When I entered high school in the early 1970s, some of the schools tried to
avoid being forced to desegregate under court order by voluntarily allowing
a few black kids into their schools. My parents thought it was an
opportunity for me to get a good education and jumped at the invitation.
Most of the students in my new school ignored me, but some bullies always
looked for someone to pick on. They swaggered down the hall with their
lean, muscular teenaged bodies, long hair, rosy cheeks, and sideways
baseball caps, knocking over anyone who got in their way. They would have
tormented any boy they thought was vulnerable, but I stood out as one of
the few blacks in the school who traveled through the hallways alone.
One day I made the mistake of walking into the boys’ room alone. I had to
take a leak and forgot that this bathroom was the favorite hangout for the
bullies. They quickly surrounded me, and their ring leader pushed me
against the wall. “This bathroom is for white boys,” he said, “What are you
doing here, darky?” I swallowed hard but was at a loss for words.
He pulled off his shirt, and I gasped. His smooth white body was like a
Greek god carved out of marble. My eyes widened as I took it all in. My
heart raced. I fought to conceal my feelings. I knew I was supposed to be
humiliated. I hadn’t expected to enjoy it. His punkish bullying mannerisms
took on new meaning. I felt he earned the right to dominate me. I shuddered
at the thought, trying to get it out of my head, but I couldn’t shake it. I
couldn’t shake the idea that this boy had the right to force his will on
me.
He made me drop to my knees. I looked up at this smooth white body, his
naked chest and torso, and nearly swooned. He looked down smugly, mistaking
the limpness of my body for fear. I was in awe. His smooth white skin,
curly black hair, and lean muscles were mesmerizing to me. He eyed me as if
he was confident that through fear, he now had me under his control. He
undid his belt and unzipped his trousers. I knew the truth. It wasn’t
through fear but the hypnotic effect of his appearance that he controlled
me. He had a classical kind of beauty. It was the kind of beauty that has
held the imagination of men since Michelangelo sculpted his statue of
David. It is the beauty of a young man that makes other men submit and
follow him into battle.
I was black and too proud to admit it, but at that moment, I wanted nothing
more than to be a slave to this cruel, young white master. He pulled down
his boxer shorts, and I knelt, facing the source of his manly power. I
gazed at the dark, curly pubes surrounding his thick cock and thought, “All
those stereotypes about white boys are a bunch of lies. Look at how long
and thick this boy’s cock is.” Even though I liked girls, I wanted to kiss
this boy’s cock and pay homage to his manhood. I thought, maybe if I kissed
it, some of his manhood might rub off on me. If I worship this white boy’s
cock and his body, maybe I will get the beauty, strength, proportion, and
order that he has. I smelled the pungence of his pubes, the fertile smell
of his youthful energy. I wanted to be smothered in it. If I had some of
him inside me, how could I not change into a godlike creature too?
He looked down and snarled the worst insult one young man can say to
another, “Suck my cock, you black slave.” I made a show of frowning and
grimacing in outrage, then slowly took his flaccid cock in my fingers and
guided it to my mouth, trying to hide my eagerness. Once I tasted the white
boy’s dick in my mouth, I couldn’t control myself. I sucked on that boy’s
cock like candy, rubbing my tongue up and down the length of his shaft. It
instantly grew hard. He clutched my head and gasped, “Oh shit, that black
boy’s lips feel great.” The other boys laughed nervously, not knowing if he
or they should be enjoying it. They were straight, after all. To be aroused
by the spectacle of sex between two males confused them, even if was done
as an act of bullying.
They tugged at their cocks, hardening inside their trousers. They tried to
hide their erections. They tried to make their dicks go down. It was no
use. The combination of the raw display of power, the image of white
domination and black subordination, and the healthy display of
unconstrained male sexuality were too much for them. They whipped out their
young white cocks and furiously jerked off to the scene before them. I
wanted to jerk off too, but that would have given me away. I needed to play
the role of the offended black victim, forced into the role of servitude to
the purity and innocence of youthful white manhood. I couldn’t handle the
truth. I couldn’t let on that I was enjoying it. I needed to tell the
world, especially myself, I had been forced into it, so I dutifully and
mechanically bobbed on the white bully’s cock as if it was something I
would never do if given a choice.
I tasted the unwashed flesh of the boy’s dick. Salty hints of precum
covered my tongue. The thickness of my saliva lubricated the length of the
boy’s throbbing shaft. I gagged slightly as his long white cock hit the
back of my throat. I savored the musty flavor of his balls as I licked them
for comfort. I thought this must be what “Stockholm syndrome” is like. I
felt protected by his power. I expressed my gratitude by making the boy who
was bullying me feel good. He was my master, my protector. Within the cock
of this beautiful young white male was the meaning of life. He rammed it
down my throat with a thrust of power.
He grabbed my nappy head and mashed my face into his dark pubes. Then he
rubbed my face under his nut sac, forcing me to lick the underside of his
testicles and the shit stains in his ass. I never thought I would allow
anyone to use me this way, least of all a white boy. The other guys in the
room roared. I was thoroughly embarrassed, disgusted, humiliated, and
aroused. They all had power over me while I was their dark slave.
My face was completely covered by the nastiest smells from that white boy’s
body. But to me, it smelled like purity. He used me like trash, but for the
first time in my life, I felt this was how I should be used. There was
nothing I could do about it. I didn’t want it to stop. His smooth, firm
thighs hugged both sides of my face. I had to put up a good front. I loudly
protested about my civil rights. The boys all laughed. Quietly, however, I
gave into his physical, sexual, mental, and emotional superiority over
me. I gave into his torment. Who could deny the godlike nature of his
youthful masculinity? I certainly couldn’t, not down on my knees, waiting
for his cum to flood my mouth so that the fluids from this white god would
become a part of me.
My racial protests and submission to the boy’s demands aroused all the boys
surrounding us. Their cocks knew what their minds would never admit:
masculinity is about conquest and domination. You can never be a man until
you make another guy your slave. Nothing expresses masculine power better
than fucking another guy up the ass.
I closed my eyes and savored the tastes and smells of this white boy’s body
as he rubbed his unwashed crevices over my lips and mouth. When I opened my
eyes, I saw a ring of red, throbbing, hard, young white cocks encircling
us, pointed at me, poised to splatter my dark face with the elixir of their
budding manhood.
A young do-gooder who had to take a piss saw what was happening and
reported the entire “racist” scene to the principal. She was horrified. She
called me to her office to confirm the stories and identify the boys
involved. I could see my prospects for future adventures with cruel white
boys slipping away. This meant I would never again be forced to let them
cover my face with their armpits or stuff their urine-soaked, cum-stained
boxer shorts in my mouth. I was no snitch. I admitted there had been some
bullying, but I denied the sexual parts of the allegations. When she
pressed me to identify the boys involved, I pretended I couldn’t. “Th-they
all look the same to me…” I stammered. I was tempted to add, “There were
too many white cocks for me to remember.”
She tried to fool me into giving up their names. Crossing her arms and
leaning back in her chair, she said, “If you don’t cooperate with my
investigation, young man, I won’t be able to stop these things from
happening to you.” I involuntarily sighed with relief which she mistook for
a sigh of anxiety, and said, “I know you’re upset, but I can’t help you if
you do not help yourself.” I stood up to leave her office. She leaned
forward and said with pitying and sympathetic eyes, “You poor tragic victim
of racial injustice. I want to protect you. Is there anything I can do to
save you?” I thought about it and said, “Yes, there is. Please don’t
`protect’ me. We boys have to work this out on our own.” She scratched her
head and looked confused. I walked down the long hallway from her office,
expecting to run into my tormentors sooner or later. Once again, I would be
alone.
The End
