Date: Fri, 23 Aug 2002 16:21:59 +0000
From: Moore
Subject: Southern Submissive (AUTHORITARIAN, HUMIL: T/T, M/T)  Part 2

SOUTHERN SUBMISSIVE (AUTHORITARIAN, HUMIL: T/T, M/T)
BY:  MOORE

PART 2

Chapter IV

With Tim gone, I was a slave without a master, a cocksucker without
a cock to suck.  For two years I, Jefferson Davis Winslow, Jr., son
of a wealthy southern landowner, behaved like my namesake, a rebel.
I was getting into trouble, fighting and acting like a bully. I was
looking for someone to beat me down, force me to behave.  I was a
closeted slave looking for a master. A closeted homosexual too.

The high school locker room and shower was heaven and it was hell.
I couldn't keep my eyes off the other boys. Boys in their underwear,
boys in jock straps, naked boys in the shower. Boys with big dicks,
boys with little dicks. One word from any of them, the slightest
sign, and I would've been on my knees like a good little slave boy
taking care of my master's cock. But I didn't know how to come out,
make the first move, and I was terrified of being branded queer by
everyone at school.

In my freshman year I had my eye on Victor Grosscup, or rather he
had his eye on me.  Vic was the year book photographer so he was
all over the school taking pictures. Vic the click we called him
because you heard the click of his camera even when you didn't see
him. I know he caught me in the locker room, naked, smelling dirty
jock straps, because I heard the click and I saw the pictures. Vic
showed them to me, but you couldn't see my face behind the stained
jocks and my erect dick looked like any other hard dick.

Vic said he knew it was me and I knew it was me and that he was
going to catch me again someday doing something queer.  The asshole
didn't even give me a chance to beg him on bended knee not to show
the pictures around, beg him not to tell anyone...before he burned
them. Said he didn't want to get caught with faggy pictures. Had he
threatened to expose me, instead of burning the pictures, I would
have begged and pleaded like a good little slave boy and promised
to do anything he wanted. I would have gladly given Vic a blow job,
licked his balls, kissed his ass. Vic could have been my new master.

Ironically, I found a new master on the Winslow plantation,
right in my own backyard.

			    ***

I was sunbathing by the pool, daydreaming, listening to Amos Carver,
my dad's personal valet and chauffeur, talking to a young black boy
I didn't recognize. I didn't hear dad approach.

"I'm at the Hilton if you need me Jefferson.  Carver's going to
drive so he'll be away the night too.  Do me a favor and keep your
eye on his kid."

Startled, I stammered, "What?  Whose kid?"

"Carver's kid. His son Oliver's going to live here for a while.
Seems he got into some kind of trouble in Chicago, where he was
living with his mother, and Carver asked if he could move him here
for a time."

"Oh, yeah, sure dad, I'll keep an eye open."

"You seem jumpy."  Everything ok at school?"

"Just fine, dad. Just fine.  Have a good trip."

I watched the big car drive off past the cabana, closed my eyes and
returned to my daydream about Tim working on the roof and the rest
of the crew. I longed for the days when I was Tim's personal slave
boy.  When he controlled me and used me and shared me, his personal
cocksucker, with his friends.  The first time I kissed his ass and
the first time he made me drink his piss were fond, but distant
memories.  I tried to recall how good Tim's cock felt thrusting into
my mouth and the special moment when his dick twitched and pulsed,
hardened a tiny bit more, and I knew he was going to cum. Hot creamy
cum spurting into my eager mouth. I missed the taste of his semen,
salty and sharp on my tongue.

I was about to slide out of my bathing suit and jerk off a load
when a big splash from the pool stopped me cold. I'd forgotten
about Carver's kid, Oliver. He was tossing patio furniture into
the pool.  "Stop it!" I yelled out.

He looked up, gave me the finger, and tossed another chair into the
pool.  "You better stop doing that or I'll tell and you'll be in
big trouble."  I started to get up, but the kid froze me with a
menacing look, kicked another chair into the pool, and strutted
towards me like a peacock.


Chapter V

Oliver Carver was no stranger to trouble. He wasn't intimidated by
the threats of any man, white or black, least of all the threats of
a rich white teenage boy with a hardon crammed in his fancy designer
bathing suit. Thanks in part to his mother, Oliver knew his rightful
place in the world.

Oliver was upset about leaving Chicago and his mother, and the blond
college girl he was fucking.  He knew that leaving Chicago was the
wise thing to do, but he hated living in the deep south. Living in a
hick town filled with rich white folks who acted like the Civil War
had never happened, like Lincoln had never freed the slaves, made
him angry. Like he had in Chicago, Oliver was prepared to use his
superior brain and magnificent cock to bring a few white folks to
their knees; starting with the asshole by the pool.

After the divorce, his father had returned to Mississippi and Oliver
had stayed with his mother in Chicago.  By the time he was nine, his
mother was back on drugs and had turned to prostitution to support
her expensive habit. A parade of men, black, latino and white, were
in and out of the slum apartment.

Some men, whites mostly who had more money, paid extra if Oliver
stayed in the bedroom and watched as they pushed his mother to her
knees, had her fondle and suck their hairy cocks to erection before
she fell back on the bed, spread her legs wide, and guided their
pricks into her well used pussy. They would pay even more if Oliver
was naked and joined them in the bed too.

"Please honey, we need the money," his mother would say as she took
off his clothes in the kitchen and lead him by the hand, naked, to
the white man waiting in her bed.

Oliver was well endowed, extremely well endowed. So much so that
even his mother, who had been with so many men, marveled as his
five inch cut cock, nestling softly on a pair of oversized balls,
more than doubled in size to a twelve inch steel tower of shiny
black flesh. Oliver was well endowed with a superior brain too.
Book learning, college scholarships, and a distinguished career as
a black educator lay ahead in his future. But now, in the present,
in his mother's bed in a Chicago slum apartment, he learned to use
the power of his brain to provide for himself and his mother, and
the power of his cock to control and enslave white men.

Every man who paid for the privilege was amazed by the size and
hardness of Oliver's dick and some, again mostly white men who had
the money, were willing to pay to grope and fondle him while fucking
his mother. An elderly white man was the first to pull Oliver close
and wrap his lips around the black spear.  Oliver recoiled and fled
naked from the bedroom.

"He just wants to suck you, honey," his mother explained in the
kitchen. "He wants to suck your beautiful black cock and you know
we need the money."  Oliver returned to the bedroom and experienced
his first blow job and, notably, his first wet, semen spurting
orgasm, in the mouth of a white cocksucker.

The money was good and getting better. But no matter how much was
offered Oliver's mother would not allow him to kneel before any man
or touch any man in a sexual way, or to be used by any man.

"You much too good for that," she explained patiently. "White folks
made our people slaves. You see how white men use me, hurt me and
treat me like a whore?  Now it's your turn, Oliver. Your turn to
use what the good lord has given you to bring white men and their
sons to their knees."

Oliver learned his lessons well.  A great many white clients were
willing, eager, to pay dearly to suck Oliver's cock and to Oliver's
amazement and profit, lay back on his mother's bed, spread their
white legs wide like a whore and eagerly guide his twelve inch cock
into their hairy white assholes.  He tried to hurt them. Really hurt
and bring pain to these white men by savagely thrusting his prick
hard and deep into their assholes. But the more he tried to hurt
them, the more they cried out and begged him to fuck harder. The
more he tried to hurt them, the more they cried out how good it was
and to fuck them deeper and the higher they raised their asses off
the bed to impale themselves deeper on his twelve inch black dick.

And the more he tried to gag them by using their ears like handles
and forcing his cock into their throats, the harder they sucked.
When he pissed in their mouths or when his black balls exploded and
filled the white cocksucking mouths with so much cum that it came
out of their noses, they wouldn't release his cock until they had
sucked up and swallowed every drop of his piss and cum. Even then
these white men would squeeze and milk his cock onto their tongues
for more. They would lick his sweaty balls, ass crack and inner
thighs, and rake through his sparse black pubic hair with their
teeth, searching for more of his sweet semen.

Oliver was happy that his mother no longer had to sell her body.
If only she could kick her costly drug habit they could move to a
better place.  Mother and son drew closer as the laughed together,
long and hard, at the well heeled white men who came to their
shabby slum apartment and paid money to suck and get fucked by a
black boy with a magnificent cock.

Due to the demands on his time, Oliver missed a lot of school days
and the child welfare authorities began to make trouble. He had to
attend school regularly or be placed in foster care.  With no other
choice, Oliver returned to school and quickly made up the work he
had missed.  Making up the lost income took a bit more time and the
help of King, the neighborhood drug lord.

			    ***

King, no first name or last name, just King, was a giant of a man.
Black as night and nearly seven feet tall, King controlled all of
the drug traffic in Oliver's part of Chicago and he was sweet on
Lila, Oliver's mother.  He was helping Lila kick her addiction and
he watched Oliver like a hawk. No drugs were permitted in the Carver
household. In fact, King worked hard, determined to keep drugs out
of the neighborhood, away from black people and especially black
children.  "Plenty of money to be made sellin' this shit to rich
white folks," he often told Oliver.

Oliver listened carefully, the germ of an idea growing in his
fertile brain, as King talked about his business one Sunday
afternoon while Lila was fixing dinner.

"My best customers be white college boys and girls, drivin' up in
their fancy cars and wearin' fancy clothes. Buyin' and usin' and
buyin' more till they's high as a kite, strung out, and outta money.
Then they be beggin' me to give 'em more.  Tradin' nice watches and
gold rings and stuff for one more bag a shit.  One fine lookin' red
haired girl was wantin' to trade sex for drugs. I ain't no pimp,
fuckin' don't put cash in my pocket, but I made an exception and
let a few brothers have some fun with her. Poor thing was all fucked
out, but happy, when she drove away. Everybody was happy 'cept me
and my cash flow."

Oliver thought hard for a moment. "I may have a solution to your
cash flow problem, King.  How would you....."

A polite tap on the front door stopped Oliver in mid sentence. He
opened the door to a well dressed fiftyish white man with a nervous
smile on his face.  "What are you doing here Bruce?" Oliver said in
a business like voice.

"Can I come in Oli, uh, Mr. Carver, please?  I know I dddon't have
an appointment, but I if you're um, nnnnnot too busy, um, ah, I'll
ppppay extra.  I can't wwwwait. I need....."

Oliver turned his back on the stammering man whose face was on the
cover of the current issues of Time, Newsweek and Fortune magazine.
"Ok Bruce, come in."  Oliver winked at King and sat down as Bruce
came into the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

"Who's at the door, Oliver," Lila said as she came into the living
room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "Oh, its Bruce."

"Hello Mrs. Carver. How are you?"  Lila didn't offer the courtesy
of a response.  She knew what Bruce was and why he was here.

Oliver mouthed, "Watch this," to King. "Bruce, say hello to my
friend King."

Bruce turned whiter then his snow white Brooks Brothers shirt as
he noticed the huge black man. "Hello Mr. King," he gulped.

"Just King," King said roughly.

In a tiny voice, that usually boomed with authority as he bellowed
out instructions to his underlings, Bruce said, "Hello King."

"Mamma, why don't you sit next to King, get comfortable," Oliver
said. To Bruce he said matter of factly, "Put your nice clothes,
outside.....in the hallway."

Bruce stood stone still in the small apartment. Hands at his sides,
he held his breath and looked at Oliver. The only part of him that
moved was the obvious bulge in his crotch, pulsing wildly behind
the zipper of his two thousand dollar suit.  Reaching into his coat
pocket, he withdrew a plain white envelope, offered it to Oliver
and said, "Five hundred?"  Oliver shook his head slowly once.

"No appointment is double. A thousand."  With trembling hands,
Bruce counted the money in his wallet, added all but two dollars
to the plain white envelope and held it out to Oliver.  Again
Oliver shook his head and said, "Hold it in your mouth."

Bruce Barclay, captain of industry, stuffed the fat envelope in his
mouth, glanced over his shoulder at King and Lila, back to Oliver,
and began to undress.

Suit coat, shirt and tie came off first. Shoes, socks and trousers
quickly followed. Bruce Barclay, highly respected member of Chicago
society, slid out of his red silk thong and stood completely naked
and erect before Oliver, Lila and King. Bruce Barclay, advisor to
presidents, gathered up his clothes and placed them in a neat pile
outside the front door of the apartment.

"Leave it open, Bruce," Oliver said as Barclay was about to close
the door.  "Gets a little stuffy in here."

Oliver was putting on a show for King's benefit.  His mother had
seen it all many times before. "Bruce, stay," Oliver commanded.
"Sit. Kneel."  Barclay followed each command like a well trained
dog performing for its master...performing for the treat to come.

"Ok Bruce, crawl over here and let's get started, and don't you
dare drip on the carpet!"

From his knees, Barclay used his hand to collect the strings of
precum hanging from the tip of his average size cock.  He milked
his shaft once and gasped in horror as he felt an orgasm beginning.
Barclay rolled over on to his back just in time to shoot a sizeable
load of thick semen on his hairy chest and belly rather than on the
carpet.  King roared with laughter, even Lila had to smile, as
Barclay smoothed wads of cum into his skin before they could drip
off his body and onto the carpet. Oliver was bored, impatient and
angry.

"I'm sorry mmmm, Mr. Carver," Barclay mumbled around the cash
filled envelope still clenched between his teeth. "I forgot my bag.
I'll put it on now."

Barclay slid on his back to the pile of his clothes in the hallway,
took an oversized seeŠthru condom out of his coat pocket and quickly
stuffed his cock and balls into the latex. He winced in pain as the
tight elastic ring snapped into place. Back on his hands and knees,
Barclay crawled across the room, placed the envelope on the floor
and rested his head on Oliver's feet.

With a practiced hand, Barclay removed Oliver's shoes and socks and
kissed his feet repeatedly while pulling down his sweat pants and
boxers.   Naked from the waist down, Oliver rose to his feet and
inserted the head of his soft black cock into Barclay's mouth.
Barclay moaned softly, his condom covered cock jumped and spat, his
adams apple bobbed.

King turned to Lila. "He doin' what I think he's doin'?"

"Well," Lila said. "If you be thinkin' that my fine young boy,
whose great great grandaddy was a plantation nigger, a white man's
slave, be pissin' in a white man's mouth. And if you be thinkin'
that the white piece of trash kneelin' in my house be drinkin'
my boy's piss..., why then, you'd be right."

Bruce Barclay heard King and Lila's laughter, blushed, and
continued to swallow the seemingly endless stream of urine
pouring into his mouth.  Barclay had no choice. He was hopelessly
addicted to Oliver and, perhaps just short of kneeling naked in a
department store window on Michigan Avenue, he would accept all
forms of humiliation and degradation to have the boy's magnificient
cock thrusting hard into his mouth and deep into his throat.

Oliver liked Bruce Barclay.  Not as a friend of course, but as one
of his better white fag clients paying for the privilege of sucking
and getting fucked up the ass by his twelve inch black cock. Bruce
wasn't the best cocksucker in the group, but he was the richest and,
like a well trained slave, he'd do anything Oliver told him to do.

Bruce knew, for example, that his clothes would be stolen from the
hallway and that he'd have to suck off a couple of retired city
workers to get them back. He also knew that his car would be
surrounded by a group of black teenagers and that he would follow
them into an alley and suck all their dicks too, before they let
him drive away.  Knowing these things didn't stop him from keeping
his weekly appointment with Oliver's cock.

As the last of his piss drained into Bruce's mouth, Oliver held the
man's ears and brutally thrust his rapidly hardening dick into the
man's mouth. Bruce moaned in ecstasy, resisting the urge to break
the no touching rule and grab Oliver's ass to pull him deeper into
his throat. Bruce was an over active cocksucker. Bobbing his head
rapidly, sucking in his cheeks, moaning, gulping and gurgling on
the precum dripping into his throat.

"Noisy cocksucker, ain't he," King commented.

"Wait till you hear him beg," Lila replied.