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From the Journal of Jaxon King,
by Skorpio
Part Twelve
I texted my slave to bring me his diary. I was curious to see what he wrote after getting fucked in the ass. My little woke whiteboy. I am never going to tell that bitch how pleased I am he isn't a faggot. It's a lot more fun fucking a whiteboy who's straight. With Zach, I know the worship is real, not some homo shit. That ass was sweet. I'm saving myself for the right woman, but sweet whiteboy ass is gonna see me through. When I do get with a female, I'm gonna know a thing or two about laying pipe.
I believe in my heart the day is coming when all brothers can have whiteboys to practice fucking on to get through dry spells. Maybe years from now my journal will be famous because I predicted it and helped get the trend started. Jaxon King, Prophet! No, spell that Profit. That's better.
I asked Mom to send Zach to my room because I was in the middle of a documentary on Jack Johnson, the first black heavyweight boxing champion and all-round bad ass motherfucker. We had a talk about Zach at dinner. "How's it working out with that whiteboy?" she asked, passing me a bowl of collard greens.
"He's working out real good," I replied, with my mouth full. I love my mom's cooking, so I wasn't really thinking about conversating at the moment.
Mom went on, "Does he know what you have planned for him?"
I swallowed my food and put down the fork. "I haven't told him yet. He'll find out when the time is right."
Mom said, "Your father would be proud of you. So is your uncle Derrick. He told me to tell you what you wanted is in the mail. Be careful with that stuff. Don't get any on your hands."
"I'll be careful, Mom."
"So how are your grades?"
"When did you ever need to ask me that?"
"Don't get smart with me, young man," she warned, jabbing me in the side with a serving spoon until I giggled. She knows I'm ticklish there. I love my mom.
When Zach arrived, he saw at once that I was preoccupied watching TV, and being a good slave, he knew exactly what to do without being told. He got down on his knees and waited patiently. It was over an hour before my show ended. Then, I told him to place the diary at my feet and go home.
I needed to smoke a joint for this, but Mom doesn't like me smoking in the house, so I went on the terrace and used my phone flashlight to read Zach's diary in the dark. It was better than I could have hoped. On the title page he had written in large block letters: DIARY OF A WHITE SLAVE. I am going to copy most of his first entry into this journal, but from now on the slave will have to provide me with copies every week. This is some of what he wrote:
***** My Black Lord and Master fucked me in the ass today. I was scared at first. I have been more than okay with sucking his cock, because giving him a blowjob is the least that I can do for him when he is horny. I never really felt like fag sucking his cock. I was just doing my job. It didn't mean anything. Not at first. I like sucking his cock now. No, I love sucking it. Does that make me a fag? It's only his cock that I care about. I would never give a white dude a blowjob. The Master's cock is different. It's more than a cock. It's awesome. But I'm not gay.
I thought the Master would split me in two when he fucked me. His cock is really thick. I begged him to take it out, but he knew I would get used to it. When he asked if I liked his cock inside my ass, I moaned Yes. I would have said Yes even it wasn't true, but that was the truth. I'm not gay, but it felt good being fucked by him, giving up my hole to his black cock. I wanted to be used. But only by him because he is my Master. That doesn't make me queer.
I'm 18 and never been with a girl before. There's a chick in my French class who likes me, I think, but I'm afraid to ask her out. And I would have to ask my Master for permission. He knows I like girls. Writing about this is giving me a woodie. A twig compared to the Master. But I'm not allowed to jerk off. I can do that because I want to be a good white slave. I know it's the right thing to do. *****
I found all that very interesting. We had a lot to talk about. I went to sleep with a smile on my face, thinking about what I have in store for my loyal slave.
Next morning at school, I gave back the diary, and told Zach to come over right after dinner. Later, I showed Marcus what I had copied. He said, "I think that faggot's in love with you." I said, "I know, right?" We had to laugh. He wanted me to stop by Holman's for dinner and a blowjob, but I said Mom was expecting me, and I needed to have a few words with my slave. Marcus is one to talk. I think he's got old man Holman sprung.
Zach squatted on my bedroom floor while I sat on the edge of the bed to talk down to him. "Before we begin," I said, "Kiss my perfect feet." He dutifully planted his worshipful lips on my bare insteps.
"Very good," I continued. "So, I read your very interesting diary, and I have a few questions. I notice you never referred to me by name. Was that intentional?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. King," said Zach. "I wanted to protect your identity in case anybody ever found my diary."
"Why would someone find it? Wouldn't you guard it with your life?"
"Yes, sir! But just in case - ."
"In case you fuck up, you mean?"
"Yes, sir." Zach hung his head in shame.
"Do you plan on fucking up sometime? Is that even a possibility?"
"No, sir, no, sir," he pleaded.
"Zach, if you're gonna fuck up that means I can't trust you. Then what good are you to me? What would I want with a slave I can't trust not to fuck shit up?"
"You can trust me, sir, please, sir," he whimpered. "I promise to never fuck up. I will never. Never. You can trust me, sir. I need you, sir!"
"I know you do. Aiiight, I'm gonna trust you not to fuck up. But keep my name out the diary like you been doing. That was smart. Did you bring it with you?"
After Zach produced it from his backpack, I had him inscribe his own name on the title page in big letters so there would be no doubt to whom this book belonged. That would guarantee he kept a close watch. I wanted this diary to become a part of him. Shackled to him. The record of his subjugation.
"What's this about a girl you like?" I asked.
"Anne from my college-prep class," he mumbled.
"Speak up," I insisted. "Do you want to fuck her?"
"I wanted to ask her out on a date."
"But do you want to fuck her?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so? What does that mean?"
"M-mister King, I've n-never fucked a girl before." He stammered with red-faced embarrassment.
"That's nothing to be ashamed of," I shrugged. "Well, maybe a little. You are eighteen. You'll be graduating in a month. I'm pretty sure most of the senior class has gotten laid by now. You might be the last one. I tell you what, I'm gonna think about your little problem. I am your Master, right? Leave it to me. I'll decide if you need to get laid, and how we'll go about it."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, yes, you are my Master, Mr. King," he practically beamed.
"You've got another little problem too, don't you?"
"Sir?" He looked at me with puzzled, puppy dog eyes.
"Do you still want to masturbate?"
"Only with your permission, sir."
"If I let you jerk off, what are going to be thinking about? Is it gonna be tits and pussy, or are you gonna think about my dick?"
"Your cock, sir," he said after only a moment of hesitation.
"Come over here and put your mouth on my dick while you play with yourself," I ordered. "That way I'll know for sure what you're thinking about."
I wanted to fuck him again, but it was a school night, so I just let him swallow my nut while he busted in his hand. "Lick all that skeet off your fingers." I said.
He was dismissed.
Part Thirteen
When Zach told me he was going stag to the Senior Prom, hoping to see Anne there, who also did not have a date, it became necessary for me to intervene. The last thing I wanted was for my slave to be out having fun, making lasting memories without me. His happiest times should be serving his Master.
Zach had been at the Prom for fifteen minutes when he received my urgent text: "Now!"
That was all I had to do. He showed up at my door a short time later in his black Calvin Klein tuxedo and the ubiquitous book bag which held his precious diary. His parents must have bought that tux for this special occasion. They were probably so proud of their boy that I am sure they took pictures, even if he did go alone. What would they think if they knew what he did instead?
It was Friday night. Mom was out of town. I had the crib to myself and could make all the noise I wanted. But I still wasn't gonna smoke reefer in the house against her wishes. I took Zach to the terrace with me, sparked a blunt, and even shared some of it with him. Then, I told him to wait while I fixed him a rum and scotch. Bacardi hundred proof.
"Drink up," I said. "It's your prom night."
"Aren't you drinking, Mister King?" he asked, hesitantly.
"I'm only fifteen, remember?" I laughed. "Drink that up, and I'll get you another one."
It was not long before Zach was drunk. Not blind, stumbling drunk, but very, very relaxed, and very, very suggestible. He trotted behind me upstairs to bedroom, and did not trip once. But he was mumbling "shrrr" instead of sir.
"Get completely undressed," I said, turning off the lamp and lighting three black, scented candles. "Like I said, this is your prom night. All your friends are out drinking and trying to get laid. It should be a night you remember all your life. So tonight, you're gonna laid."
He had his shirt off and was awkwardly stepping out of his trousers, when I said that. The look on his face was priceless.
"It's not what you think," I said. "I don't have a female for you. That's not how it's gonna work. You're gonna be the female. I'm gonna fuck you a woman tonight. Technically, you will be getting laid. You do want to be my girl, don't you? My special girl?"
I reached out and pulled him close, face to face, and I licked my lips like I was to kiss him. His lips quivered with anticipation, which was interesting. Did he actually long to kiss me, and how could he imagine for one second that I would ever put my mouth on his? He sure acts like a fag sometimes. I pushed him away so he could finish undressing.
His big, round, white ass looked inviting in the candlelight. I was about to pump him doggy style like the last time, but decided on missionary if he was going to be my woman. While I lubed my dick with some hair grease, he laid on his back with his legs raised and spread. I held him by the ankles and slid my dick into his little pink hole. He moaned, louder and freer, than before.
"Give me that pussy, baby," I growled. "You're my girl tonight, aren't you, baby. Tell me you want this dick in your pussy."
"I want your dick in my pussy," he slurred.
I picked up speed, thrusting harder and deeper. The whiteboy who claims to be straight was moaning like a wanton whore. "You're my girl, right?" I demanded.
"Yesh, yesh, I'm yrrr girl," he gasped. "I'm yrrr girl, yrrrr girrlll."
"That's right, bitch!" I could not feign sweet talk any longer. His cunt was tight, and that nut was coming. "Yeah, you're MY bitch. Years from now when someone asks about your prom night, you can tell them you got laid. Thank me now, bitch! Say it!"
"Thank you for fucking me, thank you, sir, thank you," he babbled, almost incoherently. "Thankyouforfuckingmypussy!!!"
"Whose pussy?"
"It's your pussy, sir, your pussy, you own this pussy, sir!"
Clutching his ankles to spread wide his cheeks and to keep my balance provided the perfect view. I could see my dick sliding like a black piston in his hole. Hard to believe such a tiny orifice could take so much dick and such a steady pounding.
Fucking is so much better than getting a blowjob. I really like fucking. I am pretty sure that I was born to fuck. I have to be with a woman soon. I don't know if I can wait for my one True and Forever Black Queen. If a whiteboy's ass is off the hook, then real pussy has got to be out of this world.
Without slowing down my thrusts, I leaned over Zach's writhing body and spoke just loud enough to drown out his moans: "This is how I'm gonna fuck you from now on. Forget you were ever a dude. You're my girl now, my good little white slavegirl. You're gonna give me this pussy all the time. This is my pussy. You're my pussy. My little pussy slave. Yeah, that's gonna be your slave name. I'm gonna start calling you that. Pussy. Let me hear you say it, bitch. What's your name?"
"It's Pussy, sir," the white slave gasped.
"Say it again!"
"My name is Pussseeeee -."
I heard the bitch wail, then suddenly my entire body tensed, every muscle and fiber. Like a jackhammer, I tore into that pussy, harder and harder until I could not hold back. Like a sun going nova in my groin. I squeezed my eyes shut, and shot my seed like white molten bullets.
When I opened my eyes and looked down, I saw a puddle of cum on Zach's stomach. He must have come without touching himself. I decided the only way he was ever going to cum again was with my dick inside him. I will see to it he never has sex with a woman. Maybe if it was legal to own white slaves, I would breed him with a suitable wench, but that day is not here. Not yet.
I snuggled in my black hooded bathrobe while Zach got dressed. His tuxedo was wrinkled. He fumbled inside his pack back for some breath mints and to check his phone.
"You got your diary with you?"
"Yes, Mister King," he said, holding it up.
"Make sure you write about what we did tonight. Be honest. You're my girl now, and I wanna know how that makes you feel. Pour your heart out. Make it nasty. You wanted to be a black man's slave, to be used by him however he sees fit. You got your wish. I am your Master for life. You will serve many functions, but for now your main job is being my girl when I'm in the mood to fuck."
"Yes, sir," he nodded.
"When your folks ask, tell them you had a nice time at the prom. That's not a lie. You were there for a few minutes, right? Once you make it to your bedroom, text me so I know you're okay. You're my baby girl, I gotta look out for you."
Zach winced. I could see he was uncertain how far I was going to take this role playing. I think he got into when I was fucking him, but now was having second thoughts. For all the good that would do him. He is totally my bitch. He couldn't disobey me if he tried.
"Goodnight, Pussy!" I hollered as Zack descended the stairs.
Part Fourteen
I already know my grades, an A in everything with plus signs for English and History. All the black kids in any of Mr. Holman's classes are getting automatic A's. Except for Lockjaw Jones. Dumb as an ox, but our best varsity linebacker. Marcus and I discussed this. Holman would give Lockjaw a B and private tutoring. We disagreed on what the white students should get. Marcus wanted them all to fail until I pointed out that would draw undue attention. We told Holman to give them whatever grades he liked.
"If Principal Patterson says anything, will you be able to explain why your black students are doing so well?" I asked the fag.
"Absolutely, Mister King," he insisted, adjusting his bow tie. We were alone in his room after class, out of earshot, so he knew to address me correctly. But Holman would have called me Mister King or Sir in any case, because that was how he spoke to all his students now. I made him watch To Sir With Love to see how paying respect brings decorum to a classroom.
I gave Holman a stack of books to read over the summer to bring him up to speed: The History of Racism, The Truth about the Civil War, The Deconstruction of White Delusional Myths, speeches by Malcolm X, essays by James Baldwin and Eldridge Cleaver. Starting in the fall, that faggot slave will be teaching history from a different perspective.
There is another faggot I have my eye on. Mr. Prentiss, the French teacher. I'm going to have him for French 2 next year. It should be pretty easy getting him under control. He's going to need a Master. I don't really want a fag and Marcus is getting everything he wants from Holman. It's time to expand the circle. I have a few cats in mind who might be down with owning a white slave, and able to keep mum if they decide against it. Anyway, that's next year's agenda.
I made a point of making small talk with Anne, that chick Pussy likes, when I saw her in the library. The fact she was still checking out books with the year almost over told me a lot. When I remarked upon the book in her hands - Manchild in the Promised Land, by Claude Brown -- she told me was studying the Harlem Renaissance. We conversated for a good time. She is kind of cute for a cave bitch, shy, hiding behind big glasses and untamed hair. It surprised her to find out I was still a freshman. She said that I am very mature for my eyes. I said, "I'm very mature in a lot of ways. We should get together sometime. I like you." She blushed. `I'll see you around, I've got to get to practice," I said, which was not exactly a lie. I have to practice if I'm going to make the basketball team. But I got Anne figured out: mousy white chick who wants to run away to Harlem in the 1950's to write poetry, fight for civil rights, dance drunkenly at the Savoy, and take up with some black jazz man with a big dick who fucks her silly.
Been fucking Pussy on the regular. Made him shave his pits and legs, and rub lotion into his skin to keep it smooth. He takes all necessary precautions to keep his hole clean and ready. Blowjobs are a thing of the past. Fucking is definitely where it's at.
Pussy wears a white jockstrap so I don't have to look at his thing. Not only is it nasty looking, but it gets stiff when I'm screwing him, and that makes me want to laugh. Starting this week, I've been giving Pussy some tea made with special herbs Uncle Derrick sent me from New Orleans. It's supposed to make a man's balls and penis shrink. Pussy's junk won't go away completely, but it will be less noticeable. The more Pussy claims to be straight, the more I am going to rub his freckled nose in the shit of truth.
While I was drilling Pussy, I told him that I met Anne, and what a nice girl she was except for her little tits. "But at least she has tits," I went on. "Not like you." I squeezed and twisted Pussy's little nipples hard until he squirmed with helpless pleasure electrifying his body. "Do you still want to go on a date with that chick? Maybe I should go out with her instead since you're not man enough. You really are such a fucking pussy. How did you get through life before I came along? Don't your parents know what a loser you are? You have good grades but no friends. You don't play any sports. What would they think if they knew you let a fifteen year old black kid's bitch? Why would any decent chick want to know you? This is what you are, you're my pussy, that's your name! That's what you are! Get ready for my nut, baby. I know you wanna cum too. Remember whose dick this is. This is your Master fucking you, bitch! You fucking cunt. That's right. Shake your bitch ass while I fuck you. Shake that ass. Squeeze those pussy lips. Go wild on that dick. You can't break it. It'll break you first. Yeah, gimme that pussy you good little whore."
Did I talk like that when I got blowjobs? I'll have to look through the journal, because I don't remember. I don't think that I did. There is something about fucking this whiteboy that unleashes me, makes me brutal. It feels good.
Part Fifteen
This is what Zach wrote in his diary about the night I made him my girl:
***** My name is Pussy. I used to be a man. At least I thought that I was a man. But I am a white slave, and a slave is whatever its Black Master decrees. My Master says I am his pussy. He must have pussy to fuck. I want to be his pussy. I am not gay but I have grown to need his cock. I am so much in awe of the Man who made me his pussy. Even though he is 3 years younger than me, he is more Man than I could ever dream of becoming. I was always a pussy. The Master helped me realize what has been true all along. Thank you, Master, for making me understand, thank you for making me your pussy, thank you for fucking me, for using me, thank you for everything. *****
I like that. I could not have put it better myself. Zach always was a pussy. Never fought his own battles. Looking for a hero to put on a pedestal. Ashamed of his inferiority. Easily intimidated and controlled.
Confession: I have a certain amount of affection for Zach. The way he wrinkles his thick eyebrows when he's perplexed is adorable. There are moments when I almost feel sorry for him, and then I see him for what he is, looking like some deformed albino neanderthal mutant that should be crawling in caves and sewers like rats. But he is so loyal and obedient that it touches my heart sometimes.
That's why I have big plans for Pussy. I have gone over them with Mom, and she thinks it's a brilliant idea, so I have her full support.
A few more excerpts from the Diary of a White Slave:
***** When the Master fucked me, I had a spontaneous orgasm without touching myself. What does that say about me? What am I? I know the Master does not think I'm really straight. I don't want to believe that. I feel straight. I think I am. The only reason I service the Master sexually is because he is a superior black man and I am his slave. But the Master is never wrong. He is so much smarter than me. He always knows exactly what he is doing. Maybe it was his cock that made me cum. There is something amazing about his cock. Does that make me gay? I love his cock, I really do, but I think anyone would feel that way if they saw it. I don't even care about sucking it anymore. I just want him to fuck me every time. I'm worthless and useless, but at least I have a pussy for my Master to fuck. This wasn't what I imagined my life would be like. I thought that I would have a girlfriend by now. But this is better than I could have imagined. I am so happy my pussy pleases the Master. *****
***** Oh Master, I got so confused when I was home alone with my thoughts. I have a lot on my mind. My parents are fighting, I need to study for my finals, I'm worried about the future, and I haven't heard from you in three days. I think about you so much. You define me. Whatever you want me to be for you. I feel more like your little girl every day. I think my penis is shrinking. I have to sit down to pee now. I bought the feminine deodorant spray you told me to get. The black cashier guy looked at me kind of funny. I had an embarrassed feeling he knew that I was buying it for myself. *****
***** Master, when you told me you talked to Anne, my feelings were crushed, but only for a moment. I realized a girl like Anne deserves to be with a real man. I'm not a man. I am a slave. I am your property. Anne would be so lucky if you fucked her because that's how I feel when you fuck me. *****
***** My mother was looking snapshots in a scrapbook. There was one of me as a boy in my Halloween costume. I was dressed as a robot. I walked around intoning mechanically, "I am a robot. Command me!" There was another one of me dressed like a victim from The Puppet Masters by Robert Heinlein. I was shirtless with a tentacled alien creature attached to my upper back. Nobody got it. How far back do my fantasies of being a slave go? Now that I think about it, I have always daydreamed or fantasized about being in a servile position. While other boys thought of themselves as Batman, I wanted to be Alfred. I loved movies about proper British butlers. I was always a good son. I have always done what I am told. *****
***** When I saw Roots, what bothered me was not slavery but the fact it seemed obvious the wrong race had been enslaved. All those strong, noble, virile African warriors should have been the Masters. There had to have been unimaginable brutality. If one rebelled, all were punished with torture or death, women and children, without mercy. I tried to imagine a plantation owned by Blacks with half naked whites working in the fields all day, whipped to work harder, shackled at night. That's the way it should be, I thought. But until I met my Master, I never dreamed it could come true. Now I know it can happen. The world is changing. My Master is showing other Men like himself that it is possible to set things right. *****
**** The Master bent me over and fucked me without saying a word. He made me cum almost at once. My cock which is so tiny now was not even hard when I ejaculated. I don't even think about my cock now. All I care about is the Master's big black cock inside me. He fucked me hard for a long time, and when he was done, silently dismissed me. *****
There is a lot more. Pussy goes on for pages. He is really grateful to me for giving him the diary. Now he has a place to store all his secret thoughts while worshipping me at the same time.
Part Sixteen
Friday morning sitting in study hall across from a phyne sister who keeps looking over at me. I have been pretending not to notice her watching me write in my journal. I know that's what she's curious about. Everyone is always asking what I'm writing down in this big book of mine, but I never give them a straight answer. I smiled cautiously at her and she smiled back. My heart stopped. I went back to what I was writing. I was not going to mack on her like some brothers would. A woman is a mysterious creature. You have to let them come to you. My mom told me that. She says a woman will know ten things about you before you even know her name.
I don't know who this chick is. She must be in my grade to be in this study hall, but I never saw her before. She looks like a young Janet Jackson. Her hair is black, short, curly, tufted, wild and styled at the same time. Her color is the same as mine. As Romeo said of Juliet the first time he laid eyes on her, "She doth teach the torches to burn bright... like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear!" I can picture her naked.
Writing about this girl is making my nature rise. I can fix that by going home for lunch. Pussy will be there. Today is senior cut day when seniors can skip class without getting in trouble. Most of them will be partying somewhere, probably at the shore. But not my Pussy. He doesn't get to hang out. He doesn't need friends. Not when I have chores for him to do. He needs to be kept industrious.
I don't know what Pussy imagined a real slave's life would actually be like. He probably never got past the secretly thrilling fantasy of being owned and controlled. Doesn't he realize being a slave means being condemned to a life of drudgery from dawn to dusk, branded, beaten, brutalized? Is that anything to fantasize about? That Pussy deserves everything I'm going to do to him.
Mom has Pussy mowing the lawn, weeding the gardens front and back, and taking heavy boxes of junk and old furniture from the basement to the curb. He needs to get used to menial labor. There's more to being a white slave than just servicing a brother's chunk.
This morning, I told Mom what I named Zach. She said, "It's crude, if you want to know what I think. But it's also very fitting, I have to admit. I thought pretty much the same thing of him the first time you brought him home. Do you think Pussy is ready to hear me call him that?"
"I know he's not ready," I said. "But it's time. I'm sure he's been wondering how much you know. I think he's scared of you. Yeah, start calling him Pussy whenever you feel like it. That's really gonna humiliate him coming from you."
"I will see that it does."
"When you put him to work, keep him busy. Have him replace all the cobblestones around the garden in the back with the cobblestones around the garden in front. If that doesn't look right, have him to put them back where they were. I want him to sweat."
"Word is bond, dear."
I hugged and kissed her before I left out the house for school. By the way, materfamilias doesn't talk like that. She usually talks proper. I have heard her loosen up around Uncle Derrick and their friends, but her slang is dated. She still says something is the bomb and thinks hooking up means meeting at the mall. That's my mom! She doesn't like to be called Ma Dukes.
When Pussy reflects on senior cut day, he will remember that he spent it laboring for his Master. That should give him joy. A slave does not deserve personal pleasures, only the scraps that happen to fall his way. He must live for his Master entirely. Always useful and productive. That is the only point in owning a slave.
Pussy has been a good white bitch so far, but he has no idea what lies in store for him. I am his Master for Life. I have it all worked out.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
Note: The journal of Jaxon King presented here for entertainment and educational purposes represents a highly edited selection of the original manuscript. The intent has been to produce a narrative of readable length and sustained interest with no small attention given to its significant prurient value for men of a particular persuasion. Jaxon King wrote prolifically during this period, chronicling not just his own growth and development as a Black Master of white slaves, but about many other matters as well. It is regrettably beyond the scope of this narrative to include young Jaxon King's precocious writings on the subjects that intrigued him most: race, history, politics, African mysticism, the Harlem Renaissance, Afro-futurism in comic books, the current prospects of the 76ers, not to mention an abundant amount of speculation on the opposite sex.