From the Journal of Jaxon King II


Part Four

Next day at school, Zach hunted me down between first and second period to
ask if I would meet him in the cafeteria for lunch. His big brown puppy
eyes beamed with devotion and stupidity.

"I don't think so," I said. "I can't be seen hanging out with you. It's not
my reputation I'm concerned about. I know that's what you're thinking. It's
for your own good."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't, so let me break it down to you. If a brother sees me
with you, believe me, he's gonna know exactly what's up and he may want a
piece of you."

"How's he gonna know anything? I see lots of black guys with white
friends."

"Damn, I feel like I'm schoolin' you the facts of life. It's like this,
Zach. Sooner or later any whiteboy who hangs out with a bunch of black
dudes is gonna be doing what you did for me last night. It's not
inevitable, but it happens more often than you think."

"I had no idea."

"My point, exactly. I'll explain it better some other time. Right now, I
don't want some bull moving in on you, aiiight? We got to keep this on the
DL."

"But, y-you'd protect me, right? Like you did with Scott."

"Scott was a punk. If a brother wants you I have no right to stop him. That
is, unless..."

"Unless what?" he inquired.

"Unless you claimed me as your Master."

"Your Master."

"Master or Owner."

"Owner?"

"If I have no claim on you, you're up for grabs. Once word gets out that
you do what you do, every nigga in school gonna want a piece of that."

Zach turned white as a sheet. His thick brown eyebrows crumpled with
consternation.

"But, if you officially become my bitch, I won't have to protect you. Once
I claim you as my own, no one will mess with you. We can talk about this
later. Tell you what, come by tonight. Nine o'clock."

Color returned to his cheeks. His thin, pink lips opened with a smile that
brightened his entire face.

The rest of my day went pretty much as usual. Classes were a drag, except
for gym. Played ball with the fellas. Marcus asked who was the whiteboy he
saw me talking to earlier. Some senior, I said.

By the time nine rolled around, I was playing a video game when Mom showed
Zach to my room. My avatar was Luke Cage from the New Avengers, and I
really didn't feel like being interrupted.

"Dag," I jumped up. "Forgot you was coming over. Maybe we can hang out some
other time."

The look of disappointment was priceless. "Nah, just kidding!" I
laughed. "What do you wanna do?"

Almost added the words "for me," but contained myself.

"I don't know," he mumbled.

"I've got have an idea," I said. "Remember last night?"

"I remember."

He hung in head. Out of shame or to hide delight, I could not tell. Both, I
concluded. According to books I've read, being conflicted by opposite
feelings is a Caucasian trait. Like an inner schism. One of the reasons so
many, if not most or all, whites are sexually aroused by acts of
humiliation and domination.

You very rarely encounter a brother or sister who goes in for that sort of
thing. Then it's a sign something has gone seriously wrong. But with white
folks, it's business as usual.

I studied Zach, let him feel the weight of my eyes. He squirmed
nervously. It felt good having this kind of power over a whiteboy three
years older than me. Like he was twelve instead of eighteen.

"Careful, J," I advised myself. "Don't let this go to your head. You're
just fifteen. Imagine if you have this power now, what you're going to be
like when you're his age. You're gonna have to beat whiteboys off with a
stick! Whitegirls too!"

While I was lost in thought, Zach must have felt more confused than ever. I
know he enjoyed blowing me. That much was obvious. Maybe not so much the
sensual pleasure, but the idea of blowing me. Yes, it was that, yet
something else. Something stronger.

The answer came to me like an epiphany. Zach was experiencing me
vicariously, drinking in precisely what he lacks. My healthy drive, fierce
self-confidence, virile sensuality, raw masculinity, and straight up power.

In short, my Blackness. When I let Zach blow me, I was giving him a taste
of Blackness. The flavor of my essence as a Black Man, my Nubian Soul. I
realized in that moment it is a sacred gift, like the ambrosia of the gods.

Clearly, it had a transformative effect on Zach. He was in love with me,
only did he not understand how or why. There was no way I wasn't going to
take advantage of this situation.

"I'm not horny right now," I shrugged, "but if you want, as a favor to you,
you can always blow me again. Would you like that?"

"If you want," he equivocated.

"Zach, if you wanna suck my dick, it's up to you."

"Isn't there something else we can do together?"

"Zach, listen up. I like you. Well, let's say, I feel sorry for you. Last
night, you did me a solid. I appreciate what you did. Now I want to return
the favor. If you wanna blow me, just say so."

"Ok... I guess..." he hesitated, eyebrows scrunching.

My adorable, naïve, conflicted whiteboy. Playing head games with him was
too much fun to resist.

"You didn't like sucking my dick?" I pressed.

"It's not that... But I told you: I'm not gay."

"I get that, Zach. But you ARE white."

"Y-yes," he stammered.

"Well, that's what whiteboys do for brothers when they wanna be
friends. Like I explained before. Let's be real, Zach. There isn't much
else you have to offer, is there?"

"I guess not," he admitted, reluctantly.

"Cool. Get your clothes off."

"Do I have to?" he rejoined. "I mean, can't I do it with my clothes on?"

That pissed me off. Didn't I just tell him to do something? And he was
gonna fuss with me?

"Zach, let's get something straight. If you wanna be my friend, you are
gonna have to do what you're told. No questions asked."

Without another word, Zach tugged off his tee shirt and dropped his pants
and drawers.

To be honest, I am not sure why I insisted on that. Not like I had any
interest in his body. To make him feel helpless, I suppose.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I told him to remove my cargo shorts and
take out my dick.

For a straight guy, Zach went down like an expert cocksucker. I loved the
way his lips throttled my meat and how he worked his tongue.

Slow, then fast, then slower, then faster, per my instructions. When I told
him to lick my nuts, take them in his mouth, he was only too eager to
comply.

"You're doing good," I told him.

"How much longer?" he asked, pulling away from my dick.

"What's your hurry? Let's make this last. Back to work!"

I grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV, surfing channels until I found
a movie, Half Baked, with Dave Chappelle, which was funny as shit! I
actually laughed while Zach was blowing me.

I was in no mood to bust a nut any time soon. I just liked feeling Zach's
warm, wet, obedient mouth on my dick. When the movie ended and the credits
rolled, I held Zach's head with both hands and thrust my hips, pounding his
throat until I skeeted.

"You should see yourself," I chuckled. "You look like a bukake whore! My
bukake whore!"

Running my hand through his hair affectionately, petting his head like a
puppy dog, brought a lop-sided smile to his face.

"You might not be gay," I said, "but you sure as hell know how to suck a
dick!"

I swear, Zach blushed like I was paying him a compliment. In a way it was,
sure. In another way, not so much. Telling a guy he sucks a mean dick is
the same as telling him he isn't a guy at all. Isn't that the truth!

"What you said earlier about being my Master and all," said Zach. "Did you
mean it?"

"That it would keep you safe? Yes, I meant it."

"Marcus approached me this afternoon."

"Did he?"

"He wanted to know what I was talking to you about."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I was just saying hi because your mom knows my mom."

"Did he believe you?"

"I'm not sure. It felt like his eyes were looking right through me."

"He knows you're sucking my dick."

"But how?"

"Trust me, he figured it out. You whiteboys have no idea what you're
dealing with. Know how we out jump you, out run you, out dance you, out
fuck you? Well, we out see things too. There's a world of shit going around
you got no clue about. Question is, what are you going to do about it."

"That's what I've been thinking about," he sighed. "I want you to be my
Master."

"Are you saying that because you're scared of Marcus?"

"No," he insisted. "It's the way I feel about you. I know I'm not good
enough to be your friend, but I want to be around you, and there's only one
way that can happen. I've read the books you loaned me about Black
Superiority and it totally makes sense. I get it. I want to be your slave."

"Sure you're not just in love with my dick?"

"There's that," he admitted. "I wasn't sure at first, but it makes me feel
so close to you, it's a little addictive really, and you enjoy it."

"Oh, yes," I agreed.

"It only makes sense I become your slave."

"Don't you get it?" I said. "You were mine from the moment we met at the
bleachers. Now you know what I have always known."



To be continued...