From the Journal of Jaxon King -- 3 by Skorpio
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Part Five
Today in history class I informed Mr. Holman in front of all the other students that what he was teaching us about slavery was wrong, all wrong.
He claimed that the abuse of slaves was a pernicious myth, that as valuable and expensive property they were treated humanely.
"That's a lie!" I cried, bolting from my seat.
"Sit down, Jaxon," he said.
"It isn't true," I went on. "Slave masters were cruel and sadistic. They beat and tortured Africans because they were afraid of us."
"When you say we," said Holman, starting to perspire, "you make it sound like it happened to you personally. You fail to realize slavery as an institution goes back to the very beginnings of civilization whenever one tribe or nation conquered another. Africans owned slaves."
"It was different in America," I went on, refusing to back down. "It all changed with the transatlantic slave trade in the 1500s. You denied our humanity! You called us animals! We were bought and sold, bred like cattle. Even in ancient Rome, slaves had no rights, but they were still considered human beings."
"That's enough! I told you to sit down."
Our eyes met. I knew he couldn't read my expression, but it was child's play reading his dilated pupils, the beads of sweat on his high forehead, and his thin, twitching lips.
I made him nervous, me, a fifteen year old. I held his gaze. He knew that I was looking into him. I could tell he was hiding something and I wanted to know exactly what it was.
Then it came to me. Holman is queer. Plain as the pointy nose on his face. My history teacher is a fag!
Not only that, I get him hot and bothered, and he was trying his best not to let on. His beady eyes widened as my lips curled into a knowing smile. He knew that I knew!
Just then the bell rang!
Next period was study hall, but I couldn't concentrate. All I could think about was that faggot. I didn't like the way he spoke to me. Who does he think he is? I should be teaching that class. I know more about history than he does.
Played dodge ball in gym class. Coach Robinson had Marcus and a whiteboy pick teams. Marcus, of course, chose only brothers for his side. Coach must have known it would be a slaughter, pitting black against white.
We pounded them. They couldn't throw for shit, and made easy targets. The losers had to run laps.
That took my mind off Holman until Marcus started playing snap towel in the locker room. He got a bare assed whiteboy good on his way to the shower.
That's what Holman needs. He needs to get his ass whipped. At the very least, a spanking.
Not just because of the bullshit he peddles as "history," or the way he talks down to me, but for looking at me with lust, because that's creepy. Even Zach doesn't stare at me with lust. He's fascinated by my body, envious, but it's not sexual.
There's something creepy about a fag perving on me. He probably jerks off thinking about my dick. That's not right. Damn, I want to beat that cracker's ass!
Zach is coming over tonight. It's been a few days since he asked to be my slave. We pass each other in the halls, but he knows better than to talk to me in public.
It's ironic. The white man abducted us from our homeland, had to whip and torture us, erase our history and rob us of our names, in order to force us into slavery. Now, a whiteboy is submitting to me willingly. He wants me as his Master.
Best of all, it isn't really a sexual thing for Zach, at least not on a conscious level, even if he does derive some sort of pleasure from blowing me. I don't understand this. All I know is it feels natural having a whiteboy service me, and Zach feels the same way too.
It's like my dick stirred something dormant inside of him. Maybe it happened when he ingested my semen! Like my seed took root inside that weak but fertile mind of his. Wish I had time to write more, but I have Algebra in a few minutes.
Part Six
When Zach came over I told him what Holman said in class and how he disrespected me. Turns out Zach had Holman when he was a freshman. He was shocked to learn Holman is a fag.
"I don't like queers looking at me," said Zach. He paused to think about that for a minute before going on.
"What we do - " he started to say.
"What WE do?"
"What I do," he corrected himself, "that isn't queer, is it? I mean, I like girls, and I know you're not gay."
"It's the furthest thing from being gay," I assured him solemnly. "You do what you do because I tell you to. I was horny and you have a mouth. Anyway, I thought you said you liked it. You said it was addictive, didn't you?"
"It is," he admitted. "I can't explain it."
"What did I tell you?"
"That I should let you do my thinking for me."
Zach was perched on the edge of my bed looking down at his sneakers, but I saw the blush of shame in his cheeks. I almost regretted what I was about to do. But it had to go down. I knew what I wanted.
"Do you know what a whipping boy is?" I asked.
"I think so," he said, as if the change of subject was a relief to him. "It's someone who gets punished for something another person has done."
"Pretty much. See, I want to beat Holman's ass, but right now that's not a possibility. You're gonna take his place."
"You want to whip me?"
"I don't think we have to take it that far," I smiled. "But you are getting a spanking!"
"Because of Mr. Holman? Because he's a fag?"
"That's right."
"I guess that make sense."
His thick eyebrows wrinkled up in the cutest way, indicating some deeper shame that made me curious.
It's interesting how easy it is reading a white guy's thoughts. Like how I knew Holman is a fag. Are whiteboys really that simple, that transparent?
"Were you spanked as a kid?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
The simplicity of his reply spoke volumes.
"Who spanked you, your dad?"
He nodded silently. I was on to something.
"When was the last time?"
He looked away, blushing again. That's when I realized Zach was keeping stuff from me. He had secrets too. I didn't like that. If I was going to be his Master, I had to know everything.
"When was the last time your dad spanked you, slave!"
I said that last word with a growl. This was no casual conversation between friends. I had a right to know!
"I'm giving you an order, Zach! I'm your Master! You can trust me! When was the last time you got spanked!"
With a sigh, he told me everything: "About a week ago. That night you walked me home, it was past my curfew."
"You're a senior! You're seventeen! And pops still spanks you?"
"He says a hard head makes for a soft bottom."
"Damn!"
"I know, right?"
"How does that make you feel?"
"I don't know. He's my dad. Guess I deserved it."
"Maybe you did," I agreed. "Anyway, you're getting spanked tonight! Pull down your pants and lay across my lap."
Silently, timidly, he obeyed, offering up his plump, marshmallow cheeks.
I proceeded to discipline him with my hand. Every slap left a bruise on his quivering white ass. I lost track how many times. At some point he started sobbing. Tears ran down his face.
That's when my dick got hard.
It's not like his bare ass turned me on. It was like a vortex of power building inside me, as if Zach's submission and suffering made me stronger. Like whatever strength he possessed flowed into me and set my blood on fire.
I needed a blowjob more than ever.
"Suck it!" I demanded, pushing Zach to his knees, grabbing his head, jamming my dick in his mouth, pushing, thrusting, drilling, making my white cocksucking slave choke and sputter until my nuts exploded and cum gushed down his throat.
He crouched at my feet. Neither of us said a word. I was in a daze. We both were. I don't remember sending him home. It was like he simply ceased to exist, of no further use to me for the time being.
Later, as I was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to me that Zach probably got home past his curfew. He must have known that would happen before he came over - risking a spanking from his dad for the chance to spend some time with me.
Part Seven
Saturday, at the mall, I was checking out some Air Jordans I could not afford when Zach walked up behind me.
"Hey, Jax!" he greeted me, whispering "Master."
"Sup?"
"Not much, sir!"
"Watch your mouth," I said.
Last thing I needed was for someone to overhear. The world is not ready for our relationship, if that is the right word. Someday, but not now.
"I really want these kicks" I said.
"How much are they?"
"Three hundred," I sighed. "But I really want them."
"Let me get them for you."
"You sure?" I grinned. "That's a lot of benjamins!"
"I want to."
"Cool."
Sporting my new kicks, we caught a bus home, but got off a few block from the neighborhood so we could walk and talk. It was then I realized Zach was wearing a pair of raggedy bobos. That gave me a good feeling. Seemed only right he should own cheap, no-name sneakers, while I was dressed in style.
"If there is anything else you need, just let me know," he said.
"How much do you have?"
"I get an allowance, and relatives give me cash for my birthday and Christmas. I've been saving it for college, but that doesn't seem too important right now."
"What do you mean?"
"I guess what I'm saying is I want you to have nice things since you've been so good to me, and if I can do that for you, well, it just seems right."
"It's more than right. So what do you have in the bank?"
"About four thousand dollars, I guess."
"Damn!"
"I meant it when I said I want you to be my Master. I mean, that's what a slave does, isn't it? It's not like I can work in the field picking cotton got you, but whatever I have should be yours, shouldn't it?"
"Yes, Zach, it should."
Talk about irony! A whiteboy teaching me how to be a Master! He was absolutely right. What's the point of owning a slave if he does not put money in my pocket?
That's when I decided Zach was going to pay me every time he gave me a blowjob. I figured a hundred dollars a pop was about right, since he could obviously afford it.
Does that make me a prostitute? No. It's not like that. I'm not selling my dick. It's what Zach owes me for letting him be my slave. I am actually doing him a favor.
"Let's meet me at the mall tomorrow," I suggested.
"Okay," he agreed.
"Cool."
I was mentally formulating a list of things I want: video games, jerseys, CDS, DVDS, comic books, clothes, a tablet, a cell phone... Zach was right! This is what a slave does for his Master.
Gifts? No, it goes deeper than that. I get that now. It's a form of reparations. We were promised twenty acres and a mule, but nothing ever came of that. Another white lie! Caucasians owe us plenty.
As I thought about Zach buying me more shit, my dick started twitching. Like the other night when I spanked his ass, feeling strength and power churning inside me.
I led Zach to a small clearing in the woods behind the 7-11 so he could take care of my throbbing erection. The spot was strewn with trash, empty beer bottles, and a soiled mattress. We sat on some plastic milk crates.
But first, before getting down to business, I had a few questions for him.
"Tell me again why you want to be my slave."
"I've been thinking about that myself," Zach admitted. "I don't know if I can explain it right. It's a combination of things, I guess."
"Do your best," I said. "I wanna hear this."
"Well," he began, taking a deep breath, "what I read in Message to the Black Man got to me. About whites being inferior to Blacks, and that made so much sense."
"That's because you are inferior."
"I know, right? I think deep down every white guy knows it. Anyway, you stopped Scott from hassling me, and I realized that I had to repay you somehow."
"You did."
"When you told me to suck your cock, it was like I didn't have a choice. If you had told me to jump out the window, I would have done it."
"And you never thought about sucking dick before?"
"Never," he insisted. "I swear to God! But I wanted to because it felt right. And, well..."
"Go on."
"Your voice. It hit me hard. Suddenly, it felt like obeying you, no matter what, was the right thing, the only thing I could do. You're powerful, Jax. I mean, Master. I look up to you. I wish that I could be like you, but I know I can't."
"It doesn't bother you I'm a freshman, and you're a senior? That I'm fifteen, you're eighteen?" "In some ways, it's like you're much older than me. Does that make sense?"
"Makes a lot of sense."
"I still think of myself as a kid, but you -- you're already a man."
"Compared to you, I am."
"That's what I mean. You know exactly who you are, where you're going, what you want out of life. You're a natural leader. Until I met you, I didn't know what I wanted."
"And now you do?"
"Now, I know," Zach sighed. "I want to be your slave."
His confession made my dick hard as steel, harder than it ever felt before. So hard it was almost painful. Word is bond! Even my nuts ached from the pressure building inside me.
Zach must have seen the tension in my face, or maybe he saw the print of my erection in my pants, because what he said next pleased me more than I can say.
"Can I suck your cock, Master?"
This was the first time Zach asked to go down on me. Until now, he only did it on demand. Which has been sweet. Having this straight whiteboy obey me when I wanted head was cool. I thought that had to be the ultimate trip. Giving orders and being obeyed!
But this was different, this time he took the initiative. Zach knew what I needed, and was more than ready to do what he had to do. Makes you wonder what a faggot really is. Maybe all whiteboys are fags. Maybe sucking dick isn't about sex at all. It's about power!
I remembered one time during a varsity wrestling match, after a brother pinned his white opponent, both guys had conspicuous hard-ons beneath their tight, form-fitting singlets. At the time I wondered if it was a sexual thing, maybe they were both fags, but now I got it.
It was all about victory and defeat, domination and submission.
"May I suck your cock?" Zach asked again.
The difference between "can" and "may" felt significant. Now he was asking for permission. Out of respect or concern or love or sense of duty, for whatever reason, Zach was practically pleading to give me head. And that gave me an idea.
"I'll let you give me a blowjob, if you beg me," I said.
"I'm begging," he said, getting on his knees.
Zach reached for my pants, but I swatted his hand away.
"That's not begging. I wanna hear you say it like you mean it."
"Please, Master, I really want to suck your cock. Please let me do this for you! I'm begging you! Please, please, let me suck your cock!"
I really enjoyed hearing that. Would have been hot coming from a chick, but from a white guy, it was incredibly satisfying. Whatever affection I may have felt for Zach was consumed by my righteous disgust and anger toward all whites.
It was not merely Zach on his knees imploring to suck my dick. It was Mr. Holman and every white man I ever dealt with, as if the entire caucasian race was groveling to be my cock-sucking whore.
"Tell me why you want to suck my cock!"
"Because I'm your slave!"
"Why are you my slave!"
"Because I am inferior to you! Because you're a man, and I'm not. Because it's what I owe you! Please, Master! I can see you're hard, and you don't have to jerk off because you have me!"
"If I let you blow me, it's got to be the best blowjob ever! Better than the last time! Think you can do that?"
"Yes -- yes!"
The look of desperation on Zach's face was unforgettable. Made me think, if it is this easy turning a straight whiteboy into an eager cocksucker, what does that say about whiteboys in general?
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Meeting you at the mall," he answered. "To buy you things! Anything you want!"
"Good slave! Yes, you can suck your Master's dick!"
He hastily unbuttoned my pants, slid the zipper, releasing my seven inches from confinement. A second later it was inside his warm, wet mouth. True to his word, this blowjob was better than the last. This time he made loud slurping noises, saliva flowing, and he choked as my long, hard dick occupied his throat, as my pubic hair tickled his tiny nostrils, and my brown balls bounced against his chin.
After I shot my load, I said: "By the way, you owe me for that! But you can pay me tomorrow."
Before we went our separate ways, I removed my Calvin Klein boxer briefs and offered them to him.
"When you go to bed, I want you to smell these," I said. "Maybe they will help you dream about me."
Because it occurred to me, what if Zach is going through a phase? How can I really trust him? Maybe he's living out a fantasy, and after he's had a taste, he decides to move on? I'm not having that! I want to own this bitch - body, mind, and soul!
I am the Master! And it isn't going to stop with Zach. I may only be fifteen years old, but there is no reason I can't have more white slaves working for me. Gonna work on making that happen!
I haven't forgotten about Mr. Holman, either. That old faggot needs to be taught a lesson! Next time I see Marcus, we're going to have a talk. I have something in mind he's gonna like, and Holman is going to get what he deserves! Word is bond!
TO BE CONTINUED...