Date: Sat, 14 Oct 2006 22:40:10 +0000
From: Obedient Nigger <coonwhoknowshisplace@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Black Man Learned His Place (extreme racism)

Not so long ago, I was one of those uppity niggers who believed I was equal
to the white man. I can hardly believe it now -- I feel so embarrassed to
remember the days -- but I used to walk about town with a cocky grin, hold
my head up high, sit with my legs open on the subway letting the outline of
my big black dick show, and, when the mood took me, claim a piece of white
ass -- male of female -- for a bit of fun.

Yes, I had white friends I argued back to, fucked and felt superior to. I
worked for a liberal newspaper and I wrote articles about how bad it was
that black men were harassed by the police and denied opportunities at
every stage of their lives.

In other words, I grew up immersed in the anti-racist ideas of the late
twentieth century that said I, a black man, was worth as much as anyone
else.

What a dumb nigger I was.

It took a long time for me to learn the true pleasures of serving my white
superiors, of giving my worthless black mouth and tongue and ass over to my
Massa, to stop being a black man and start being a nigger.

It all began very unexpectedly, in the summer of 2001. I was in a gay club
in Hackney, near where I live in London. I've never been exclusively gay
but ever since my mate and I shagged a bird together when we were fifteen I
have liked seeing cock, touching it, playing with it. That night I was
stressed out. I had been working on a really difficult story for months --
a police shooting of a mentally ill black man, with no officer punished --
and the magazine's lawyers were blocking my story. Months of work, for
nothing. I had a little smoke and decided to head out to find myself an ass
to take it out on. I was 24 and as I entered the club, I knew I looked
hot. My skinny white t-shirt showed off my rippling abs. My tight white
trousers showed off my tight, taut ass. My cheekbones glistened on the
dance-floor.

There was a cute lad -- I guess around 18 -- with floppy blond hair and a
dirty smile who I had been flirting with all night. There were a few former
fucks there I knew I could turn to if that didn't work out. And the barman
was pretty cute. But then He walked in, with His friends behind him, and
they disappeared from my mind.

He had a shaved head, a brilliant-white grin, a white tank top that showed
off arms thick as a tree trunk, and perfectly black boots. I had never gone
for the skinhead look before, but he was staring at me with a look I hadn't
seen before. What was it? Arrogance? Hostility? No, something
else. Something more. It was only later I discovered what it was: the
certain knowledge of racial superiority. If I had known then that was how
he thought, I would have laughed. Maybe ever started a fight with him. All
I knew then was that look, and it made me hard.

He had a posse of lads with him who looked remarkably similar. He clicked
his fingers and one of them went to the bar, but he barely stopped staring
at me. He whispered something to his group, and they stared at me too. Not
excitedly, the way you do when you check someone out.

No, they had cold, contemplative expressions, as if they were considering
which car to steal and drive off the road.

I conspicuously flirted with the blond boy, as you do when you are being
checked out and want to make the viewer even hotter for you. But as the boy
was making conversation, his hand on my hip, I looked over my shoulder and
He was still staring -- and this time, he was motioning with his central
finger for me to come to Him.

I laughed. You don't do that in clubs -- beckon to somebody you don't
know. Especially not the way he did it. With total certainty and a faint
scowl. I made a great show of not noticing for a moment, and then strolled
over as nonchalantly as I could.

"Can I help you, mate?" I said as I approached him. His group looked up at
me silently, as if staring at some alien creature, or an animal that had
inexplicably learned to speak. It was then I saw him properly. His face had
an ethereal beauty, his eyes surprisingly large and round, his mouth with a
faint bee-stung pout that undercut his hard-man bulk. I wanted to stroke
his milky skin for just a second.

But then I realised. I was staring at a group of men who were simply
staring back. It was noisy, so -- even though I knew he had heard me
perfectly well -- I said again, "Can I help you mate?" Then He spoke. In a
low, calm voice, He said, "I want to fuck you, boy."

I laughed.

They didn't.

They just stared. "I got a warehouse ten minutes round the corner. Be out
the front once we've finished our drinks, boy." Then he turned to his
group, his back to me, and began to talk casually about the football. The
group ignored me.

I laughed and walked back across the dancefloor. He was an asshole -- an
unimaginable asshole. I have had lots of guys try to chat me up, and that
was the crudest, the stupidest... and I wanted to go there. I wanted to go
to his warehouse and tear off his clothes and...

I spoke to the blond boy. He made idle banter, he pressed against me, the
vodka on his breath. Any other night I would have been happy. I glanced
back. They were still drinking. "Boy". He called me "boy". Nobody had ever
done that before.

I found it offensive. I found it stupid. For white guy dressed as a skin
head to call a black man "boy" -- it offended every principle I hold.

And yet I wanted to go.

Then I began to think practically. I want to fuck you, he said. I don't get
fucked. I fuck. I am dominant. He didn't seem like a guy who wanted to
negotiate over positions. Besides, he could be a nutcase. His friends were
dressed like a gang of thugs. He could be a gay-basher, a racist, a serial
killer.

But almost without my brain telling it to, my body carried me across the
dance-floor and out the exit to the warm night air. I looked back as the
door swung with a couple strolling out arm-in-arm. They were still
drinking; they didn't look at me once.

I waited. This felt dumb, dumb, dumb. Then just as I was about to leave, he
walked out, his goons behind him, and his milky perfect skin and his arms
and...

"Get the van," he said to somebody behind him. There were five of them, I
counted now. All my instincts said to go.

I stayed.

"Listen, bro, I gotta tell you..." I began. He shook his head.

"No talking, boy," he said. I spluttered. I wanted to tell him to fuck
off. But I felt hard. There was something in this situation I hadn't known
before.

A battered white van pulled up. The skinheads climbed in, and He was last.

"Get in, boy", he said, patting my ass proprietarily. I didn't say
anything. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would break my chest. I
swallowed hard -- and got in.

I sat down in big open expanse of the van, slouching between two of these
thugs. One of them shuffled away a few inches as I did. Opposite me, one of
them was staring at me. The obvious thoughts were running through my
head. What sort of group scenario was this? When do I tell them I'm a
giver, not a receiver? But He was staring at me intently, calmly, and
somehow this made me feel calm too.

We drove for only a few minutes, until we arrived at a large lock-up. One
of the goons -- I still wasn't able to tell them apart in the
adrenaline-blur -- unlocked the door and He strolled in. I followed, the
door closed behind me, and the room was empty apart from a chair, a table,
a large plastic bag, and echoing concrete walls.

He stood in front of me, and looked me up and down.

"Listen, mate, I think you're hot and all but..."

"I said no talking, nigger!" he snapped.

That was it. I was going to walk. I had only been called a nigger four
times in my life -- and every man who did it got a fist in his face. This
was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Get the fuck out of here, David, I
thought. My face scowled, I took a few steps back, and then he peeled off
his t-shirt and tossed it in front of him.

His body was perfect. Literally perfect. Beautiful cherry-red nipples on
beautiful bulging pectorals. A six-pack that you could put on a
billboard. And there was something else: the look on his face. Nobody had
ever looked at me with such confidence before.

The others were now standing paced out across the warehouse, staring at me.

"Now you take off yours, boy," he said.

It was a moment of decision. To defy or to obey? To even ask it seemed
ridiculous. Every inch of my body was telling me to run.

It was a decision that would change my life.

I felt my body bubbling with indignation, rage, contempt for his racism --
and then, somewhere among it, something I would have sworn did not exist --
the nigger's urge to obey.

I peeled off my t-shirt and tossed it in front of me.

"Good boy," he said, and I felt ridiculously happy to hear these words of
approbation. "Now you come here and suck some white man dick."

I walked tentatively forward, my eyes fixed on his. When I was standing
just a few inches from him he put his hands of my shoulders roughly and
pushed me down. I found myself tugging open his trousers. I unbuttoned his
flies and a fine fat cock poked into my face through his boxers. I stared
at it for a second. It was perfect. He was perfect, like a God.

I tore down his trousers and took his dick as deep into my throat as I
could. I started to bob furiously up and down. "That's it boy, get those
rubbery nigger lips on my cock," he said, and his entourage laughed a loud,
angry laugh. Part of me recoiled -- and part of me took his dick deeper
into my throat. My nigger throat. Yes, that was the phrase that came into
my mind, like a jolt from nowhere. His hands were on the back of my head,
pushing himself deeper and deeper into me.

As I sucked I opened my eyes and saw something red on his inner thigh. I
sucked slower to get a proper view -- and it was a squiggle of some kind. A
tattoo, clearly, but what? As I blew and blew, hearing his goons unzip
themselves and quietly wank all around me, the squiggle finally formed in
my mind. It was a swastika. A Nazi swastika.

I stopped, his dick falling from my mouth, a trickle of pre-cum hanging
between us then breaking, and leaned back on my knees.

He looked down at me with utter assurance. "This is a great white man dick,
isn't it boy?" His smile was so perfect it blocked out for just a second
the Nazi symbol in front of me. "Yeah," I said.

One of the goons cuffed my head. "You mean, yes, sir!"

I looked at him. The goons were all nodding.

I paused. The dick was still hard, still waiting for me to get my lips --
my nigger lips --around it.

"Yes, sir!" I said, and took it into my throat.

"Yeah, this nigger knows his place," He said. "On his knees before the
white man. Now put some effort in, nigger!"

My lips and my tongue were screaming `blow him, blow him, take the big dick
as deep in your mouth as it will go.'

My head was screaming, `Get your black ass the fuck out of here. These are
racist cunts, the people you spend your life fighting against. Why are you
giving them sexual pleasure? Why is your throat gagging on the dick of a
man who...'

He put his hands on the back of my head and pushed his dick inches deeper
into my throat. I was gagging beyond gagging. I thought I was going to
puke. But it was a privilege, to be blowing this beautiful white
man. Wait. Where did that thought come from? But it was there, buried at
the back of my mind, crying to break free. And while my frontal lobes
screamed and spluttered in indignation, something -- something from deep
within me -- was saying something very different. It was saying: yes,
nigger. They're right. This is where you belong, with your worthless
inferior negro ass. Serving da white massa. This is why you fight so hard
against racism -- because somewhere deep within you, you know they are
right, but you don't want to admit it.

I felt so confused. My train of thought was being broken by the gagging on
his big dick, and then somebody spoke behind me. "Boss, can I have a go
fucking the monkey's mouth now?" I was still gagging, each thrust in my
throat making me gag more, but I heard the man -- Him, my boss -- say,
"Okay, you've been patient, lads." He pulled his dick out of my lips and I
reached forward, trying to keep this amazing big thick God-dick inside me,
but I just slipped forward.

"Don't worry coon, you'll be getting more of it soon," he laughed, seeing
my desperate eyes staring up at him. "But now you're going to take off the
rest of your clothes, boy."

I was still staring at his God-cock, my eyes fixed on his Jap's eye, like I
was hypnotised. "I said get your clothes off, nig-nog," he chuckled, almost
affectionately. I staggered to my feet and did something that, if you had
told me about it just an hour before, I would have said was
impossible. Something inside me made me obey this racist. This
bastard. This god. I kicked off my shoes quickly.

"No nigger," one of his friends said, addressing me directly for the first
time. He was taller and slimmer than my Boss. "Put them in a neat fucking
pair." His mates sniggered. I looked to my Boss.

"You heard the man, nigger!" he snapped. "He's a white man -- you do as he
says."

I picked up my shoes and placed them neatly together. I looked to them both
for a sign of approval, but the newly vocal guy just stared at me
expectantly.

"Come on nigger, we don't have all fucking night," he laughed. "I got a
white man dick to get up your chimpanzee ass!" More laughter. I gulped --
and realised how hard my dick was. What was happening to me? Had I gone
mad?

I quickly tore off my socks, threw my shirt to the floor, pulled off my
jeans, and stood there in my white Calvins and a raging stiffie. I was
totally vulnerable to these men. These white men.

"I've had enough of this, nigger," the second man said, and walked up to
me. He hooked his thumbs into my boxers and pulled them down in a sharp
gesture, making them slip to my ankles. Then, before I could notice
anything, he punched me once, hard, in the stomach. I fell to my knees on
the ground groaning, and felt him pushing me forward so I was on my palms
too, my ass in the air. Then -- it can only have taken a second -- I felt a
raging, tearing cock rip into my asshole.

I screamed, as hard and loud as I ever had in my life. It was like a
burning hot poker was tearing into my ass, burying into my intestines. I
realised the group was all standing there, laughing. Some of them had
slipped their dicks out and were gently wanking, but I could barely
register anything except my virgin ass, my virgin nigger ass, being torn
open by this Nazi's cock.

"Hey, this baboon has a really tight ass!" he shouted, his balls slapping
against my ass cheeks. Then I realised my Boss was standing in front of me,
watching my screams. Hot tears were splashing on the floor from my
face. His face was hard to read. I was shaking and crying and being rocked
back and forward by the hard thrusts into my hole. Somehow, knowing my Boss
was there made it easier though. I sensed I was pleasing him by letting
myself be taken like this -- although what choice did I have? -- and as I
looked at him, I heard him say, "Okay Nick, you can't hog the nigger arse
all for yourself. Let one of the other lads have a go." He kept thrusting
for a good thirty seconds and then -- the blissful release! -- he withdrew.

I slumped to the floor, holding my stomach, in agony. But suddenly I felt
hands on my pelvis and my knees being roughly dragged back. Before I could
register anything, my ass was being pounded again, and I was screaming from
deep within my gut. The group was standing close around me now, wanking and
wanking -- all except my Boss, who was watching calmly, with a soft,
approving smile.

My eyes were locked on his. They looked so strong, so assured, so
confident, that I tried to lose myself in them, to forget the agony of
surrendering my ass. "You're fuckin' right Nick," I heard somebody saying
behind me, his voice punctuated by brief pants of exertion. "The nigger's
arse is tight as fuck. Just proves niggers' arses are made for the white
man to fuck, dunnit?"

"Please..." I said in a low whine. "Please... I... can't..."

"The nigger's trying to speak!" one of the group said with a sneer. "Don't
you know," he said, suddenly addressing me, his big dick in his hand, "that
niggers should be fucked and not heard?"

"Hang on," my Boss said, and I felt a surge of pitiful gratitude. He would
save me! This white man, this massa, would save me from this agony! "The
nigger is trying to speak."

"Yes... sir... I..." I was having to time my words to match the deep
thrusts into my ass. "I... please... can't... take... this... please..."

"And there's only one way to silence a nigger..." He said, looking straight
at me. He unzipped his flies and pulled out his extraordinary, perfect
white dick.

There was a ripple of laughter and then, a moment later, a ripple of
applause.

"And that's to get a nice big white dick deep in his throat, isn't it
lads?"

Suddenly this god-cock was being pressed against my lips. I parted them
immediately and felt his dick slide deep inside. Now I was being rocked
from both ends, bobbing to the rhythm of two thrusts of two white dicks. I
heard the two men who were inside me high-five each other over my
back. "Not so noisy now, are you nigger?" shouted one of the group, and
they all laughed again.

And while the pain was horrific, my massa's dick in my mouth was like a
soothing balm. I knew that however terrible this was, it was a privilege,
an honour, to take this extraordinary white dick into me, to serve this
white-flesh white-god.

I don't know how long it lasted. Every now and then a dick would withdraw
from my ass and another one would ram up there in its place, claiming my
nigger-arse as its own. The room was growing lighter -- it must be day, I
thought -- and after a long agony, there was suddenly no dick in my ass any
more and I heard my boss say, "Well, I guess I can come in the nigger's
mouth at last. I don't mind telling you lads, it's been
hard... holding... this... in!"

Suddenly my mouth filled with his warm salty come. "You'd best swallow now,
nigger," my boss said with a murmur of threat. I drank it deep down into me
and then slipped away to the floor, lying there, holding my stomach. I
looked up and my masters were standing over me, all of them wanking onto
me. I felt come spurting over my nigger-flesh from all directions.

"Aren't you going to say thank you, nigger?" my boss asked.

I stared at Him. I thought my ass was bleeding. I could still taste His
come in my mouth. I had never been in so much pain. "Thank you," I said
softly.

"Thank you...?"

"Thank you, massa," I said, more confidently now.

And that is what he was. My massa. As I lay there on that cold concrete
floor, the come of a pack of Nazis in my ass, I knew for the first time
what I was: a nigger. A nigger-slave who belonged here, on the floor, at
the service of his white superiors. And it felt like a glorious, perfect
release. No more pretending. No more bullshit about `equality'. I was a
piece of fucking cattle -- and it felt great.

"Now get up coon," my boss said. "We got a kennel to take you to."



To be continued... Suggestions and feedback welcome (from white men only)
to coonwhoknowshisplace@hotmail.com