From the Journal of Jaxon King III

Part Five


Today in history class I informed Mr. Holman in front of all the other
students that what he was teaching us about slavery was wrong, all wrong.

He claimed that the abuse of slaves was a pernicious myth, that as valuable
and expensive property they were treated humanely.

"That's a lie!" I cried, bolting from my seat.

"Sit down, Jaxon," he said.

"It isn't true," I went on. "Slave masters were cruel and sadistic. They
beat and tortured Africans because they were afraid of us."

"When you say we," said Holman, starting to perspire, "you make it sound
like it happened to you personally. You fail to realize slavery as an
institution goes back to the very beginnings of civilization whenever one
tribe or nation conquered another. Africans owned slaves."

"It was different in America," I went on, refusing to back down. "It all
changed with the transatlantic slave trade in the 1500s. You denied our
humanity! You called us animals! We were bought and sold, bred like
cattle. Even in ancient Rome, slaves had no rights, but they were still
considered human beings."

"That's enough! I told you to sit down."

Our eyes met. I knew he couldn't read my expression, but it was child's
play reading his dilated pupils, the beads of sweat on his high forehead,
and his thin, twitching lips.

I made him nervous, me, a fifteen year old. I held his gaze. He knew that I
was looking into him. I could tell he was hiding something and I wanted to
know exactly what it was.

Then it came to me. Holman is queer. Plain as the pointy nose on his
face. My history teacher is a fag!

Not only that, I get him hot and bothered, and he was trying his best not
to let on. His beady eyes widened as my lips curled into a knowing
smile. He knew that I knew!

Just then the bell rang!

Next period was study hall, but I couldn't concentrate. All I could think
about was that faggot. I didn't like the way he spoke to me. Who does he
think he is? I should be teaching that class. I know more about history
than he does.

Played dodge ball in gym class. Coach Robinson had Marcus and a whiteboy
pick teams. Marcus, of course, chose only brothers for his side. Coach must
have known it would be a slaughter, pitting black against white.

We pounded them. They couldn't throw for shit, and made easy targets. The
losers had to run laps.

That took my mind off Holman until Marcus started playing snap towel in the
locker room. He got a bare assed whiteboy good on his way to the shower.

That's what Holman needs. He needs to get his ass whipped. At the very
least, a spanking.

Not just because of the bullshit he peddles as "history," or the way he
talks down to me, but for looking at me with lust, because that's
creepy. Even Zach doesn't stare at me with lust. He's fascinated by my
body, envious, but it's not sexual.

There's something creepy about a fag perving on me. He probably jerks off
thinking about my dick. That's not right. Damn, I want to beat that
cracker's ass!

Zach is coming over tonight. It's been a few days since he asked to be my
slave. We pass each other in the halls, but he knows better than to talk to
me in public.

It's ironic. The white man abducted us from our homeland, had to whip and
torture us, erase our history and rob us of our names, in order to force us
into slavery. Now, a whiteboy is submitting to me willingly. He wants me as
his Master.

Best of all, it isn't really a sexual thing for Zach, at least not on a
conscious level, even if he does derive some sort of pleasure from blowing
me. I don't understand this. All I know is it feels natural having a
whiteboy service me, and Zach feels the same way too.

It's like my dick stirred something dormant inside of him. Maybe it
happened when he ingested my semen! Like my seed took root inside that weak
but fertile mind of his. Wish I had time to write more, but I have Algebra
in a few minutes.


Part Six


When Zach came over I told him what Holman said in class and how he
disrespected me. Turns out Zach had Holman when he was a freshman. He was
shocked to learn Holman is a fag.

"I don't like queers looking at me," said Zach. He paused to think about
that for a minute before going on.

"What we do - " he started to say.

"What WE do?"

"What I do," he corrected himself, "that isn't queer, is it? I mean, I like
girls, and I know you're not gay."

"It's the furthest thing from being gay," I assured him solemnly. "You do
what you do because I tell you to. I was horny and you have a
mouth. Anyway, I thought you said you liked it. You said it was addictive,
didn't you?"

"It is," he admitted. "I can't explain it."

"What did I tell you?"

"That I should let you do my thinking for me."

Zach was perched on the edge of my bed looking down at his sneakers, but I
saw the blush of shame in his cheeks. I almost regretted what I was about
to do. But it had to go down. I knew what I wanted.

"Do you know what a whipping boy is?" I asked.

"I think so," he said, as if the change of subject was a relief to
him. "It's someone who gets punished for something another person has
done."

"Pretty much. See, I want to beat Holman's ass, but right now that's not a
possibility. You're gonna take his place."

"You want to whip me?"

"I don't think we have to take it that far," I smiled. "But you are getting
a spanking!"

"Because of Mr. Holman? Because he's a fag?"

"That's right."

"I guess that make sense."

His thick eyebrows wrinkled up in the cutest way, indicating some deeper
shame that made me curious.

It's interesting how easy it is reading a white guy's thoughts. Like how I
knew Holman is a fag. Are whiteboys really that simple, that transparent?

"Were you spanked as a kid?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

The simplicity of his reply spoke volumes.

"Who spanked you, your dad?"

He nodded silently. I was on to something.

"When was the last time?"

He looked away, blushing again. That's when I realized Zach was keeping
stuff from me. He had secrets too. I didn't like that. If I was going to be
his Master, I had to know everything.

"When was the last time your dad spanked you, slave!"

I said that last word with a growl. This was no casual conversation between
friends. I had a right to know!

"I'm giving you an order, Zach! I'm your Master! You can trust me! When was
the last time you got spanked!"

With a sigh, he told me everything: "About a week ago. That night you
walked me home, it was past my curfew."

"You're a senior! You're seventeen! And pops still spanks you?"

"He says a hard head makes for a soft bottom."

"Damn!"

"I know, right?"

"How does that make you feel?"

"I don't know. He's my dad. Guess I deserved it."

"Maybe you did," I agreed. "Anyway, you're getting spanked tonight! Pull
down your pants and lay across my lap."

Silently, timidly, he obeyed, offering up his plump, marshmallow cheeks.

I proceeded to discipline him with my hand. Every slap left a bruise on his
quivering white ass. I lost track how many times. At some point he started
sobbing. Tears ran down his face.

That's when my dick got hard.

It's not like his bare ass turned me on. It was like a vortex of power
building inside me, as if Zach's submission and suffering made me
stronger. Like whatever strength he possessed flowed into me and set my
blood on fire.

I needed a blowjob more than ever.

"Suck it!" I demanded, pushing Zach to his knees, grabbing his head,
jamming my dick in his mouth, pushing, thrusting, drilling, making my white
cocksucking slave choke and sputter until my nuts exploded and cum gushed
down his throat.

He crouched at my feet. Neither of us said a word. I was in a daze. We both
were. I don't remember sending him home. It was like he simply ceased to
exist, of no further use to me for the time being.

Later, as I was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to me that Zach probably
got home past his curfew. He must have known that would happen before he
came over - risking a spanking from his dad for the chance to spend some
time with me.


Part Seven


Saturday, at the mall, I was checking out some Air Jordans I could not
afford when Zach walked up behind me.

 "Hey, Jax!" he greeted me, whispering "Master."

"Sup?"

"Not much, sir!"

"Watch your mouth," I said.

Last thing I needed was for someone to overhear. The world is not ready for
our relationship, if that is the right word. Someday, but not now.

"I really want these kicks" I said.

 "How much are they?"

"Three hundred," I sighed. "But I really want them."

"Let me get them for you."

"You sure?" I grinned. "That's a lot of benjamins!"

"I want to."

"Cool."

Sporting my new kicks, we caught a bus home, but got off a few block from
the neighborhood so we could walk and talk. It was then I realized Zach was
wearing a pair of raggedy bobos. That gave me a good feeling. Seemed only
right he should own cheap, no-name sneakers, while I was dressed in style.

"If there is anything else you need, just let me know," he said.

"How much do you have?"

"I get an allowance, and relatives give me cash for my birthday and
Christmas. I've been saving it for college, but that doesn't seem too
important right now."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess what I'm saying is I want you to have nice things since you've
been so good to me, and if I can do that for you, well, it just seems
right."

"It's more than right. So what do you have in the bank?"

"About four thousand dollars, I guess."

"Damn!"

"I meant it when I said I want you to be my Master. I mean, that's what a
slave does, isn't it? It's not like I can work in the field picking cotton
got you, but whatever I have should be yours, shouldn't it?"

"Yes, Zach, it should."

Talk about irony! A whiteboy teaching me how to be a Master! He was
absolutely right. What's the point of owning a slave if he does not put
money in my pocket?

That's when I decided Zach was going to pay me every time he gave me a
blowjob. I figured a hundred dollars a pop was about right, since he could
obviously afford it.

Does that make me a prostitute? No. It's not like that. I'm not selling my
dick. It's what Zach owes me for letting him be my slave. I am actually
doing him a favor.

"Let's meet me at the mall tomorrow," I suggested.

"Okay," he agreed.

"Cool."

I was mentally formulating a list of things I want: video games, jerseys,
CDS, DVDS, comic books, clothes, a tablet, a cell phone... Zach was right!
This is what a slave does for his Master.

Gifts? No, it goes deeper than that. I get that now. It's a form of
reparations. We were promised twenty acres and a mule, but nothing ever
came of that. Another white lie! Caucasians owe us plenty.

As I thought about Zach buying me more shit, my dick started
twitching. Like the other night when I spanked his ass, feeling strength
and power churning inside me.

I led Zach to a small clearing in the woods behind the 7-11 so he could
take care of my throbbing erection. The spot was strewn with trash, empty
beer bottles, and a soiled mattress. We sat on some plastic milk crates.

But first, before getting down to business, I had a few questions for him.

"Tell me again why you want to be my slave."

"I've been thinking about that myself," Zach admitted. "I don't know if I
can explain it right. It's a combination of things, I guess."

"Do your best," I said. "I wanna hear this."

"Well," he began, taking a deep breath, "what I read in Message to the
Black Man got to me. About whites being inferior to Blacks, and that made
so much sense."

"That's because you are inferior."

"I know, right? I think deep down every white guy knows it. Anyway, you
stopped Scott from hassling me, and I realized that I had to repay you
somehow."

"You did."

"When you told me to suck your cock, it was like I didn't have a choice. If
you had told me to jump out the window, I would have done it."

"And you never thought about sucking dick before?"

"Never," he insisted. "I swear to God! But I wanted to because it felt
right. And, well..."

"Go on."

"Your voice. It hit me hard. Suddenly, it felt like obeying you, no matter
what, was the right thing, the only thing I could do. You're powerful,
Jax. I mean, Master. I look up to you. I wish that I could be like you, but
I know I can't."

"It doesn't bother you I'm a freshman, and you're a senior? That I'm
fifteen, you're eighteen?"  "In some ways, it's like you're much older than
me. Does that make sense?"

"Makes a lot of sense."

"I still think of myself as a kid, but you -- you're already a man."

"Compared to you, I am."

"That's what I mean. You know exactly who you are, where you're going, what
you want out of life. You're a natural leader. Until I met you, I didn't
know what I wanted."

"And now you do?"

"Now, I know," Zach sighed. "I want to be your slave."

His confession made my dick hard as steel, harder than it ever felt
before. So hard it was almost painful. Word is bond! Even my nuts ached
from the pressure building inside me.

Zach must have seen the tension in my face, or maybe he saw the print of my
erection in my pants, because what he said next pleased me more than I can
say.

"Can I suck your cock, Master?"

This was the first time Zach asked to go down on me. Until now, he only did
it on demand. Which has been sweet. Having this straight whiteboy obey me
when I wanted head was cool. I thought that had to be the ultimate
trip. Giving orders and being obeyed!

But this was different, this time he took the initiative. Zach knew what I
needed, and was more than ready to do what he had to do. Makes you wonder
what a faggot really is. Maybe all whiteboys are fags. Maybe sucking dick
isn't about sex at all. It's about power!

I remembered one time during a varsity wrestling match, after a brother
pinned his white opponent, both guys had conspicuous hard-ons beneath their
tight, form-fitting singlets. At the time I wondered if it was a sexual
thing, maybe they were both fags, but now I got it.

It was all about victory and defeat, domination and submission.

"May I suck your cock?" Zach asked again.

The difference between "can" and "may" felt significant. Now he was asking
for permission. Out of respect or concern or love or sense of duty, for
whatever reason, Zach was practically pleading to give me head. And that
gave me an idea.

"I'll let you give me a blowjob, if you beg me," I said.

"I'm begging," he said, getting on his knees.

Zach reached for my pants, but I swatted his hand away.

"That's not begging. I wanna hear you say it like you mean it."

"Please, Master, I really want to suck your cock. Please let me do this for
you! I'm begging you! Please, please, let me suck your cock!"

I really enjoyed hearing that. Would have been hot coming from a chick, but
from a white guy, it was incredibly satisfying. Whatever affection I may
have felt for Zach was consumed by my righteous disgust and anger toward
all whites.

It was not merely Zach on his knees imploring to suck my dick. It was
Mr. Holman and every white man I ever dealt with, as if the entire
caucasian race was groveling to be my cock-sucking whore.

"Tell me why you want to suck my cock!"

"Because I'm your slave!"

"Why are you my slave!"

"Because I am inferior to you! Because you're a man, and I'm not. Because
it's what I owe you! Please, Master! I can see you're hard, and you don't
have to jerk off because you have me!"

"If I let you blow me, it's got to be the best blowjob ever! Better than
the last time! Think you can do that?"

"Yes -- yes!"

The look of desperation on Zach's face was unforgettable. Made me think, if
it is this easy turning a straight whiteboy into an eager cocksucker, what
does that say about whiteboys in general?

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Meeting you at the mall," he answered. "To buy you things! Anything you
want!"

"Good slave! Yes, you can suck your Master's dick!"

He hastily unbuttoned my pants, slid the zipper, releasing my seven inches
from confinement. A second later it was inside his warm, wet mouth. True to
his word, this blowjob was better than the last. This time he made loud
slurping noises, saliva flowing, and he choked as my long, hard dick
occupied his throat, as my pubic hair tickled his tiny nostrils, and my
brown balls bounced against his chin.

After I shot my load, I said: "By the way, you owe me for that! But you can
pay me tomorrow."

Before we went our separate ways, I removed my Calvin Klein boxer briefs
and offered them to him.

"When you go to bed, I want you to smell these," I said. "Maybe they will
help you dream about me."

Because it occurred to me, what if Zach is going through a phase? How can I
really trust him? Maybe he's living out a fantasy, and after he's had a
taste, he decides to move on? I'm not having that! I want to own this bitch
- body, mind, and soul!

I am the Master! And it isn't going to stop with Zach. I may only be
fifteen years old, but there is no reason I can't have more white slaves
working for me. Gonna work on making that happen!

I haven't forgotten about Mr. Holman, either. That old faggot needs to be
taught a lesson! Next time I see Marcus, we're going to have a talk. I have
something in mind he's gonna like, and Holman is going to get what he
deserves! Word is bond!


TO BE CONTINUED...