They shoved him into the warm, comfortable, well-appointed room, and the first thing one would notice about him is that he was quite small. Five foot six, maybe, with chocolate-colored skin and the perfect smooth young arrogant Negro face—thick lips, broad nose, and big dark eyes. Those eyes were confused now trying to take in what was happening to him. The room was old fashioned, Victorian almost. The hall of a wealthy gentlemen’s club perhaps—Oriental carpets piled one atop the other covered the floor, stuffy comfortable armchairs, wall sconces shooting light up to reflect off the ceiling so as not to compete with the orange glow of the fireplace.
The boy was small, as I said, thin, dressed in baggy cargo pants half way off of his tight high round young ass so his boxer shorts could show off a bit. He had a pullover hooded sweatshirt on and a dirty baseball cap. He was a street boy. An urban thug. Just what the doctor ordered. The two goons, blond and hunky with really dumb faces, who had dragged the boy into the room were young, maybe nineteen, but bodybuilding, weightlifting clones. A voice wafted through the semi-dark room, and a tall, refined white man dressed in a long elegantly embroidered dressing gown emerged from an inky corner.
“Ah, gentlemen, here is the nigger now. Bring the spear chucker into the light where we can see him. All we can see over there are his white eyeballs and his teeth.”
Various waves of laughter from different corners of the large dark salon merged in the middle and danced around the frightened black boy. The two blond hulks dragged the kid into the light, tennis shoes scraping as he resisted as best he could.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” he yelled, trying to kick the goons who didn’t even wince.
“ENOUGH!” bellowed the elegant white man. “No stinking street nigger will use coarse language in my club!”
The white man was across the room quite quickly, and while the two blond hunks held the small black boy, the white man backhanded him hard across his pretty black face.
“FUCKING NIGGER!” he shouted, slapping the boy’s face from side to side half a dozen times until the poor kid was half-unconscious. The two blond thugs let the kid slump to the carpet and stepped back. A small light round of applause greeted the elegant white man’s bravado.
“Here, here,” one older voice muttered.
“Now, listen, nigger, and listen well. While you are here, you will do as we say. You will answer my questions, perform such acts of humility as I order, and generally behave in a manner as befits a dirty stinking jigaboo!” The gentleman was barefoot, and he prodded the black boy on the carpet with one foot. “What’s your name, nigger?”
The kid was shaking with pain or fear as he looked up at the white man, but still, the boy had some determination, some arrogance about him.
“Who are you, and why you doing dis to me? I don’t know you man, I never done nothing to you.”
The man put one fist on his hip and looked down at the black teen.
“No, you never did anything to us. Not you never did nothing to us. You never did anything to us, but you will. Oh, yes, my fine young cannibal, before the night is over you will do a great deal to please us. Now tell me your fucking name.”
The white man kicked out at the boy again. The kid obeyed his natural defensive reaction and grabbed the naked leg sticking out from the dressing gown. The white man yelped, and one of the blond goons began to pummel the black teen. Then the other joined, and they beat the kid for five minutes until his nose was bloody and he was sobbing while begging for mercy. The white man poured himself a brandy and watched. Other white men joined the scene, emerging from the shadows of the room like vultures seeking prey.
“What’s your name, nigger?” The white man asked again with a thin, reedy voice.
“Va…Va….Vance,” the boy stuttered through his tears as he wiped the blood from his lip with the back of one hand.
“Vance. What kind of stupid name is Vance? Trevon, Jamal and now Vance, you niggers are forever making up silly names for yourself. Well, Vance, my friends and I like nigger better. Do you mind if we call you nigger?”
“What you got against me? Why you wanna hurt me?” the boy whined, sounding quite young now, like a little boy.
“Ha, ha,” the white man had an irritating shotgun laugh, “what we have against you is that you have stinking dirty black skin, that your lips are thick and rubbery, that you don’t work for a living, that you drive us nuts with your disgusting music and style of dress, that you think you own the fucking world and that you smell and live like fucking animals with your nappy hair, revolting body odor, and your fucking donkey dicks!”
Another round of applause filled the room. Another white man, young, maybe nineteen or so, came up beside the older white man and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Well said, Dad,” the young man praised.
The black boy on the floor kneeled up now.
“Let me go, man. I don’t think like dat. I ain’t done nothing bad. You got the wrong bro, man. I mean—
“Oh shut the fuck up!”
The white man kicked up with his naked foot and caught the black teen in the face sending him spilling back onto the carpet. Horrible pain coursed through the boy’s body, the room spun. He shook his head to clear it. He could not believe this was happening to him.
“How old are you, nigger?” the younger of the two men asked, the older guy’s son apparently.
“Sixteen,” the boy on the floor sputtered.
“Sixteen and so small that you could pass for fourteen. Oh well, you’ll have to do. How many girls have you fucked, boy?”
The question came out of nowhere. What kind of question was that, had he heard right? Vance shook his head again and tried to bring his inquisitors into focus.
“Huh, what did you say?” he said trying to sound quiet and polite.
The tall white man’s face took on an ugly demonic expression.
“I AM NOT IN THE HABIT OF REPEATING MYSELF FOR NIGGERS! I ASKED YOU HOW MANY GIRLS YOU HAVE FUCKED. I WANT AN ANSWER NOW.”
“I don’t know man. I really don’t—lots. How the fu—how should I know?”
The kid was whimpering, really trying to say the right thing.
“YOU DON’T KNOW. YOU DON’T FUCKING KNOW HOW MUCH TWAT YOU HAVE STUFFED WITH YOUR TEENAGE NIGGER FUCKMEAT? YOU’VE GOT FIFTEEN SECONDS TO GIVE ME AN ACCURATE ANSWER. AND DONT TRY TO LIE TO ME EITHER, BECAUSE LATER ON WE’RE GOING TO HOOK YOU UP TO A LIE DETECTOR AND IF YOUR ANSWERS DONT MATCH, JIG, YOU WILL BE ONE VERY SORRY PICKANINNY.”
The cute black teen got tears in his eyes.
”I don’t know man, I been doing it since I was thirteen…three and a half years…about twenty girls a year…so I suppose about sixty or seventy. Dat’s the best I can do, sir. I just can’t remember dem all.”
The tall white man made an expansive gesture with his arm to the other gentlemen.
”There you have it my friends, sixteen years old and already fucked seventy twats. That’s all those fucking sambos think of. Seventy cunts stuffed god knows how many times each, which is total justification for my proposal that we have no choice but to cut off his big black teenage cock!”
Vance couldn’t believe his ears. He pulled into a small ball on the carpet praying to God to be delivered from this nightmare. The white man’s son, the kid of nineteen or so, who was dressed in a short Japanese kimono so that his strong muscular young legs showed, hunkered down beside the black boy and placed one large jock hand on the kid’s shoulder. He was smiling down at the boy.
“You’re quite the stud aren’t you, fucking at thirteen. How many cunts did you get pregnant? Every stud remembers that. He remembers it because it’s kind of a badge, a tribute to his masculinity. How many girls have your baby-making balls planted seed in? How many buns in the oven, black boy?”
Vance gulped. He did know. All the bros knew. They bragged about it all the time.
“Eight girls. I got eight girls pregnant.”
Trent Clayton Bridgeworth smiled down at the sixteen-year-old black kid, and then he snorted and gobbed in the black boy’s face.
“He fucked eight girls pregnant, Dad. Are we going to let him get away with that?”
He rolled Vance over onto his back and put one knee on the boy’s chest. Vance could now see that Trent was naked under his kimono. He could see flashes of the white boy’s thick cut dick and heavy balls.
“Of course, we aren’t going to let him get away with it. That’s why we formed The Justice Club.”
The white man took one naked foot and placed it on Vance’s cute young black face. He rubbed the sole of his barefoot over the kid's face.
“For the sake of the free world, niggers have to be put in their place.”
Trent leaned close to the black boy, whispering in his ear, ”Tell me the truth now. How many white girls have you fucked? Don’t lie to us, you hear. We’ll find out. How many young white teenage twats have felt your huge stinking black fuckmeat stretching them open?”
Vance could hardly get the words out. He was crying pretty hard now. Good thing his tough street gang buddies couldn’t see him now.
“Only four, I only fucked four white girls in all dat time. And I never forced dem. Dey wanted it. Dey came looking for it. Dey wanted some black meat. Honest to God.”
It was true too. He never had to force a girl. Oh, he got them drunk sometimes, especially the young ones, twelve and under, so they wouldn’t hurt so bad when he put his long fat fucker up their virgin pussies. But those white bitches, they heard about Vance and his dick, and they came sniffing around and weren’t satisfied until he fucked them good. Then they begged him to stay with them, to be their man, but he didn’t want any white scags hanging on him begging to suck his dick all the time. Shit, he had other things to do. White teenage girls do love to suck black dick though.
“You’re going to pay big time, nigger. Pay big time for fucking four white girls. You have no right even to talk to a white girl.”
“Okay, son, back off. Let’s get on with it. Stand up, nigger and strip. Let’s see that big black donkey dick of yours.”
“Please, sir, don’t make me do dat. I’ll be good. I’ll go away. I’ll never touch a white girl again. I promise. Don’t make me don nottin’ perverted in front of you all…please.”
“You have ten seconds to begin undressing, or my boys will beat the shit out of you.”
Eight white men moved in closer to get a better look. Why were they dressed in only robes and kimonos? Why did they want him to strip? What was going on? Vance sniffed back the tears and pulled the sweatshirt up over his head taking care not to dislodge his baseball cap—his security. His body was a tight, street-muscled body, smooth and chocolate brown. He had tufts of wiry black hair in his armpits. His arms were slender but muscled. He wore a gold necklace. His chest was not too developed, small, compact and tight with very rubbery-looking, fat nipples sticking out. His stomach was flat and his waist slender. He looked around shivering with fear.
“Look at those typically swollen nigger nipples like fucking sow tits. So many niggers have such big fat nipples. You almost think they are going to squirt milk.” Laughter. “All right. Sambo, continue, shoes and socks, and then pants.”
“Please…” Vince begged.
Vince didn’t like begging to anyone white or black. He had been a proud young warrior up to this minute. But what could he do?
“You hear my father, asswipe!”
Trent slapped the black teen boy on the back of his head sending him to the carpet, and then he reached down, grabbed the boy by his nipples, and hauled him to his feet. When Vance tried to fight back, the blond hunks were on him. They pinned his arms to his side, while Trent stretched the nigger boy teen tits out about two inches and the kid was screaming bloody murder before he let the tits snap back. He took Vance’s jaw in his hand and looked into the eyes of the boy only three years younger than he was.
“When we tell you to do something, you do it. No questions. No hesitation. No talk back. You do it.”
Vance kicked off his tennis shoes and peeled off his athletic socks. He had large feet and well-formed toes and arches. Then he reluctantly undid the canvas belt holding up his cargo pants. His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly manipulate the metal buckle. The pants came open and fell in a puddle around his large black teen feet. He stood there now totally humiliated in his baggy stripped boxer shorts. You could see that he had an abnormally large dick even with his shorts on. It hung flaccid almost to the bottom of the shorts pushing them out in front.
“Has he got a fucking hard on?” an older fat, balding man asked leaning in.
“No, afraid no, that’s how a fucking nigger is hung. That’s his fuck tool flaccid. We had our men check him out at school in the locker room before we decided on him.”
“Den you knew who I was all along Why’d you ax me my name when you know who I am all along?” Vance queried while trying to make sense of it all.
Trent came in close and slammed his knee up into Vance’s dick and balls. Hell, they were so large it would have been impossible to miss. Vance bent over in pain as waves of nausea sweet over him. His big black balls ached.
“We’ll ask the questions, nigger. You just answer and obey. Stand up straight. NOW!”
Vance struggled to stand straight, his face a mask of pain.
“Now, my little black stud, take off your underpants!”
Vance whimpered, and then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and lowered them. You could hear an audible exclamation in the room when the sixteen-year-old boy’s thick black rope of a dick and his orange sized balls came into view. It hung over six inches flaccid and thick as a garden hose. And this on a kid who was only five feet six inches tall. After the first mutter of astonishment, the men in the salon grew silent just staring at the boy’s prick. It was always the same. Guys in the high school locker room never got over the size of Vance’s cock.
Girls never got over it either. Several couldn’t walk for days after their initial fucking. Vance seldom dropped a cunt after the first fuck. Oh no, he liked to stretch them out fucking them for a few weeks until their twats were too loose and sloppy for most other dicks and they wouldn’t be satisfied by anything smaller, and then he’d drop them. He loved to leave behind a string of fucked out, stretched out teenage twats whose cunts were permanently damaged by his huge dick.
Vance’s thick lips grew dry. He didn’t know what to do. What could he do?
“Ah, yes,” the tall white man said at last, “remember gentlemen in the old movies when they would make niggers dance for the amusement of all. I think our young nigger here should dance for us, dance until his big fat cock is slapping around on his thighs and belly and his balls are swinging “real good” as the common folk would say.”
He strode over to a table and punched a button. Some earsplitting disco dance music came on. Old fashioned and stupid to a “with it” young hunk like Vance, but it was the best the older white guy could do.
“Dance for us, nigger, dance real sexy, shake your booty I believe you say. And if you don’t dance hard enough and well enough, I’m going to shove this candlestick up your ass!”
Vance, the sixteen-year-old, bare-ass naked, black teen danced. He shook and stomped. He threw his arms and head around. He twisted. He lifted his legs causing his huge fat nuts to swing and slap his thighs painfully. His dick grew thicker as it swung back and forth. He stuck out his sexy, tight, well-globed, black ass.
“That’s it, boy, just like a jungle bunny, do the Watusi,” Trent shouted while laughing and clapping.
All the men were laughing and clapping, except for the tall white man who was running things. He was thinking, “Well, he’s dancing quite well, but I think I still might shove the candlestick up his ass twat anyway.”