White Bitch Chronicles

White Bitch Chronicles: Episode 6: Aaron and Wilber

(c)2017 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.

Please note: this story depicts oral, anal, and group sex between males of different races. If any of these offend you or are illegal to publish in your jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no further.

The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.

.oOo.

From the beginning, I planned the White Bitch Chronicles as a series of five episodes. Episode 5, with its significant final sentence was the logical culmination of the entire series. I was finished with these characters. However, one of the characters was not finished with me. I heard him calling me insistently: Listen up, bitch boy writer, yo gave me awful short shrift in that last fuckin story. I ain't gonna let yo get rid of me that easily. I'm gonna haunt yo head 'til yo tell my story. That's what he said, although as you will see he didn't, and couldn't, use those exact words. But he made his meaning crystal clear. Therefore, here I am submitting episode 6 of a 5 episode series. Is this then the final episode? No. The characters kept coming and insisting that I write their stories. So soon you will also see episodes 7 and 8. I think that will be the end, but I better not make any promises. I don't know if some other character will grab my head with his strong hands and refuse to let me go before I gave him the respect he deserves.

Note: The second half of this episode portrays sex between males ages 13-18, plus one male in his thirties.

.oOo.

"You can kiss my ass, honkie boy."

"Well, Sir, I just think..."

"Who the [F handshape K handshape] gives a [right thumb pushed into left fist] what you think, you [B handshape striking chin]. My opinion is the only one that counts around here. Can you get that through your thick skull? What you think isn't worth a thimble of [middle finger on nose, then the OK gesture.]"

By now the members of our class were tittering nervously, trying desperately to keep up with the flying fingers, consulting in whispers with one another: "Did you get that?" "What did he say?"

I broke off the simulation and signed, "OK, it's almost quitting time. Any questions on what you just saw?"

"Wilber, What does this sign mean?" "And this one?" It was Sir Wilber's communication, not mine, that raised the most interest. The class was discovering cuss words that weren't included in Sternberg's dictionary, and they were devouring them like vultures.

Ten minutes earlier, I had no idea where this exercise was going to take us. The entire class, of course, is conducted in silence,--total immersion. We always start out with a review of what they've learned so far, choosing students at random to answer questions. Then we introduce the next lesson. Then the students break up into small groups to practice as Sir Wilber and I walk around observing, correcting, and encouraging. But Sir Wilber and I close each session with an impromptu improvisation, so the class can observe the signs they'd been learning in a real life situation. Since it is totally unrehearsed, I never know what to expect and Sir Wilber often pulls a fast one on me, which makes the whole exercise kind of fun. This night, I was supposed to play an employee who had gone to his boss (Sir Wilber) to ask for a raise. The dialog quickly escalated until by the end it was closely resembling the interchange Sir Wilber and I have outside of class. If I had allowed it to run overtime, the class might have seen me kneeling in front of him sucking his dick. As the class filed out, and we packed up our material, and shut down the lights, Sir Wilber signed that he expected me to be at his crib in exactly two hours with my two boy cunts ready for action. I glanced around to see if any stragglers might have "overheard" his silent order to me. Then, checking my watch, I quickly hailed a cab in order to get home and do what I needed to before going over to Sir Wilber's. My mind kept seesawing back and forth, at times racing ahead to the night of Masterful sex my ass was about to endure, and at other times remembering what brought my ass to this point in my life.

3----====8

I grew up in an unremarkable ranch house on an unremarkable street in an unremarkable subdivision of white suburbia. I was happy enough, but only because I wasn't aware of any other life. For the first six years of my life, my maiden aunt lived with us, which was a smart decision on my parents' part, because that way I grew up bilingual. Aunt Lydia, Mom's sister, could speak English, you see. My parents had no spoken language; they communicated in American Sign Language. So even before I was learning to say my first words, I already had a growing vocabulary of signs. Aunt Lydia also taught me how loud to play the TV, how to get my parents' attention, and other tricks for living in a silent world. She even taught me my own name: Aaron.

Both my parents were profoundly deaf. No hearing aid could bring in even the faintest noise. But my grandparents on both sides were not about to let that fact limit their children's future. Mom and Dad both were excellent readers as children, and got good grades in everything. They both were accepted at Gallaudet College in DC, and that is where they met and fell in love. Dad majored in Business and Mom in Psychology, and both have been running successful businesses ever since, which is how they were able to raise their son in an affluent Maryland suburb.

3----====8

The cab dropped me off in front of my building and I raced upstairs to my flat. Inside, I quickly got out of my clothes, my teacher clothes (black suit, black shirt, black tie), and jumped into the shower. I made sure to spray my asshole good and hard. I didn't want Sir Wilber to find any debris there. I brushed my teeth and rinsed with mouthwash. Then pulled out my outfit, the clothes I wear for Sir Wilber. No socks, no underwear, sneakers, tight jeans, a white T and a dog collar. I knew I would probably be at Sir Wilber's until daybreak, so to be safe, I packed a duffle with appropriate clothes for the courthouse the next day, where each week I interpreted the trial proceedings for any deaf litigants. I checked my watch, and felt I could still make it to the subway in time. I thought again about my early life.

3----====8

I suppose it was to be expected: there was no way Aaron could ever achieve the level of success his parents did. I made it through high school, but in college, whenever the coursework proved too challenging for me, I switched majors. Eventually, I dropped out altogether. I went through a string of employers who each had to let me go after a few months. I tried going it alone and started a couple businesses which went bankrupt. I could not maintain a relationship with a woman for more than four months. I checked the mirror every day, and even though I could not see it, I was sure I had a big L for loser tattooed on my forehead. Even Aunt Lydia had more success than I; she found the love of her life and is now happily married in Boca Raton.

One day, I was flipping through the Gallaudet campus paper and my eye was caught by one of the classifieds: a YMCA was looking for someone to teach a class in ASL. Shit, I knew I could do that. Maybe now I could erase that letter on my forehead. One little problem. That Y was in New York. But Hell, at thirty, it was time I moved out of my parents' home.

The class only met once a week, so the gig didn't pay much, but I soon found I could get other odd jobs as a signer. Every politician needed one whenever he held a news conference. Some large churches had signers for their services. I could make this work.

3----====8

On the subway, I thought about Sir Wilber. My dick began to twitch in my tight pants. Nervously, I rubbed my crotch. The woman across the aisle noticed me. Certainly noticed my leather collar. Possibly noticed my bulge. I put my duffle on my lap and held it tight. I closed my eyes and remembered the first time I met Sir Wilber.

3----====8

My first year in New York, the class at the Y went well. I learned what worked and what didn't. The students even liked me, and recommended the class to their friends. I did find other gigs: besides the politicians and the churches, I found hospitals with deaf patients, colleges with deaf students, hotels with deaf residents, all of whom needed interpreters. Then there were the jobs I can't talk about much. You see, there is this confidentiality clause in my contract, sometimes explicit, but usually merely implied. What a deaf person says and does in the presence of his interpreter is just as sacred as the confessional for a priest, just as privileged as the interchange between lawyer and client. I haven't had to go into the confessional yet, but I have sat in on meetings between lawyers and litigants; there I am simply an interpreter, and what I hear stays within those walls.

I will cite another example: Mr X was a happily married, very successful deaf businessman who on occasion liked to patronize call girls. I'd get a text message late in the evening to meet him at a particular hotel. When the lady saw the two of us she would always object, "Threeways cost double!"

"No," I'd explain. "Mr. X here is your only client. I'm only here to interpret for him." She would still try to get extra, and I'd sign her demands to Mr X, and he would get angry and head for the door, and invariably she would reconsider and agree. Then she'd call me a "Fuckin voyeur," and start taking off her clothes, or his clothes, or whatever her particular routine was. I'd position myself in a chair where he could see me and learn whatever she was saying. "Oh, you're such a bad boy, I should spank you." "I can't wait to have a taste of your manly cock." When he couldn't see me,--for instance, when his face was buried in her cleavage, or her pussy, or her buttocks,--then I'd just look around and study the hotel decor. The sex scene didn't excite me. I found it rather boring. So I certainly wasn't a voyeur. Eventually, he would come up for air. Then, I'd tell her to take the doggy position, his favorite, and he would begin pounding her cunt from behind, all the while looking at me (which was why it was his favorite position) to see what she was saying. I would sign stuff like "Fuck me harder, Daddy," "Please don't stop." And I would give the signs for grunt and moan and scream, and he would be satisfied with his performance. At the end, he'd go into the bathroom to freshen up and she would begin to retrieve her clothes and looking at me, would say, "Shit, you didn't even get an erection. You gay or something?" I'd smile and tell her again I was only the interpreter. That particular gig paid especially well and I was always glad to get his call.

At any rate, from all this freelance work, I was earning enough to have my own apartment, to buy a couple black suits and shirts, and to start dating. One girl, Shirley, and I really hit it off. She was pretty. She was fun. And the sex was phenomenal. I checked my forehead in the mirror. The L wasn't there. I was proud of myself.

Just before the start of my fourth year in New York, the Y's director called me into his office. "Aaron, your ASL class is oversubscribed."

"Wow. That's amazing."

"Yes, well, I was considering starting a second section,..." My head began to spin. That would mean doubling my salary. I could do something nice for Shirley. Maybe even get a bigger apartment and then maybe she'd move in with me. "However, what with Pilates, and Zumba, and Yoga, and Line Dancing, and Book Discussion,..." He listed a bunch of other courses. "...I just couldn't find any slot where we could fit in another section of ASL." I felt the letter returning to my forehead. "However, we hate turning people away, so I came up with another solution. I decided to give you an assistant. That way you could handle more students. Wilber has been coming to the Y ever since he moved here when he was 14. He's a good kid."

Fifteen minutes before the first class of the semester, the director brought Wilber into the classroom and introduced us. I looked at the young man and had my doubts: he was scrawny, he had a stupid expression on his face, his head was covered by a black dew rag, his chest an old black T, and his skin was the blackest I'd ever seen. But when I saw his fingers flying, I discovered him to be a fluent native speaker of sign language. Wilber,--(he was still Wilber then, not Sir Wilber),--was deaf, so ASL was his only language. His "accent" was noticeably different from mine. He tended to use two hands more often and his face less often.

I quickly explained my plans for the first lesson. Then just before the students were due to arrive, I took a quick look at him. Signers usually dress in black. Black shirt. Black tie. Black suit. That makes it easier to see what we are signing. However, Wilber was so black himself, that I didn't think his signs would be clear across the classroom. I explained this to him and signed he should wear a white T the following week. He reached over and pushed his fingers behind my tie and spread the shirt between two buttons. "You got a white T on under that shirt." I nodded. "So take it off and give it to me." A little unorthodox maybe, but certainly logical. I quickly doffed my jacket and tie, opened my buttons, slipped off my shirt, and handed the lad my white T shirt. He took off his, handed it to me, and put mine on. I couldn't think of any other place to put his shirt, so I quickly put it on. It was snug, it was torn, and it smelled that scent I would later come to love, the aroma of negro sweat. I was still buttoning up my shirt when the students began filing in."

The session went great. Having an assistant was a great improvement. Of course, there were times when he corrected me. I was used to Gallaudet ASL, not New York street ASL. I had a lot to learn.

At the end of that first session, we left the classroom and both Wilber and I made a pit stop in the men's room. Standing at adjacent urinals, I could hear something he couldn't. My stream was hesitant, intermittent; his strong, steady, direct. My curiosity was piqued,--I had heard all the stories about the legendary black cock,--but that damn little partition between us prevented me from getting my first look at one. As we stood at the sink to wash up, I signed to him in the mirror I wanted to meet some time to go over plans for the following week. He took one of the paper towels and wrote down his address. "Be there at 7:30 tomorrow night." He signed with authority. I didn't feel he wanted to discuss it. He wasn't interested if the time was convenient for me. He repeated the sign for "Be there."

Then I remembered what I was wearing."You want your shirt back?"

"Keep it, honkie. Something for you to sniff when you go to bed tonight." He turned and disappeared out the door. I stood there frozen. Except for my fingers which were signing "You impudent, insolent bastard [B handshape on forehed]."

3----====8

The subway stopped at 125th street.I got off and checked my watch. Good, I was on time. Not like that first time.

3----====8

The day after our first class, I did go to Wilber's address, but I didn't like his attitude. I purposely didn't arrive until a quarter to 9. I brought with me my notes for lesson 2. Four black men were sprawled on the stoop of his building. They made no effort to move aside and I had to gingerly tiptoe through them to reach the front door. One of them spat at the concrete in front of my foot. Obviously, I didn't belong here. I made my way up to Wilber's apartment. He opened the door. "You're late," he signed angrily. "Hereafter, when I tell you when to be somewhere, you be there." Hereafter? Who did he think he was? "Now, show me some respect. Get down on your knees."

I held up my folder of class notes and signed, "Look, I only came here to talk about lesson 2."

"No, you didn't." My quizzical expression didn't need any fingers to interpret. "This is why you came, honkie." He opened his fly and pulled out his black dick. The longest dick I'd ever seen. The thickest dick I'd ever seen. The blackest dick I'd ever seen, anthracite black. Frankly, the loveliest dick I'd ever seen. He let it just hang there and continued signing, "I knew you wanted to see it there in the men's room last night. I knew you were twisting and turning and gawking and getting frustrated because you couldn't get a look at it then. Well, here. Take a good long look. A close look. Down on your knees."

He was absolutely right. He knew my mind better than I did. I was mesmerized by that cock. I let my notes fall on the floor and dropped to my knees. I couldn't believe a cock could look so powerful. From that moment on, it owned me and I knew it. I couldn't take my eyes off it. He held his hands in front of his black kinky pubic patch so I could see what he was saying. "Open up, bitch boy." I obeyed and he stuck that beautiful black tool into my hungry mouth, which at that moment became a cunt for him to fuck. He grabbed my head and began fucking my face roughly. Silently. He didn't even moan. His cock did all the talking. I had been transformed. I felt I had been born to serve this black cock. I felt my mouth had at long last found its true purpose. I teared up, overcome by the wonder of it all. When he pulled out, I stared at his cock again. It was now hard, seemingly a foot long, and it glowed like highly polished bronze. It was still attached to my mouth by long ropes of white cum. "Strip," he signed. Without getting off my knees, I quickly got out of my shirt and threw it on the floor. I loosened my pants and let them fall to my knees. Getting naked would be a small price to pay for the privilege of sucking that amazing black cock. I looked up at him, mouth open, eyes pleading. I wanted it back in my mouth. "Please, Sir," I signed quickly, "Don't make my mouth wait any longer."

But he had other ideas. He pushed me forward until my shoulders were on the floor, my ass raised high. He spat into my asshole and began fingering it. It hurt, but I didn't resist. I couldn't resist. My whole body wanted to give itself to him. It was a lost puppy dog who had been wandering the streets of life for three decades and had finally found its owner. He positioned his cockhead on my sphincter and began to push down. Slowly, relentlessly. My anus was now a second cunt for him to fuck. I began to cry heavily. My cherry was being popped by a man ten years my junior. A black man. A deaf man. But I knew at that moment I belonged to him. I didn't care how much it hurt. I only wanted him to take me. He pounded my ass good and hard and soon his breeding material was filling me. I was in heaven. Bitch heaven. I couldn't believe how long his orgasm lasted. I could never deliver that long when I was with a girl. I would peter out after a few squirts. I realized then why my relationships never lasted. I could never satisfy them like this black man could. After a seeming eternity, I felt his cock soften and then blurp out. He reached down, grabbed my hair and pulled until I was sitting again. All I could do was sign over and over, "Thank you, Sir."

I stared down at my little white prick. It was hard because it was happy, but it was also ashamed. Having witnessed what a real cock could do,--a black cock,--it knew it could never again claim that title. It was merely a slightly overgrown clit. If my penis had had a forehead, it would have been tattooed with a big L.

I stayed there all night. He fucked me in his bed. He fucked me in his kitchenette. He fucked me in his bathtub. He fucked me in front of his open window. He fucked me in a dozen different positions. And after every fuck, all I could do was sign over and over, "Thank you, Sir."

Toward dawn, we both fell asleep in his bed, his skinny arms cradling my naked white body protectively. I was his property. I woke about eleven and crawled out of bed. After peeing, I stared at his thin black body sprawled naked on his bed with that lovely cock which seemed to be signing to me: "You are mine, now, white boy. Things will be different from now on." I wanted to serve that cock, to serve Wilber. I looked around and decided to make some coffee to bring to him. I opened his fridge and cupboards and decided to cook him some eggs and toast. Of course my rustling of pots and pans and dishes didn't wake my deaf Master. I didn't want his food to get cold, so I bent over him and sucked his morning wood. He opened his eyes which met mine. "Smells good," he signed. Reluctantly, I let go of his cock and brought him his breakfast on a tray. He sat up and ate it leisurely as I continued to suck him off. "You could have left in the middle of the night, white boy," he signed. One advantage of ASL is that you don't have to stop eating,--or sucking cock for that matter,--to carry on a conversation.

"No, I couldn't, Sir."

"Why not?"

"Because this is where I belong. You own me, Sir."

"You are my bitch."

"Yes, Sir."

There we were, both of us enjoying our tasty treats, when it happened. I heard the distinctive ring tone of my cell phone. Since he didn't hear it, he didn't understand when I broke off the fellatio, scrambled around in my clothes on the floor, searching until I found my phone and answered it. "Where the hell are you?" It was Shirley. "We had a date for lunch? You're late. What, did you forget? I hear silverware scraping dishes. You're with some other broad, aren't you? Well, go fuck yourself. I never want to see you again. You're a loser." She hung up.

I started laughing. I threw down the phone, muttering "Good riddance." I had found someone who could give me so much more than Shirley ever could. The last 14 hours had totally turned my life upside down.

"All women are bitches," I signed.

"You calling my momma a bitch, Honky?" Uh oh, I hit a sore spot. In very atypical fashion, he began to open up to me about his personal life. His mother lived by herself in Omaha. Of her four children by three different fathers, Sir Wilber was the only one who wasn't dead or in jail. She had worked hard all her life, cleaning white folks' bathrooms. When he told me that, he nearly gagged. The very thought of a black person in servitude to whitey disgusted him. Me too. "Some of Momma's friends, when they were short of cash, would prostitute themselves" He made the B handshape and brushed his cheek twice with the back of his hand. "Momma's real good looking, but she would never give her ass up to some filthy, worthless white man's puny dick. She kept her pride. When she went to church on Sunday, she could hold her head high."

Sir Wilber went on. When he was a baby, his Momma used to bring him with her when she went to clean the honkies' houses. To communicate, she would draw little pictures. Toys meant he was to play while she did her work. A sandwich meant it was time for lunch. A bus meant it was time to go home. When she began to use words as well as pictures, Sir Wilber learned to read, so when she brought him to the Nebraska School for the Deaf at age 5, he was already reading on a second grade level. There he began learning ASL. However, by then the school was in a financial mess. When it closed, he was sent to a residential school for the deaf, but he came home to visit his Momma every weekend. He had no problem with the curriculum. It was the white administrators and white students who were the problem. He got into frequent fights. At 14, he dropped out. Without any job prospects, he hung out at the library. Using their computers, he hooked up with a network of other black deaf men, and with their encouragement, decided to take a bus to Manhattan. Here, he could support himself through various odd jobs, a few of them legitimate. Throughout it all, the one stabilizing factor in his life was his Momma. "So don't you ever call her a bitch," he signed.

After that awesome night, I began spending my evenings in anxious anticipation, waiting for my Master to call and text his order for me to come over. If he didn't call, I would take the prized shirt he gave me that first day (which I refused to wash) and slept with it. Sometimes he surprised me and called in the afternoon. I always obeyed, being sure to arrive at the precise time he states. The four men on the stoop all knew me now and whistled when they saw me approaching. "Hey, hey, here comes Wilber's little white bitch boy!" They still forced me to work my way up through their sprawling bodies, but no one spat any more. Instead they would catch a feel of my ass as I passed. All four had been up to Sir Wilber's apartment and given me their black cocks to suck, while Master looked on, sometimes fucking my ass as I sucked them. I'm thrilled that he considered me suitable enough to share with his bros. And of course, I never tired of sucking big fat delicious black cocks. When I went there, I knew I'd probably be staying the night and cooking Sir his breakfast, so I always brought along a change of clothes depending on what I have lined up to do the following day.

I wanted to explore all I could about this new position I found myself in. White submission and black supremacy seemed so natural to me now, I wondered how I could have been so blind before Sir Wilber took me. I remembered a course in anthropology I took in college, one of my many majors. There I learned how the human race first emerged in central Africa. Now I realized that of course it made sense for the non-black peoples of the world to revere the African race. They are after all our fathers. We Europeans are the children who wandered astray, and now, like prodigals, we need the correction, instruction and discipline of our black fathers. It is only right they call us boys. Apparently, through evolution, we lost not only our beautiful black skin, but also lost much of what would make us truly men. We grew soft. Our cocks shriveled into insignificance. We became more feminine than masculine, so it only makes sense that our orifices are actually cunts for the black man to use any way he wishes.

Our class at the Y was going great. It was so rewarding to be working beside my Master. One time in the spring semester, Sir Wilber didn't show up for a couple weeks. Turned out he was locked up in jail. Case of mistaken identity. I knew they must have had the wrong guy. In my eyes, Master could never do anything wrong.

.oOo.

One night, Sir Wilber just wasn't himself. The fucking was perfunctory. After two or three rounds, he suggested I leave.

"Why, Sir?" I signed, worried. "What have I done wrong, Master?"

"No, Boy, it isn't you. I'm just concerned about something. Go on. Scram."

Slowly, I gathered my clothes but I really didn't want to get dressed until I found out what was the matter. "Please, Sir. I'll do anything for you, you know that, Sir. You own me. How can I help you, Sir? This isn't you, Sir. I want to see my old dear Master again."

He gave me a sympathetic grin and signed, "I'm going to have to leave, Boy."

"Leave!? Leave New York, Sir!? Where? Why?"

"It's my mother. She's ill. May be dying." He choked. I had never seen him so vulnerable. "Stage 4 COPD. Can't work. Can't pay her bills. She needs me, Boy," he signed. "I really gotta go. It's been fun. You've been a good bitch. But now it's over. Find yourself another black cock to serve."

"NO!" I shouted audibly. My mind was racing. I needed Sir Wilber. I was nothing without him. If he abandoned me now, I would be totally lost. But of course my needs meant nothing. It doesn't matter whether a white boy's needs are fulfilled or not. All that matters is whether a black man's needs are fully met. It was a terrible presumption, I know, but I was desperate: I had to convince Sir Wilber he needed me. How?

"How will you support yourself in Omaha, Sir, and take care of your mother at the same time? How will you travel there, Sir? How will you find your way around, Sir, in a strange city?" I kept signing my flimsy arguments. Then I changed tack. "Are you taking your shoes, Sir?" He gave me this weird look like what a stupid white boy I was to ask that. "Are you taking your black porn, Sir? Are you taking your clothes, your wallet, your lube, Sir?"

"What are you driving at, bitch boy?"

"Those things are your property, Sir. Things you consider important enough not to leave behind, Sir."

"And you are also my property."

"Yes, Sir."

"You don't think I should leave you behind?"

"No, Sir."

"You think your miserable white body is essential to me, boy?"

"No, Sir." I knew I had gone too far. "But I could be useful to you, Sir."

"How?"

I had to come up with something. "Sir, your mother, Sir. She's sick, Sir. Don't you think she'd like it, Sir, if you brought her a white boy to clean her bathroom, Sir?"

He stared at me for a good minute. Just stared. Then he burst out laughing. "Boy, you should have been a lawyer. You sure know how to plead a case."

"Then you won't leave me, Sir?"

"You've got a lot of ties here now, Boy. Like the class at the Y, and all that other shit you do."

"None as important as serving you, Sir."

"Can we leave next week, Boy?" His demeanor had changed noticeably. He told me to bend over and started fucking me again, this time with vigor, with resolve. He made good use of my boy cunt the rest of the night.

I gave notice at the Y, and told my other clients I was leaving town. The deaf businessman cheating on his wife was particularly upset. I paid my landlord a month's rent in advance and

paid off Sir Wilber's landlord as well. I purchased us two one-way tickets, first class, on a direct flight to Omaha,--Sir Wilder's first flight. I packed up my black suits and Sir Wilber's other property and sent it ahead by FedEx. I had the post office forward all our mail to Sir Wilber's mother's address. We were off.

We were met at the door by a very handsome black woman. She was just about my size, with a clear complexion the color of peppercorn. She had broad shoulders and firm arms. Sir Wilber must have inherited his scrawniness from his father. Momma handed her son a pad and began to write on another one. Sir quickly told me to explain they didn't have to communicate like that now, that I would interpret for them. She looked dubious, but then spoke, "Oh, Willie, you dear, dear boy, thank yo so much. I'm so sorry yo had to move. I didn't want to cause no trouble." I tried interpreting her words, there in her foyer, but it embarrassed me to have to refer to Sir as "Willie" and "dear boy."

She asked her son who I was. He signed his reply and I interpreted and elaborated. "Ma'am. I'm like your son's servant. I promise not to be any trouble. I'm going to continue to serve him as I have and I hope to serve you as well, Ma'am. Like maybe I can do your laundry and cook and clean your bathroom, Ma'am."

She just looked at me and then burst out laughing. "Son, you mean we got us a white boy we can just order abouts?" He grinned and nodded yes. I grinned and nodded yes. She gave Sir a great big black momma hug. We parked our suitcases and the packages we sent ahead in two adjacent bedrooms on the second floor. Sir's mother was too frail to manage the stairs so we would not be disturbed no matter what Sir wished to do with me up there. I wondered if Sir would have any discomfort doing sex in his mother's home. I needn't have worried. From that first night, Sir used me like the bitch boy I am, filling both my cunts with his huge phallus and then with his prodigious cum. He fucked me hard, long, and repeatedly. And, as an extra bonus, come morning, I was already home.

I got busy doing the housework. Upstairs, I worked naked. Downstairs, I kept my clothes on. The first time I cleaned her bathroom, she just shook her head. "Imagine that. The tables sho is turned, ain't they."

One day that first week, I had finished the laundry and was putting away the clean clothes. In Ma'am's closet, tucked way in the back, I spotted three identical dresses that looked like costumes from the movie "The Help," except they were pale green instead of slate grey, but they had white collars, lapels and cuffs. I pulled one out. "What is this, Ma'am?"

"Oh, Lordy, Lordy. That's one of my old uniforms. When I used to clean white folks' houses. All us girls wore them. That's what they called us, Girls. Even if we was sixty, seventy years old, we was still girls. I ain't never gonna wear that again. You might as well throw it out, Boy."

I smiled. "I got a better idea, Ma'am. Hope you don't mind." I took off my shirt and pants and stood before her in my tighty whiteys. Then I slipped the dress over my head and smiled. "There, Ma'am. Now do I look like I'm right for the job?" Again she burst out laughing, which led to a coughing spell. When she settled down, she said, "Boy, yo sho is the craziest dumbass honky I ever did meet." From then on, I wore my uniform to clean her house. Momma gave me some white stockings to wear also, I bought a few pair of lacy underwear and I found a catalog where I could order some black low-heeled mary janes in my size. Sir loved it, because it made his momma happy. Well, actually, seeing me feminized got him even hornier, as if that were possible. If he came home late and Momma was already asleep, and I was washing the dishes, he'd come into the kitchen, bend me over the counter, lift up my skirt, push my panties aside, and give me a good hard fuck right then and there.

I contacted the local school district and offered to teach an adult education class in ASL. They accepted. Our first gig in Omaha. I began looking for others. Sir found a job washing dishes at a local restaurant. It was demeaning for him, but at least his boss was black. We worked our hours so either Sir or I was home most of the day if Momma needed something. If we were both going to be out, like the nights we did the class together, I made sure Momma had everything she needed close at hand.

Then I heard about a church in a small town outside the city that was looking for a signer. I drove over there.

"Hello? Can I help you?" The old woman behind the desk looked me over,--critically, I'm sure. The name on her desk plaque was Hilda Larson.

"I'm here to see Pastor Reynolds about the position of interpreter for the deaf," I explained.

"Pastor Tram is too busy for all that. It's Pastor Yul you want to see anyway." She gave me directions,--down the stairs, through the fellowship hall,--to his office. The sign on his door read "Youth Pastor." I knocked. A voice inside invited me in, so I opened the door. A very unimpressive office, with no windows. Pastor Yul had bifocals and blond hair turning grey. I guessed him to be in his mid 40s.

"Ah, good. You're going to be a big help to us here."

"How many deaf congregants do you have?"

"Just one. Well, not counting the old seniors who depend on hearing aids which don't work most of the time anyway. But they never learned sign language." He went on. "Frankie Armbruster is fifteen years old. Good student. Well mannered. He's been coming to church and Sunday school since he was nine, and manages somewhat reading lips. But I feel he'd do so much better with a signer. And Pastor Tram and I thought if we advertised that we had an interpreter, maybe other deaf people would be drawn to the church. That's how we convinced the board of trustees to finance your fee, on a trial basis."

"Interesting. I'm sure Frankie and I will get along just fine. I can start next Sunday if you want. What time is Sunday school?"

"Well, there's one more thing. We'd like to employ your services Saturday night as well. You see, when I first came to this church seventeen years ago, I started a group called the BiRacial Boys Club. It's been a huge success. All the kids look forward to joining when they enter eighth grade. Frankie's already in ninth and because of his special needs he hasn't been able to join the BRBC. But his parents tell me he really wants to. All he needs is an interpreter to accompany him to the meetings, which by the way can last until the wee hours of the morning."

I went home and told Sir and Momma about my new gig. Momma was delighted that I'd be going to church. "When Willie was just a chile, I used to take him with me, but he got all fidgety cause he don't understand what anyone's saying. Can't even hear the music. So I quit tryin' and he just stayed home. Never did find religion." To me, Sir was my God, and I saw no need for him to attend church, but I could feel the sadness in her voice.

The next Saturday, I met the Armbruster family at a nearby McDonald's for dinner. His mother Louise, father Buel, older sister Lou and younger brother Noel, all of whom were hearing, but had learned to sign for Frankie's sake. So there we were, the six of us packed into a booth, the fingers flying as we chatted, got acquainted, laughed and ate. A good family. A wholesome family. A loving family.

"So, tell me about this club, the BRBC."

"Not much to tell," said Dad, "except that all the boys rave about it."

"Yeah, but no one knows what they do there," said Sis. "Not, after ten, anyway."

"What happens at ten?"

"Poor Pastor Yul has to leave to get ready for church on Sunday, so he has a couple of the older boys take charge," said Mom.

"Black boys," said younger brother.

He got a glare from his mother. "Now, now, it makes no difference the color of your skin, you know that. Yes, the boys in charge right now are black, but..."

"They always have been," mumbled Dad, but he concurred it should make no difference. That's the blinders most whiteys wear. That's the way I once thought also. Before my enlightenment, I had this vague notion of racial equality. But it wasn't my place to set this family straight about black superiority. I had simply been hired by the church as Frankie's interpreter. I asked Frankie what he knew about the group.

His fingers spoke excitedly. "I know they eat pizza and go bowling and shoot hoops and go swimming in the summer and sledding in the winter and talk about stuff, and that's all while Pastor Yul is there. But when he leaves, nobody knows what happens." I caught him making the H handshape in front of his body and knew he was about to sign "what the Hell happens," but his parents were watching his fingers as closely as I so he cleaned up his language. I was intrigued. It was a secret society. That would certainly make it all the more appealing to adolescent boys. I knew of course I'd have to keep their secrets, but that was OK with me.

After I promised to get Frankie home safely, his family drove home and I drove Frankie to the church. He was greeted warmly by kids he knew from school. He seemed to be popular. He kept asking them what they were going to do at the late portion of the meeting, but no one volunteered any dope. The white eighth graders giggled, "You'll see." The black eighth graders said smugly, "Yeah, you'll see."

Pastor Yul welcomed Frankie to his first night at BRBC and then introduced me, explaining what an interpreter does. I added they should just carry on as if I weren't there. "Don't worry about me," I laughed. I noticed the older black men were eyeing me skeptically. For Frankie's sake, and for mine, I suppose, Pastor Yul gave a well-rehearsed history of the BRBC going back decades. He quoted Martin Luther King's dream speech and spoke glowingly of the strides in racial equality he had already witnessed here in this church. Franke and I carried on our own private conversation while he spoke:

"He's boring, Aaron."

"I know, Frankie."

"I can't wait to get to the secret stuff."

"Neither can I." I smiled. This is yet one more advantage of ASL. We could speak to each other and no one knew any wiser.

Then we went outside to play a version of hide and seek. Poor Frankie couldn't hide very well with my big adult body beside him. But when it came to seeking, his super sensitive senses made him invincible. It seemed he could see and smell what no one else could. Like he had ESP. The pizza delivery man arrived so we quit, went inside and ate heartily.

Finally, the clock struck ten and Pastor Yul excused himself. As soon as he got out the door, I could immediately see the way things really were in this club, and it made my heart bubble with joy. The black men arranged themselves on bar stools and the white boys lined up on the floor in front of them on their knees. I nudged Frankie and we quickly joined our white brethren on the floor. Frankie saw me grinning and relaxed. I looked around and signed to Frankie that we ought to keep our gaze low in humility. I hoped those on the stools would understand that we couldn't put our hands behind our backs if I was going to be Frankie's interpreter, especially since he wouldn't be able to read lips with his eyes cast down. I told Frankie one of the black leaders was calling on one of the white boys to tell the new boy what BRBC really stood for.

"Bitches are born caucasian, Sir," he quickly replied. Frankie made me repeat it; he couldn't believe it.

The boy, who looked like a high school senior, continued. "That means since I am white, my ass belongs to you, Sir, and to all the Black Men assembled here, Sir." My heart skipped a beat. These white boys were being taught their true place in this world. How I wished I had been in such a group when I was in school.

The youngest black man, one of the eighth graders, asked "Boy Franklin, are yo black or white?" I signed the question.

Frankie frowned and signed, "White of course." I interpreted out loud, "I am white, Sir." I explained to Frankie how I had changed his answer slightly. He nodded.

Another small black man, maybe a sophomore, addressed me. "Boy Aaron, are you also white?" I answered out loud while simultaneously signing my answer for Frankie to hear. "Yes, Sir. I am a mere honky, Sir. Therefore, I know my ass belongs to you, Sir, and to all the Black Men assembled here, Sir." Without looking up, I knew my response pleased them.

Another black man asked, "Boy Franklin, your friend here knows his place. Don't accept that bullshit from Pastor Yul about equality." [My pointer and pinkie made the horns of a bull and I pushed them toward Frankie; he nodded] "The sooner you realize that Black men are superior, the happier you'll be. Ain't that right, Boy Chester."

"Yes, Sir. I love being your bitch, Sir. I can't wait to come here every week and have you use my ass, Sir."

I began signing. "I hear one of the black men get off his stool, Frankie."

"I think you're supposed to call me Boy Franklin."

"You're right and I'm Boy Aaron. I'm the oldest one in the room by far but I am not a man here. I'm a boy like you."

The man from the stool stood in front of Boy Chester, and ordered us, "Boy Aaron, Boy Franklin, turn, so you can see how Boy Chester serves his Master." We turned to see the young man open his fly and pull out his lovely black cock. Boy Chester opened his mouth and began to give him head.

Frankie signed, "Look at that, Boy Aaron."

"Yes, isn't it wonderful. That man is allowing that boy to suck his cock. That boy is indeed lucky. If we're lucky, maybe we'll get to suck some black cock too." No sooner had the words crossed my fingers than there were two black men, the eighth graders actually, standing in front of us. I opened my mouth and so did Frankie. I knew how to suck cock. I tried to sign some quick instructions to Frankie. "No teeth. Lick it lovingly. Look up into his eyes in reverence." He seemed to pick it up quickly. In a few minutes, Boy Chester, Boy Aaron and a very surprised Boy Franklin were swallowing black man cum. The three black men pulled out but did not zip up.

One of the black men whispered in my ear. "Has your cherry been popped. Bitch?"

"Yes, Sir."

"But not Boy Franklin."

"Probably not, Sir."

"You helped him learn to suck cock. Can you help him learn to get bred, Boy?"

"I'll do my best, Sir. But doggy position won't work. I won't be able to sign. Neither will spread eagle."

"What do you suggest, Bitch Boy?"

"I think you could lean us over two bar stools facing each other with our elbows on the seats, Sir."

"Good boy." I was ecstatic. Not only would I get some black cock or maybe even cocks shoved up my ass boy cunt, but I would have the privilege of watching another white boy getting fucked for the first time.

"OK, Boys," said the leader in a loud voice. "Time to strip." All the white boys stood up, keeping their faces downcast and began taking off their clothes. I was anxious to get out of my own clothes, but first my hands had to sign the order the Frankie. I needn't have bothered. He saw all his white friends stripping and just went ahead and followed suit. He was grinning. He was loving this. "Now, Boys, assume the position." The other white boys got down on their elbows and knees. Frankie was about to do likewise, but I signed to him to wait. Two bar stools were brought over and I placed my elbows on one. Frankie copied me and faced me. We could watch each other's hands. Our asses were stuck out behind us.

Frankie signed, "Isn't this exciting, Boy Aaron?"

"It's about to get really exciting, Boy Franklin."

"What do you think is going to happen next?"

"I think we're about to get fucked." [Both my hands made the V handshape, right hand on top of left]

"Really?"

"Yep."

"What's it like?"

"At first it feels real strange. Real tight. So I won't lie to you, it's gonna hurt at first. But after a while it will feel better. And you're very lucky."

"Why is that?"

"You're going to get fucked by a black cock. There's nothing better than a black cock when it comes to fucking, believe me. In fact, don't look now, but there's a black cock behind you."

"There's one behind you also."

"Good."

"I feel him. He's putting something gooey on my asshole." He tapped the side of his head twice with the A handshape.

"That's lube, Boy Franklin. That will make it easier for you to take the big cock."

"I feel it. It's pressing on my hole."

"That's good. Just relax."

"He's trying to push it in me, but it won't go in."

"Push back, like you want to take a shit." I pushed my right thumb into my left fist. "Then that round muscle will open a little bit."

"I did. It did. I think it got in."

"That's just the start. There's a lot more to come, Frankie. Black cocks are huge. Much bigger than yours and mine. It's going to take a while before he's completely inside you."

"Is yours inside?"

"Yes, and it feels wonderful. But your hole has never been stretched. It's going to take a while. Relax and be patient."

"It does hurt."

"I told you. Do you want him to stop?"

"NO!"

"Why not?"

"Because, you said it yourself. I'm a mere honky. Therefore, my ass belongs to you all the Black Men assembled. Right?"

"Right, Boy Franklin."

"He keeps going in more."

"Mine too."

"Is it OK to scream?"

"Yes, black men love to hear white bitches scream." We both screamed out loud. I knew it made Frankie feel better. "He said to scream louder." Frankie did. The young man began hammering away at Frankie's ass. I smiled at my charge. His eyes were wide open. I saw precum dripping in long strands from Frankie's dick. So I knew he really was enjoying this. "Keep screaming, Frankie." I screamed also. But my screams were not from pain but from sheer joy.

The man behind me,--I never saw him, so I have no idea how old he was,--climaxed and filled my chute with wonderful black man cum. He pulled out and another man soon took his place. But the cock inside Frankie stayed there.

"He says you have a very tight ass, Frankie."

"Is that good?"

"Yes, very good. A boy is only a virgin once. After tonight, your ass will never be that tight again. That cock loves your virgin tight hole."

"My virgin tight hole loves that cock." I told the man behind Frankie what Frankie said.

"He really said that, Boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, ain't he a perfect little white boy bitch. Tell him he's about to get an ass full of my cum." I told Frankie.

"Is that good?"

"Yes, very good, in fact it's good for both of you."

"He stopped pushing. What happened?"

"He's getting ready to shoot. Hang on."

"Yes, yes. I feel it."

"He just screamed."

"Why? Did it hurt him?"

"No. He screamed because it felt so good. It's called an orgasm."

I saw the man suddenly pull out of Frankie.

"I feel stuff dripping down my legs."

"That's cum. You really got it good, Boy Franklin."

"Thank you, Boy Aaron."

By then another black cock was already inside Frankie's stretched hole. He didn't need me any more. Our fingers rested.

I was told to assume the position, so I got down on the floor on my elbows and knees, and took another cock. When I next spotted Frankie, he was lying on his back on an air hockey table, his legs spread eagle, holding his ankles, with one big black cock in his ass and another big black cock in his throat. Two other black men, the eighth graders, helped him hold his legs up while they waited their turns.

By the time two o clock rolled around, both Frankie and I couldn't count the number of beautiful black cocks we had taken. And we literally couldn't contain all the black man splooge we had ingested. Everyone began dressing. "A few things you should know, Boy Aaron, Boy Franklin."

"Yes, Sir?" It was the leader.

"Number one, you will be back next week." I signed and Frankie and I both told him we planned to come back. "That wasn't a question. It was a statement."

"Yes, Sir."

"Number two, you will not have any underwear on next week. Boys do not wear underwear to BRBC meetings. Only men, and I mean, real men, Boy Aaron, only men wear underwear here.

"Yes, Sir."

"Number three, you will wash your ass holes thoroughly before you come on Saturday and you will provide your own lube."

"Yes, Sir." I assured Frankie I would bring enough lube for both of us. I purchase it by the case.

"Number four, you will both be in Sunday school tomorrow. Boy Aaron, you need to learn the word of God. And then, you will both be in the balcony for church."

"Yes, Sir." Frankie signed he'd always wanted to sit in the balcony.

"Number five, you will not tell a single soul outside of the group what went on here tonight. If you tell anyone, you will be brought out to the woods and hung from a tree. If you squeal like a pig in our meetings, that's fine. That's what bitches are supposed to do. But if you squeal outside, you will be lynched." He was dead serious. A sobering thought to give us before heading home.

We were both pretty quiet as I drove Frankie home, and it wasn't just because I had to keep my hands on the wheel. When I got home myself, I hit the bed like a rock. The next time I stirred, I looked at the clock. It was already past seven. I turned over to tell Sir I had to hustle to get to Sunday School on time. But he wasn't there. I jumped up, washed off all the dried cum in the shower, and got into my black suit.

Downstairs, I found Sir in the kitchen sitting with Momma. The dozens of papers from Momma's pad were evidence of an earlier argument. But now Sir sat contrite fully dressed with a clean white buttoned shirt on. Momma was wearing a proper dress and hat.

"What's going on?" I asked, both orally and manually.

They both answered, Sir Wilber's fingers duplicating the message on his mother's lips: "We're going to church with you. Sunday school too." Momma added, "Bout time my boy gets some religion."

I met Frankie's family in the parking lot and introduced them to my guests. Frankie's mother took Momma to the adult Bible class. "Hope you don't mind sitting in with the ninth graders," I asked Sir. He looked defeated.

I pretended to sign the Sunday school lesson but instead Frankie and I told Sir about the BRBC. Sir's spirit revived. He asked Frankie how he felt.

"I loved it, Sir Wilber. Those men were so nice to me. I think they liked my ass."

"I know they liked your ass, Boy."

"I was lucky."

"Why, Boy?"

"It's like Boy Aaron told me last night. I got fucked by a black cock. And he said there's nothing better than a black cock when it comes to fucking. It's obvious. White guys really are meant to be bitches for black men. I mean, really, you saw my little dick, Boy Aaron,..."--he made the D handshape and tapped his nose--"...and I saw yours and also all those other little white dicks. White dicks are all so tiny. Even my Dad's dick is small. I saw it when we went swimming. I wonder how Dad fucks Mom? I wonder if she'd rather get fucked by a big black cock like I was."

"Maybe. Maybe even your Dad would like getting fucked by a big black cock."

"Yeah, he probably would. He doesn't know what he's missing."

"Most honkies don't, Boy Franklin. Most honkies don't."

.oOo.

As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.