Date: Sun, 05 Nov 2017 17:53:20 +0000
From: herb_cat@lycos.com
Subject: White Bitch Chronicles episode 6

White Bitch Chronicles: Episode 6: Aaron and Wilber

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

Please note: this story depicts oral, anal, and group 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.

From the beginning, I planned the White Bitch Chronicles as a series of
five episodes. Episode 5, with its significant final sentence was the
logical culmination of the entire series. I was finished with these
characters. However, one of the characters was not finished with me. I
heard him calling me insistently: Listen up, bitch boy writer, yo gave
me awful short shrift in that last fuckin story. I ain't gonna let yo
get rid of me that easily. I'm gonna haunt yo head 'til yo tell my
story. That's what he said, although as you will see he didn't, and
couldn't, use those exact words. But he made his meaning crystal clear.
Therefore, here I am submitting episode 6 of a 5 episode series. Is this
then the final episode? No. The characters kept coming and insisting
that I write their stories. So soon you will also see episodes 7 and 8.
I think that will be the end, but I better not make any promises. I
don't know if some other character will grab my head with his strong
hands and refuse to let me go before I gave him the respect he deserves.


Note: The second half of this episode portrays sex between males ages
13-18, plus one male in his thirties.

.oOo.

"You can kiss my ass, honkie boy."

"Well, Sir, I just think..."

"Who the [F handshape K handshape] gives a [right thumb pushed into left
fist] what you think, you [B handshape striking chin]. My opinion is the
only one that counts around here. Can you get that through your thick
skull? What you think isn't worth a thimble of [middle finger on nose,
then the OK gesture.]"

By now the members of our class were tittering nervously, trying
desperately to keep up with the flying fingers, consulting in whispers
with one another: "Did you get that?" "What did he say?"

I broke off the simulation and signed, "OK, it's almost quitting time.
Any questions on what you just saw?"

"Wilber, What does this sign mean?" "And this one?" It was Sir Wilber's
communication, not mine, that raised the most interest. The class was
discovering cuss words that weren't included in Sternberg's dictionary,
and they were devouring them like vultures.

Ten minutes earlier, I had no idea where this exercise was going to take
us. The entire class, of course, is conducted in silence,--total
immersion. We always start out with a review of what they've learned so
far, choosing students at random to answer questions. Then we introduce
the next lesson. Then the students break up into small groups to
practice as Sir Wilber and I walk around observing, correcting, and
encouraging. But Sir Wilber and I close each session with an impromptu
improvisation, so the class can observe the signs they'd been learning
in a real life situation. Since it is totally unrehearsed, I never know
what to expect and Sir Wilber often pulls a fast one on me, which makes
the whole exercise kind of fun. This night, I was supposed to play an
employee who had gone to his boss (Sir Wilber) to ask for a raise. The
dialog quickly escalated until by the end it was closely resembling the
interchange Sir Wilber and I have outside of class. If I had allowed it
to run overtime, the class might have seen me kneeling in front of him
sucking his dick. As the class filed out, and we packed up our material,
and shut down the lights, Sir Wilber signed that he expected me to be at
his crib in exactly two hours with my two boy cunts ready for action. I
glanced around to see if any stragglers might have "overheard" his
silent order to me. Then, checking my watch, I quickly hailed a cab in
order to get home and do what I needed to before going over to Sir
Wilber's. My mind kept seesawing back and forth, at times racing ahead
to the night of Masterful sex my ass was about to endure, and at other
times remembering what brought my ass to this point in my life.

3----====8

I grew up in an unremarkable ranch house on an unremarkable street in an
unremarkable subdivision of white suburbia. I was happy enough, but only
because I wasn't aware of any other life. For the first six years of my
life, my maiden aunt lived with us, which was a smart decision on my
parents' part, because that way I grew up bilingual. Aunt Lydia, Mom's
sister, could speak English, you see. My parents had no spoken language;
they communicated in American Sign Language. So even before I was
learning to say my first words, I already had a growing vocabulary of
signs. Aunt Lydia also taught me how loud to play the TV, how to get my
parents' attention, and other tricks for living in a silent world. She
even taught me my own name: Aaron.

Both my parents were profoundly deaf. No hearing aid could bring in even
the faintest noise. But  my grandparents on both sides were not about to
let that fact limit their children's future. Mom and Dad both were
excellent readers as children, and got good grades in everything. They
both were accepted at Gallaudet College in DC, and that is where they
met and fell in love. Dad majored in Business and Mom in Psychology, and
both have been running successful businesses ever since, which is how
they were able to raise their son in an affluent Maryland suburb.

3----====8

The cab dropped me off in front of my building and I raced upstairs to
my flat. Inside, I quickly got out of my clothes, my teacher clothes
(black suit, black shirt, black tie), and jumped into the shower. I made
sure to spray my asshole good and hard. I didn't want Sir Wilber to find
any debris there. I brushed my teeth and rinsed with mouthwash. Then
pulled out my outfit, the clothes I wear for Sir Wilber. No socks, no
underwear, sneakers, tight jeans, a white T and a dog collar. I knew I
would probably be at Sir Wilber's until daybreak, so to be safe, I
packed a duffle with appropriate clothes for the courthouse the next
day, where each week I interpreted the trial proceedings for any deaf
litigants. I checked my watch, and felt I could still make it to the
subway in time. I thought again about my early life.

3----====8

I suppose it was to be expected: there was no way Aaron could ever
achieve the level of success his parents did. I made it through high
school, but in college, whenever the coursework proved too challenging
for me, I switched majors. Eventually, I dropped out altogether. I went
through a string of employers who each had to let me go after a few
months. I tried going it alone and started a couple businesses which
went bankrupt. I could not maintain a relationship with a woman for more
than four months. I checked the mirror every day, and even though I
could not see it, I was sure I had a big L for loser tattooed on my
forehead. Even Aunt Lydia had more success than I; she found the love of
her life and is now happily married in Boca Raton.

One day, I was flipping through the Gallaudet campus paper and my eye
was caught by one of the classifieds: a YMCA was looking for someone to
teach a class in ASL. Shit, I knew I could do that. Maybe now I could
erase that letter on my forehead. One little problem. That Y was in New
York. But Hell, at thirty, it was time I moved out of my parents' home.


The class only met once a week, so the gig didn't pay much, but I soon
found I could get other odd jobs as a signer. Every politician needed
one whenever he held a news conference. Some large churches had signers
for their services. I could make this work.

3----====8

On the subway, I thought about Sir Wilber. My dick began to twitch in my
tight pants. Nervously, I rubbed my crotch. The woman across the aisle
noticed me. Certainly noticed my leather collar. Possibly noticed my
bulge. I put my duffle on my lap and held it tight. I closed my eyes and
remembered the first time I met Sir Wilber.

3----====8

My first year in New York, the class at the Y went well. I learned what
worked and what didn't. The students even liked me, and recommended the
class to their friends. I did find other gigs: besides the politicians
and the churches, I found hospitals with deaf patients, colleges with
deaf students, hotels with deaf residents, all of whom needed
interpreters. Then there were the jobs I can't talk about much. You see,
there is this confidentiality clause in my contract, sometimes explicit,
but usually merely implied. What a deaf person says and does in the
presence of his interpreter is just as sacred as the confessional for a
priest, just as privileged as the interchange between lawyer and client.
I haven't had to go into the confessional yet, but I have sat in on
meetings between lawyers and litigants; there I am simply an
interpreter, and what I hear stays within those walls.

I will cite another example: Mr X was a happily married, very successful
deaf businessman who on occasion liked to patronize call girls. I'd get
a text message late in the evening to meet him at a particular hotel.
When the lady saw the two of us she would always object, "Threeways cost
double!"

"No," I'd explain. "Mr. X here is your only client. I'm only here to
interpret for him." She would still try to get extra, and I'd sign her
demands to Mr X, and he would get angry and head for the door, and
invariably she would reconsider and agree. Then she'd call me a "Fuckin
voyeur," and start taking off her clothes, or his clothes, or whatever
her particular routine was. I'd position myself in a chair where he
could see me and learn whatever she was saying. "Oh, you're such a bad
boy, I should spank you." "I can't wait to have a taste of your manly
cock." When he couldn't see me,--for instance, when his face was buried
in her cleavage, or her pussy, or her buttocks,--then I'd just look
around and study the hotel decor. The sex scene didn't excite me. I
found it rather boring. So I certainly wasn't a voyeur. Eventually, he
would come up for air. Then, I'd tell her to take the doggy position,
his favorite, and he would begin pounding her cunt from behind, all the
while looking at me (which was why it was his favorite position) to see
what she was saying. I would sign stuff like "Fuck me harder, Daddy,"
"Please don't stop." And I would give the signs for grunt and moan and
scream, and he would be satisfied with his performance. At the end, he'd
go into the bathroom to freshen up and she would begin to retrieve her
clothes and looking at me, would say, "Shit, you didn't even get an
erection. You gay or something?" I'd smile and tell her again I was only
the interpreter. That particular gig paid especially well and I was
always glad to get his call.

At any rate, from all this freelance work, I was earning enough to have
my own apartment, to buy a couple black suits and shirts, and to start
dating. One girl, Shirley, and I really hit it off. She was pretty. She
was fun. And the sex was phenomenal. I checked my forehead in the
mirror. The L wasn't there. I was proud of myself.

Just before the start of my fourth year in New York, the Y's director
called me into his office. "Aaron, your ASL class is oversubscribed."

"Wow. That's amazing."

"Yes, well, I was considering starting a second section,..." My head began
to spin. That would mean doubling my salary. I could do something nice
for Shirley. Maybe even get a bigger apartment and then maybe she'd move
in with me. "However, what with Pilates, and Zumba, and Yoga, and Line
Dancing, and Book Discussion,..." He listed a bunch of other courses. "...I
just couldn't find any slot where we could fit in another section of
ASL." I felt the letter returning to my forehead. "However, we hate
turning people away, so I came up with another solution. I decided to
give you an assistant. That way you could handle more students. Wilber
has been coming to the Y ever since he moved here when he was 14. He's a
good kid."

Fifteen minutes before the first class of the semester, the director
brought Wilber into the classroom and introduced us. I looked at the
young man and had my doubts: he was scrawny, he had a stupid expression
on his face, his head was covered by a black dew rag, his chest an old
black T, and his skin was the blackest I'd ever seen. But when I saw his
fingers flying, I discovered him to be a fluent native speaker of sign
language. Wilber,--(he was still Wilber then, not Sir Wilber),--was
deaf, so ASL was his only language. His "accent" was noticeably
different from mine. He tended to use two hands more often and his face
less often.

I quickly explained my plans for the first lesson. Then just before the
students were due to arrive, I took a quick look at him. Signers usually
dress in black. Black shirt. Black tie. Black suit. That makes it easier
to see what we are signing. However, Wilber was so black himself, that I
didn't think his signs would be clear across the classroom. I explained
this to him and signed he should wear a white T the following week. He
reached over and pushed his fingers behind my tie and spread the shirt
between two buttons. "You got a white T on under that shirt." I nodded.
"So take it off and give it to me." A little unorthodox maybe, but
certainly logical. I quickly doffed my jacket and tie, opened my
buttons, slipped off my shirt, and handed the lad my white T shirt. He
took off his, handed it to me, and put mine on. I couldn't think of any
other place to put his shirt, so I quickly put it on. It was snug, it
was torn, and it smelled that scent I would later come to love, the
aroma of negro sweat. I was still buttoning up my shirt when the
students began filing in."

The session went great. Having an assistant was a great improvement. Of
course, there were times when he corrected me. I was used to Gallaudet
ASL, not New York street ASL. I had a lot to learn.

At the end of that first session, we left the classroom and both Wilber
and I made a pit stop in the men's room. Standing at adjacent urinals, I
could hear something he couldn't. My stream was hesitant, intermittent;
his strong, steady, direct. My curiosity was piqued,--I had heard all
the stories about the legendary black cock,--but that damn little
partition between us prevented me from getting my first look at one. As
we stood at the sink to wash up, I signed to him in the mirror I wanted
to meet some time to go over plans for the following week. He took one
of the paper towels and wrote down his address. "Be there at 7:30
tomorrow night." He signed with authority. I didn't feel he wanted to
discuss it. He wasn't interested if the time was convenient for me. He
repeated the sign for "Be there."

Then I remembered what I was wearing."You want your shirt back?"

"Keep it, honkie. Something for you to sniff when you go to bed
tonight." He turned and disappeared out the door. I stood there frozen.
Except for my fingers which were signing "You impudent, insolent bastard
[B handshape on forehed]."

3----====8

The subway stopped at 125th street.I got off and checked my watch. Good,
I was on time. Not like that first time.

3----====8

The day after our first class, I did go to Wilber's address, but I
didn't like his attitude. I purposely didn't arrive until a quarter to
9. I brought with me my notes for lesson 2. Four black men were sprawled
on the stoop of his building. They made no effort to move aside and I
had to gingerly tiptoe through them to reach the front door. One of them
spat at the concrete in front of my foot. Obviously, I didn't belong
here. I made my way up to Wilber's apartment. He opened the door.
"You're late," he signed angrily. "Hereafter, when I tell you when to be
somewhere, you be there." Hereafter? Who did he think he was? "Now, show
me some respect. Get down on your knees."

I held up my folder of class notes and signed, "Look, I only came here
to talk about lesson 2."

"No, you didn't." My quizzical expression didn't need any fingers to
interpret. "This is why you came, honkie." He opened his fly and pulled
out his black dick. The longest dick I'd ever seen. The thickest dick
I'd ever seen. The blackest dick I'd ever seen, anthracite black.
Frankly, the loveliest dick I'd ever seen. He let it just hang there and
continued signing, "I knew you wanted to see it there in the men's room
last night. I knew you were twisting and turning and gawking and getting
frustrated because you couldn't get a look at it then. Well, here. Take
a good long look. A close look. Down on your knees."

He was absolutely right. He knew my mind better than I did. I was
mesmerized by that cock. I let my notes fall on the floor and dropped to
my knees. I couldn't believe a cock could look so powerful. From that
moment on, it owned me and I knew it. I couldn't take my eyes off it. He
held his hands in front of his black kinky pubic patch so I could see
what he was saying. "Open up, bitch boy." I obeyed and he stuck that
beautiful black tool into my hungry mouth, which at that moment became a
cunt for him to fuck. He grabbed my head and began fucking my face
roughly. Silently. He didn't even moan. His cock did all the talking. I
had been transformed. I felt I had been born to serve this black cock. I
felt my mouth had at long last found its true purpose. I teared up,
overcome by the wonder of it all. When he pulled out, I stared at his
cock again. It was now hard, seemingly a foot long, and it glowed like
highly polished bronze. It was still attached to my mouth by long ropes
of white cum. "Strip," he signed. Without getting off my knees, I
quickly got out of my shirt and threw it on the floor. I loosened my
pants and let them fall to my knees. Getting naked would be a small
price to pay for the privilege of sucking that amazing black cock. I
looked up at him, mouth open, eyes pleading. I wanted it back in my
mouth. "Please, Sir," I signed quickly, "Don't make my mouth wait any
longer."

But he had other ideas. He pushed me forward until my shoulders were on
the floor, my ass raised high. He spat into my asshole and began
fingering it. It hurt, but I didn't resist. I couldn't resist. My whole
body wanted to give itself to him. It was a lost puppy dog who had been
wandering the streets of life for three decades and had finally found
its owner. He positioned his cockhead on my sphincter and began to push
down. Slowly, relentlessly. My anus was now a second cunt for him to
fuck. I began to cry heavily. My cherry was being popped by a man ten
years my junior. A black man. A deaf man. But I knew at that moment I
belonged to him. I didn't care how much it hurt. I only wanted him to
take me. He pounded my ass good and hard and soon his breeding material
was filling me. I was in heaven. Bitch heaven. I couldn't believe how
long his orgasm lasted. I could never deliver that long when I was with
a girl. I would peter out after a few squirts. I realized then why my
relationships never lasted. I could never satisfy them like this black
man could. After a seeming eternity, I felt his cock soften and then
blurp out. He reached down, grabbed my hair and pulled until I was
sitting again. All I could do was sign over and over, "Thank you, Sir."

I stared down at my little white prick. It was hard because it was
happy, but it was also ashamed. Having witnessed what a real cock could
do,--a black cock,--it knew it could never again claim that title. It
was merely a slightly overgrown clit. If my penis had had a forehead, it
would have been tattooed with a big L.

I stayed there all night. He fucked me in his bed. He fucked me in his
kitchenette. He fucked me in his bathtub. He fucked me in front of his
open window. He fucked me in a dozen different positions. And after
every fuck, all I could do was sign over and over, "Thank you, Sir."

Toward dawn, we both fell asleep in his bed, his skinny arms cradling my
naked white body protectively. I was his property. I woke about eleven
and crawled out of bed. After peeing, I stared at his thin black body
sprawled naked on his bed with that lovely cock which seemed to be
signing to me: "You are mine, now, white boy. Things will be different
from now on." I wanted to serve that cock, to serve Wilber. I looked
around and decided to make some coffee to bring to him. I opened his
fridge and cupboards and decided to cook him some eggs and toast. Of
course my rustling of pots and pans and dishes didn't wake my deaf
Master. I didn't want his food to get cold, so I bent over him and
sucked his morning wood. He opened his eyes which met mine. "Smells
good," he signed. Reluctantly, I let go of his cock and brought him his
breakfast on a tray. He sat up and ate it leisurely as I continued to
suck him off. "You could have left in the middle of the night, white
boy," he signed. One advantage of ASL is that you don't have to stop
eating,--or sucking cock for that matter,--to carry on a conversation.

"No, I couldn't, Sir."

"Why not?"

"Because this is where I belong. You own me, Sir."

"You are my bitch."

"Yes, Sir."

There we were, both of us enjoying our tasty treats, when it happened. I
heard the distinctive ring tone of my cell phone. Since he didn't hear
it, he didn't understand when I broke off the fellatio, scrambled around
in my clothes on the floor, searching until I found my phone and
answered it. "Where the hell are you?" It was Shirley. "We had a date
for lunch? You're late. What, did you forget? I hear silverware scraping
dishes. You're with some other broad, aren't you? Well, go fuck
yourself. I never want to see you again. You're a loser." She hung up.

I started laughing. I threw down the phone, muttering "Good riddance." I
had found someone who could give me so much more than Shirley ever
could. The last 14 hours had totally turned my life upside down.

"All women are bitches," I signed.

"You calling my momma a bitch, Honky?" Uh oh, I hit a sore spot. In very
atypical fashion, he began to open up to me about his personal life. His
mother lived by herself in Omaha. Of her four children by three
different fathers, Sir Wilber was the only one who wasn't dead or in
jail. She had worked hard all her life, cleaning white folks' bathrooms.
When he told me that, he nearly gagged. The very thought of a black
person in servitude to whitey disgusted him. Me too. "Some of Momma's
friends, when they were short of cash, would prostitute themselves" He
made the B handshape and brushed his cheek twice with the back of his
hand. "Momma's real good looking, but she would never give her ass up to
some filthy, worthless white man's puny dick. She kept her pride. When
she went to church on Sunday, she could hold her head high."

Sir Wilber went on. When he was a baby, his Momma used to bring him with
her when she went to clean the honkies' houses. To communicate, she
would draw little pictures. Toys meant he was to play while she did her
work. A sandwich meant it was time for lunch. A bus meant it was time to
go home. When she began to use words as well as pictures, Sir Wilber
learned to read, so when she brought him to the Nebraska School for the
Deaf at age 5, he was already reading on a second grade level. There he
began learning ASL. However, by then the school was in a financial mess.
When it closed, he was sent to a residential school for the deaf, but he
came home to visit his Momma every weekend. He had no problem with the
curriculum. It was the white administrators and white students who were
the problem. He got into frequent fights. At 14, he dropped out. Without
any job prospects, he hung out at the library. Using their computers, he
hooked up with a network of other black deaf men, and with their
encouragement, decided to take a bus to Manhattan. Here, he could
support himself through various odd jobs, a few of them legitimate.
Throughout it all, the one stabilizing factor in his life was his Momma.
"So don't you ever call her a bitch," he signed.

After that awesome night, I began spending my evenings in anxious
anticipation, waiting for my Master to call and text his order for me to
come over. If he didn't call, I would take the prized shirt he gave me
that first day (which I refused to wash) and slept with it. Sometimes he
surprised me and called in the afternoon. I always obeyed, being sure to
arrive at the precise time he states. The four men on the stoop all knew
me now and whistled when they saw me approaching. "Hey, hey, here comes
Wilber's little white bitch boy!" They still forced me to work my way up
through their sprawling bodies, but no one spat any more. Instead they
would catch a feel of my ass as I passed. All four had been up to Sir
Wilber's apartment and given me their black cocks to suck, while Master
looked on, sometimes fucking my ass as I sucked them. I'm thrilled that
he considered me suitable enough to share with his bros. And of course,
I never tired of sucking big fat delicious black cocks. When I went
there, I knew I'd probably be staying the night and cooking Sir his
breakfast, so I always brought along a change of clothes depending on
what I have lined up to do the following day.

I wanted to explore all I could about this new position I found myself
in. White submission and black supremacy seemed so natural to me now, I
wondered how I could have been so blind before Sir Wilber took me. I
remembered a course in anthropology I took in college, one of my many
majors. There I learned how the human race first emerged in central
Africa. Now I realized that of course it made sense for the non-black
peoples of the world to revere the African race. They are after all our
fathers. We Europeans are the children who wandered astray, and now,
like prodigals, we need the correction, instruction and discipline of
our black fathers. It is only right they call us boys. Apparently,
through evolution, we lost not only our beautiful black skin, but also
lost much of what would make us truly men. We grew soft. Our cocks
shriveled into insignificance. We became more feminine than masculine,
so it only makes sense that our orifices are actually cunts for the
black man to use any way he wishes.

Our class at the Y was going great. It was so rewarding to be working
beside my Master. One time in the spring semester, Sir Wilber didn't
show up for a couple weeks. Turned out he was locked up in jail. Case of
mistaken identity. I knew they must have had the wrong guy. In my eyes,
Master could never do anything wrong.

.oOo.

One night, Sir Wilber just wasn't himself. The fucking was perfunctory.
After two or three rounds, he suggested I leave.

"Why, Sir?" I signed, worried. "What have I done wrong, Master?"

"No, Boy, it isn't you. I'm just concerned about something. Go on.
Scram."

Slowly, I gathered my clothes but I really didn't want to get dressed
until I found out what was the matter. "Please, Sir. I'll do anything
for you, you know that, Sir. You own me. How can I help you, Sir? This
isn't you, Sir. I want to see my old dear Master again."

He gave me a sympathetic grin and signed, "I'm going to have to leave,
Boy."

"Leave!? Leave New York, Sir!? Where? Why?"

"It's my mother. She's ill. May be dying." He choked. I had never seen
him so vulnerable. "Stage 4 COPD. Can't work. Can't pay her bills. She
needs me, Boy," he signed. "I really gotta go. It's been fun. You've
been a good bitch. But now it's over. Find yourself another black cock
to serve."

"NO!" I shouted audibly. My mind was racing. I needed Sir Wilber. I was
nothing without him. If he abandoned me now, I would be totally lost.
But of course my needs meant nothing. It doesn't matter whether a white
boy's needs are fulfilled or not. All that matters is whether a black
man's needs are fully met. It was a terrible presumption, I know, but I
was desperate: I had to convince Sir Wilber he needed me. How?

"How will you support yourself in Omaha, Sir, and take care of your
mother at the same time? How will you travel there, Sir? How will you
find your way around, Sir, in a strange city?" I kept signing my flimsy
arguments. Then I changed tack. "Are you taking your shoes, Sir?" He
gave me this weird look like what a stupid white boy I was to ask that.
"Are you taking your black porn, Sir? Are you taking your clothes, your
wallet, your lube, Sir?"

"What are you driving at, bitch boy?"

"Those things are your property, Sir. Things you consider important
enough not to leave behind, Sir."

"And you are also my property."

"Yes, Sir."

"You don't think I should leave you behind?"

"No, Sir."

"You think your miserable white body is essential to me, boy?"

"No, Sir." I knew I had gone too far. "But I could be useful to you,
Sir."

"How?"

I had to come up with something. "Sir, your mother, Sir. She's sick,
Sir. Don't you think she'd like it, Sir, if you brought her a white boy
to clean her bathroom, Sir?"

He stared at me for a good minute. Just stared. Then he burst out
laughing. "Boy, you should have been a lawyer. You sure know how to
plead a case."

"Then you won't leave me, Sir?"

"You've got a lot of ties here now, Boy. Like the class at the Y, and
all that other shit you do."

"None as important as serving you, Sir."

"Can we leave next week, Boy?" His demeanor had changed noticeably. He
told me to bend over and started fucking me again, this time with vigor,
with resolve. He made good use of my boy cunt the rest of the night.

I gave notice at the Y, and told my other clients I was leaving town.
The deaf businessman cheating on his wife was particularly upset. I paid
my landlord a month's rent in advance and

paid off Sir Wilber's landlord as well. I purchased us two one-way
tickets, first class, on a direct flight to Omaha,--Sir Wilder's first
flight. I packed up my black suits and Sir Wilber's other property and
sent it ahead by FedEx. I had the post office forward all our mail to
Sir Wilber's mother's address. We were off.

We were met at the door by a very handsome black woman. She was just
about my size, with a clear complexion the color of peppercorn. She had
broad shoulders and firm arms. Sir Wilber must have inherited his
scrawniness from his father. Momma handed her son a pad and began to
write on another one. Sir quickly told me to explain they didn't have to
communicate like that now, that I would interpret for them. She looked
dubious, but then spoke, "Oh, Willie, you dear, dear boy, thank yo so
much. I'm so sorry yo had to move. I didn't want to cause no trouble." I
tried interpreting her words, there in her foyer, but it embarrassed me
to have to refer to Sir as "Willie" and "dear boy."

She asked her son who I was. He signed his reply and I interpreted and
elaborated. "Ma'am. I'm like your son's servant. I promise not to be any
trouble. I'm going to continue to serve him as I have and I hope to
serve you as well, Ma'am. Like maybe I can do your laundry and cook and
clean your bathroom, Ma'am."

She just looked at me and then burst out laughing. "Son, you mean we got
us a white boy we can just order abouts?" He grinned and nodded yes. I
grinned and nodded yes. She gave Sir a great big black momma hug. We
parked our suitcases and the packages we sent ahead in two adjacent
bedrooms on the second floor. Sir's mother was too frail to manage the
stairs so we would not be disturbed no matter what Sir wished to do with
me up there. I wondered if Sir would have any discomfort doing sex in
his mother's home. I needn't have worried. From that first night, Sir
used me like the bitch boy I am, filling both my cunts with his huge
phallus and then with his prodigious cum. He fucked me hard, long, and
repeatedly. And, as an extra bonus, come morning, I was already home.

I got busy doing the housework. Upstairs, I worked naked. Downstairs, I
kept my clothes on. The first time I cleaned her bathroom, she just
shook her head. "Imagine that. The tables sho is turned, ain't they."

One day that first week, I had finished the laundry and was putting away
the clean clothes. In Ma'am's closet, tucked way in the back, I spotted
three identical dresses that looked like  costumes from the movie "The
Help," except they were pale green instead of slate grey, but they had
white collars, lapels and cuffs. I pulled one out. "What is this,
Ma'am?"

"Oh, Lordy, Lordy. That's one of my old uniforms. When I used to clean
white folks' houses. All us girls wore them. That's what they called us,
Girls. Even if we was sixty, seventy years old, we was still girls. I
ain't never gonna wear that again. You might as well throw it out, Boy."


I smiled. "I got a better idea, Ma'am. Hope you don't mind." I took off
my shirt and pants and stood before her in my tighty whiteys. Then I
slipped the dress over my head and smiled. "There, Ma'am. Now do I look
like I'm right for the job?" Again she burst out laughing, which led to
a coughing spell. When she settled down, she said, "Boy, yo sho is the
craziest dumbass honky I ever did meet." From then on, I wore my uniform
to clean her house. Momma gave me some white stockings to wear also, I
bought a few pair of lacy underwear and I found a catalog where I could
order some black low-heeled mary janes in my size. Sir loved it, because
it made his momma happy. Well, actually, seeing me feminized got him
even hornier, as if that were possible. If he came home late and Momma
was already asleep, and I was washing the dishes, he'd come into the
kitchen, bend me over the counter, lift up my skirt, push my panties
aside, and give me a good hard fuck right then and there.

I contacted the local school district and offered to teach an adult
education class in ASL. They accepted. Our first gig in Omaha. I began
looking for others. Sir found a job washing dishes at a local
restaurant. It was demeaning for him, but at least his boss was black.
We worked our hours so either Sir or I was home most of the day if Momma
needed something. If we were both going to be out, like the nights we
did the class together, I made sure Momma had everything she needed
close at hand.

Then I heard about a church in a small town outside the city that was
looking for a signer. I drove over there.

"Hello? Can I help you?" The old woman behind the desk looked me
over,--critically, I'm sure. The name on her desk plaque was Hilda
Larson.

"I'm here to see Pastor Reynolds about the position of interpreter for
the deaf," I explained.

"Pastor Tram is too busy for all that. It's Pastor Yul you want to see
anyway." She gave me directions,--down the stairs, through the
fellowship hall,--to his office. The sign on his door read "Youth
Pastor." I knocked. A voice inside invited me in, so I opened the door.
A very unimpressive office, with no windows. Pastor Yul had bifocals and
blond hair turning grey. I guessed him to be in his mid 40s.

"Ah, good. You're going to be a big help to us here."

"How many deaf congregants do you have?"

"Just one. Well, not counting the old seniors who depend on hearing aids
which don't work most of the time anyway. But they never learned sign
language." He went on. "Frankie Armbruster is fifteen years old. Good
student. Well mannered. He's been coming to church and Sunday school
since he was nine, and manages somewhat reading lips. But I feel he'd do
so much better with a signer. And Pastor Tram and I thought if we
advertised that we had an interpreter, maybe other deaf people would be
drawn to the church. That's how we convinced the board of trustees to
finance your fee, on a trial basis."

"Interesting. I'm sure Frankie and I will get along just fine. I can
start next Sunday if you want. What time is Sunday school?"

"Well, there's one more thing. We'd like to employ your services
Saturday night as well. You see, when I first came to this church
seventeen years ago, I started a group called the BiRacial Boys Club.
It's been a huge success. All the kids look forward to joining when they
enter eighth grade.  Frankie's already in ninth and because of his
special needs he hasn't been able to join the BRBC. But his parents tell
me he really wants to. All he needs is an interpreter to accompany him
to the meetings, which by the way can last until the wee hours of the
morning."

I went home and told Sir and Momma about my new gig. Momma was delighted
that I'd be going to church. "When Willie was just a chile, I used to
take him with me, but he got all fidgety cause he don't understand what
anyone's saying. Can't even hear the music. So I quit tryin' and he just
stayed home. Never did find religion." To me, Sir was my God, and I saw
no need for him to attend church, but I could feel the sadness in her
voice.

The next Saturday, I met the Armbruster family at a nearby McDonald's
for dinner. His mother Louise, father Buel, older sister Lou and younger
brother Noel, all of whom were hearing, but had learned to sign for
Frankie's sake. So there we were, the six of us packed into a booth, the
fingers flying as we chatted, got acquainted, laughed and ate. A good
family. A wholesome family. A loving family.

"So, tell me about this club, the BRBC."

"Not much to tell," said Dad, "except that all the boys rave about it."


"Yeah, but no one knows what they do there," said Sis. "Not, after ten,
anyway."

"What happens at ten?"

"Poor Pastor Yul has to leave to get ready for church on Sunday, so he
has a couple of the older boys take charge," said Mom.

"Black boys," said younger brother.

He got a glare from his mother. "Now, now, it makes no difference the
color of your skin, you know that. Yes, the boys in charge right now are
black, but..."

"They always have been," mumbled Dad, but he concurred it should make no
difference. That's the blinders most whiteys wear. That's the way I once
thought also. Before my enlightenment, I had this vague notion of racial
equality. But it wasn't my place to set this family straight about black
superiority. I had simply been hired by the church as Frankie's
interpreter. I asked Frankie what he knew about the group.

His fingers spoke excitedly. "I know they eat pizza and go bowling and
shoot hoops and go swimming in the summer and sledding in the winter and
talk about stuff, and that's all while Pastor Yul is there. But when he
leaves, nobody knows what happens." I caught him making the H handshape
in front of his body and knew he was about to sign "what the Hell
happens," but his parents were watching his fingers as closely as I so
he cleaned up his language. I was intrigued. It was a secret society.
That would certainly make it all the more appealing to adolescent boys.
I knew of course I'd have to keep their secrets, but that was OK with
me.

After I promised to get Frankie home safely, his family drove home and I
drove Frankie to the church. He was greeted warmly by kids he knew from
school. He seemed to be popular. He kept asking them what they were
going to do at the late portion of the meeting, but no one volunteered
any dope. The white eighth graders giggled, "You'll see." The black
eighth graders said smugly, "Yeah, you'll see."

Pastor Yul welcomed Frankie to his first night at BRBC and then
introduced me, explaining what an interpreter does. I added they should
just carry on as if I weren't there. "Don't worry about me," I laughed.
I noticed the older black men were eyeing me skeptically. For Frankie's
sake, and for mine, I suppose, Pastor Yul gave a well-rehearsed history
of the BRBC going back decades. He quoted Martin Luther King's dream
speech and spoke glowingly of the strides in racial equality he had
already witnessed here in this church. Franke and I carried on our own
private conversation while he spoke:

"He's boring, Aaron."

"I know, Frankie."

"I can't wait to get to the secret stuff."

"Neither can I." I smiled. This is yet one more advantage of ASL. We
could speak to each other and no one knew any wiser.

Then we went outside to play a version of hide and seek. Poor Frankie
couldn't hide very well with my big adult body beside him. But when it
came to seeking, his super sensitive senses made him invincible. It
seemed he could see and smell what no one else could. Like he had ESP.
The pizza delivery man arrived so we quit, went inside and ate heartily.


Finally, the clock struck ten and Pastor Yul excused himself. As soon as
he got out the door, I could immediately see the way things really were
in this club, and it made my heart bubble with joy. The black men
arranged themselves on bar stools and the white boys lined up on the
floor in front of them on their knees. I nudged Frankie and we quickly
joined our white brethren on the floor. Frankie saw me grinning and
relaxed. I looked around and signed to Frankie that we ought to keep our
gaze low in humility. I hoped those on the stools would understand that
we couldn't put our hands behind our backs if I was going to be
Frankie's interpreter, especially since he wouldn't be able to read lips
with his eyes cast down. I told Frankie one of the black leaders was
calling on one of the white boys to tell the new boy what BRBC really
stood for.

"Bitches are born caucasian, Sir," he quickly replied. Frankie made me
repeat it; he couldn't believe it.

The boy, who looked like a high school senior, continued. "That means
since I am white, my ass belongs to you, Sir, and to all the Black Men
assembled here, Sir." My heart skipped a beat. These white boys were
being taught their true place in this world. How I wished I had been in
such a group when I was in school.

The youngest black man, one of the eighth graders, asked "Boy Franklin,
are yo black or white?" I signed the question.

Frankie frowned and signed, "White of course." I interpreted out loud,
"I am white, Sir." I explained to Frankie how I had changed his answer
slightly. He nodded.

Another small black man, maybe a sophomore, addressed me. "Boy Aaron,
are you also white?" I answered out loud while simultaneously signing my
answer for Frankie to hear. "Yes, Sir. I am a mere honky, Sir.
Therefore, I know my ass belongs to you, Sir, and to all the Black Men
assembled here, Sir." Without looking up, I knew my response pleased
them.

Another black man asked, "Boy Franklin, your friend here knows his
place. Don't accept that bullshit from Pastor Yul about equality." [My
pointer and pinkie made the horns of a bull and I pushed them toward
Frankie; he nodded] "The sooner you realize that Black men are superior,
the happier you'll be. Ain't that right, Boy Chester."

"Yes, Sir. I love being your bitch, Sir. I can't wait to come here every
week and have you use my ass, Sir."

I began signing. "I hear one of the black men get off his stool,
Frankie."

"I think you're supposed to call me Boy Franklin."

"You're right and I'm Boy Aaron. I'm the oldest one in the room by far
but I am not a man here. I'm a boy like you."

The man from the stool stood in front of Boy Chester, and ordered us,
"Boy Aaron, Boy Franklin, turn, so you can see how Boy Chester serves
his Master." We turned to see the young man open his fly and pull out
his lovely black cock. Boy Chester opened his mouth and began to give
him head.

Frankie signed, "Look at that, Boy Aaron."

"Yes, isn't it wonderful. That man is allowing that boy to suck his
cock. That boy is indeed lucky. If we're lucky, maybe we'll get to suck
some black cock too." No sooner had the words crossed my fingers than
there were two black men, the eighth graders actually, standing in front
of us. I opened my mouth and so did Frankie. I knew how to suck cock. I
tried to sign some quick instructions to Frankie. "No teeth. Lick it
lovingly. Look up into his eyes in reverence." He seemed to pick it up
quickly. In a few minutes, Boy Chester, Boy Aaron and a very surprised
Boy Franklin were swallowing black man cum. The three black men pulled
out but did not zip up.

One of the black men whispered in my ear. "Has your cherry been popped.
Bitch?"

"Yes, Sir."

"But not Boy Franklin."

"Probably not, Sir."

"You helped him learn to suck cock. Can you help him learn to get bred,
Boy?"

"I'll do my best, Sir. But doggy position won't work. I won't be able to
sign. Neither will spread eagle."

"What do you suggest, Bitch Boy?"

"I think you could lean us over two bar stools facing each other with
our elbows on the seats, Sir."

"Good boy." I was ecstatic. Not only would I get some black cock or
maybe even cocks shoved up my ass boy cunt, but I would have the
privilege of watching another white boy getting fucked for the first
time.

"OK, Boys," said the leader in a loud voice. "Time to strip." All the
white boys stood up, keeping their faces downcast and began taking off
their clothes. I was anxious to get out of my own clothes, but first my
hands had to sign the order the Frankie. I needn't have bothered. He saw
all his white friends stripping and just went ahead and followed suit.
He was grinning. He was loving this. "Now, Boys, assume the position."
The other white boys got down on their elbows and knees. Frankie was
about to do likewise, but I signed to him to wait. Two bar stools were
brought over and I placed my elbows on one. Frankie copied me and faced
me. We could watch each other's hands. Our asses were stuck out behind
us.

Frankie signed, "Isn't this exciting, Boy Aaron?"

"It's about to get really exciting, Boy Franklin."

"What do you think is going to happen next?"

"I think we're about to get fucked." [Both my hands made the V
handshape, right hand on top of left]

"Really?"

"Yep."

"What's it like?"

"At first it feels real strange. Real tight. So I won't lie to you, it's
gonna hurt at first. But after a while it will feel better. And you're
very lucky."

"Why is that?"

"You're going to get fucked by a black cock. There's nothing better than
a black cock when it comes to fucking, believe me. In fact, don't look
now, but there's a black cock behind you."

"There's one behind you also."

"Good."

"I feel him. He's putting something gooey on my asshole." He tapped the
side of his head twice with the A handshape.

"That's lube, Boy Franklin. That will make it easier for you to take the
big cock."

"I feel it. It's pressing on my hole."

"That's good. Just relax."

"He's trying to push it in me, but it won't go in."

"Push back, like you want to take a shit." I pushed my right thumb into
my left fist. "Then that round muscle will open a little bit."

"I did. It did. I think it got in."

"That's just the start. There's a lot more to come, Frankie. Black cocks
are huge. Much bigger than yours and mine. It's going to take a while
before he's completely inside you."

"Is yours inside?"

"Yes, and it feels wonderful. But your hole has never been stretched.
It's going to take a while. Relax and be patient."

"It does hurt."

"I told you. Do you want him to stop?"

"NO!"

"Why not?"

"Because, you said it yourself. I'm a mere honky. Therefore, my ass
belongs to you all the Black Men assembled. Right?"

"Right, Boy Franklin."

"He keeps going in more."

"Mine too."

"Is it OK to scream?"

"Yes, black men love to hear white bitches scream." We both screamed out
loud. I knew it made Frankie feel better. "He said to scream louder."
Frankie did. The young man began hammering away at Frankie's ass. I
smiled at my charge. His eyes were wide open. I saw precum dripping in
long strands from Frankie's dick. So I knew he really was enjoying this.
"Keep screaming, Frankie." I screamed also. But my screams were not from
pain but from sheer joy.

The man behind me,--I never saw him, so I have no idea how old he
was,--climaxed and filled my chute with wonderful black man cum. He
pulled out and another man soon took his place. But the cock inside
Frankie stayed there.

"He says you have a very tight ass, Frankie."

"Is that good?"

"Yes, very good. A boy is only a virgin once. After tonight, your ass
will never be that tight again. That cock loves your virgin tight hole."


"My virgin tight hole loves that cock." I told the man behind Frankie
what Frankie said.

"He really said that, Boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, ain't he a perfect little white boy bitch. Tell him he's about to
get an ass full of my cum." I told Frankie.

"Is that good?"

"Yes, very good, in fact it's good for both of you."

"He stopped pushing. What happened?"

"He's getting ready to shoot. Hang on."

"Yes, yes. I feel it."

"He just screamed."

"Why? Did it hurt him?"

"No. He screamed because it felt so good. It's called an orgasm."

I saw the man suddenly pull out of Frankie.

"I feel stuff dripping down my legs."

"That's cum. You really got it good, Boy Franklin."

"Thank you, Boy Aaron."

By then another black cock was already inside Frankie's stretched hole.
He didn't need me any more. Our fingers rested.

I was told to assume the position, so I got down on the floor on my
elbows and knees, and took another cock. When I next spotted Frankie, he
was lying on his back on an air hockey table, his legs spread eagle,
holding his ankles, with one big black cock in his ass and another big
black cock in his throat. Two other black men, the eighth graders,
helped him hold his legs up while they waited their turns.

By the time two o clock rolled around, both Frankie and I couldn't count
the number of beautiful black cocks we had taken. And we literally
couldn't contain all the black man splooge we had ingested. Everyone
began dressing. "A few things you should know, Boy Aaron, Boy Franklin."


"Yes, Sir?" It was the leader.

"Number one, you will be back next week." I signed and Frankie and I
both told him we planned to come back. "That wasn't a question. It was a
statement."

"Yes, Sir."

"Number two, you will not have any underwear on next week. Boys do not
wear underwear to BRBC meetings. Only men, and I mean, real men, Boy
Aaron, only men wear underwear here.

"Yes, Sir."

"Number three, you will wash your ass holes thoroughly before you come
on Saturday and you will provide your own lube."

"Yes, Sir." I assured Frankie I would bring enough lube for both of us.
I purchase it by the case.

"Number four, you will both be in Sunday school tomorrow. Boy Aaron, you
need to learn the word of God. And then, you will both be in the balcony
for church."

"Yes, Sir." Frankie signed he'd always wanted to sit in the balcony.

"Number five, you will not tell a single soul outside of the group what
went on here tonight. If you tell anyone, you will be brought out to the
woods and hung from a tree. If you squeal like a pig in our meetings,
that's fine. That's what bitches are supposed to do. But if you squeal
outside, you will be lynched." He was dead serious. A sobering thought
to give us before heading home.

We were both pretty quiet as I drove Frankie home, and it wasn't just
because I had to keep my hands on the wheel. When I got home myself, I
hit the bed like a rock. The next time I stirred, I looked at the clock.
It was already past seven. I turned over to tell Sir I had to hustle to
get to Sunday School on time. But he wasn't there. I jumped up, washed
off all the dried cum in the shower, and got into my black suit.

Downstairs, I found Sir in the kitchen sitting with Momma. The dozens of
papers from Momma's pad were evidence of an earlier argument. But now
Sir sat contrite fully dressed with a clean white buttoned shirt on.
Momma was wearing a proper dress and hat.

"What's going on?" I asked, both orally and manually.

They both answered, Sir Wilber's fingers duplicating the message on his
mother's lips: "We're going to church with you. Sunday school too."
Momma added, "Bout time my boy gets some religion."

I met Frankie's family in the parking lot and introduced them to my
guests. Frankie's mother took Momma to the adult Bible class. "Hope you
don't mind sitting in with the ninth graders," I asked Sir. He looked
defeated.

I pretended to sign the Sunday school lesson but instead Frankie and I
told Sir about the BRBC. Sir's spirit revived. He asked Frankie how he
felt.

"I loved it, Sir Wilber. Those men were so nice to me. I think they
liked my ass."

"I know they liked your ass, Boy."

"I was lucky."

"Why, Boy?"

"It's like Boy Aaron told me last night. I got fucked by a black cock.
And he said there's nothing better than a black cock when it comes to
fucking. It's obvious. White guys really are meant to be bitches for
black men. I mean, really, you saw my little dick, Boy Aaron,..."--he made
the D handshape and tapped his nose--"...and I saw yours and also all
those other little white dicks. White dicks are all so tiny. Even my
Dad's dick is small. I saw it when we went swimming. I wonder how Dad
fucks Mom? I wonder if she'd rather get fucked by a big black cock like
I was."

"Maybe. Maybe even your Dad would like getting fucked by a big black
cock."

"Yeah, he probably would. He doesn't know what he's missing."

"Most honkies don't, Boy Franklin. Most honkies don't."

.oOo.

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.