Date: Tue, 24 Oct 2017 11:10:45 +0000
From: herb_cat@lycos.com
Subject: White Bitch Chronicles 1

White Bitch Chronicles: Episode 1: Yul Meets Ramon

(c)2017 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the
author's permission.

Please note: this story depicts oral and anal sex between males of
different races. If any of these offend you or are illegal to publish in
your jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no further.

The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments
about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank
you.

.oOo.

This is the first of five episodes of the White Bitch Chronicles. The
entire series covers a time span of nearly two decades. Each episode
records the experiences and self-discoveries of a different white
narrator who encounters authoritative black masters.

.oOo.

I parked my car next to the space marked "Reserved for Pastor" and
looked at myself in the rearview mirror. Glasses? Unsmudged. Teeth? No
food bits from the pizza lunch I picked up on the way over here. Tie?
Neatly tied. I bowed my head and prayed audibly, "Lord, help me make a
good first impression, Amen." I opened my eyes, then thought better of
it and prayed again, "Lord, Thy will be done." I took a deep breath and
got out of the car. Should I lock it, I wondered. It's a small town, not
like the big city Milwaukee where I came from. Might seem unfriendly if
someone saw me locking up. I took a chance and just put the keys in my
pocket. I walked across the parking lot and into the front door. I
spotted the sign that read "Church Office," and opened the door. I
introduced myself to the secretary, a no-nonsense woman. The plaque on
her desk read Hilda Larson. She told me to sit and wait. Pastor Reynolds
would be with me in a minute. I waited. With each passing minute, I grew
more nervous. I cleared my throat and got a sharp glare from Hilda. I
tried to remember the things I had planned to say in this interview and
my mind went blank. Shit! I opened my briefcase and took out my seminary
transcript. Of course, I had already sent a copy to Pastor Reynolds, so
that wouldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. What should I
do? With my eyes open, I silently repeated my prayer. The first version,
this time. Pastor Reynolds finally called out to Hilda to send me in.
She tossed her head toward his door. I took a deep breath, grabbed my
brief case and walked in.

With a firm handshake the slightly gray but otherwise fit church leader
welcomed me to his office. "Yul! Come on in. Sit down, Young Man. You
don't mind if I call you Yul. We're rather informal here. Call me Tram.
The name's really Bertram but folks would do a double take if I said I
was Bert Reynolds. So in High School kids started calling me Tram and it
stuck. Want a cup of coffee, Yul? Of course you do. You Swedes love your
coffee. Hilda, bring us some coffee." He had talked non-stop since I
entered the room. I was soon to learn that was his style. As was not
waiting for you to answer his questions. As well shouting through the
door to Hilda instead of using the phone on his desk. As was assuming a
person's tastes in food and drink are determined by their ethnicity. As
was assuming all blonds are Swedish. As was assuming Yul was a Swedish
name. It's not. It's English, just like Bertram. But his brusque manner
somehow put me at ease. I didn't have to answer any questions or even
speak for the first five minutes. Hilda brought us cups of coffee. Awful
tasting.

"So, Yul, I was very impressed with your resume. Your grades were good.
Your references were commendable. You don't have any pastoral experience
but that's typical with youth pastors just starting out, so I don't hold
that against you. We've been without a youth pastor for nearly two years
now and we really want to get the young people involved." I wanted to
ask him why the last youth pastor left, but I didn't think that
appropriate. I was soon to learn. "In addition, the youth pastor
oversees the Sunday School. We have classes from pre-K up through
seventh grade. Seventh grade is rather sparse though. After they finish
elementary school, kids don't think it's all that cool to have to go to
class each week. Some of the girls do, however, continue to attend
church with their parents. But few of the boys make it out on Sunday
morning. Oh, once a month, I'd  like you to deliver a sermon at church.
Help you hone your exegetical skills. You know of course, our
denomination is very progressive. And our congregation is multiethnic.
Keep that in mind when you write your sermons. Let me show you your
office."

He led me to a small windowless room in the basement just off the
fellowship room. "Good quiet place for counseling young people. When you
counsel a girl one on one though, leave the door open. I understand
you're engaged to be married. Good. Don't put it off too long. Some
people look with suspicion on a single man working with their
youngsters. I can help you find an apartment when you're ready. A number
of our church members rent rooms in their homes." He went on and on. But
at the end of the day, I got the job.

I drove back to my studio apartment in Milwaukee and excitedly called my
fiancee to give her the good news. Now that I had a job, we could plan
our wedding. I got off the phone and took my clothes off. It had been a
long day and even though I was keyed up, I felt I ought to go to bed. I
stepped into the shower and thought about my darling. About our getting
married. About our finally sleeping together. About finally having sex.
With water cascading down over my body, my hand gripped my penis. I was
technically a virgin although my right hand had been my faithful partner
ever since puberty. I was conflicted about it, but my denomination did
not regard masturbation a moral sin, though I still wondered if I ought
to wait until I could have sex with her. What would it be like? What
would it feel like to insert my penis into another human being? To fill
her with my semen? To reach my climax on top of her? As I cogitated, my
hand was furiously beating my meat as they say. I sprayed my splooge all
over the shower wall. My penis immediately deflated and so did my soul.
What had I done? Had I no self-control? I begged God for forgiveness.

When I entered the male-dominated, God-centered world of the seminary, I
thought it would be easier for me to stay on the straight and narrow. It
was just the opposite. At times, it seemed that sex was the only thing
these guys talked about. They made lewd comments about the few females
on campus. Some of them freely admitted having pre-marital sex with
their girl friends. Some even patronized prostitutes. They considered me
a prude. They didn't know what I did when I was back in my dorm room
alone.

But now finally, I could get married and put all that frustration behind
me. In the two weeks following my interview, I gave notice to my
landlord, I packed up my few belongings and my many books, and with
Tram's guidance found a room to rent in one of his parishioners' home.
It would be temporary of course. When I got married I would get a nice
apartment somewhere in town. I rented a U-Haul and moved. The next day I
started getting acquainted with the town: the pizzeria, the bowling
alley, the drug store.

I started taking over the Sunday School, but the teachers there had been
teaching their classes for decades and didn't seem to need or want my
guidance. I discovered that when Tram had told me the church was
multiethnic, what he meant is that about a fourth of the congregation
was African American and the rest middle American whites. I gave my
first sermon, appropriately based on Isaiah 6:8. I explained when God
calls you, be ready to answer. Be ready to serve. This doesn't apply
only to the clergy. All God's people are called to be servants. At the
end, as I stood by Tram and shook hands with the parishioners leaving,
they gave me polite approval.

I considered my biggest challenge to be the teenage boys who were
skipping church. I set up a meeting just for them in the fellowship room
outside my little office. I ordered four pizzas. A dozen boys showed up.
I listened to their reasons for not coming to church: sports, part time
jobs, etc., but what they were really telling me is that there was
nothing there to induce them to come. I explained I wanted to set up a
club just for them, a biracial boys' club, where we could meet each week
and continue this discussion. We could also do things like go bowling,
see a movie, take a hike, whatever they wanted. I also asked them would
they come back to church if they had a special area they could call
their own. I suggested the unused balcony. They seemed to like both my
ideas. Tram gave his approval and the balcony became the new hangout for
high school boys on Sunday mornings. However, during the offertory, I
noticed the black boys were clustered on one side and the whites on
another. The usher passed the plate up there but I could tell he wasn't
getting any contributions.The boys' self-imposed segregation gave me the
idea for my second sermon. I preached how we were all alike, whether
black or white. We all faced the same challenges, had the same fears,
needed the same love. We are all in this boat called life together. On
the way out of church, the approvals I got from the congregation seemed
a bit more authentic.

Next, I made plans for the BiRacial Boys Club. I decided to call it the
BRBC. I sent out a notice for our first Saturday night meeting. One
afternoon the week before the meeting, Hilda told me Ramon was coming by
to see me. I had pegged Ramon as a particularly difficult case. Black.
Chip on his shoulder. So I was happy he was willing to talk to me. He
came into my office and closed the door behind him.

"OK, me and my bros, we're gonna come to yo meeting Saturday. Yo
so-called BRBC. But I need to set some things straight beforehand, so yo
get the whole picture."

"OK. I'm all ears."

"In my book, yo's all shit."

I tensed up. "What do you mean?"

"Well, first yo preached we was all supposed to be servants."

"Yes, that's..."

"Look, we's through being servants fo yo honkies. We done with all
that."

"What I meant..."

"Then yo preached we is all the same, black and white."

"Well, sure."

"Hold out yo arm." I did. So did he. "Look at that pasty looking skin
next to mine. "Now, yo's tell me yo and me got the same skin, that we's
the same."

"What I meant was..."

Ramon stood up and sat on my desk. He ruffled my hair. My long blond
hair. "Here, Preach! Feel my hair, my kinky hair. Yo know, yo always
wanted to. All honkies are curious about how black hair feels. Go ahead,
feel it." He grabbed my hand, stood me up, and put it on his afro. It
felt so strange. "Now, yo's tell me yo and me got the same hair, that
we's the same."

There was lots I wanted to say, but as I was gathering my words, Ramon
unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis. It was blacker than his
arm. And it was circumcised. And it was long. And it was fat. I turned
red.

"Does yo puny little white dick look anything like this, Preach? Come
on, let's see it. Let's compare dicks." He reached over to my crotch and
gave a squeeze. "What's wrong, Preach? Yo embarrassed by what yo got in
there? Now, I told yo I want to see it. Don't make me say it again." He
glared at me. I couldn't help myself. I unzipped. I pulled my briefs
down and showed him what I had. He laughed. "Now, yo's tell me yo and me
got the same dick, that we's the same, Preach." He grabbed my cock and
balls in his big hand and held them. "Drop yo pants, Preach. Show me yo
ass."

"No, Ramon, this has gone far enough," I implored.

"Look, I ain't lettin' go 'til yo show me your lily white ass, Preach. I
don't fuckin' care how long it takes."

I unbuckled my belt and let my pants drop to my ankles. Then I pushed my
briefs down to my knees. "There! You satisfied now, Ramon? Can we please
just stop this now?"

He let go of my junk, spun me around, and bent me over my desk. "Just as
I thought, Preach. A lovely lily white ass." He stuck his finger into my
sphincter. "Wow, Preach, yo is sho tight! Nice! I'm gonna have fun
poppin yo cherry."

"You're gonna what?"

"Yo heard me, Preach. That's the only thing yo white boys are good for.
Yo gonna be my bitch. Get down on your knees, Preach." I didn't move. "I
said get on your knees, white Boy. Show me a little respect. Yo said yo
was here to serve. Well, serve me then. Serve my cock." I had no
argument left. I fell to my knees. "Go on, Boy. Kiss my cock. Open yo
mouth and suck me off, Boy. Make me good and hard so I can fuck yo lily
white ass. Go on, yo know yo want to, Yo wants to know what it's like to
taste dark meat. Well, now yo chance, Boy. Open yo lily white lips and
give me head."

I was disgusted with myself, but at the same time extremely curious. I
had never seen a man's cock up close like this, and certainly not a
black man. It was jet black. It had bulging veins on the shaft. It had
tight black curls of hair on the ball sack and a kinky black patch of
pubic hair above it. The piss slit was glistening, invitingly. I licked
it. New drops of clear liquid appeared. I kept licking. The taste was
intoxicating. I took the whole helmet into my mouth. I felt his hands on
the sides of my head. Big hands. Controlling hands. He turned my face up
to look at him. His pearly white teeth were showing. "Yo doin' just
fine, Bitch." I felt my face flush again. He had complimented me. For
the first time as Youth Pastor, I somehow felt proud of myself. I kept
sucking. He pushed his cock deeper into my mouth. I kept looking up at
him. I was entranced. I wanted to please this man. Yes, that's what
Ramon was to me at that moment, a man. Not a boy. I had become the boy
seeking the adult's approval. As I kept sucking, my lips kept advancing
further down his shaft. His cockhead was pressing my uvula now. I
gagged. He pulled back. "Hey, Boy, slow down. Yo is gonna choke, Bitch,
gobblin' up this delicious black meat so fast." He pulled out. I
frowned. "Here, Boy, lick it a while." I looked and his shaft was
glistening, a mixture of my spit and his precum. Voraciously, I licked.
I licked it from helmet down to ball sack and back up again. I licked
all sides. "That's a good Bitch, Boy. Now try again, slowly this time."
I engulfed his tool again, more deliberately now. He held my head and
slowly advanced until he was past my uvula, into my throat. I didn't
gag. His black pubic patch was pressed against my nose. I thanked God
for allowing me to enter Heaven.

Suddenly, he pulled out again. "Huh?" I said out loud. He picked me up
by my shoulders like I was a rag doll and bent me over on my desk. He
kicked my legs apart, then bent down and spit into my asshole. In a
moment, his cockhead was pressing on my sphincter.

"Loosen up, Boy. Don't clamp down 'n' keep me out. It'll only hurt worse
if I gotta force it in, Bitch." I didn't know what to do. I wanted him
to fuck me. I really did. But I was so inexperienced, my asshole, my boy
cunt, didn't know how to welcome him in. "Relax, Boy." I tried. "Yo's my
Bitch, now. Accept it." I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how to
open my shit chute. That was it. I started to grunt like I was shitting.
Suddenly, I felt his cockhead push into me. Fuck, it hurt so much. My
eyes were watering. My body was sweating. He grabbed my hips and held me
tight. He penetrated a little further. "Damn, Boy, yo got the tightest
ass I ever did fuck. Sweet!" He kept pushing. I felt like screaming, but
I knew where I was. I knew Tram could be nearby. I bit my lips. Ramon
pulled back a little, then rammed me harder. Back and forth. Back and
forth. He set up a pounding rhythm. Did I really feel his big black
balls knocking against my taint? Then he must be all the way in me. I
was delirious. Holding my hips, he tensed up. I knew what that meant.
Back in seminary, when I jacked myself off, I always got tense just
before shooting my jizz. That's what was happening now. I was the
receptacle for Ramon's Man juice. I knew he was shooting inside me. Over
and over again. He was quietly muttering. He too knew where he was. He
too didn't want Tram bursting in interrupting him. He whispered over and
over, "fuck, fuck, fuck." I began mouthing the word as well.

He didn't feel as tight any more. I knew his cock was starting to
deflate. I felt sorry. I wished he could have kept it hard and erupting
forever. Eventually, he pulled out. I felt something oozing down the
insides of my thighs. Something warm. Something creamy. Something
wonderful.

I heard his zipper close, but I stayed there bent over my desk, my ass,
my boy cunt exposed. "Yo is never gonna be that tight again, Boy.
Believe me. Once yo get ripped open by a big black cock, yo is never
gonna be the same again. What do you say, Bitch?"

"Thank you, Ramon."

"Yo can call me Sir Ramon now, Boy."

I pulled my pants back up. I was sniffling like a baby. "Why yo cryin',
Boy?"

"I'll have to quit the church."

"No, yo won't."

"When word gets out that I..."

"Who yo gonna tell? I sure as hell ain't gonna tell nobody."

"Really?"

"On conditions, of course."

"Anything? I'll do anything."

"Course yo will. 'Cause yo's my bitch now! OK, Number one, yo gonna go
ahead and have yo little meeting with the what yo call it, the BRBC." He
chuckled, like the acronym was somehow funny to him. "I'll make sure my
bros is there. You make sure the white boys come. Yo hear?" I nodded.
"And my little brother, Marcus, yo know him. He only in grade eight, but
yo gotta let him come too. 'Cause I want him there." I nodded. "And long
'bout ten o'clock, yo gotta make up some flimsy 'scuse to leave, and yo
will leave Denton 'n' me in charge, 'cause we's the oldest, and we'll
close up the meeting and lock up the place. Got it?" I nodded. "Now
'bout that there balcony. Yo said it was just fo us, right? So what
business that old dude got for comin' up there and askin' us fo money.
We don't gots money to just throw 'round like that. Tell him to stay the
hell off our turf. All right?" I nodded.

On Saturday the BRBC held its first meeting. There were five black boys
(Ramon, Denton, Reuben, Therston and young Marcus) and four whites (two
sophomores, Alistair and Mike, and two eighth graders, Kenny and Teddy).
I was glad Ramon made me open it up to eighth graders in order to admit
Marcus. Attendance would have been awfully slim otherwise. We are pizza.
We went to a miniature golf course where the white boys outscored the
blacks, who said we should shoot hoops next time. And back at the church
we talked. I told them how proud I was; they had behaved like perfect
gentlemen out in public. I told them about Martin Luther King and his
dream. I gently urged them to try mingling the next day when they went
up to the balcony. Then at ten, I said I had to leave, that Sunday was a
busy day for me and I needed to get some sleep. I put Denton and Ramon
in charge, and I left.

I felt pretty good. The new club seemed to be working out. This was
confirmed the next morning when I glanced up into the balcony and saw
the black and white boys alternating in their pews. I noticed a couple
black boys even had their arms around their white neighbors' necks. I
smiled at Ramon. He grinned and gave me a thumbs up with the hand that
was wrapped around Mike, who also looked content. It must have been a
late night for the BRBC because throughout the service, I noticed some
of the boys' heads disappear from view, and I guessed they had fallen
asleep in the pew. White boys. The black boys beside them also looked
tired for I saw them close their eyes and open their mouths. Then after
a few minutes they'd return to consciousness and the white boys would
sit up again with drool on their mouths. But I figured even if they had
to get their rest, at least they knew they could come to church and not
be bothered up there in the balcony, and the two races were together.

After church, as I shook hands with the congregation, I asked each of
the boys if they liked their new club. They nodded but didn't commit
themselves beyond that. Typical teenagers. They didn't volunteer any
information. Denton however asked if they had locked up ok, and I
assured him they had. He told me he and Ramon encouraged everyone there
to come back and bring their friends. I was pleased. Finally, I shook
hands with little Kenny. He was more forthcoming than the others, when I
asked him. He said, "Yeah, I liked it a lot. Yeah, I learned a lot; I
learned a lot of stuff about black men; and most important, I learned
stuff about myself." Wow! I couldn't be happier. For a fleeting moment,
I remembered my encounter with Ramon down in my office. There I had
learned a lot about myself, that I was a black man's white bitch. Of
course, I knew that wasn't what Kenny was talking about. "I'm glad you
found it enlightening, Kenny."

The next Saturday, there were 24 kids at BRBC, equally divided between
the blacks and whites. The club was more fully integrated than even the
church. We ate pizza and shot hoops. Guess who won! Again, I left at ten
telling the new boys, "Now you listen to Ramon and Denton. They're in
charge. You do what they tell you."

.oOo.

In the next episode of White Bitch Chronicles, which takes place four
years later, you'll discover what BRBC really means and what really
happens at their meetings after ten. As an author, I welcome feedback on
my writing. Please send any comments about this story, positive or
negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.