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From the Journal of Jaxon King,
by Skorpio
Part Seventeen
Last week of school. Aced my exams. Met Pussy at the mall so he could buy me sixty dollars worth of new and old comic books for my collection. Saw that new girl in the crowded hallway just before the bell rang, but I still don't know her name. She saw me too. She knows I want to meet her. I could tell. Have I mentioned she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen?
Marcus was complaining about all the queers at school so we compiled a list of every guy, white or black, we thought might be homosexual. Among the approximately 100 freshmen who will be sophomores in September, we came up with 10 likely suspects, and there are probably more we overlooked. That is a lot of faggots right there. The bureau of statistics says one percent of males are born gay, and the fags claim it's high as ten percent. The truth is no one actually knows how many of them are running around on the loose. I wouldn't be surprised if there were 100 faggots at our school. Who knows how many teachers. It's a problem. Something has to be done.
But not until next year. Right now I have Pussy Zach to deal with. Graduation Day is next Saturday. Pussy will receive his diploma. His proud parents will be in the bleachers. The sun will be shining. Afterwards, they will take him to a tony restaurant where there will be family friends and relatives. He will get envelopes with checks and cash. They will ask about his plans for college and is he seeing anyone. At the end of a long, wonderful day, Pussy will return home with his parents and from that point on his life will never be the same.
I can't wait for that night to come. It's not going to be easy for Pussy to get through it, but after it's all over, he will know it's for the best. He won't have a choice. Am I going to enjoy this? Hell, yeah, to the max! I want this pathetic whiteboy to know what it feels like to be with his happy family in his comfortable, happy home before that is taken from him forever. He is going know what it means to suffer as a slave. The funniest part is that Pussy wants to be a slave. I will simply be granting his fondest desire. He is only getting what he deserves.
Part Eighteen
Early this morning, I texted Pussy to come see me before he left for Graduation with his parents. He rushed right over to apologetically explain on his knees that he did not have much time. I think he was afraid I was going to prevent him from attending the way I denied his other senior events.
"I just wanted to congratulate you on your big day, Pussy," I said, running my fingers through his hair. "Think you have time to suck my dick?"
"I always have time for that, Mister King," he said.
I unzipped and let my dick flop out before his eyes. His mouth was on it at once. "Get it hard, cocksucker," I demanded. "I've got a big load for you today. And don't even think about brushing your teeth when you get home. I want you to taste my cum all day long."
For a supposed straight dude, Pussy really knows how to suck a dick. He has had a lot of practice, that's for sure. I swore that I was only going to fuck him from now, but today I had another agenda.
After I busted my nut, filling Pussy's mouth with lots of creamy sperm juice, I told him to fetch me a wet washcloth from the bathroom. As soon as he left the room, I removed his precious diary from his knapsack, and hid it under my pillow. He was none the wiser when he returned with washcloth I used to wipe his saliva off my junk.
"Now go on, get out of here," I said. "You have a big day. Don't think of anything else but enjoying yourself. You earned that diploma. I'm proud of you, Pussy!"
He left with a smile. So much for that.
I spent a few hours fixing up the basement the way Mom and I decided, did some reading, and watched TV (stupid stuff not worth mentioning), all the while keeping an eye on the time. When I knew it was a few minutes before Commencement Ceremonies would begin, I texted Pussy: "Do you have your diary with you?"
He texted back at once: "Yes, Sir. Always, Sir."
A few minutes ticked by while I waited for the text I knew was coming next: "I can't find it. It's not in my book bag. I don't know what to do."
I texted: "Don't worry. It will turn up."
Pussy: "Thank you sir."
Everything was going as planned. Mom asked if I wanted to watch a movie with her in the family room. We have both been wanting to see Prince Among Slaves, a documentary narrated by Mos Def about a West African prince who was emancipated by John Quincy Adams after 40 years of slavery. Mom made buttered popcorn and sweet raspberry tea like she used to when I was a kid. We both have the same habit of talking during movies, saying what's on our minds. As Mom likes to say, that's why God created the pause button.
She was surprised to hear I had the basement ready. "You used to procrastinate so much as boy."
"If you haven't noticed, I've grown up," I said.
"I have noticed." Her eyes shone with maternal pride.
"I don't mind hard work," I said. "A man does what must be done. But there are some chores I don't care for. Menial tasks when I can be spending my time on more important things."
"That's why we have slaves, dear."
"I know, right?"
It is so easy talking with my mom. I told her about the girl I saw at school. "I'm going to marry her." Mom laughed, "Don't you think you should learn her name before you jump the broom?" We wondered how Pussy was making out worrying about his missing diary. "It's driving him crazy," I said.
"Good," she said. "Don't you have one more errand?"
"Right here," I said, holding up a large parcel wrapped in brown paper with a sealed envelope scotch-taped to the outside. On the envelope was written in big black letters: Mr. & Mrs. Anderson, parents of Zach Anderson. "Think that will get their attention?"
"Good job."
Before dinner I went walked over to Pussy's house where of course nobody was at home. They were probably at the restaurant by now. I was careful none of the neighbors were watching when I placed the parcel in the mailbox so that it stuck out conspicuously. I wanted to be sure it caught the Andersons' attention. The perfect gift to test their family values.
It is now 7:00. Recording today's events in my journal while we wait to hear from Pussy.
Part Nineteen
It all went done perfectly and turned out even better than I planned. The phone call, not a text, came at 10:00. Pussy was sobbing incoherently. I told him to calm down and tell me what happened. He said his parents read his diary and they were driving him to a Christian anti-gay conversion camp upstate first thing in the morning or else he would be excommunicated from of the family altogether.
"That's bullshit," I told him. "You're eighteen. You can do whatever you want. Hold on a sec, Mom is talking to me."
Mom was in fact sitting across from me at the kitchen table, but she didn't say a word. I helped myself to one of the cheesy nachos Mom fixed before getting back to my distraught slave.
"Listen up, Pussy," I said. "I told Mom what was happening, and she wants you to come here and live with us. Understand me? You're coming here to live. Pack your shit. Grab anything of value and bring it with you. This is what my mom wants. You're not going to some conversion camp because you're not gay, and we're not going to let you live in some homeless shelter. This is where you belong."
The poor bastard was still in tears, shaking, when he showed up at our door with two suitcases. Mom made him some cocoa, while I sat him down in the living room. "Calm down," I said. "It's going to be alright. You'll see."
"They told me to never come back! I'm never going back there again!"
"That's right," said my Mom. "You're never going back there again. Now tell us everything that happened, Pussy."
He stopped crying and gaped at my mother in shock, and then turned to me in consternation. "It's okay, Pussy. My mom knows you're my slave. It's cool. Now, take a deep breath, and tell us everything."
It seems Pussy was the one to spot the parcel in the mailbox. He had no idea what it was, but the way it was addressed suggested maybe it was graduation gift. In any case, being a dutiful son, he presented it to his parents at once. Mrs. Anderson read the letter first. Then, she dropped it with a sob. Mr. Anderson picked it up and read it next. His face went red. Pussy asked, "What is it? Who is from? What does it say?" But his parents were too busy opening the parcel to answer him. It contained Pussy's Diary of a White Slave.
Pussy snatched the letter and read: "To the parents of Zach Anderson: you should be ashamed of yourselves for harboring such a sick pervert in your home. I found this book in a public place where he must have wanted someone to read it. You are all going to hell. If you don't do something about your son, I will report him to the authorities."
Meanwhile, his devastated parents had begun to peruse the diary itself, at least enough of it to know what the anonymous letter writer was referring to. It was too terrible to believe. "Is this true?" his mother demanded. His father was more explicit: "Are you really a sex slave for some fifteen year old nigger boy?"
"No, no, no!" Pussy lied. "I made it all up. It's not true. It's just a story I'm writing, that's all."
His mother convulsed with sobs. "Whether it's true or not, you're a disgrace to this family. You've been lying to us all along. How long have you been a homosexual?"
"I'm not gay, dad."
"Don't make this worse by lying, Zachariah. You decided to be a homosexual at some point, and I want you to tell me when that was. Go to your room, and take this garbage with you. Destroy it. We don't want to see it again. Tomorrow, you're going to conversion camp. They'll straighten you out."
"But, dad. I'm not gay. I can't go to that place."
"Then you're out of here, buster. It will break your mother's heart, but we will forget you ever existed. You will be dead to us. Go to your room and think about your sins. If I come up there, I expect to find you on your knees, praying to God."
"Yes, sir," said the fallen son. But once he was in his room, he prayed to the only God he knew: his Master.
"That's the whole story," Pussy sighed, gratefully sipping his hot chocolate. `I don't know how I lost the diary. I'm so sorry this happened. I fucked up. I really fucked up." Then, he caught my mother looking sternly at him, and he apologized for his language.
"Yeah, you did fuck up," I said. "Big time. Didn't I tell you what a loser you are? But you're here now. Did you bring the diary?"
"I've got it, and the letter too. I did what you said and took everything I could, but I had to leave so much behind."
"Did you get a lot of money from your relatives?"
"Oh, yeah, I haven't even counted it yet. Lots of cash, lots of checks."
"Lots of thank you letters," interjected Mom.
"Yes, Ma'am," said Pussy.
"Give me the money," I said.
He opened one of his suitcases and handed over the funds without equivocation. It came to almost $3,000. Pussy must have some very generous relatives. Too bad they won't be generous any longer.
"This is mine, right?" Obviously it was. I knew Pussy wanted me to have it. He knows a slave owns nothing that does not belong to his Master. But I wanted to make it clear.
"Yes, yes!" he said. "I don't want it. I don't want anything from my family. I'm never going back there."
"Mom," I turned to her, "can I be alone with Pussy? I need to have a talk with the slave."
"I was just going up to bed," she said, rising. "Good-night, dear." She did not acknowledge Pussy at all.
"Listen up," I addressed Pussy. "And get off the fucking sofa. Get down on your knees!" He scrambled, almost spilling the dregs of his hot chocolate. "Your money is my money, don't ever forget that. You're a slave. This is where you live. You serve my mother and me, and any members of our family who visit. You will do what you are told, and you will work hard. You will continue to service me as you have been doing, except you will do it more often and you will do it better. Don't worry about my mom. She knows I'm a grown man with a man's needs, and that taking care of them is something whiteboys have always been good before. It's sort of a family tradition. Get up and follow me. I'll show you where you'll be sleeping. Leave your luggage. I have to go through it first and see what I want."
We have several luxurious guestrooms upstairs, but it would not be decent or proper sleeping on the same floor with a slave. For Pussy's comfort I prepared a corner in the basement with an old mattress, some tattered blankets, and a chamber pot.
"These are the slave quarters," I said. "This is where you will spend your nights. Maybe we can get you a lamp and some books, make it more comfortable, but you're gonna have to earn those privileges by being the best slave you can be. Understand?"
"I understand, Mr. King," he said, actually smiling. I think he was ecstatic about this arrangement. It was his life-long fantasy. Funny little cracker. Let's see how he handles the reality. Not that it makes any difference. I own him now. He's my bitch.
"Do you see that?" I asked, pointing to the iron collar with an open padlock and long steel chain attached to the wall beside the mattress. "Put it around your throat, and lock it. My mom and I each have a key. One of us will unlock you in the morning. There is a utility sink where you can wash up. Make sure you empty and clean the chamber pot. Then report to the kitchen. You will be fed. Mom will explain all that. Then you will go to work."
It was Mom's idea we lock Pussy up at night. She said, "Until I get used to having that mangy whiteboy under my roof, he needs to be properly secured.
I told Pussy, "Get some rest. I'll be back in the morning to tap that ass. Something you can look forward to. I'd fuck you right now but it's been a long day for both of us. Now, say `thank you massuh.'"
"Thank you, Master," he replied. The chain clinked when he moved. It really looked appropriate on him, I have to say.
"Not like that," I said. "Say, thank you MASSUH. Like that."
"Thank you, massuh!"
"Now you sound like a good slave."
That's how Pussy came to live with us.
As I write these words, Mom is on the terrace reading the New York Times, and Pussy is at the kitchen sink washing our breakfast dishes. It's a beautiful summer day. Marcus and I might ride our bikes out to the wildlife sanctuary. It's a long ride. I'll have Pussy make us sandwiches for lunch. I think Mom has enough chores to keep him busy while I'm out.
Part Twenty
We got a surprise package in the mail from Uncle Derrick. It was a huge, heavy box. Inside were two large, thirty pound, black bags labeled in big white letters: "Cracker Kibble." Mom and I both nearly fell out laughing. "Where do you suppose your uncle found that?"
There was more writing: "Nubian Zenith Limited Formula Dry Food for the cracker in your life. A nutritious blend of beef, venison, and horsemeat combined with fiber, vegetables, vitamins, minerals, and all-natural flavor enhancers to keep your cracker healthy and fit for a full day's work. Can be served warm or cold."
"Where did Uncle Derrick find something like this? Do they have a catalogue?"
"I think there's one in the box."
It was titled Nubian Zenith Products for the New World. We took turns flipping through it. Everything a slave-owner could possibly need, and then some. I warned Mom there was some sexual merchandise, but she scoffed. "I think that I'm mature enough to handle it." Even so, she seemed a little surprised by what was available and at such reasonable prices.
Mom pulled some strings and got Pussy a full-time job. He starts next week as a janitor at the high school. Seems a lot of maintenance work needs to get done over the summer. Mom saw to it that Pussy's entire paycheck will be direct deposited into my bank account. He will have to do his house chores early in the morning and when he gets home from work. He's lucky Mom still does all the cooking. I've noticed she leaves more dirty pots and pans in the sink than she used to.
One day while I was out, Pussy's mother came to our door and talked to Mom. She was concerned about her son's well-being. Mom told her that Zach was a deeply troubled boy who wanted nothing more to do with family.
"We are helping Zach deal with his homosexuality in a more positive fashion," she explained. "The therapist I took Zach to see thinks it's because of the way you raised him that Zach can't form normal, healthy relationships with girls. Both the therapist and I are hoping my son Jaxon will be a good influence and role model for Zach. I'm sorry your son turned out the way he did."
When Mrs. Anderson asked if there was anything she could do, Mom said: "I think you've done enough." Pussy's mother walked away in a huff of indignation.
After Pussy leaves for work in the morning, I like to read his diary. Writing is his only outlet since he does not get to watch TV, and I have decided against giving him books to read. He can just lay in his bed at night chained to the wall like my ancestors did with nothing to do but contemplate the hopelessness of his dire fate.
This is what he wrote: ***** I am so grateful for the Master letting me come live with him. I didn't know what I was going to do. Did my parents expect me to live in the streets? This is better. I didn't want to go to college anyway. I don't mind working as a janitor but it will be embarrassing when the kids come back in the fall. Some taking summer classes have already seen me in my green coveralls scrubbing the lavatories. I heard them laughing behind my back. Let them laugh. Master says the day is coming when all whites will be owned and put to work like I am. *****
Part Twenty-One
Marcus and I took Pussy down to tattoo parlor. The crotchety old guy who runs the place is a friend of my mom's. He reminded me of Redd Foxx from Sanford and Son. Don't ask me how my mother knows so many people. She has connections, that's for sure, and a lot of folks seem to owe her favors. It probably has to do with my dad, but we don't talk about him, and out of respect for Mom, I won't write about it in my journal. Some things are sacred.
I wanted Pussy to get the letter K for King on his butt cheek looking like a cow brand. He had to bare his booty for that, but I got the feeling this wasn't old Fred Sanford's first rodeo the way he put his hand on Pussy's ass. Pussy squirmed from the pain. I told him to keep still, and the sound of my voice seemed to steady him.
The King of Spades from a deck of cards was inked onto his left shoulder. It was a sign many black man and women would be sure to recognize. Lastly, across his upper back in beautiful, indelible, ornate black letters was the word: PUSSY. He asked for a mirror to see what was tattooed back there, but I assured him he would find out in good time.
And by good time, I mean what Marcus and I did to his sweet cunt when we got home. First we got good and stoned. Then we took some beer with us down to the basement where Pussy was curled up on his miserable bed with the collar around his throat, and we proceeded to fuck him from both ends. Marcus was really rough on the bitch. We both agreed something had to be done about the whiteboy's tits, so I found some clothespins. Tears streamed down his face when we pulled and twisted, but it worked. We could see his nipples getting swollen. When we had to take a piss, we used his mouth for a urinal.
Eventually I told him what was written on his back. "It's your name, stupid. Pussy. That's your name isn't it?"
"Yes, massuh," he said, pronouncing the word as I taught him to do. Marcus thought that was funny as shit.
"Who was Zach Anderson?"
"He was nobody, massuh," said Pussy. Dried piss and cum was on his face. His wet, tousled hair was a mess. That shit was going to get cropped.
"Are you sure he wasn't a pussy?"
"No, massuh, I mean, yes, massuh, he IS a pussy. He's YOUR pussy, massuh."
"Damn straight," I said, dapping Marcus before we headed out for some grub and to shoot some hoops.
Part Twenty-Two
Pussy's latest entry in his Slave Diary was very interesting:
***** Every morning I try to get to the high school early before my co-workers because we all change into our work clothes in a locker room, and I don't want them to see my tattoos. I tried putting my uniform on at the house but for some reason the Master told me not to. I don't know if he suspected I was up to something. He has a way of seeing right through me, reading my mind. The other men usually take showers, but I come straight home and wash up in the basement.
Until the other day when Master met me at the door and told me that I smelled funny. I said, it was because I was working hard all day. Why didn't you take a shower, he asked. So I explained about not wanting anyone to see my tattoos. I did not mention how self-conscious I am about my penis which is so small now it looks like a mushroom cap peeking out from a bed of moss. The Master said my concerns were understandable, but those were the consequences of being a slave that I was going to have to deal with. He ordered me to undress and shower with the other men. "But, Massuh, what should I tell them if they ask?"
That made Master angry: "Did you say `but' to me? That word is not in your vocabulary! What do I care what you tell them? Why is that my problem? Tell them whatever you want."
The next morning I put on my work clothes in the locker room with six other men. Our backs were turned and I only had my shirt off for a minute so nobody saw the King of Spades on my shoulder. That would be easy enough to explain except that two of my co-workers are black and they might know what it means. Taking a shower with them at the end of the day was an entirely different matter. Raymond, one of the black guys, pointed out the word tattooed on my upper back to the others. Suddenly I found myself under the scrutiny of six naked men. They roared with laughter. I told them I got drunk with some friends who inked me while I was passed out. They did not ask about the K brand on my ass or the King of Spades, but Raymond and Trent continued to look at me funny and mutter to one another." *****
This gave me an idea. The next day I went to the school to look for the two maintenance guys, Raymond and Trent. I found them taking a smoke break behind the school. I said, "I understand you work with a white guy named Zach. What do you think about him?"
"You mean the batty boy with the tattoos?" asked Raymond.
"He's not gay, but yeah, that's the one."
"You sure he ain't a little fruity?" put in Trent.
"He's straight, but he's a pussy. In fact, that's his name."
"What is he, your bitch, or something?" said Raymond. "I know what the King of Spades means, but I've only seen it on females. And what did you say your name was? King? Is that what the K stands for?"
"Pussy is my slave."
A deep gut feeling told me these cats could handle the truth. I don't know if white folks have this ability or if they are out of touch with their bodies, but one brother can usually read another. It's a survival skill. When you are black in America, you have to size up strangers quickly. Knowing who you can trust and who you can't trust can be a matter of life or death.
I told them the whole story. How Pussy always wanted to be a slave, and how I got him out of a jam one day, and he swore allegiance to me, and how his family kicked him and he came to live as a slave for me and my mom.
"Why are you telling us all this?" wondered Trent.
"Because I want you to keep an eye on him for me," I said. "Make sure he works the hardest. Keep him busy. Call him by his real name. The white guys don't need to know this shit."
Raymond: "I'll keep an eye on little Pussy, but what's in it for us?"
"How do you feel about blowjobs? Pussy is definitely straight, but he can suck a dick better than any faggot. Just tell him what to do and how to do it. He's a slave. You can fuck him in the ass if you want. Just don't damage the goods. That's my property. I want this slave to last for a few more years."
The wolfish grins on Raymond's and Trent's faces told me all I needed to know.
"We better get back to work now," said Raymond. "Your bitch might be a little late getting home tonight."
"He has to be back by six," I warned. "He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to be flipping burgers at McDonald's most evenings and the weekends. You know about the forty acres and a mule we were promised? He's the mule."
That night Pussy returned home late. He looked physically and emotionally exhausted. Mom and I were in the living room watching TV. Pussy entered and kneeled without saying a word as instructed. During a commercial break, I handed him his diary and told him to go to the basement and write down everything that went down at work.
"Yes, massuh," he said.
I will let Pussy's own words describe what happened:
***** Raymond and Trent told me they met my Master, and wondered if I can suck cock as good as he claimed. I was to stick around the locker room until the other men left. I could feel Raymond's and Trent's eyes on me when we showered. As soon as the three of us were alone, Raymond locked the door and ordered me to get on my knees. He took out his big cock and shoved it in mouth. I didn't have a chance to suck it, because he held my head and fucked my face until he came. Then, the same thing with Trent. It was brutal, but if this is what my Master wants, that's all that matters. It looks like I will be servicing them from now on every day. All of my co-workers have been calling me Pussy to my face. I know eventually one of the students is going to hear that and it's going to get around. I'm not looking forward to fall. But I will get through it. I'm a slave. All that matters is serving my Master. Not what anyone else thinks. *****
TO BE CONTINUED....