Date: Thu, 1 Feb 2018 15:29:40 +0000 (UTC) From: Skorpio Subject: Black Magick Snowflake - Part 3 (author, interr, fantasy) This perverse tale of Black Doms and white subs in the strange and erotic world of Black Magick is brought to you courtesy of Nifty Stories. If you enjoy this kind of thing, or any of the other thousands of stories at Nifty depicting every fantasy and fetish imaginable, make a donation to support the cause. Don't let the fascist neanderthals win. Black Magick: Snowflake, by Skorpio SYNOPSIS This is the third and final part of Black Magick: Snowflake. The first part, "Lucky to be Alive," told how cocky college student Danny Sullivan cruised through life on luck, charm, and privilege until one fateful Thanksgiving when he set out to hitchhike home for the holiday. It recounted how the young narcissist was stripped and robbed by ruthless thugs and left to freeze in a snowstorm on the turnpike. When it seemed as if Danny's fortune had finally run out, he saw a remote farmhouse on a hill with smoke coming from its chimney. After slowly making his way through the deepening snow in nothing but socks and underwear, chilled to the bone, Danny was taken inside. There, he was warmed by a roaring fire, given hot chocolate, dry clothes, and a steaming hot shower. His benefactor was a very tall, dark-skinned man with a deep voice and unusual accent, wearing a long African robe and cap, named Master Shabaz. His authoritative presence both comforted and intimidated Danny. Overcome by exhaustion, as it seemed, Danny passed out and fell into a deep sleep. Master Shabaz assured the young man he would get the rest he needed before beginning his new life. The second part, "One Year Anniversary," recounted Danny Sullivan's new existence as a hard-working, cock-sucking, full-service dog named Snowflake. Around his throat was a magical collar that compelled obedience and blotted out all memory of his life as a young man. He thought and behaved like a canine. When it was necessary for him to stand upright and perform chores as a human being, all Master Shabaz had to do was loosen the collar and whisper words of command. On this night, one year after his arrival, Snowflake would be given a choice: return to the world as a young man or remain with Master Shabaz as his servant-dog permanently and irrevocably. Snowflake chose the latter. Attending this event were three guests or Magi: Black Masters whose presence was required to witness the ritual of choosing. They were Master Malchizedek, venerable with years yet ageless, possessing wisdom and power; Master Hieronymus, an Afro-Caribbean Alpha who showed signs of warrior love for Master Shabaz; and young Master Antoine, eager to learn more about Black Magick. Each master was accompanied by a faithful white service-dog of his own. And now, the conclusion to Black Magick: Snowflake. Part Three: The Final Test While the dogs were outdoors in the cold doing their business, the four masters sat around the kitchen table in plush robes and slippers. A freshly ground pot of Senegalese coffee and buttered wheat toast was all they took for breakfast. The smooth jazz flute of Bobbi Humphrey played soft and low from speakers in another part of the old farmhouse. Courtesy of Master Antoine, herb was shared: crushed to golden-red crumbs like pollen, redolent of far-away lands. Each master had his own pipe ready to be filled. They sat smoking for a long time, not speaking unless their very thoughts passed telepathically to and fro. It is said: the Superior Man must be fluent in many tongues, including silence. At length, Master Shabaz rose and spoke aloud: "I wish to thank you, my esteemed friends, for attending this celebration. It has been one year since Snowflake came to live here. He replaced a service pet that was dear to me for many years. I will miss that dog. It was with a heavy heart that he had to be, shall we say, dismissed." "Will you speak more fully, friend?" encouraged Master Malchizedek. "Not all of us have heard your tale before." The sly flicker of a smile illuminated his aged yet unlined, brown face, suggesting he was not among the uninformed. "Forgive me," Master Shabaz apologized. "I was honored by a visit from my friend Mstaffu, a Maasai warrior from Tanzania, who came on a mission of urgency at the behest of the Ministry. Knowing Mstaffu had no full-service animal of his own, I offered mine for the evening as would any gracious host. What happened next upsets me to relate. The disrespectful cur, whose name I will longer utter, frightened by the prodigious dimensions of that warrior's member, larger by far than any he had ever seen before, shamed me by hiding under the porch. I do not blame the creature for being skittish. But when he elected to serve without the Collar of Obedience, he knew or should have guessed what happens to bad dogs that disobey their master." "That's messed up," Antoine scowled. "You can't trust these sneaky caucasoids for a minute. Especially the young ones." "Yes," said Shabaz with a sigh. "I did not want to dismiss him. But there was no other choice. Disobedience cannot be tolerated. Today, Snowflake must be put to the Final Test." "Older faggots are easier to manage," put in Hieronymus, "but all of them have to be closely watched. Sometimes it's not worth the trouble. I had a lawyer buying me shit on the regular, but he let his ass get snatched by a brother he had been servicing on the side. I'm glad that cat got his shit together and stepped up to the plate. We need more brothers like that, keeping this faggots in line. But I got to tell you, I was getting used to that tribute." "That's why I want one of those magick collars," said Antoine. "For peace of mind, know what I'm saying?" "You and I will discuss this later," said Malchizedek, putting his hand on Antoine's shoulder. "After the Final Test." "When do you want to start?" asked Hieronymus. He tapped gray ashes from his stone pipe and refilled the bowl with crumbled, red-gold leaf. "Forgive me," said Antoine, "but what exactly is the Final Test?" "The Final Test requires the Chosen One be taken by three Masters in succession, excluding myself. I have fucked Snowflake many times in the last year, but he was always under the enchantment of the Collar. It would have been very painful for him otherwise, and I was in no mood to waste time opening his hole gradually. You will find that it is still quite tight. Malchizedek says a caucasoid's sphincter is naturally receptive and resilient, but you have probably learned that on your own." "Say no more," exclaimed Antoine. "I was checking out your little bitch's curvaceous hindquarters from the git-go. I don't mind hitting that." "I'm down," Hieronymus declared. "My pet is quite skilled with his mouth, but his pussy-hole has grown weak with the infirmity of his years." "You don't think this one will hide beneath the porch?" chuckled Malchizedek. "He'd better not," said Shabaz, tersely. The sound of scratching at the back door meant the naked service-dogs were cold and eager to come back inside. Although these were four grown white men, they were naked with ass-plugged tails waving from their rumps, scampering on their hands and knees, and they shook themselves like canines do when they are wet or chilled. "Oh, yeah," Antoine exclaimed, leering as Snowflake wiggled his firm, round derriere. "You said he was straight, right? Lady's man? B.M.O.C.? I'm going to enjoy giving this asshole some pipe." "I want the other animals to watch," said Shabaz, not unamused by Antoine's colloquialisms. "No matter how much we may (or may not) cherish them, they are inferior beings whose primary purpose is to be used. Master Malchizedek, since you are eldest, I invite you to go first to take Snowflake's... what's the word, Master Antoine? His `ripe cherry,' am I right?" "Close enough," Antoine confirmed, but not to be outdone by the African's grasp of slang, he offered synonyms: "Also known as his maidenhead, hymen, and virginity. My grandmother would say we are taking his innocence. Her preacher would say he is about to be defiled." Shabaz laughed. "I have already taken his ripe cherry, but this will be a new experience nonetheless. This time the boy will know what he is doing. He will know again for the first time what he is. The Collar can command him to do or believe anything, but it works best with what is already in his mind. I want him to feel utterly defiled. I want him to experience his innocence taken piece by piece." "The mongrel's `innocence' is a myth," stated Malchizedek. "He was `defiled' the day he was conceived. Time was when all his herd served loyally at our pleasure. They knew their place. They were bred for that very purpose. Those were prosperous times. I remember as if they were yesterday." "You remember?" gulped Antoine. The wiry, carob-colored brother leaned back in his chair, scratching the crown of his polished pate in wonderment. It would be too fantastic to be believed if he had not seen with his own eyes so many incredible feats of Black Magick. "Tell us more about the Age of Antiquity, Venerable One," said Hieronymus, shedding his robe. He was in his central thirties but retained a much younger face almost always brightened by an engaging smile. Smooth, flawless gold-nut skin glowed in contrast with the black ink of Chinese dragons around his bulging, right bicep. Black silk drawers did little to hide the print of his Afro-Caribbean dompa. "Do we have time?" Malchizedek turned to their host. "We have all the time in the world," answered Shabaz, warmly. "These inferior creatures, of human kind yet descended from a distant lineage, were naturally submissive and easily trained," the ancient one went on. "In the same manner certain wolves were drawn to human encampments and slowly became domesticated into dogs so too these anthropoids became our servants, drones, and pets. They did not then appear as they do now. They resembled us to some extent, yet males could be easily marked out by the diminutiveness of their genitals. That was why the males were always naked." "Were the females naked as well?" asked Hieronymus. His old, gray-haired servant-pet wandered back into the kitchen and rubbed against his thigh. Hieronymus scratched behind one of Kizingu's ears and softly told him to get his white tail back into the living room. This conversation was meant for the ears of men. "Always," smiled Malchizedek, and his dark eyes, old and young at once, twinkled with ageless mischief. "The females of their kind were not altogether uncomely to look upon, especially if a True Man were in desperate haste or thoroughly intoxicated. However, there were many who regarded these bitches as grotesque mockeries of the Original Woman, and I cannot bring myself to say that they were wrong. In any case, impregnating one was an abomination. That was why we took to using the males. Their weak reproductive instinct and low levels of testosterone, not to mention an inherent predisposition for submissive behavior, made their libidos easy to redirect. Males who showed exceptional skill in this regard were bred with females until our progress with advanced animal husbandry produced a population between five and ten percent of males in each generation born with an obsessive desire to sexually service True Men. Or one another if no Man took an interest. These `o'fakukoi,' as we call them in the Black Speech, were repelled by sexual advances from females, which made breeding them quite difficult. More often than not the seed of a "fukuku' had to be extracted by other means. Although the majority of these primitives were deployed for labor, many men kept o'fakukoi as personal body slaves. In the Beginning Times every single act of coitus with a woman produced a child, and often twins or multiples at that. We have always been a fertile race. Unto this day there are many of us yet who conceive as our Creator intend." "My grandmother read me a passage from the Bible," interrupted Antoine. "Ezekiel 23:20, I believe. About the men of Nubian Egypt: their members were said to be the size of donkeys and their emission like that of stallions! They used the Israelites like whores!" "Ever thus," nodded Malchizedek. "But we became greedy, breeding so many primitives for our work force, prizing the o'fakukoi above the others, that their numbers became overwhelming. Rich men owned harems of o'fakukoi. These sexual inverts generally enjoyed a life of greater ease than their heterosexual counterparts, sentenced from birth to a wretched life of drudgery and few creature comforts if any. Even a poor man could afford to own a fukuku to regularly assuage his natural lusts without increasing his dependents. It soon became apparent that the number of o'fakuki was on the rise. Upwards to fifty percent of primitive males began showing signs of eagerness to foist themselves upon the genitals of True Men. Some Men of Learning believed homosexuality had been a dominant trait among inferiors all along. Others argued heterosexual primitives were cleverly pretending to be inverts because of the advantages bestowed. The sneakiness of these creatures is not to be underestimated. They have clever, little monkey minds, always getting into trouble, always needing discipline." "What happened?" asked Hieronymus. "How did the primitives end up in Europe?" Malchizedek explained: "They became too many. Vast numbers of them pleaded and cajoled to be used for sexual relief. They became unto a cult worshipping the True Phallus. It was the rare male primitive indeed who chose toiling like a beast of burden over begging a True Man to fill his mouth and rectum with the Holy Seed. Orgies and bacchanals were the order of the day. The more we used male primitives, the more we felt disgust and revulsion. It was a temptation not to subject them to cruel and malicious sport, which, to be sure, they deserved. At the acme of our decadence, some say in the last possible hour, we came to our senses as a great people and repented. The primitives were driven from the African Paradise, exiled to the frozen, inhospitable northern lands where they were raped by Neanderthals, cowered in caves, and were wrapped in filthy animal skins to conceal their shame. Their myths spoke of being expelled from the Garden of Eden, and many recalled how they worshipped the True Phallus of the Original Man. Between the Neanderthal DNA and adaptation of the species to its harsh environment, these caucasoids soon looked very much as they appear to us today. Inferior cranial structure, tiny nostrils, little mouths, thin lips, wispy yellow, red, or brown hair, blue or green eyes, melanin-deficient skin, and of course pallid members like mushrooms with weak stems that even their own women think are funny looking." There was a moment of silence shared by the four masters in profound thought, but it was broken by Antoine exclaiming, "I don't know about y'all, but that history lesson has my nature on the rise. Are we ready to get the party started?" "It is time," said Shabaz. The quartet of tail-wagging subhumans followed their master to a dark, shuttered room on the first floor where the only furniture was a king-sized, blanketed bed in the center and a long parson's table arranged with flickering, aromatic candles of different shapes and sizes for illumination. Shabaz commanded Snowflake to kneel at attention. Wearing the Collar of Obedience, the erstwhile Big Man On Campus thought and responded as a happy canine. Tongue lolling, panting, eager-eyed, Snowflake had no idea what lay in store for him. His doggy mind was bound to the eternal present. Past and future meant nothing to him. With the collar removed, Snowflake's submerged memories were restored, but he looked puzzled, cocking his head to the side. This was not the life he chose. He wanted to be rid of his human self forever in the service of his Master. "Patience, little one," said his African Master. "This is the last time I shall remove your collar. But you must not fail me. This is the Final Test. Are you frightened?" The whiteboy cleared his throat to find his voice, rusty from disuse, and croaked, "A little, sir." Shabaz squatted to be at eye level with the kneeling figure. He held Snowflake's head with both hands and leaned in to penetrate the creature's eyes with his. "You should be," he said. "But you will get over it. If your devotion is true. Will you be brave?" "I'll t-try, s-sir," stammered the catamite, his handsome face marred by uncertainty. He still did not know what the Final Test entailed. "Do you remember being Danny Sullivan?" asked Shabaz. "A little, sir," Snowflake muttered, trying to look away, but was held fast by the African's large, dark brown hands. "Don't lie to me, boy!" snapped Shabaz, testily. "You're not wearing the Collar. You remember everything about Danny Sullivan, don't you!" "Yes, yes, sir," Snowflake whimpered. "When Danny Sullivan was with a girl, did he ever take her from behind?" Shabaz asked. "Not in the most sacred of places but her nether hole. Antoine, what am I trying to say here in language this primitive will understand?" Antoine spoke to Snowflake: "Bitch, your Master wants to know did you ever fuck a chick up the ass?" The naked whiteboy nodded his tousled head in assent. The phantom memory returned the faintest of smiles to his meager lips and a blush to his pallid cheeks. Yes, Snowflake remembered clearly, Danny Sullivan fucked chicks up the ass every chance he got. "Now we're getting somewhere," said Shabaz. "Don't hold out on us, little guy. This is important. Tell us how it felt when you fucked a chick up the ass. Be honest. Don't hold anything back." "It felt great," said the restored psyche of Danny Sullivan. "It's a lot tighter than pussy. I have a hard time cumming inside a vagina." "Why's that, man?" Antoine asked. "A vagina is too loose. It doesn't grip like an asshole does." The whiteboy shrugged. There was no other way to say it. "Dayummm," Antoine explained. "I don't know what kind of pussy you were fucking, but I've never known a cunt that didn't fit like a glove, and a tight one at that." "Snowflake, are you sure the vagina is at fault?" asked Shabaz, patiently. "Are you sure it isn't something else?" The whiteboy bit his bottom lip before subjecting himself to further humiliation. Swallowing his pride or whatever particle of it remained, Snowflake uttered the last four words any male ever wants to speak aloud. "I have a small penis." Antoine laughed. Shabaz released Snowflake's head, and stood up to stretch. Masters Hieronymus and Malchizedek were in a conference of their own with the other three animals. Shabaz was talking to Snowflake. He wanted Snowflake to fully comprehend what the Final Test would demand. He wanted him to know fear. "I know that bothers you, little guy, but your pizzle is only a little smaller than the average among your kind." His warm, consoling tone deliberately acerbated the whiteboy's shame. Snowflake felt smaller and more insignificant as Shabaz went on. "Of course, you have a micro-penis by our standards. I am impressed you seduced as many women as you did. Did any of them laugh when they saw what you have lacking? Tell the truth." "Some of them laughed. Some of them wanted me to fuck them in the ass because they could not feel me inside their pussy." "Their small, tight, nether holes felt good, didn't they," said Shabaz. "Fucking women in the rectum made you feel like a man after being lost inside their vagina did not. Isn't that right?" "Yes, Sir." "How did the women react? Could they feel you inside them?" "Sir, they said it hurt. They wanted me to stop. They cried." "Did you listen? Did you stop?" "No, sir." "I didn't think so. Boys like you never do. Antoine, don't you think it's curious this subhuman's little pink penis made grown women cry?" "Their assholes must have been super tight." "Yes, I imagine so," Shabaz concurred. "Listen closely, Snowflake. In the last year, I have used your hole as a cunt on many occasions. Do you remember being fucked? Did you feel any pain?" "I remember everything sir," said Snowflake. "It didn't hurt because you told me not to feel only pleasure. I enjoyed being fucked, but I think that I like sucking your cock even more." "The Collar of Obedience has that power. Today, you must face the Final Test with your mind and senses intact. Each one of my friends will fuck you in the ass today, filling that void inside you with their sacred seed. In order to remain with me to the end of your days, you must submit no matter what the pain or ecstasy. If you cry out `No' or `Stop,' or say anything but `Use Me, Master,' you will fail the Test. You won't live here anymore. Do you understand?" "I understand." "Are we ready?" asked Malchizedek. "It is time," Shabaz declared. "Snowflake, hop onto the bed, and get into position. Don't bring dishonor to me, boy. Do your job." Masters Shabaz, Hieronymus, and Antoine repaired to the living room where smoke, brandy, and a platter of fruit, cheese, and Namibian honey cakes awaited. Leather-bound tomes in a mahogany bookcase with glass doors caught the eye of Master Hieronymus. He took out a very old-looking volume for closer examination, but it was written in an alphabet he did not recognize. It seemed to Antoine that the statue of the jackal on the prie-dieu had changed in some subtle way. Was its head tilted at that slight angle the night before? Was it sitting more upright on its haunches? Was the glitter in its ebony eyes keener? Black Magick, he told himself, Black Magick was the key. He wondered what Malchizedek wanted to talk to him about. In the shuttered, candlelit room an audience of three service dogs past their prime watched as the young white male with the lean, muscular swimmer's build waited with trepidation on the bed. The Irish Setter tail plugged into his anus swished nervously back and forth. Sweat lubricated the crack between Snowflake's clenched cheeks as his un-collared thoughts ran rampant. "My name isn't Snowflake," he panicked inwardly. "I'm not a dog. I'm not gay. This is sick. This is my chance to escape. I could make it out the front door before anyone could stop me. I'm fast. Maybe they won't catch me. But I'm naked. It's freezing outside. I don't have a choice. They're going to sodomize me, and there is nothing I can do to stop them. I'm not going to say `Use Me, Master' when some dude is fucking me." Another voice within his mind spoke up: "If a man is going to give up this easily, maybe he wants to get fucked. Maybe he was never much of a man at all. A real man would fight back. You're not a man. It does not matter if he drugged or hypnotized you, or if he has supernatural powers, a man cannot be made to do something he absolutely does not want to do. Some part of you must have always longed to be a black man's bitch." There was a third voice inside the whiteboy's head, if it could be called a voice. It was the sound of a dog clamoring for attention like a family pet that did not want to be left behind. "Arf, arf, arf, arf," as if to say, "I'm here, I'm here, let me out, I'm here!" Master Malchizedek shed his robe before Snowflake's apprehensive eyes. He stood not tall, and was slight of frame with firm pectorals, sinewy arms and thighs, and a slender, fluent waist. From his crotch sprang an uncircumcised phallus, fully erect, darker than the rest of his body and disproportionately large, with low-dangling bull-testicles to match. The Black Master pulled the whiteboy closer to the edge of the bed to remove the tail hanging now between his legs. He applied a musky smelling ointment to his black member, and then with greasy hands pried the tight, white buns apart to slather the puckered rosebud hole. He pulled back the hood of his glans and pushed the blunt tip deep inside, slowly and steadily. The whiteboy gritted his teeth in order not to scream. The old service-dogs, unlike Danny Sullivan, were faggots to begin with. Nothing excited them more than watching one of their virile Masters in action. Without stirring from their corners, they craned their scrawny necks to get a better look, drooling with desire to take the young man's place. Only Boxer was able to see, despite the candle light, the girth of his Black Master's Nubian cock ravaging Danny's enlarged hole. Was that the wind outside whistling like a plaintive flute? The low, eerie sound of lamentation gave the service-dogs goose bumps and caused the short gray hairs on their napes to stand on end. Flickering candles made the shadows dance. "Ah, yes, little one," grunted Malchizedek with satisfaction, not even breathing hard as his thrusts increased their tempo. He spoke in such a way that he even a casual or crude remark sounded dignified and incontestable. "You have a fine, white bottom for fucking. Very fine, indeed. It would have been a shame to let a shapely ass like yours go to waste. You were lucky Master Shabaz rescued you. Very lucky, little one." Malchizedek fell silent to pick up speed, moving his lithe hips faster and faster, making Danny's gasps and groans punctuate his rhythm. Danny did not dare to speak. He did not want to fail the Test. He did not want to disappoint his Master, and he did not want to be sent away. Being forbidden to utter anything but "Use Me, Master" made saying something else, anything else, a diabolical temptation. It was like he wanted to be disobedient. As if he needed to be punished. "Your pretty rump would have fetched a purse of gold coins in the marketplace of my youth," resumed Malchizedek, slowing his pace. "It may be that your fine white ass was destined to be taken by a True Man. Many of the o'fakukoi have told me when they were young they knew in their hearts that someday a True Man would fuck them. For some this became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Others lived in dread of this actually happening, choosing to fantasize about Men of Color at a safe remove. It is not unusual for an apparent heterosexual like you to have the same presentiments." Danny found focusing on the Master's voice lessened his anguish as if that were the intended effect. There was authority in the strangely accented speech which compelled Danny to pay heed. "Did the thought of a True Man fucking your sweet ass never cross your mind, little one?" asked Malchizedek. "Don't speak. Simply give it some thought." Danny tried to think. Not easy with an enormous cylinder of rock-hard flesh moving like a slow, relentless piston in his ass. It was true that black men sometimes intimidated him. In the locker room, his own eyes confirmed the validity of the age-old myth. But he never thought about black men sexually before. He never thought about them looking sexually at him. "Are you certain?" said Malchizedek, pulling the unspoken thought from the whiteboy's mind as easily as plucking a dandelion from the lawn. "Think back. Remember when you were fifteen, that time you went to Asbury Park with your friends? You spent all day walking the boardwalk, chasing girls, and splashing in the ocean. You left your friends to rinse off the salt water at a public facility so you could meet a girl for dinner. With no one in the locker room but yourself, you slipped off your trunks and stood beneath the cleansing water. Is it coming back to you?" It was coming back, but slowly, for Danny had not thought about this incident in years. In fact, he had forgotten about it altogether. Like it never happened. But it did. He remembered now that hot summer day at the shore. The public locker room right off the boardwalk. He was alone. It was safe to shower naked. He did not want to reek of the ocean for the girl he planned to meet. He faced the tiles, letting the jet of water pelt his face and chest. He had a strange sensation as if large hands were cupping his cheeks. He turned. Observing from several yards away was an imposing black man with unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. A cigarette dangled from his lip. A large flask protruded from his pocket. He was rubbing his crotch. "You don't have to turn around," he said. "I just wanna ponder your ass. That's a real sweet booty you got, whiteboy. You like to tease all the fellas, don't you." Danny snatched up his trunks and rushed past the leering stranger, leaving the rest of his clothes behind. He did not stop until he was outside where he was met by the titters. He was still naked. Frantically, he stepped into his trunks, and went to look for his friends. He told them his clothes were stolen. He was too afraid to return to the locker room. After that day, Danny never thought about what happened again. He buried it deep. "You knew then what awaited you," said Master Malchizedek, "only you were not ready to accept the truth. When that stranger praised your ass, your little penis got hard, did it not? When you ran outside, people were not laughing because you were naked. They laughed because your stiff penis was pitiful. Let that sink in. That's it. Remember. It gave you a thrill when a True Man talked about your best feature. You wanted to give him your ass, but you were afraid. Remember now? Your ass was meant to be admired and used. Is that not why you took up diving? Wasn't it an excuse to wear those snug bathing suits? And now, look where your fine ass has gotten you." With that, the Master thrust swiftly, deeply, slapping Danny's ass, letting his molten seed erupt. This was the signal for the three servant-dogs to bark in unison. Melchizedek withdrew his tool inch by inch, easing it out slowly. He cleaned it off with a warm, damp towel, reclaimed his luxurious robe, and left without saying another word. Danny Sullivan was on his belly, exhausted and sore. Not only did his rectum complain about the pummeling it received, but his head was sounding off as well. Ass and mind, soundly screwed. How did the Master know about that repressed memory of Asbury Park? It was all true. When chicks told Danny that he had a cute ass, he always replied, "I know." What he never understood until this very moment was that his white bubble butt was meant for bigger and better things than compliments from girls. A pair of strong hands suddenly gripped Danny's ankles and flipped him effortlessly onto his back. Master Antoine stood between the outstretched, milky thighs. He was naked, the firm contours of his muscular brown body limned by wavering candlelight. The service-dogs once again squinted and strained their necks from the corners of the darkened room. "Bitch, I want to see your face when I fuck you,' Antoine growled. His southern accent had a country twang that backed the menace in his voice. The whiteboy lifted his head so that his chin touched his chest to meet the Master's intense gaze. Antoine's bald, brown cranium and the large knob of his dark brown dick shared a striking resemblance. Outside howled the wind with lupine melancholy, and tree branches thrashed the walls. A storm was mounting an assault. "This dick is for you, cracker," said Antoine, pulling the white body toward him until Danny was helplessly impaled. Danny moaned. There was no sharp pain this time, but the very fullness of so much meat throbbing inside his hole was a sensation like none other. He began breathing rapidly, short, quick breaths as the Master plunged to the full extent his large cock could reach. As the Master's pace picked up, sliding in an out, Danny found himself overcome by delirious pleasure. His long-lashed eyes squeezed shut. "Open your damn eyes, motherfucker," cursed the randy young Master. "Look at me, bitch! You're loving this shit, aren't you? That's right! Yahhhh, feels good, doesn't it? Big black dick all up inside your curvaceous white ass, that's what you want, am I right? Yeah, you're a whore for dick. Your ass has been calling to me since I got here." Antoine's dark, focused gaze bore down intensely. If Danny's pupils were the windows to his soul, those panes melted into glassy tears running down his face, unable to hide the wave of unexpected ecstasy that came over him. It was more than the rough massage of his prostate, more than the bewildering fact that his ass was bouncing to receive the black man's rhythmic thrusts. It was emotional. It was joy. Incomprehensible, unforeseen, irrational joy. Danny's thoughts were frazzled: "Ohhh, God... I can't... I don't know... who I am anymore... I don't know how much more I can take...but I don't want to stop. I can't stop. I need to rest... no, no, no... it feels so good... fuck me...fuck me... fuck me!!!" "You're loving this," snarled Antoine. "They told me you weren't a faggot, but you can't enough of this dick. I can see it on your face. You're smiling. I knew you had to be a homo. You fucking faggot. I was looking forward to nailing a straight boy not a queer. I don't want you to enjoy this. You wore that Collar for a year, that's why. It made you love getting fucked. You're still feeling it. You're lucky you're not wearing that Collar now. Hell, yeah, you're lucky as fuck! See, I'm not smooth like them other cats. I don't like crackers. I like seeing you bitches suffer. I could really have some fun with you if you had your Collar on. I'd leave your mind intact so it could witness your body do whatever the fuck it's told. You hear me, you nasty, disgusting, sneaky little faggot? I see you're still smiling! You must think you're one lucky dog!" Throughout this invective, the Master's personal hound, Mutt, squatted with his head cocked, round eyes, and a wrinkled snout. The old homosexual was aghast to hear his sweet, gentle owner speak this way. One of the things he loved most about his Master was the regard he showed for the well-being of his pets. Mutt truly believed Master Antoine had forgiven or at least tolerated the double calamity of being born white and gay. The mongrel crouched in abject shame, while the other two looked upon him sympathetically. "You don't deserve this dick!" Antoine went on. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow as he began to pound with increasing fury. His hands held the whiteboys legs apart like he pulling a wishbone. "None of you faggots do. But a Man does what a Man has got to do. Right now, I got to drop a load inside your faggot pussy so my boy can finish the job." Antoine ejaculated over the course of several long, deep thrusts. The walls of Danny's ravaged rectum were spattered with hot jism that oozed from his swollen, rubbery cunt-lips like butter. Nor did his round hole contract with the removal of that wrought-iron weapon of mass destruction. It remained wide open, gaping, like a dark tunnel or black hole still begging to be filled. In the living room, Antoine was greeted by daps and handshakes from his brethren. The stereo played Billy Eckstine crooning "Lush Life." The air was heavy with cigar and cannabis smoke, blended with the fragrance from the birch log in the hearth. Antoine downed a goblet of wine. "I think that went well," he said. "Did the creature speak?" asked Shabaz, draped in his customary black thawb with gold stitching. "Not a word," said Antoine. "Not even `Use Me, Master'?" "I think he was enjoying it too much. You should have seen the shit-eating grin on that puppy's face! I don't know how straight you think he is. He loves getting fucked, I can tell you that." "All primitives do," said Malchizedek, wearing his suit of tweed. "There is rampant potential for homosexuality in all of them. Worship of the True Phallus is seared into their racial memory. Millennia may pass, but the white man will never forget the Power of Blackness that puts him to shame." "I want him to understand that he exists for no other purpose than to be used," said Shabaz, with concern in his voice. "I want him to beg for it as he did last night. I took that as a propitious sign. I don't know why he won't say it now." "Patience, friend," said Malchizedek, leaning on his wolf's-head cane. "We awakened the primitive's dormant identity. He is at war with himself. He remembers the scared, defiant, selfish individual he used to be when he pretended to be a man. He remembers the bliss of being at his Master's feet when he was more than eager to serve and by any means necessary. "I will get the puppy to speak," declared Hieronymus, setting aside his pipe and the volume of lore which held his attention. The shirtless brother with the gold-burnished muscles stood in his red silk boxers, bulging with readiness. He shot a lingering look at Shabaz who was deep in thought, before sauntering barefoot to the room down the hall. The boy struggling to remember his name lay in a fetal position with his knees drawn and arms in a self-embrace. His tears had dried, and the afterglow of bliss bestowed a restful calm at odds with the wind roaring at the shuttered windows. Grumbling thunder added to the cacophony. Despite his creaking joints, old Kizingu stirred with excitement as his Afro-Caribbean owner entered and closed the door. The other service dogs looked on with their wee, pink pizzles protruding obscenely. Hieronymus patted the whiteboy gently on the head, followed by a light slap to his face. "Ready to be used some more? That's why you're here. So Real Men can use you. That's your purpose. You will never be one hundred percent happy, not even wearing the Collar of Obedience, if in your heart, you really do not want to be used. Why don't you suck my dick while I'm talking." Danny was positioned on his back with his head hanging over the edge of the large bed. Master Shabaz stood astride and stooped to insert his long golden-brown rod into the whiteboy's gullet. Thin, pallid lips clamped the turgid, thick-veined shaft. Smooth testicles like nectarines smacked the whiteboy's face. "Much better," said Hieronymus. "You don't have to suck it. Keep your mouth open. Wider! No, wide! That's better. Good boy. See how you want to obey! You don't need that collar. But you need to want to be used." This went on for several minutes. More than once, Danny choked and gagged. Saliva spilled down his chin. Hieronymus was not gentle. He gave the whiteboy a second to catch his breath, and then plunged back into the designated orifice. "Roll over," the Master commanded. "I'm going to fuck that fine ass. Hike it up. Make like you're offering it to me. Wiggle it like you want me to use it. Perfect." He ran both hands over the firm, shapely buttocks, giving them a squeeze. "You have some nice cakes for a whiteboy, and I don't say that lightly. When a boy with an ass like yours comes along, it would be a waste not to use it. It's not going to look this good forever. White males lose muscle tone fast. If you didn't have a Master, you would be lucky to keep your shape by thirty. It's all downhill for you from there." Hieronymus climbed on top of Danny, with his knees prodding the white thighs further apart, and using his hands to pin the whiteboy's arms. He rubbed his erection against Danny's ass, demonstrating its hardness, sliding between the cheeks like they were tits. The bulbous glans teased the slippery hole, but did not penetrate. Not yet. Danny Sullivan wanted that big cock inside him. He could not help but want it. His hole felt empty now. He was hollow. He was nothing without a black man's cock inside him. He needed to experience that raw ecstasy again. It was all he had left. His pink cunt lips dilated and contracted spasmodically. "You want me to use your white ass like it's a pussy?" whispered the Master into the whiteboy's ear. "Is that what you want? Let me hear you say it." It was impossible to think with the wind and thunder and the hungry yearning of his hole. Were the other dogs barking, or was that clamor in his mind? He wanted to join in. He wanted to bark and wag his tail. He wanted to fetch sticks for his Master and beg on command for yummy treats. He needed to get fucked. "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before," the Master promised. "I'm going to show you why it's called doggy style! I'm going to use that ass like it's meant to be used. I'm going to use you, whiteboy! Tell me that's what you want. Say it, whiteboy! Let it out!" "Use me, Master!" he croaked, only the sounds issuing from his hoarse vocal cords sounded like those of a beast trying to imitate human speech. "Louder!" "USE ME, MASTER!!!" "Again! Otra vez!" The bilingual command was punctuated by a clap of thunder. "USE ME, MASTER!!!!" The whiteboy sobbed. The wind and thunder stopped. The chorus of dogs receded like a echo. There was silence. "That's all I wanted to hear," said Master Hieronymus, ramming his thick Chorizo sausage into Snowflake's useful hole. As the muscular black man's stabbing thrusts commenced, the white puppy dog was happy again. "Use me, Master!" Black cock and being used were fused together into a single concept. One desire. One purpose. "Use me, Master!" he cried yet again, weeping for joy, knowing that for this was he born. This was his purpose on earth. Shaped by the forces of Creation into the caricature of a real man, what else could Danny Sullivan be but a hound called Snowflake, a lowly subhuman programmed to be used by superior Men? However, it was not Master Hieronymus's intent to deliver what was promised. All that he was called upon to do was bring the primitive caucasoid to utter the necessary words, and then plant his Nubian seed. All exigent tradition and arcane ritual aside, this was sloppy thirds, after all, although Snowflake did have a very sweet ass. It was tempting to linger inside those slippery sugar walls, but Hieronymus was impatient to rejoin his brothers. Picturing the last naked woman to grace his bed, Hieronymus efficiently brought himself to orgasm. It was finished. "I wish that I had more time to fuck you properly, little one," murmured Hieronymus. "You are so fuckable. I would fuck you every day if you were my dog. When you wear your Collar of Obedience, remember you want to be used. That's your mission in life. Master Shabaz is a wise and good Master. He will treat you well. Would you like me to visit some time? Your Master has already offered me the use of your pretty ass whenever I want. Bark, if you want me to come back." "Arf! Arf! Arf!" yipped Snowflake, sitting up, offering a paw. "Aren't you a clever dog," chuckled Hieronymus, shaking the limp appendage in imitation of a real handshake between human beings. He casually petted his longtime pet, Kizingu, on the head as he left to wash and get dressed. The old fellow would have followed along out of habit if not reminded to stay. On his way to the bathroom, Hieronymus had a brief exchange in passing with Shabaz. As they were talking, the younger master adjusted the blinds to look out a window. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. Snow blanketed the fields. "That's what I thought," he confirmed. Shabaz smiled. Snowflake, Kizingu, Mutt, and Rover waited patiently in the shuttered room. The candles were low. Some had sputtered out. They all looked up when Master Shabaz walked in. The first thing he did was order the visiting pets to the living room. They scurried out on their hands and knees, plugged tails wagging friskily. The Master's next act was to lock the Collar of Obedience around Snowflake's throat. What little remained of Danny's humanity swirled out of existence, flushed away like a bowel movement down a putrid pipe into the septic tank of oblivion, never to return. "You were a good dog," Shabaz beamed. His eyes shone like dark jewels as he examined the creature's hole. With a finger, he scooped some of the dripping semen and offered it to Snowflake, who happily licked the digit clean. "I'm proud of you. You passed the Final Test. Yes, you did. You want me to use you, don't you. Yes, yes," he laughed. "I know you want to be used. Of course you do. You always wanted to be used by a True Man. That's why you came to me a year ago, cold and naked except for a rag of wet, white cotton clinging to your frozen haunches. Now, go clean yourself up. Use the washcloth like I taught you. Then, you may join us in the living room." Snowflake barked what probably meant OK in dog speech, jumped from the bed, and was off to do what he was told. Anyone observing this would have marveled at a house pet understanding English so clearly. It was something one might expect from Rin Tin Tin or Lassie, but then, they were fictional characters played by trained, canine professionals. What made Snowflake remarkable was being just an ordinary dog. Soon, all the Masters and their service-pets were assembled before the roaring fireplace. Pipes were filled and lit one more time. Crystal glasses filled with golden, Tanzanian cordial were raised in toast to the Cause. The crawling subhumans were given savory, nutritious snacks in the shape of bones, factory-made by veterinary chefs for the health and longevity of domesticated primitives. Malchizedek took Antoine aside to present him with a small velvet pouch. The younger man pulled out a shiny gem the size and shape of a hen's egg. The lustrous, black stone seemed lit from within by a fiery core. It sent a strange tingle through Antoine's palm. His brows crinkled with curiosity. "You expressed an interest in the Collars of Obedience, my son," said the venerable mage. "But they are both rare and too powerful for you to wield without deeper training in Black Magick. This is the Black Opal of Heka. It is not as efficacious as a Collar, but it gets the job done." With that, Malchizedek launched into a full explanation of how the magick gem worked, and wished Antoine "luck," as it is called. The secrets of the Black Arts were available to any brother with the will and discipline to learn. Some, like Hieronymus, evinced scant interest beyond an academic grasp of the fundamentals. Black Magick was not the only tool in a Master's utility belt when it came to dealing with the white horde. "There's something I've always wondered about," said the brother from Alabama. "Can caucazoids utilize Black Magick like we can? I mean, is that even a problem?" "The primitives have no supernatural abilities," said the black man whose origins could only be guessed. "Because they are melanin recessive. When our skin absorbs sunlight, it is converted by melanin into magickal potential. Our capacity to store and transform sunlight makes us superior to the primitives, spiritually, intellectually, and physically. Black Magick is but one of our many natural advantages." "Does that mean the darker a brother is, the more powerful?" "Not at all," replied Malchizedek, firmly. "It's not the hue of your skin, but the quality of your melanin. Do not underestimate the resolve of a True Man to rise above all obstacles. Remember, my son, that Men of Africa come in many shades. We spanned the globe before the primitives discovered fire." Masters Shabaz and Hieronymus, their pets rubbing against their legs, were also in dialogue. The beatific expression on Snowflake's uplifted face was so adorable that Hieronymus remarked, "You have a good dog. He will never let you down. I only wish that I could have spent more time with him." "You must visit us again," said the African. "When you can stay as long as you like." "I would like that," smiled the Afro-Caribbean. With that understanding, the hour of departure was finally upon them. Hands were clasped, manly yet affectionate embraces shared, and binding words of fellowship exchanged. Between Hieronymus and Shabaz was a glow of mutual warmth. Their sui generis bond was like a Platonic ideal made flesh. The last limousine disappeared down the long driveway, but for several minutes Shabaz lingered at the door with Snowflake at his side, looking into the distance. Black, skeletal trees stood in sharp relief against the white, snow-clad fields like a work of chiaroscuro. He imagined tribes of caucazoids clad in animal pelts struggling to survive in such a cold, barren landscape. Came a sudden gust of glacial wind causing the long, black thawb to flutter. "Come inside, little one," urged the Master. "I have something that will warm you up." THIS CONCLUDES BLACK MAGICK: SNOWFLAKE, A STORY ABOUT A DOG SUPPLEMENT TO BLACK MAGICK: SNOWFLAKE In this concluding installment, Master Malchizedek spoke a few words in the Black Speech, a mystical language known only to practitioners of Black Magick. The terms he used were "fakuku" and "o'fakukoi," the singular and plural forms for "faggot" or "penis-obsessed homosexual." In the event this may be of interest, I provide below some notes derived from my Black Speech -- English dictionary concerning these and a small selection of other words rarely shared with Euro-Americans and their kind. fakuku - white homosexual, usually one with the Fever; (fa = white, pallid, drained, weakened + kuku, kiki, kaka = homosexual, invert, queer). Plural, fakukoi = some or many white faggots; o'fakukoi = all white faggots, white faggots as a class, lit., "the white faggots." boa -- penis, the male genital organ of pleasure and reproduction. Related to obo = scepter, rod of authority, commonly used as a metaphorical synonym for boa. The related noun and suffix bo simply means man. Hence, nubo = Black Man; fabo = white man. boamaxx -- phallus, erect penis; (maxx = an intensifier meaning very, great, more, larger). nubo - a Black Man; nu < nua = melanin, blackness + bo = man < boa, "penis." Plural nuboi = Black Men; with the article o, "the" prefixed, o'nuboi means the Black People, men and women collectively. Nu which means "the color black" is related to the word nuuxx or nwxx, "rich, very dark, fertile soil, loam, synonymous with melanin." o'narkulu -- the Fever, "jungle fever," the obsession caucasians suffer from once they come in contact with o'nuboi (the Black Race). This fever never goes away. It may diminish only to recur more severely without warning. It can have egregious effects on a faggot's life unless he finds a kufir or Master. Being owned seems to regulate the fever but this may only be because the faggot is getting some of what it craves. kizz -- gratitude; kiza = to give thanks. Kizzshak = grateful (-shak = full of). Kizzaka -- I give thanks, thank-you (expression of appreciation). It is customary for subhumans, those allowed to speak, that is, to say "kizzaka" in reply to any command. skeeff -- cream, used figuratively to refer to "sperm, semen," for which the actual term was djizza. Djiza = to ejaculate. Ka djizaka = I'm coming (i.e., about to have an orgasm). Note: The verb for "to come" in the sense of physically arriving is: khana. Djizaka is also used as an interjection meaning (depending on context): Hurrah! Eureka! Whoopee! I've got it! "Djizaka!" exclaimed Master Shabaz, after poring over the leather-bound grimoire for hours in search of an incantation. "Djizaka!" he climaxed, flooding Snowflake's hole with ejaculate. kheffx -- cannabis, hashish, or opium. kheffez -- the heightened state of lucidity induced by smoking or consuming "kheffx." Sometimes applied to the clarity of mind brought on by very strong djo, "coffee." djo -- coffee. Nujo = black coffee, very strong, commonly espresso. As a rule, djo-ava-skeeff (= coffee with cream) was frowned upon by older masters. They said cream diluted the purity of black coffee, diminishing its restorative qualities; but it is more likely they were put off by figurative associations of skeeff (c.f.). kannush -- any servant; it may also refer to a useful, well-trained pet such as a dog. Kuffir - Master; the female counterpart is Kuffiz. A title of respect for someone who has achieved mastery in some regard such as in the arts, sports, Black Magick, running a household, having students and disciples as well as obedient servants. The Master is an autonomous figure, what is known in Black Speech as an Akkabo or Alpha Male. The term was once "akkanubo" or Alpha Black Male, but that went out with Negro in the sixties, the new consensus being "Alpha Black" was redundant. Research by numerous independent black scholars conclusively proved there is no such thing as an authentic Alpha white. Alpha qualities heretofore perceived in white men, it turns out, are nothing more than a performance, an act. Strong, independent, assertive, commanding, virile caucasian males are pretending to be something they aren't. This is very stressful for white males. THE END