I was part of a United Nations team visiting Africa to get a read on exactly how bad the situation was there. I have been to starving countries before, so the sight of malnutrition and death treated as a casual everyday affair was nothing new to me. Of course, death was not a casual affair to the people living in Angola for example. It was only casual in its arbitrary meaninglessness. I did my part to help. I passed out food and helped supervise injections of serum. I visited villages and toured hospitals and schools and shook my head with sympathy at the utter despair.
And then I decided I deserved some fun. I took Ahru, my trusty translator, with me. He is a cute fifteen-year-old boy and hung bigger than any nigger teen I have ever known. Of course, I did not sample that big black hunk of fuckmeat myself. No indeed, I prefer to fuck him in his muscular black bubble butt to humiliate him and make him feel submissive. Still, the money he gets for working for me is a dream come true to him, so he puts up with things like me taking a piss in his mouth. Blacks turn me on, especially some nigger who is totally degraded and humiliated. That was the kind of fun I was out to find on this particular night.
I picked the most disgustingly derelict shanty in the most remote corner of the resettlement village. These people were really starving to death, and it was not unusual to see children lying in the dust with bloated bellies slowly dying. There simply was not a way to help them all, not until the great nations of the world are willing to give up some of their profit for a little global prestige and not until universal ethics replaces economic expansion. So, since my country did not really care about anything except its own profit and pleasure, why should I?
The one-room shack, which had little ventilation and a terrible smell, held a youngish, down and out father with his three boys: a boy of thirteen, a boy of nine, and a boy of six. All black as night and very exotic to me. I leveled with the father.
“Look, Jig, there is no way in hell that you’re ever going to get any help for your family. There’s simply not enough food and medicine to go around. You’re low on the totem pole, and in a few months, you’ll starve to death, or perish from disease.”
Ahru translated for me, and I cannot help but feel that he softened the tone of my words a bit. Nonetheless, tears filled the eyes of the once proud black man, and he hung his head and murmured to himself. I loved it. He also started to cry. The children sat wide-eyed, chewing their lips and clutching their homemade toys of wood and tin. I asked the ages of the kids and smiled.
“You have no chance unless I help you. I’m willing to give you two hundred America dollars!”
Well, shit almighty, that was enough to get them out of this hellhole and to set them up in a good business and feed them for some time to boot. A little American money goes a long way when you make three dollars a day. Americans are always saying, “We have to help our own country first.” What that means is every American should have a DVD player. When, for the cost of a single DVD or cocktail at a fancy Friday night joint, an African family can live for a week. So Ubuntu, the father of this charming family was very impressed. He fell to his knees and kissed my hands. I liked it, feeling his thick nigger stud lips on my hands. He was good-looking and muscled. He must have been quite the cock of the walk until starvation set in. He was still nothing to sneeze at if you like well-built black men. He was not as beautiful as Ahru however, and I doubted he had the horse prick of my little black houseboy/servant.
“Hold on now, Sambo,” I laughed as he kissed my hands, tears running down his cheeks. “You are not getting this money for nothing. Americans believe that people should work for their money and pull themselves up by their own jockstraps. So, here’s the deal. I will give you the two hundred dollars if you and your family put on a little entertainment for me, a little show.”
I damn near busted a gut when Ahru translated. Ubuntu climbed to his feet, a perplexed look on his face. He said something like “sing and dance for you?”
“Not exactly, no, for the show I want...I want to watch your family fuck for me.”
I laughed even more then. Ubuntu’s black face darkened even more with anger and resentment when he was told. He ordered me out of his house. I fished in my pocket and waved the two hundred American dollars in his face, and he crumpled in front of me. He fell to the dirt floor crying. I won’t bore you with the next half hour. Ubuntu dickered (pardon the word) and dithered. He said no, then maybe, he sobbed and said, “Not the children. I won’t let you harm the children,” to which I pointed out that I was not going to do anything but watch. Finally, we got around to what I exactly wanted for my two hundred bucks. Here’s how I broke it down.
I know you think this would not be good for the self-image of the family, but lots of things we are doing to people all over the world are not suitable for their self-image anyway.
It was a beautiful evening. I still get hard remembering the fun and looking at the photos I snapped. At first, I had to threaten them to suck and fuck harder and with more enthusiasm. I threatened to walk out without paying them, but they came around eventually. What fun it is watching a six-year-old boy fondle the balls and suck on the seven-inch prick of his own father while he tried in vain not to respond sexually.
Seeing two little black boys forced to lick and suck each other’s assholes. Making the whole family feel and kiss the ten-inch cuntbuster of Ahru before the nigger teen fucked the little six-year-old unconscious. Jesus H. Christ, his little fat ass lips were looking like a genuine cunt.
The sobs and cries, and pleading of the entire family as they fucked away were music to my ears. And the ultimate humiliation of having a white man and his black assistant piss down their throats was nothing short of sublime. Some people sell out in life some do not. And some do not have much choice. It’s the way of the world.
I was so taken with Bobo, the thirteen-year-old that I offered his dad five hundred more dollars if the boy would come to stay with me for a month. By now the father was so submissive, so devastated that the only salvage for him was to think of the money so his family could escape from their miserable existence. So he agreed that Bobo would be my nigger boy slut slave for a month; a month during which he would get fucked by all my white friends and me, and my pet dog, a well-hung boxer named Macbeth. But that’s another story. He may just want to rent his children for good. It is a thought.