight. All the better to get his pussy fucked. When daddy turned thirteen, grandpa started letting him use Jackson, too. A father-son nigger sharing plan. By the time Jackson graduated from high school he was thoroughly trained; knew he was an owned nigger. They let him go to the police academy in the state capitol, and when he graduated he came home and became a deputy. Later, when grandpa got hurt in a car accident and got a shit load of money as a settlement, he decided to retire and persuaded the county supervisors to hire Jackson as sheriff. Daddy stopped work at the mill and became deputy.

Daddy said it was so fucking hot when I was little to fuck my boicunt in the sheriff's office, and then let the sheriff do me, and then have me watch while daddy put his nigger through his paces, making the nigger plead to be fucked harder, to be hurt. But still, it wasn't quite right that I had my own nigger and they had to share.

So we were going to turn Leroy. My nigger and me. Get him flunked out of school. Desperate. Get my daddy and grandpa here on a visit. Surprise them with their very own nineteen year old nigger big city thug that they could take back. Ripe to be broken and trained to be a good nigger. They'd be so happy at having two they wouldn't be too pissed that I raped Leroy first and got his nigger cherry.

All that thinking and explanation got me hard again so I had my nigger start sucking. Started thinking about God and His mysterious ways. About Him creating white men and giving them dominion over all the things that crept and crawled on the earth, including niggers who needed to learn to crawl before their white masters. Yeah, niggers are sort of like the burnt ends of creation. Something most people don't like, and push away, or avoid, or get rid of whenever possible. But then, there are a few of us who like burnt ends. Who eagerly use the burnt ends for their own pleasure by making a meal out of them.

Well, I didn't plan on making a meal out of this "burnt end" of mine very often, but I did like eating his cum, and I sure the fuck wanted that cock in my own hole...once he understood how grateful he needed to be that I was letting him in my ass. But that's for later. Right now I'm going to enjoy my personal burnt-end nigger, use it for my pleasure by seeding his mouth with good white spooge, and what the fuck, he might as well start now learning how good my piss tastes.

I ruthlessly fucked his face and started cumming.