Pansy Politics! by Tara Yarn (95 AMAZING Pages!) (Patreon)

I would download the PDF instead of reading here... there are some errors that keep popping up even after I fix them on the post 

Pansy Politics!

Tara Yarn

Concept by Devin Dickie

© 2019-2021 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to Devinwhitegurl@gmail.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

***DEVIN DICKIE NOTE***
All characters are OVER 18 years of AGE! This is a bullying fantasy and not real. The acts in the following written work are only consensual sexual choices and fantasy humiliation scenarios.
Bullying is NOT OKAY and If you or someone you know is being bullied, please alert the authorities.

Pansy Politics!

Tara Yarn Prologue

Sam had to duck to dodge the shoe that flew at him.

“You fucking asshole!” Veronica bobbed around on one foot, trying to take off the other. “How could you? I hate you! How the fuck could you!”

The next shoe struck the bookshelf, knocking over a couple of books. A few of the volumes fell over the edge, forming a messy pile of on the floor.

“Honey!” Sam crouched to pick them up, ready to dodge something else. “You can’t get upset because we didn’t vote for the same candidate! You can’t control—”

She threw a dildo. It slapped against his forehead so hard that he staggered into the bookshelf and nearly tripped on the pile of books.

“I’m a writer for Rox Magazine!” She flailed her arms and stared at him with crazy eyes. “Do you know what will happen if they find out that my husband voted Republican? Do you think they’ll let me keep my job when they realize my husband voted for a bunch

of racists!?” “They’re not racists,” he mumbled, taking a knee, beginning to stack the books.

“What?” The sound of pack ice grating against iron could be heard in her voice.

“I don’t know,” he whimpered. “I mean, they don’t have any policies that I think is racist—” A buttplug struck the wall mere inches from his face.

“You idiot! They don’t believe in white privilege! They don’t support reparations! They think it’s okay to pay women of color sixty cents for every dollar they pay white men!”

“Stop throwing things at me! Please! We can talk about this, honey!”

“Fine!” In three strides, Veronica closed the distance, placing her hands on her hips. “Let’s chat! Tell me why you voted for a bunch of racist dirtbags! Go on!”

Sam cleared his throat. Inches away, the black fabric of her thighs had crept up her crotch to form a camel toe. The sweet stench of girlish sweat tickled his nostrils. When the argument broke out, she’d only just arrived home from the gym and had yet to shower.

He moved to stand up. “I just didn’t think the democrats—” “Get back on your knees.” Her voice dripped with venom. Sam gawked at her. “Honey, you can’t tell me to—” Snapping her fingers, Veronica pointed at the floor.

Snorting in a fashion meant to imply that this was a preposterous demand, Sam sank to the floor. And in a vain attempt to preserve some dignity, he kept stacking books.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, placing How We Fight White Supremacy: A Guide to Black Resistance on top of White Fragility: Correcting White Men. “I just thought that—”

“What?” The heel of her foot slammed into the stack, knocking them over. “Are the mean liberals censoring you? Is that why you’re butthurt, Sam? Because the mean liberals call you out when you’re a fragile little white boy? Oh, poor you!”

Sam frowned. Veronica moved closer, bringing her camel toe close enough to his face that he could make out all of its intricate details.

“Do you want free speech? Is that what you’re afraid of? That it’ll disappear? I’ll give you free speech!” Spittle flew from her lips. “Your dick is tiny and doesn’t work!”

Sam flushed with color.

“Or is it because of that stupid TV show?” Her laughter was full of mockery. “Because they cast a woman of color to play your little fantasy girlfriend? You were so butthurt!”

“No,” Sam whined, squirming on the floor. “It’s just— In my opinion, I don’t think—” “Poo,” sneered Veronica. “Your opinion is poo. That’s all it is. No one should listen to you because your opinion is poo. Poo! Poo! Poo!”

“Well, I am sorry, all right?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you want me to do!” Veronica snorted. “Oh, you know.”

“No, Veronica, I don’t. Please.”
“Tell me what your opinion is.”
“I don’t wanna play games—”
“Tell me what your opinion is or get out!” Sam sighed. “My opinion is poo.”

“Good boy!” Her voice was childish, full of contempt. “And how are you going to make up for being such a fragile little white boy?” Her foot prodded his crotch. “Hm?”

Sam twitched. “Gh, I don’t know! I’m sorry! I’ll think of something!”

“Oh, no,” she retorted, copping a squat, sneering into his ear. “This is a deal-breaker for me, Sam. I won’t be married to a boy who votes for racists.”

An icy ball of dread crystallized in his chest. “I won’t vote for them next time—”

“And then what?” She hiked her eyebrows. “Go online and complain whenever the cast in your stupid little fantasy show doesn’t consist entirely of lily-white actresses?”

“No, I—” Sam trailed off, unable to think of anything to say. “I won’t, I—”

“Ssh!” Veronica placed a finger on his lips, cutting him off. “Ssh! No one cares what you have to say because you’re a white boy. Isn’t that right? Aren’t you just the most oppressed minority in all of America? Don’t you just have it sooo awful? Sssssshhhhhh!”

Sam frowned, staring out at nothing in particular.

“I’ll tell you how you’re going to make this up,” said Veronica, squatting by his side, a venomous smile crossing her face. “From now on, you’re going to be on your very best behavior. Every hour, every minute, every second of the day.

“When I come home, you’ll have dinner ready. If I come home first, that still applies. I’ll be laying on the couch, and if I so much as hear you complain—”

She broke off, bopping him on the nose. “I swear, Sam. From now on, I expect you to be a picture-perfect husband. Is that too much for you? Then get out.”

“I’ll—” He swallowed, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll be good, honey. I promise. I know I messed up, and I’ll do all that, all the things you said. I swear.”

“Look at me when you apologize,” she snapped, grasping his chin, forcing their gazes to cross. “I want you to tell me that you’re a fragile little white boy.”

He looked at her, his cheeks hot with shame. “I’m a fragile little white boy.”

She grinned, baring her teeth like a wicked witch. “A butthurt fragile little white boy.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I am a butt hurt fragile little white boy.” “Oh yes, hubby,” she sneered, patting his cheeks, “oooh yes, you

are.”

Two months later...

Chapte On

Sam grabbed the bottle of wine and hurried out of the car.

Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he rushed through the parking lot. The building he headed toward was a cube of red bricks lined with grey mortar. His wife had been waiting in the hallway for the better part of ten minutes now and was probably furious.

He’d promised Veronica he’d show up early. He had told his wife he could be there a quarter to six and he would’ve if the middle-aged woman with the massive tits and the bitchy look on her face hadn’t sashayed into the shoe store three minutes to five. He’d known what kind of person she was the moment he saw her. After all, he lived with her type.

She’d taken her sweet time. At first, Sam had been too embarrassed to say anything. He’d simply walked over with hunched shoulders and asked if she’d needed any assistance. She’d taken a seat and told him, quite sharply, to fetch her a variety of pairs to try on. Not from the back of the store, oh no. From the front. The ones right there for the taking.

Half an hour later, a day spent on his feet twinned with an attitude that even a gorgeous face and a stunning body couldn’t make up for, he’d managed to mumble something about how they were closed and suggested that perhaps she’d be better off coming back tomorrow. She’d stood up and stormed out and left him there to pick up every pair that she’d forced him to unpack and slip on her feet. The good news? She planned on coming back tomorrow. The bad news? She had every intention of bringing up his bad behavior with his manager.

The sun was setting, bathing the hilltop in its glaring orange rays. He picked up the pace and swept his surroundings. To the left, a breathtaking view of the city and the murky river which dissected it. To the right, a row of well-trimmed shrubs and trees, the latter of which swayed in the breeze, dappling the apartment complex exterior in an unsteady chiaroscuro of shifting shadows and sunlight. A flight of stairs led to the wide front door, and above it, a fire escape zigzagged up the center of the building’s face. A small group of girls sat in the middle of the staircase, huddled together, giggling and watching something on a single phone.

Sam swore. The possibility that one of them was his wife had crossed his mind but once he got closer, he realized they were

younger than he’d thought, probably still in high school. Bowing his head, he strode forward, shifting gravel with every step. They were blocking the way and didn’t seem to be in any rush to move and let him pass.

“They’re like eighteen,” he told himself under his breath. “Just tell them to move.”

He was almost kicking gravel now, making sure they heard him approach. One of the girls looked up, a skinny redhead with a face full of freckles.

He’d reached the bottom of the flight now, starting the climb. The redhead whispered something and her friends looked up. A moment later, they giggled.

Sam flushed. Halfway up the stairs, he cleared his throat and slowed down a little to give the girl on the left, a curvaceous one with braces a chance to move. She didn’t.

“Do you live here?” The voice was annoyingly high in pitch and belonged to the girl that held the phone, the skinniest of the three.

“We’ve been invited,” said Sam, forcing a friendly smile. He crossed eyes with the skinny girl, immediately looked away, and cursed his cowardice.

The redhead must’ve had the bitchiest voice he’d ever heard. “Uhm, you’re by yourself?” “My wife is inside,” said Sam, smiling with effort. “Maybe I could squeeze—”

“Hey!” said the curvaceous one, withdrawing as if struck when his pants brushed her bare shoulder. “Don’t push me, loser!”

Sam mumbled an apology. When they giggled, he froze.

He was twenty-five years old and the girls were several years his junior. Young enough that they may not even start college next summer.

He contemplated saying something. In his peripheral vision, he eyed their ponytails and makeup and tight jeans. Fear overcame his newfound confidence.

He kept walking. One of them shouted something when he was halfway through the door. He couldn’t make out the words but heard them all break out in laughter.

By the time he was in the hallway, a wide one with rows upon rows of white mailboxes nailed to the wall on the left and another flight of stairs to the right, his face felt like an oven. There she was, seated on the bottom of the staircase, scowling at him as if he’d just pissed in her cereal and shredded her favorite pair of panties on purpose.

Sam threw her a smile, held up the wine, and made a point of hurrying over. “Hey. I’m so sorry, honey. A customer came in when I was just about to close up.”

Veronica rolled her eyes and scrambled to her feet. It was almost odd to see her this way, all dressed up. At home, she always put on a pair of tattered thighs and a hoodie. Whenever she was at work, a casual suit was her outfit of choice.

Today, she’d donned a sleeveless and strapless black dress spangled with holes on each side of its torso and split at the skirt to reveal a shapely ankle and a bit of chunky thigh.

She’d combed her blonde hair to perfection and as always, gone overboard with the blush. A chill crept up his spine when he saw just how deep her cleavage was. The monstrous melons were squished together and jutted out to form a shelf on her chest. They were punishing the black fabric, stretching it to the brim, threatening to pop free.

“You’re late,” she snapped. Rolling her eyes, she scrambled to her feet. Her heels were sky high and a struggle to walk in. When she started up the stairs, Sam saw that her ample buttocks were also torturing the dress. It was a miracle that the extravagant garment managed to contain those round globes. It seemed the dress was a size too small.

He followed her upstairs, unable to take his eyes off her bum. The doughy asscheeks jiggled in an almost hypnotic way. Part of him wanted to ask her whether she’d have been able to make it in time if her boss had demanded she work late. He didn’t.

She led him up another flight of stairs, then down a hallway. She found the door she was looking for and stopped. Her eyes drifted to him. She furrowed her eyebrows.

“God, you look stupid,” she huffed. “Why didn’t you change?” Sam gaped at her. “I didn’t have time, honey.”
“If you didn’t go home, what on earth took you so long?”

“The customer, Veronica; I shut down the shop, ran to the liquor store, bought your wine, and drove all the way here in what? Twenty minutes? Less?”

She rolled her eyes again, then came very close. Several inches taller, Veronica proceeded to almost stuff her breasts in his face as she grabbed the hem of his pants and pulled them up with such force, his balls flattened against his taint. Pain coiled in his belly.

“Jesus,” hissed Sam through clenched teeth. “Veronica, stop! You know I hate it when you do that! I am not five years old! I can pull up my own pants!”

“Then you should’ve done it before we came up here,” she replied, unbuttoning his collar and ruffling his hair. “God, you’re gonna embarrass me. Stand up straight!”

Now it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. Veronica hadn’t seen her friend in a long time. They’d run into each other now and then but hadn’t actually visited one another since they were in the same sorority back in college. This wasn’t a friendly visit. It was a competition.

“All right,” said Veronica, fanning her face. “Come over here. God, not there! Here! And where on earth is your towel? Did you forget it? Are you serious? Oh my God!”

She guided him into place, produced a handheld mirror from her handbag, and swept a blonde bang behind her ear. Content, she rapped her knuckles three times on the door.

A feminine voice called out, there was a moment of silence, and then footsteps resounded from beyond the door. Heavy footsteps. Sam tightened his grip on the bottle to the point where his knuckles turned pale and he began to fear he might break the glass.

Whoever was inside unlocked the door and pushed it open. It slid up, revealing a man Sam had never expected to see ever again. Tyrone stood in the doorway.

Chapte Tw

A series of memories flashed through his mind like photos in a slide projector.

Tyrone and his friends chasing Sam through the school hallways, catching him, dragging him into the bathroom, stuffing his head down the toilet, flushing.

Tyrone and his friends pouncing on Sam in the schoolyard during recess, tugging him over to a puddle, washing his hair in the dirty water while the girls around them laughed.

Tyrone and his friends surprising Sam on the way home from school, leaping on him as he was about to cross the street,

carrying him over to a pile of steamy horse dung that one of the older girls who rode their horses through the neighborhood had left there, pushing his face into the brown apples, stomping on the back of his head until he agreed to eat it.

Time seemed to slow down and he barely registered the woman that appeared behind Tyrone, a pretty brunette dressed in a white tank top and stained sweatpants. The girls screamed and threw themselves into each other’s arms. Sam stood there, trapped in his mind, recounting memory after memory, unable to move, unable to speak.

The memories washed over him like a powerful tsunami, striking him down and immobilizing him in a prison of his past. Tyrone giving him a wedgie in front of Clara, the prettiest girl in his science class; Tyrone and his friends spanking him to tears with their towels in the showers after PE; Tyrone baring his bum and sitting on his face until a flustered Miss Erika, the cute substitute teacher he’d had such a massive crush on came to break it up. A pair of fingers snapped in his face. “Earth to Saaam? Heeellooo?”

Sam flinched and broke out of it. Veronica was inside now, flicking her gaze between him and Tyrone. Sam looked down. An outstretched hand almost touched his belly.

He looked up. Tyrone wasn’t wearing any clothes. He’d draped himself in a towel that he’d tied around his waist and his bulky torso was beaded with water.

A spitting image of how he had looked back in the day, Tyrone had arms the size of hams and a chest as broad as a barrel. His abs

bulged beneath a thin layer of fat, his shoulders looked like a pair of boulders, and his jawline was dark with well-trimmed bristle. He’d cut his hair short and styled it in a military cut. Clumps of black curls dotted his chest.

Without thinking, Sam took his hand. He immediately regretted it. He squeezed as hard as he could but it was like squeezing a hand-shaped rock.

“Honey?” There was actual concern in his wife’s voice. “Are you all right?”

Tyrone narrowed his eyes. “You a’ight, Sam? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sam blinked. “Uh, yeah, sorry, I was really far away, hah!”

“Sam?” The pretty brunette stepped forward. “Hi! Do you remember me? We used to go to school together but that’s a long time ago. I’m Amanda.”

She offered her palm for a handshake and Sam realized, with no shortage of shame, that their hands were about the same size.

With effort, he smiled and told her he did. It wasn’t a lie. They’d never been in the same class but he remembered her quite well from the schoolyard. She’d been a babe back then and she was a babe now. Luscious brown locks that cascaded almost all the way down to her bum, dark eyes to match the tawny color of her skin, and a paralyzing smile. As an employee in a shoe shop, Sam had seen his fair share of fake female smiles throughout his life and immediately concluded that Andrea did not like him.

Veronica prevented what could’ve become awkward silence. “Do you know each other?”

“I wouldn’t say that we do—but they do,” said Amanda. “We all went to school together up until Junior High and they were always in the same class.”

“It’s good to see you again, Sammy-boy.” Tyrone stepped out of the way and indicated at the doorway. “C’mon, go inside, have a look.”

Amanda held hands with Veronica and led the way. The competition had already begun. Both women tried to outshout each other as questions upon questions flew from their lips.

Sam darted inside. He didn’t wanna spend a second alone with Tyrone. Their past was far too awkward to become a subject, and he was terrified that Tyrone may try to apologize.

“Didn’t you see my message?” Amanda’s voice, bewildered. “I sent in on Facebook; I thought you’d get it. No, I can’t stay. I have to visit my brother. He’s in the hospital.” “What?” Veronica’s voice, also bewildered and much less genuine. “Oh no! No, I didn’t get the message. What are you saying? You’re not coming upstairs?”

“No,” Amanda confirmed, “but I won’t be long. Tell you what, since you’re already here, I’ll give you my card and you two can go and hang out at the pool until I come back.”

“Oh, no,” giggled Veronica, shaking her head. “I couldn’t do that; it wouldn’t feel right—” “What? The pool is almost free if you’ve got proof of residency. And no one’s gonna check whether you live here as long as you show them my card.”

“I really don’t feel comfortable borrowing that,” said Veronica, smiling oh-so-politely. “It’d feel like we’re taking advantage of you.”

“Nonsense,” said Amanda. “I should’ve given you a call. This is the least I can do to make up for you coming all the way here when I can’t stay.

“Take the card, enjoy the pool. I’ll pick up something to eat on the way back and then we’ll catch up tonight. But hey, we can talk while I wait for the Uber.”

“Take off your shoes.” Sam flinched and looked up and there was Tyrone, towering over him like a husband surprising his wife from behind. Sam swallowed, hurrying to obey.

“Yo, take it easy,” snickered Tyrone, passing by. “I’m only letting you know because that bitch over there made me sweep the floor for half an hour.”

Grinning at Sam, he strolled down the hallway and rounded the corner. On the way, he snatched the bottle of wine out of Sam’s grip. Without asking.

The girls had stepped into the living room and could still be seen. Amanda brought Veronica to the sofa and they both slumped on the black leather. They were chatting and giggling.

Sam took a deep breath. In an attempt to get away from all the memories, he studied his surroundings. The hallway walls were decorated with a plethora of framed pictures. One of them immediately drew his attention. It depicted Amanda standing in the middle of a grey room, angling her face and bottom toward the camera. A black thong was all she wore beneath the waist, and her firm buttocks looked like they’d been carved out of stone.

Sam threw a look at the girls. They weren’t paying him any attention. His eyes returned to the picture. Yes, he had a stunning wife. Sure, if Veronica hadn’t been considerably less attractive when she was younger, they never would’ve married. And no, he’d never even dreamt of breaking up with her. But god, Amanda was a goddess, perfection in the flesh.

Sam blushed. He hurried to shove those thoughts out of his mind. Who was he to compare his wife to another woman? He looked at Veronica and felt a surge of affection. There she was, holding hands with Amanda, already gossiping like a pair of schoolgirls.

Tyrone emerged from behind the corner, carrying a bottle and a pair of glasses. The girls beamed at him when he served them wine. He was still in his towel.

He spun on his heel and started toward the kitchen once more. Then froze. His eyes drifted to the picture mere inches from Sam’s face. His features hardened.

Sam twitched and rushed into the apartment. Tyrone didn’t budge. Sam felt eyes on the back of his head as he made his way over to the couch. The women ignored him.

“I’mma call Deshawn,” drawled Tyrone, finally walking off. “See if he’s ready.” Amanda called after him. “Are you going to go up there in your towel?”

Veronica did, too. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea!”

Amanda gave the blonde a playful slap on the shoulder. A moment later, they’d resumed gossiping. Sam sat down, scowling at Veronica. His wife didn’t notice.

Grinding his teeth, he eyed the apartment. It was large. He pictured clones of himself lying head-to-toe on the hardwood floor and guessed the room was about thirty by thirty.

The walls were white, the curtains grey, and the windows enormous, providing an excellent view of downtown and the lights that its inhabitants were in the process of turning on.

The kitchen was an open solution, filled to the brim with modern technology, the kind of technology an employee in a shoe store couldn’t ever hope to afford.

Half the spacious living room consisted of a couple of couches and a massive television attached straight to the wall; the other half contained a dining table complete with chairs and a couple of easels holding blank canvases.

“Honey?” He’d spaced out again and now Veronica was prodding him with the tip of her high heel, attached to the shoe she hadn’t bothered to take off. “Did you hear what she said?” “Huh?” Sam jerked upright. “Oh, I am so sorry; I didn’t catch that.”

Amanda glanced at him over a shoulder and presented her fake smile once more. “We were talking about what we’ve been up to all this time, and I told your wife—”

“She’s been a butt model!” Veronica stared at Amanda in awe. “Oh my God, but you so deserve that, though! I saw the picture in the hallway and your butt is just gah!”

Amanda smiled. “Says you? Come on, babe, we both know yours is like twice as big.” “Mhm but it’s not about the size; it’s about the shape and yours is shaped like a peach but mine is shaped like an apple or a pear or something.”

“Well, you didn’t lose out on anything. Oh my gosh, it was so boring. I had to get up like really early like every day and I was sooo happy when Tyrone told me to quit.”

Veronica sipped her wine. “What do you these days?”
“I paint,” said Amanda, plucking something off her sweats.

“Oh?” Veronica hiked her eyebrows. “Does that pay well?”

“Oh, I don’t sell my paintings,” giggled Amanda, “and I don’t know if I ever will. It’s not like we need a second income, anyway. Tyrone just makes sooo much money.”

Sam locked his eyes on a plant in the corner and pretended it was far more interesting than the conversation going on a couple of feet to his left.

“Oh, really? He hasn’t told me what he does.”

“Oh, he has his own business,” said Amanda, smiling her blinding smile.

Veronica threw Sam a glance, then turned back to Amanda. “Oh, congratulations.”

“Ahuh, he sells gravel. It doesn’t sound like it makes any money but oh my god, if you saw our bank accounts you’d probably fall off your chair.”

“I’m sooo happy for you, sweetie!”
“Thank yooou! But I wanna hear what you dooo!”

Veronica bit her lip. “Oh, I got a job at Rox Magazine. It’s perfectly okay. I mean, I get to write articles about problems that I care about. Like, you know, personally?”

Amanda nodded. Just as she was about to respond, a vibration in her phone cut her off. She checked the screen, sighed, and sent Veronica an apologetic smile.

“My Uber,” she explained, digging through her pocket. Procuring a plastic card, she handed it to Veronica, who faked reluctance before taking it.

“I won’t be long,” she said, rising from the couch. Veronica followed her up, the two girls hugged, and Amanda gave Sam a little wave. “I’ll bring back some pizza!”

She darted across the apartment, placing a kiss on Tyrone’s cheek, who only grunted in response. He was by the kitchen counter, scrolling on his phone.

Veronica stuffed the card into her cleavage, patted her thigh, and started off. Sam was quick to tag along. On the way out, they almost crashed with Amanda.

“Well, this is awkward,” giggled the brunette, gesturing for Veronica to go first. She didn’t wait for Sam, cutting him off from his wife. “Deshawn just replied. He’ll come upstairs with Tyrone in a couple of minutes, too. You four can keep each other company.”

“We’ll see,” smiled Veronica. Her eyes drifted to Sam. He hurried to look away.

“Anyway,” said Amanda, embracing Veronica anew. “A few hours, tops. I’ll be back before the pool closes. Enjoy the sun. And don’t forget the sunscreen!”

Chapte Thre

The reception at the front desk flashed Veronica a bright smile.

She was young, perhaps barely out of high school. She’d tied her bright red hair in a classy ponytail and her pale face was dotted with an excess of freckles. She wore a black T with the company’s brand sewn on the chest. Thin as a twig, the shirt bagged on her.

By the time they’d reached the desk, she’d yet to deign Sam as much as a glance.

“Welcome to Anna’s Fitness Center,” she beamed. “How may I be of service?”

Veronica looked at Sam. As always, she’d led the way and had reached the desk first. Sam had to take an additional three strides forward when he realized his wife wanted him to do the talking. Opening his wallet, he fumbled for his card. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself look the receptionist in the eye. She was gorgeous.

Two women came through the door. One of them had absurdly wide hips and wore her dark hair in a bun; the other was tall and blonde and almost gaunt. They were both in their late thirties or perhaps early forties and wore jodhpurs and stable boots. The stench of stable followed them inside, corrupting the air with the smell of hay and sweat and dung.

“Could I get two tickets to the pool, please?” The card wouldn’t leave the tight pocket and on the inside, he was starting to panic. “And a pair of swim shorts if that’s no trouble.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Veronica roll her eyes. She snatched the wallet, removed the card, and put it on the desk. Then she reached into the cleavage, withdrew the proof of residency, and placed it near the credit card. Sam frowned but did not comment. The two women who’d entered formed a queue behind them, discussing what could only be a horse. Veronica cast a glance over her shoulder. It was impossible to decipher her expression.

The receptionist bore a name tag on her chest. Caroline. Without a word, she took the card and inserted it into the card reader. A beep later, the machine pushed out the receipt.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any swim shorts, sir,” she said, tearing off the receipt and scribbling her signature. Then she placed a pair of key cards on the desk. “The women’s changing room is to the left; the men’s changing room is to the right. Please make sure to shower before you enter the pool area and don’t forget to take care of your belongings.”

Sam peered at the wall behind her. Rows upon rows of colorful folded fabric wrapped in plastic lay there, displayed on several shelves. “What about those?”

Veronica cracked up. “Oh my, they’re not shorts, are they?”

“They’re speedos,” confirmed Caroline. “Would you like to purchase one, sir?”

Sam cringed. He was about to refuse when Veronica beat him to the punch. She leaned over the desk and squinted at the shelves. Behind them, Sam heard giggling.

“He forgot his shorts at home,” explained Veronica, “so yes, he needs a pair.”

“Swimwear is mandatory in our pool,” said Caroline, smiling brightly.

Veronica nodded slowly. “I’m not sure if you have his size.”

Caroline grabbed a plastic bag from the shelf to the left, eyed the label, and addressed not Sam but his wife. “This one is a size large; will that fit?”

Veronica broke out in a giggle. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no! There’s no way he’s going to fill out those! Oh my gosh, you’re so cute! No, no, no, no! Maybe a size small?”

Sam flushed with color, gluing his eyes to a spot on the wall. Adrenaline leaked into his empty stomach. He should’ve expected this. She’d been taking jabs at him ever since she found out about the election, lying in wait like a lioness about to pounce its prey.

Caroline faced the shelves. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can only find medium and large.”

“He won’t fill a medium.” Veronica groaned. “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

“It’s fine,” Sam hissed at her through clenched teeth. “I don’t need to fill it.”

“Oh, but you do, honey,” said Veronica, quite loudly. “I really don’t wanna be seen out there with a husband who looks like he’s oblivious of his own shortcomings.”

The women behind them giggled. They couldn’t contain themselves. Sam wanted to cry. A lump clogged his throat and a hot rush whistled in his ears.

Caroline pondered, bit her lip, and strode over to the right end of the shelf. She rummaged through the products for a while, chose one, and came over.

When she placed the package on the desk, the women at his rear broke out in giggle fits. “Will he fill out this, miss?” Caroline tapped the label. “I’m not supposed to sell the bottom without the top but I think I can make an exception.”

The pretty receptionist hadn’t fetched a speedo. This was something else. It took him a while to make out what it was. A dark blue swimsuit bottom spangled in glitter. His eyes drifted to where she’d found it. The children section. Sam wanted to melt into the floor.

“The top has Elsa and Anna on it,” explained Caroline, flipping the package over. “I don’t think there should be any— Oh, there’s a small Frozen logo on the back.”

Veronica bent over to catch a better look. “What size is it?”

“It’s medium, but—” An excruciating pause. “—it’s meant for girls between ten and twelve? I completely understand if you don’t want it but it’s more or less a speedo.”

The equestrians doubled over, staggered out of the queue, and started laughing so hard that they were trembling. One of them apologized profusely through tears of mirth.

“Well?” Veronica struggled to mask her amusement. “What’s that? You have to speak up, Sam. Oh, don’t be a baby! We’re not driving home to fetch your shorts!”

She patted the card. “Ten dollars, was it? Yes, that’s fine. He’ll take it.”

The receptionist smiled and slid the card into the reader and Sam was so angry, he was curling his fists to the point where he feared he might break one of his fingers. His temperature had risen to ridiculous levels, warming his entire sheath of skin.

Cards were exchanged, Caroline bid them a nice day, Veronica grabbed the package in one hand and Sam in the other, and then they were on their way toward the changing rooms. They beeped their cards and the automatic gate flashed green and let them in. When the hallway forked, Veronica handed him the makeshift speedo with a pretty smile.

He scowled at her and took it. Had no choice. Any deviation from what Veronica considered to be perfect behavior could lead to a horrible argument or possibly something worse. “What?” She

cocked an eyebrow. “God, are you butthurt? Really?” She bopped him on the nose. “You’ll be fine, Sam. No one’s gonna notice you, anyway. Go change.”

Sam had to ground his teeth to stop himself from snapping back. He hated that word above all others. Butthurt. His wife knew that. That’s why she kept using it.

Veronica spun on her heel and sashayed toward her door at the end of the hallway. Sam headed for his. The door was a strong yellow and bore a blue sign depicting a white figure meant to resemble a man. As he stepped inside, the scent of chlorine filled his nose.

The changing room contained hundreds of small lockers in six large cabinets placed in a strategic row between the entrance and the showers at the far end of the room. By the middle row, an elderly man was changing out of his shorts and into his clothes. Except for him, there was no one else in the room. He looked around for the bathroom. It was near the old man, marked by another blue sign on which was outlined a white figure in a wheelchair. He walked over. The old man looked up. Sam nodded politely. Clutching the makeshift speedos to his chest, he slipped into the bathroom. Tearing the package open proved to be problematic. When he finally managed to tug the sparkly fabric out of a rift, he held them up. He swore. The swimsuit bottom may as well have been a pair of panties. He could only glimpse the resemblance to a speedo from a certain angle in a certain light. Maybe.

Cursing Veronica under his breath, he started to undress. Folded his work clothes on the sink, stepped into the bikini bottom, and pulled it up. The fabric felt smooth against his ankles and his thighs but coarse and incredibly uncomfortable on his crotch.

It hadn’t been easy to pull up. Far too small. As a result, he’d had to bob and tug the bottom over his ass. Hobbling over to the mirror, he realized with no small amount of terror that it was tight enough to leave very little of his tiny package to the imagination.

Sam scowled at the floor. The size of his cock had always been an endless source of shame and humiliation, and his wife kept making sure that he’d never forget it.

She’d constantly tease him about his inability to take her from behind. She’d raise her little finger and wriggle it at him in public places with a smile. She’d even told her mother about her disappointing wedding night—one of the first times he hadn’t been able to get it up.

Sam knew it was only fun and games. Silly jokes to lighten the mood. It hadn’t been fun and games with Tyrone. Tyrone had meant what he said. Sam shuddered.

“He has a job and a wife now,” Sam told himself, eyeing his figure in the mirror. His butt jutted out like the ass of a well-endowed girl. He couldn’t go out like this. Knew he had no choice. He needed to do this. If he refused, his wife would give him hell.

Getting himself together, he grabbed the bundle of work clothes and headed out.

Chapte Fou

A towel tower stood in the center of the public shower.

“Fuck,” said Sam, remembering that which he’d forgotten to bring. He had no towel and no shampoo. He didn’t care about the latter; the former was essential.

He circled the tower, a grey thing of steel screwed into the floor. None of the small compartments contained a forgotten towel. He sighed. It’d been worth a try.

The old man had left, leaving Sam alone. He headed over to the nearest shower, well aware that Tyrone may be here any minute. As soon as he pressed the button, hot water gushed from the showerhead. He eased beneath the powerful rays and sighed again, shakily. He shut his eyes as the heat and the steam calmed him down, washing away his worries.

As he stood there, battered by water that grew warmer and warmer, he desperately hoped the two equestrians at the front desk planned on visiting the gym rather than the pool.

His eyelids flew up. He glanced toward the changing room. Heard laughter and several feet that plodded over the tiles. He hurried to face the wall and clasped his crotch.

Two black men entered the showers. Tyrone was one of them; the other was a man with braided hair that Sam had never seen

before. Tall and vascular, the color of his skin was a shade darker than Tyrone’s. A snake tattoo zigzagged up the back of his neck.

Sam hid in the stream, easing his head beneath the powerful rays. In his chest, his heart beat like a set of galloping hooves. His effeminate hands trembled.

He didn’t know whether they’d noticed his makeshift speedos. On second thought, of course they had. Despite the fact, neither commented on it. Sam sighed with relief.

He expected them to stroll through the showers. When he’d met Tyrone downstairs, the man was clearly fresh out of the shower. Perhaps they’d both showered already.

To his horror, the voices came closer. Slouching his shoulders, Sam did all he could do to retract into himself, taking up as little space as possible, hoping they may not see him.

Sure, they’d glimpse him, but Sam was skilled at remaining invisible. He could visit the grocery store and if the register was manned by a woman, chances were he’d be able to finish all his shopping and drive home without anyone having truly seen him.

Sam regretted his choice when, in his peripheral vision, he spotted Tyrone and Deshawn walking up on either side of him, turning on their respective showers.

He widened his eyes. They’d discarded their towels and, unlike him, followed the rules that stated that all visitors must remove their swimwear before showering.

Black beasts dangled between their legs, so thick and lengthy the sheer sight of them stole his breath away. Even in their flaccid state, the cocks were enormous, protruding from glistening bushes of pubic hair, their dark surfaces gleaming beneath the overhead light.

They spoke to each other, paying no attention to Sam, rubbing soap all over their muscular bodies. Sam could scarcely breathe. He didn’t even register the contents of their conversation. Horrified to the bone, Sam stood there, showering in silence.

A brown buttock became apparent to the left; a set of black balls that might’ve looked more appropriate on a bull was flashed to the right. Soap trickled off their bodies. He did his best not to glimpse anything, locking his gaze on the wall. His cheeks burned with shame. Despite how they’d flanked him, neither Tyrone nor the man who could only be Deshawn seemed to notice him. As if he was truly invisible.

His eyes veered to the side, stealing another glance at Tyrone’s member, that monstrous dick whose girth was probably thicker than Sam’s wrist. He hurried to look away.

And as he stood there, dragging out the shower for as long as possible, wanting nothing more than to run off and never come back to this building ever, he hoped - no, pleaded - that Tyrone and his friend would wear swim trunks loose enough to hide those

monsters. The sheer idea of his wife sneaking a glance at them made his belly burn with jealousy.

As horrible as it was, the reason for his jealousy hadn’t only to do with the bullying he’d suffered at the hands of Tyrone; that they were black also played a part.

Veronica had grown up in a blue-collar home with a strict father and a timid mother. As all girls who grow up in such homes tend to do, she’d become obsessed with social justice in college, majoring in gender studies. She was already a pain in the ass by the time she secured a position as a writer at Rox Magazine. Writing feminist articles for a living didn’t help. Deshawn shouted something, Tyrone laughed, and Sam looked up, startled. They hadn’t been addressing him. Sighing with relief, he returned to his thoughts.

When it came to politics, Veronica was crazy. If you didn’t agree with her, you might as well be the cause of World War Two. That’s what had led him to vote for Mordau. He knew he’d never be able to speak of his defiance when he cast his vote. But he’d still defied her. And he’d still felt a petty sense of victory when he did. Well, until she found out.

And ever since, Veronica had taken every opportunity to explain to him in great detail why mayo boys - as she was so fond of saying - was the scum of the earth.

If she was to drool over some black cock now, Sam thought he might snap. After all, she’d spent the last year writing terrible articles with horrible prose that shat on white guys and worshipped black guys—while getting paid sixty thousand dollars a year to do it.

A thud snapped him out of his thoughts. On the floor, inches from his feet, lay a plastic bottle whose label he recognized from a shampoo commercial that aired several times a day.

“Yo, Sammy.” Tyrone’s voice was strange, not quite serious. “Pick it up, will you?”

Sam swallowed. He could feel eyes on his bare flesh. A chill ran up his spine.

“Yo, d'you mind?” The deep voice had grown impatient.

Nodding quickly, Sam went to bend over, thought better of it, and instead copped an awkward squat. One of his feet slid on the slippery tiles. He almost fell.

Grabbing the shampoo, he offered it to Tyrone. His hand trembled so badly, the lid clattered against the bottle. He never looked up. Not even when Tyrone snatched it.

There was a pause, a moment of suffocating silence, the damp air in the shower room thick enough to make it difficult to breathe. Then the black men resumed their conversation. Emitting a shaky sigh, Sam turned off his shower. He gave up on trying to act casual, his feet pattering over the tiles as he scurried for the exit. Behind him, the men sniggered.

Chapte Fiv

The wind tore through the makeshift oasis, sending ripples across the sparkling surface of the azure water. From the giant squares of marble filled with bark sprouted palm trees, their mint-green leaves adding a colorful touch to the otherwise pearly white surroundings.

Three sunbeds on the right were fitted with white linen sheets that acted as an overhang. To his horror, Sam noted that two of them were occupied by the equestrians from the reception. The blonde wore a yellow overall, the brunette a black top and a bottom of the same color that could’ve been a thong; she lay on her back and it was impossible to see. Neither of them spotted him, too entranced by whatever content they were watching on their phones.

The strip of marble between the showers and the pool measured perhaps three strides in width and acted as a walkway. One of the high school girls he’d encountered on the staircase sat there, on the edge, dangling her feet in the water. The skinny brunette must’ve missed the sign that stated in bold letters that it was not permitted to linger on that side of the pool. Across the water, her friends occupied two of the twelve sunbeds that hadn’t been fitted with overhang. In truth, they’d occupied four, reserving one for the skinny brunette while stacking all their beach bags on a fourth. The redhead with the excess of freckles seemed the most daring of the three, having donned a Brazilian bikini whose thin string had crept up between her meaty buttocks. Basking in the searing sunlight, the two girls lay flat on their stomachs, texting on their androids, their pale butts gleaming.

Highly aware of just how tight his newfound swimwear was, Sam quickly averted his gaze. He’d have to be careful now. To look at a bare butt may very well end in disaster.

A guard rail of coarse granite surrounded the pool, perhaps a meter high, tall enough to make it difficult to stumble over the edge and fall to your death, short enough to permit the sun to bathe the platform in its hot rays. From up here, the view of the city was almost breathtakingly beautiful. The old building had been built atop a steep hill overlooking the cityscape, and in addition, the pool was on the top floor.

As he stood there, waiting for his wife, he flicked his gaze between the women and wondered how on earth they’d beat him out here.

Not to mention the girls, who’d sat on the staircase when he arrived, fully clothed, looking like they were waiting for their parents to come pick them up.

He wasn’t afforded a lot of time to ponder the mystery. Before a minute had passed by, his wife sashayed out of the girl showers, stunningly gorgeous in her scarlet bikini.

She’d tied her hair in a messy bun and wore black sunglasses. Her breasts appeared enormous in the skimpy top, their hefty weight stretching the elastic fabric to the brink of tearing.

Sam swallowed, folding his hands on his lap in the most casual fashion he could manage. A moment later she was by his side, paying him no attention, eyeing the sunbeds.

Loud voices reached his ears, stemming from the men showers. Sam swore. His wife barely noticed, starting forward, circling the pool. He wasted no time, setting off after her.

And cursed himself for walking behind her, utterly unable to keep his eyes off the chunky backside jiggling mere feet away, its only cover a thin strip of scarlet cloth that her doughy buttcheeks had swallowed whole. To top it off, Veronica swayed her hips like a

model on a catwalk, drawing several pairs of female eyes to whom Sam had been invisible.

Then he heard it: the suppressed giggling of a pair of equestrians who’d lowered their phones and spotted him. Sam blushed and ran to keep up with his wife.

But when she’d circled the pool, she didn’t stop at the sunbeds in the middle, the ones the furthest away from everyone else. She kept going, heading for the high school girls.

A few feet away from the sunbed that held all the beach bags, Veronica stopped without a word, placing her hands on her hips. Ice sharpened her voice. “Do you mind?”

The girls looked up from their phones, the curvaceous one frowning, the freckled redhead swallowing. After a moment of silence, the latter scrambled to her feet to clear the bed. “Thank you,” said Veronica, a blinding smile crossing her face. The high schoolers mumbled no problem, cleared their throats, raised their phones, and scowled at the screens.

Sam frowned. The incident on the staircase burned bright in his memory. They’d shown him no respect whatsoever. To them, Sam had been little more than a shit stain on their shoe.

As Veronica sat on the sunbed, her fat bottom pancaking across the white linen sheets draped over the firm mattress, Tyrone and his friends strolled out of the showers.

Sam widened his eyes. Searching for any excuse to appear busy, he helped his wife unravel her towel, a pink one depicting Rapunzel from Tangled, her favorite movie.

“Oh,” she said, peering from her sunbed to his. “That’s right; you forgot yours.”

She rolled her eyes. “God, you can be such an idiot sometimes.”

Sam cracked an apologetic smile. Behind his wife, the freckled redhead and the curvaceous teenager shared a glance and flashed surprised - and amused - smiles.

A huge splash drew their attention. Sam followed their gaze. Tyrone had pushed his friend into the pool, jumped in, and now they were wrestling. The sounds they made reminded Sam of the loud classmates he’d so deftly avoided in the school hallways.

The high schoolers laughed, Veronica smiled, and Sam rolled his eyes. Across the pool, the equestrians also seemed to enjoy the childish spectacle, having lowered their phones. Pushing up her sunglasses, his wife went to lay down. The pale flesh of her breasts

drooped to either side as she settled on her back. Stretching her arms above her head, she gripped the fluffy pillow that came with the bed and sighed. Sam spotted her armpits and saw that she had shaved. Frustration coiled in his belly. She never shaved for him. Not anymore. “There’s sunscreen in my purse,” she mumbled, the black of her sunglasses shielding her eyes from view and, perhaps more importantly, where her eyes were.

As Sam delved into the handbag, he took the opportunity to cast a glance at the pool. In the water, Tyrone and Deshawn were chatting, their powerful shoulder girdles bulging.

Sam huffed, threw his locker keys in the bag, fetched the sunscreen, and squirted the sticky liquid into his palm. Veronica rolled over, brushing a finger over her ample bottom.

Sam took a seat on the sunbed, leaning toward his wife. He couldn’t reach her. Flushing with color, he checked his surroundings to make sure no one was looking, then fell to his knees.

The moment he did, the high school girls glanced his way. Sam ignored them. He’d had enough. Rubbing sunscreen on your wife’s ass was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, a lot of guys his age had never even touched a woman. Why on earth should he be embarrassed about this? Shouldn’t he proud? Regardless of whether he was on his knees?

Squeezing his hands together, he planted one palm on each buttock. His wife couldn’t have cared less, oblivious to his touch. Gently, he spread the lotion across the white globes.

Tyrone and Deshawn hoisted themselves out of the pool, their dark bodies glistening with water. The high school girls jerked. Veronica glanced over her shoulder.

Sam ignored that, greasing the back of her thighs and ankles. By the time he’d finished with the small of her back, the black guys were closer, settling on a couple of sunbeds a few rows away. In his peripheral vision, Sam caught them staring his way.

He shifted, hoping he’d blocked Tyrone’s line of sight to his wife. Behind him, deep voices muttered something incomprehensible. Sam frowned, smearing her shoulders.

“I’ll do the rest myself,” Veronica mumbled in a voice that suggested she thoroughly enjoyed the sun on her skin. “Go try the pool or something. I’ll come when I dry up.”

Sam nodded. As he stood, he spotted the skinny brunette that had been sitting across the pool wander off into the toilets, a doorway unattached to the one that led to the showers.

He breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t been particularly tempting to enter the pool while the skinny girl sat and watched. Now he’d have the water all to himself. He hurried over.

In the background, the freckled redhead and the voluptuous teenager rose. He didn’t pay them any attention, scurrying over to the edge. The girls vanished into the toilets.

Gripping the ledge, Sam sank himself into the water. It was pleasantly warm, and the strong odor of chlorine cleared his sinuses. With his feet, he kicked off from the edge and let himself drift off into the center of the pool, cocking his head back to submerge his head.

When he emerged, the sting of chlorine momentarily hampered his vision. He blinked and wiped his eyes. And saw Deshawn approach his wife.

Chapte Si

A wave of terror washed over Sam when Deshawn took a seat on his sunbed.

When he had announced his arrival, Veronica had jerked to life. Now she was propped up on her elbows, talking to him. Sam didn’t know what to do. Trailing his gaze rightward, he crossed eyes with Tyrone and hurried to look away. His heart thudded wildly in his chest.

His old bully had been smiling at him. No, he hadn’t been smiling. He’d been smirking.

Sam looked further to the right. The equestrians had noticed Deshawn approaching and were keeping track of the interaction.

Sam turned slightly and submerged himself up to the eyes. From the corner of his eye, he saw Deshawn lean closer - too close - to his wife, who then laughed, quite loudly.

He considered his options. His gaze drifted to Deshawn once more. A plethora of tattoos adorned his muscular torso. His wife laughed again. Deshawn grinned.

Beneath the water surface, Sam clenched his fists to the point of pain. Anger mixed with a terrible sense of hopelessness burned in his chest. He wanted to cry.

Tyrone stood up and started toward Veronica. While Sam never looked directly at him, he had a strong inkling that Tyrone was watching him all the way. He joined Deshawn on the sunbed, giving his friend a harsh shove to force him to move over. Veronica giggled.

The high school girls emerged from the toilets, the curvaceous one tugging on the bottom of her bathing suit. The freckled redhead stopped suddenly, six eyes peered at Tyrone and Deshawn and Veronica for a long time, and then they whispered amongst each other.

Sam couldn’t bear it. His face was a furnace. After a moment of hesitation, he swam toward the ladder across the pool, the one near the teenagers—who were approaching.

And somehow, despite his swift swimming and their casual saunter, he wasn’t able to fully ascend the ladder before the three girls stood there, blocking his way.

Dripping with water, his foot on the top step, Sam crossed eyes with the voluptuous blonde who’d rushed the ladder. Inches from his face, her tits wobbled in the bra.

“Move,” she said in a sour voice, moving closer, the scent of her perfume filling his nostrils with its intoxicating strawberry touch.

Sam gaped at her. In the background, his wife’s laughter rung across the premise. The approaching blonde didn’t stop. If he didn’t move, she’d walk into him.

He backed down, offering space. The blonde didn’t even look at him, turning to climb down the ladder, and for a split second, her ass was in his face, deliciously plump.

The skinny brunette and the freckled redhead took their time, pausing in the middle of the ladder to finish their conversation. Sam wished he’d evaporate and become one with the water. It felt like his face had caught fire. He didn’t dare swim to the edge and push himself out of the pool, too aware of what his makeshift speedos might do if he bent over.

The girls finally entered the water, tossing sour glances his way. They submerged themselves and started off, the skinny brunette slamming her foot into the back of his thigh as she swam off, probably by accident. At least, she didn’t seem to notice.

Sam climbed the ladder. Checking that no one was looking, he tugged at his swimwear. The soaked fabric clasped his crotch like a second layer of skin.

Taking a deep breath, he positioned his arms so that they appeared to naturally cover up his crotch, and started walking. The closer he got, the harder it became to move forward. “—pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be out here all by yourself,” said Deshawn, baring his teeth in a wicked grin. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Veronica giggled like a schoolgirl. “I’m with my husband.” She slapped Tyrone on the thigh in a playful manner. “And you should’ve told your friend that, asshole.”

“Ditch his ass,” pressed Deshawn. “We gon’ have a couple of beers, some sn—”

Tyrone spotted Sam first, whacking Deshawn on the chest. The latter fell silent, whispered to Tyrone, and then kept chatting. Veronica didn’t see him, mesmerized by the conversation. “Hey,” said Sam, immediately regretting it. His voice had trembled. They’d all heard it. He was sure. Deshawn fell silent again, not bothering to greet him. Tyrone said nothing. His wife threw him a glance, eyed him over, apologized to Deshawn, and told him to keep going.

That little act of turning away without a word became a fist of steel that thumped Sam so hard in the belly, his throat clogged and he was filled with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

“I thought you were coming to join me,” he said, interrupting the conversation again. His wife still lay on her belly, her round buttocks striped with stretch marks and on full display. Deshawn broke off, cracking a nasty grin out at nothing in particular. Veronica turned to look at him, almost excruciatingly slowly. She was staring daggers. Tyrone snorted.

Five seconds later, they’d all turned away and were talking amongst each other once more in hushed voices. In the pool, the high schoolers had fallen silent, probably paying attention. Sam frowned. “You always say that you’re coming to join me in just a second but then you wait until I am cold and wanna get up and then you complain about it—”

“Oh my God!” Veronica looked baffled. “We’re talking here! Can you leave us alone? What the fuck are you doing, Sam? Go away!”

Sam swallowed over and over in an attempt to get rid of the lump clogging his throat, his fingers drifting to his wedding ring. “Well, I just wanted to hear how long you were planning on staying because if you wanna leave soon, I wanna dry up now.”

A groan from his wife. “Jesus Christ, I don’t care! Go jump in the pool if you want, just please, leave us alone!”

“Listen to your wife, white boy,” drawled Deshawn.

“Yo,” Tyrone nodded toward the pool. “Time to fuck off, Sammy.”

“Get off my sunbed,” said Sam suddenly, surprising himself and probably everyone else. A new sensation flourished inside him: icy terror crumbled and made way for seething anger. Gasps from the pool; the teenagers had been listening. A long pause, a silence so agonizing it began to crush his temper. Then someone finished the job. His wife.

“Oooh, that’s right,” she said in a theatrical voice. “You two are going to have to get up. You see, Sam’s a Mordau voter. He doesn’t want guys like you touching his stuff.”

Sam froze. Seething anger crumbled and there it was again, icy terror. Before he had a chance to speak, Tyrone and Deshawn had both found their feet.

“What the fuck you just say?” Tyrone approached, addressing Sam as if he’d been the one who’d said it. Deshawn was on his heels, his arrogant grin gone in favor of a scowl.

“No, I—” Backing up, Sam rose his hands submissively. “She’s— She’s joking!”

The two men split up like predators stalking their prey. To their right, Veronica was watching the scene unfold with a smile that oozed amusement, sunshine bouncing off her butt.

“You voted for Mordau?” Tyrone came closer and closer. “Fucking cracker.”

“Yo, he’s asking you a question,” spat Deshawn. “You a Mordau voter, mayo boy?”

“That’s not what—” Sam broke off, almost tripping on a beach bag, one of those the freckled redhead had moved earlier. “I mean, I didn’t vote for him because I don’t—”

“You didn’t what?” Tyrone took a sudden step forward, slamming into him, nearly knocking Sam off his feet, driving him between a pair of sunbeds.

Deshawn joined him, his chest puffed out, his fists clenched. “Fuck you saying, white boy?” “Nothing,” whimpered Sam, backing into the granite wall, the sole obstacle that had prevented him from backpedaling over the edge of the building. “I didn’t—”

“Yo, did you or didn’t you vote for Mordau?” Tyrone walked so close that the hair on his chest tickled Sam in the face, pushing him further and further over the railing.

Sam whined, absolutely terrified, pressing his hands against the black chest in an attempt to keep Tyrone at bay. It didn’t work. He may as well have been trying to push a bus.

“Yo, maybe we should flip him over.” Deshawn was grinning again. “Ain’t no point crying over spilled Mordau voters.”

“That’s one way to get rid of him,” snickered Tyrone, glancing over his shoulder, probably at Veronica. “Yo, what’d you say, babe? Want your hubby to go away?”

His wife responded silently, perhaps with a gesture, and the men snickered. Sam couldn’t see her, the girls in the pool, or the equestrians. He was almost crying.

“Yo, for real,” said Deshawn, also glancing toward Veronica. “This little faggot voted for Mordau? No shit?” He faced Sam again. “What? You a little racist, white boy?”

Sam looked up at them with the eyes of a doe. “No, I swear, that wasn’t—”

Tyrone smacked his cheek. “Why’d you vote for Mordau then? Eh?”

“I’m sorry,” whined Sam, clasping his cheek. Tears pressed at the back of his eyes. He had to squeeze his eyelids shut to keep them at bay. He couldn’t break down. Not now.

“You’re sorry?” Tyrone shared a glance with Deshawn. “Yo, do you know what Mordau says about us? Think an apology is gonna cut it, faggot? Ain’t gon’ help much, is it?”

“Nah,” said Deshawn, grabbing Sam by his skinny arm. “Ain’t getting off that easy.”

Before Sam understood what was happening, Deshawn spun him around and, grasping his neck painfully hard, bent him over. Tyrone started tugging on Sam’s makeshift speedos. “No!” After a few seconds of paralyzing fear, Sam realized what they were doing. And grew furious, tossing his weight around in a desperate attempt to escape, punching and kicking. Deshawn grunted, moving closer to the granite wall, pinning Sam against it. Laughing all the while, Tyrone took his time, wiggling the speedos down to bare Sam’s ass.

He tried to stop them. Anger and humiliation coalesced into panic and lended him a strength that he didn’t know he possessed. It didn’t matter. His bullies were too strong.

“I’mma teach you a lesson, white boy.” Tyrone let the speedos drop into a dark blue bundle around Sam’s feet. “We gon’ show your wife how we handle racists.”

“I’m not racist!” Sam writhed atop the granite barrier, oblivious to the dizzying fall at which he had no choice but to look. “I’m not racist! I swear! I’m sorry I voted Mordau! Please!” The first slap connected with his butt, pain shot through the wobbling asscheek, and Sam howled for his wife. Tyrone slapped his ass again, switching cheeks.

“If you weren’t racist,” he said, spanking Sam a third time, “you wouldn’t have voted for a white supremacist. Don’t worry, white boy. Some discipline gon’ set you straight!”

Tyrone spanked him again and again and again, one slap for each buttock, pounding the pale ass with the flat of his hand, striking from above, then from below.

Behind him, Sam heard voices, some gasping, others laughing. The worst voice of all belonged to his wife. She’d launched into a fit of hysterics.

He shouted for her, begged her to stop them, and the high-pitched laughter only grew in volume. A few girls shouted something, their words incomprehensible.

Deshawn replied. “Yo, this white boy voted for Mordau!”

The spanks kept coming, swatting his asscheeks into a constant jiggle. Sam cried out with each one, unable to stop himself. His face burned with humiliation. As he lay there, held in place by stronger men, having his rump beat, he realized life would never be the same. Deshawn held him down, Tyrone pounded his buttocks like they were a pair of drums, girly laughter filled the air, and Sam couldn’t take anymore. Tears stung his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he screamed, kicking his feet at Tyrone in frustration. Breaking down, he started to bawl, the uncontrollable sobs loud and childlike. “Please!”

His butt was on fire, probably beet-red, emitting heat like the face of an oven. Every slap stung worse than the last. He pleaded and squirmed. The spanking continued.

“We were talking to your wife,” growled Deshawn. “You should’ve fucked off and left us alone while you had the chance, white boy.”

“I’ll go away!” His butt stung too much to care whether the girls heard him. “Ow! I will leave you alone! Ow! I promise! Ow! Talk to her all you want! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

By now, his ass was probably purple, shaking with every whack. The pain was becoming unbearable on every level. He couldn’t handle it. He screamed.

“Shut your bitch ass up,” commanded Tyrone, staying on one buttock, smacking it over and over until the black fingers felt like hot pokers.

“Take your punishment like a good little girl,” snickered Deshawn in a voice so low, Sam doubted anyone else heard it.

Tyrone took his time, slapping the quivering butt over and over with precise and strategic strikes, smacking only the spots where Sam’s ass was the fattest.

Then, when Sam was bawling like a baby girl, unable to talk, unable to do anything but scream in pain and frustration, he

distributed an additional three swats on each cheek before no more spanks came. Grabbing Sam’s hair, he pulled him up, whispering in his ear.

Sobbing uncontrollably, Sam nodded. His rump was so raw, even the soft touch of the wind made it sting. When Tyrone placed a hand on the small of his back, the way a husband does when he’s to lead his wife, Sam cupped his crotch, gluing his eyes to the ground.

His bully led him out from the space between the sunbeds, then toward Veronica. She was no longer laughing, and the high school girls had gone quiet, too.

Across the pool, the equestrians were watching. Shame prevented him from lifting his eyes but he didn’t need to confirm it. He knew. They’d been watching the whole time.

Ten scarlet toenails attached to petite feet appeared in his line of sight. His wife had been sitting on her sunbed throughout the entire scene. Sam couldn’t look at her.

“Your hubby’s got something to tell you,” said Tyrone, patting Sam on the back.

As much as the laughter had been torture, the silence was almost worse. Sam couldn’t part his lips. As if they’d been fixed together with some kind of super glue.

“I thought you’d learned your lesson, white boy.” The hand on his back was descending.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation,” sobbed Sam, the fear of another spanking enough to convince him to raise his gaze. “I was being a brat.”

Veronica was speechless. Her face was a picture of amusement muddled with what actually looked like genuine concern. She parted her lips but said nothing.

“A’ight,” said Tyrone, catching Sam in a sudden chokehold that not only drew a gasp from his wife but also the high school girls that still watched from the pool.

“No— Wait—” Sam squealed, almost like a college girl, gripping the black arm. Deshawn circled the pair. Without a word, he grabbed Sam’s dangling legs, hoisting them up.

“Oh my God,” said Veronica, her lips split in surprise. “Where are you taking him?”

“We ain’t done talking to you, babe,” said Deshawn, wrestling with Sam’s legs.

“We gon’ let your lil’ husband cool off somewhere else,” grunted Tyrone.

“No,” wheezed Sam, scratching at his bully’s forearm, desperately trying to wriggle free. “Let me go! This isn’t funny! Veronica! Help! Honey! Help me!”

Chapte Seve

The makeshift speedos lay in a bundle on the far side of the pool.

Sam swore, backpedaling out of sight. He stood there for a while, slouching, his hands cupping his crotch just in case. The wind had faded, the sun had set, and the pool had been empty for quite a while, perhaps an hour, maybe more.

He’d been stuck in here for what felt like hours. Tyrone and Deshawn had carried him into the toilets, yanked off his speedos, and left him naked on the floor.

On the way out, Tyrone had paused in the doorway, and the smirk he’d sent Sam before rounding the corner had driven Sam into a boiling rage.

Terrified of getting caught, he’d scrambled to his feet and bolted into the nearest stall. The walls had been green and stopped some six inches off the floor and some twelve inches off the ceiling. Even if there hadn’t been any gaps, the thin walls wouldn’t have been able to muffle much sound. He couldn’t fathom why they built stalls like these. It baffled him.

He’d lowered the toilet seat and sat on it and - for a while - contemplated how he’d get out of here without being seen. After a while, he’d concluded that he had no choice but to wait it out.

They’d arrived late. The pool would close in a few hours. He’d waited.

Then, remembering the way Tyrone had smirked at him, he’d grown so furious that he had started to cry. His rump still prickled with pain. He could barely sit. He wanted to go home. But he refused to leave without his wife. He refused to give her that pleasure.

Time had passed slowly, excruciatingly so, and he’d had suffered plenty of scares. The first time he’d built up the courage to leave the stall, he’d barely opened the door before he’d heard the voices, three female voices, and he’d immediately realized that the situation was far direr than he’d previously thought. He’d been put in the women’s toilets.

As the three high school girls waltzed inside, he’d locked the door, held his breath, and pulled his feet up on the toilet seat. His heart had been beating like a drum. Sweat had poured down his face. Quite surprisingly, the girls hadn’t said a word about him. They’d been chattering about Deshawn and Tyrone, giggling all the while. As if half an hour ago, they hadn’t just witnessed two black guys publically assaulting a white guy half their size.

The girls had picked a stall each. One of them - he didn’t know which - had even yanked on his door several times. He’d pleaded that the lock would hold. It hadn’t failed him.

For a couple of seconds, he’d been horrified that one of them would look beneath the sizable gap. If they’d peered inside and found him naked and seated on the toilet lid, he’d have probably

been stapled a pervert and ended up on some government list somewhere.

Instead, the girl had mumbled something about how it was probably out of order and waited for her turn. Three toilets had flushed, black abs had been discussed, and then they’d left. Then, after what felt like half a lifetime, he’d gathered the courage to sneak out anew. He hadn’t made it far. One of the equestrians had wandered in, almost catching him. She’d been so loud on the toilet, Sam swiftly realized she thought she was all alone. And once again, he’d been overcome with paralyzing fear. If he made a sound, she’d probably scream.

She’d flushed and left - without washing her hands, a fact that Sam, despite his awkward circumstances, had found rather fascinating - and he’d kept seated, scared stiff.

He’d discarded his plan when, for a third time, he’d been interrupted on his way out. A mere wall away, the male toilets had seemed so far off that they may as well have been in Iran. He didn’t see the next visitor. She’d only washed her hands - though, for quite a while - before she’d left again. Sam had slumped on the toilet, pressed his palms to his face, and cried. After several hours of no toilet visits, he’d snuck out to take a peek at the pool. And as he’d expected, the place was empty and had most likely shut down for the day.

Now, having cried out most of his frustration, he’d become determined to get out. There was just one problem. His speedos. He edged forward, keeping alert of his surroundings.

As he stood there, trying and failing to take the first step, visions of Veronica bouncing on black dick flooded his mind. Sam wanted to throw up. He was shaking in anger.

A few minutes later, having pictured his bully smacking his fat dick all over his beautiful wife’s face, he ran out of the toilets, circled the pool, grabbed the trunks, and darted into the showers. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Breathing hard, he pulled the speedos up. In the showers, the lights were still on. Sam wondered whether they were always on or if Caroline - the cute receptionist - was on her way to come turn them off. Passing through the showers, he bolted over to his locker. And swore. They’d taken his keys.

Quenching the violent desire to punch a hole through the wall, Sam set off toward the door that would lead him into the reception. He opened the door carefully.

The receptionist was still there, hidden partly by the corner, counting the register. She’d let her hair loose and kept yawning. A song was playing on her phone. Nicki Minaj.

Sam pondered his options. For some time. Then, when Caroline lifted the register and turned around, probably to stuff it away in a safe somewhere, he ran for his life.

He bolted toward the exit. Behind him, the dressing room door slammed shut. A female voice cried out in surprise. Something heavy crashed against the floor.

He didn’t stop in the hallway. He sprinted down several flights of stairs, almost losing his footing on more than one occasion. When he found the hallway in which was the door to Amanda’s apartment, he skidded to a stop. Emitting a shaky sigh, he headed inside. When he reached the door, he paused to listen. Silence. He rapped his knuckles on the frame.

He was angry. Very angry. The tight fabric of his speedos dug into his tender buttocks. It felt like he’d pancaked his buttcheeks atop a hot plate and stayed there for quite a while.

He knocked again, sweeping the hallway. There were several doors here; someone else could catch him at any moment. Laughter came from inside the apartment.

When he knocked a third time, the laughter stopped. The rhythmic beat of muffled music oozed through the doorframe. Footsteps could be heard now, coming closer.

The door slid open, revealing none other than his wife. She was clasping a beer and had yet to change out of her swimsuit. Her creamy breasts wobbled as she turned to call inside.

“He’s here,” she shouted, and from behind the corner to the kitchen appeared Tyrone. His swim trunks had grown stiff, resembling cardboard more than fabric.

Sam flushed with color. His tongue wouldn’t budge. He had no idea what to say. In the doorway, his wife crossed her arms, cocking a challenging eyebrow.

“I’d like to go home now,” Sam mumbled with effort, unable to look her in the eye.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Veronica was slurring her words. “I haven’t had this much fun in years.” Tyrone was approaching, his lips drawn back in a foul smile, a smile Sam had seen countless times before. He hated that smile. Despised it over all others.

Deshawn appeared behind him, crushing a beer can in his hand. Like Tyrone, he also wore only his trunks, and they’d grown just as stiff, courtesy of the chlorine.

Sam frowned. “They took the key to my locker. I need my work clothes, honey. You know I do. I can’t ask my manager for new ones. She’ll fire me!”

“Yo, white boy,” said Tyrone, edging up behind Veronica, placing a black hand atop her white belly. “Who says we’re done with her?”

Veronica giggled, sinking her teeth into the plump flesh of her lip. “I wanna stay.”

“Honey.” Sam’s voice cracked a bit. “I’ve learned my lesson. I get it. I won’t vote Republican ever again; I swear. Please. Just come home with me.”

Tyrone and Veronica shared a glance, the former snorting, the latter barking laughter. “Awh,” purred his wife, tossing her hair haughtily. “The little white boy is butthurt again because the mean black men won’t let him vote for a racist.”

Sam gaped at her. “No, I— Look, I can’t go home like this! I need the car keys and my work clothes! If you don’t wanna come with me, then at least—”

Tyrone moved forward. Sam broke off. Behind Veronica, Deshawn was stalking closer. His wife looked from Tyrone to Deshawn to Sam. And flashed a pretty smile.

“Wait—” Backpedaling away from the door, Sam raised his hands submissively. “What are you doing? Why’re you coming closer? Stop! Leave me alone!”

“Oh, Sam,” giggled Veronica. “You’re never gonna guess what we’ve prepared for you.”

Chapte Eigh

The moment Tyrone opened the bedroom door, Sam understood what they planned to do. And when he did, he started to squirm like a panicking puppy.

“No!” howled Sam, digging his heels into the floor, flailing his arms. Tyrone put a quick stop to the struggle. Hooking an arm beneath Sam’s legs, he heaved him into the air like a bride about to be carried up the stairs, hugging him to his chest.

Veronica strolled by, giggling all the while, entering the bedroom with Deshawn in tow. With a spring in her step, she darted to the nightstand, opening the upper drawer.

“Does little Sammy need another spanking?” Tyrone bared his teeth in a feral snarl, spittle flying from his lips. “No? Then you gon’ put it on with a sweet ass white boy smile!”

Sam sobbed with frustration. Upon the queen-sized bed, stretched out neatly, lay a dress that looked like it’d been snatched right out of a Disney movie.

Its skirt was a sea of pink frills and its top white with buttons of the same color. Small ribbons embellished its front from the collar to the belly, ending in a massive ribbon, all pink. Veronica placed a variety of colorful containers on top of the nightstand. Having bent over, the pale flesh of her ass jutted out like a pair of gigantic buns.

“Please!” Sam was crying now, actually crying, unable to suppress his frustration. “I’ll vote for the democrats next time! I’ll vote for Wanda! I’ll vote black! I promise!”

“Oh, you gon’ vote black,” said Tyrone, carrying him toward the bed, “because by the time Deshawn’s done with your wife, she’s gon’ kick your pale ass if you vote anything else.” Tyrone sat him down on the edge of the bed. Inches away from his fat bulge, Sam squirmed on the mattress. Touching the pink frills, he hesitated.

Before he could comprehend what had happened, he was tasting bedsheets, his head ringing. Feminine laughter resounded through the room. Coming to, Sam widened his eyes.

“I told you to put on the fucking dress,” Tyrone sneered at him. “If you ain’t gon’ do it, we gon’ have to do it for you. Yo, D! Help me dress this white boy!”

Sam started to struggle, couldn’t help it. Tyrone grabbed his hips and flipped him over on his belly, and then Deshawn was there, hoisting the girly vestments off the bed.

A second later, pink fabric obscured his vision, then white. Tyrone grabbed Sam by the neck and held him steady; Deshawn lowered the collar of the dress over his head like a crown. Its satin fabric was soft and pleasant against his skin but hugged him in all the

wrong places. When they’d put him in it, Tyrone spun him around and gave him a push. Sam squealed, his back hitting the mattress. Before he was able to react, both men were upon him, pinning his arms against the mattress. To the left, Veronica stalked closer, smirking.

“God, we’re gonna make you so pretty,” she squealed, tossing her ass on the bed. A plethora of cosmetics spilled from her arms. She grabbed one, a small bottle.

“We’ll start with the foundation,” she almost sang, screwing off the top. Sam wriggled like a maniac, kicking his feet. It didn’t save him. He couldn’t break their grip.

His wife hummed a merry tune. Seconds later, a brush was applying something that felt like a sticky cream on his cheeks. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam cried out in protest.

“Oh, shush,” said his wife, “this is what you get when you vote for a racist asshole.” Deshawn snorted. “Ain’t gon’ wanna vote for Mordau no more once you’ve experienced what it feels like to be a black man’s woman, white boy.”

Some fifteen minutes passed by. Sam kept struggling; Tyrone and Deshawn kept holding him down; Veronica kept painting his face, humming some song, maybe Billie Eilish.

“All right,” she said, a few strands of her hair tickling his face. “Pucker up!”

Sam had barely registered her command before a pair of strong fingers dug into his cheeks and forced him to pout his lips. “Hmmmph!”

Pressing the tip of the stick against his mouth, she trailed his lips. Unable to budge even an inch, Sam could do nothing but lie there and take it.

The last thing she did, giggling all the while, involved his hair and a pair of pink hairbands. When she finished, the whole room stank of chemicals. Whatever she’d applied to his face seemed to weigh down his skin. It was a heavy layer, as thick and sticky as honey.

Tyrone and Deshawn stood, tugging Sam along like a rag doll. The former grinned, clasped the back of his neck, and forced him to face the mirror. Veronica shuffled out of bed, took a couple of steps back, hiked her eyebrows, eyed him over, and laughed out loud.

Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. In the mirror above the queen-sized bed stood not a boy but a girl with her blonde hair in pigtails, donning a frilly dress adorned with girlish ribbons.

His face shone beneath the bright white overhead light. Foundation softened his skin and made it appear even paler. Concealer hid his pores and ameliorated other flaws. Blush gleamed on his cheeks, suggesting a constantly flustered face. Eyeshadow sparkled on his eyelids, the color of obsidian, spangled with glitter. Lush eyelashes fluttered prettily above his icy blue eyes, and the latter appeared much larger, round and huge. The most striking difference was his lips, once dry and cracked, now soft and plump and pink.

Gaping at the mirror, his chest heaving, Sam glanced at the men flanking him, so tall and dark and masculine. He glanced at himself, a head shorter, his sassy pigtails bringing to mind a bubbly bimbo, the satin dress and its frills reminding him of a bratty princess.

There was something awfully wrong about that picture, two black men flanking a bubbly bratty bimbo princess, their shirts off, their powerful chests beaded with sweat.

“Oh, you look sooo cute,” squealed Veronica, bouncing with excitement. “All right, hubby. I think it’s about time we teach you how to properly gag on black dick!”

Tyrone gripped his right shoulder; Deshawn clasped his left. As Sam watched himself descend in the mirror, forced down on his knees, his eyes grew even wider.

Chapte Nin

As Sam settled on his knees, his heart raced in his chest.

Veronica mounted the bed and crawled toward him on all fours. Her face was a picture of amusement, her lips parted in a wicked grin.

“Honey,” stammered Sam, surrounded by a pair of stiff swim shorts reeking of chlorine. “I don’t wanna do this anymore, I— Honey, I am not gay!”

Rising to her knees, Veronica fluttered her lashes, bringing her hands behind her back. A moment later, after fiddling the bikini string, her top fell off and her tits popped free.

Sam gawked at them, two pale melons tipped with dark areolas and stiff nipples. They were so large, they looked completely out of place on her narrow chest.

Tyrone grunted; Deshawn shifted a bit. Sam flushed with color. To the left, the yellow bathing shorts grew tighter at the crotch. To the right, the fat bulge began to swell.

“You’re about to see what real cocks look like, hubby.” Still grinning, Veronica fell forward once more, whispering an inch from his face. “I’ll show you why black beats white.” Steering his face toward the yellow bathing shorts, toward Deshawn, she hooked a finger into his swimsuit and pulled it down,

oh-so-slowly, revealing first a bush of black pubes, then the root of a fat shaft, and finally - much to Sam’s horror - an enormous cock.

Sam parted his lips, perhaps in awe. Veronica didn’t let his gaze linger. Forcing him to face the red bathing shorts, she tugged those down as well, revealing a monstrous shaft.

Like ham in a sandwich, Sam was now stuck between a pair of humongous cocks, the biggest he’d ever seen. A cheesy stench corrupted the air, seeping up his nostrils.

“Mmm,” moaned Veronica, quite theatrically, wrestling both pairs of shorts so far down the black thighs, they lost their hold and formed colorful pools atop the black feet.

“Do you like what you see, white boy?” Tyrone was sniggering. Deshawn cocked his hips. “Bet your mouth is watering up, faggot.”

“So big,” whispered Veronica, swaying from cock to cock like a pendulum, stopping only briefly to flash Sam a bright smile. He’d never seen a smile so cruel.

Sam did his best not to look. It was becoming difficult, the cocks were easing closer and closer, and they were massive, almost a foot in length, and still swelling.

The smell grew worse, a sweet stench that reminded him of the sweaty locker room after PE in middle school, the same locker room in which Tyrone had spanked his ass with a towel. “Which one do you want, hubby?” Her voice was as smooth as warm

butter. “Oh, no, no, no, no! You have to choose one; I want the other one aaall to myself.”

Sam didn’t react, staring up at her like a deer caught in headlights. “I can’t—”

“It’s not gay,” she cooed, tracing both dicks with the very tip of her middle finger, one after the other. “Think of it as repentance for all the poo decisions you’ve made.

“Oh, you can’t choose?” She crawled to the very edge, sat on it, and took his face in her hands. “Why don’t you sniff them and pick the one you like best?”

Pushing his face toward Tyrone’s cock, she held him there, applying pressure to the back of his head. Sam tried to resist. Every fiber of his being wanted to.

But Tyrone wouldn’t have it, cocking his hips like Deshawn already had, closing the distance until the tip of Sam’s nose came in contact with the glistening black skin.

“Smell it,” giggled Veronica, curling his pigtails around her palms to tighten her hold. “I want you to know what a real man smells like, honey. Smell it!”

In the corner of his eye, Sam spotted Tyrone clenching his fist. Driven by fear, he relented to the sweet voice at his rear, dragging the stench of black dick up his nostrils.

The smell hit him like a brick to the face. If Veronica hadn’t kept him in place, he would’ve withdrawn as if struck. It was a musky smell, a mixture of sweat and salt and man.

He sniffed again and immediately winced. The potent odor made him wrinkle his nose in a face of disgust. Veronica broke out in a peal of laughter.

“That’s clearly the one you prefer,” she breathed, struggling to keep her laughter at bay. “I’d let you smell the other one, too, but I am getting impatient so I’ll choose for you.”

Crawling off the mattress, she settled on the floor, a little to his left, slightly behind. “I think you two make an excellent pair.” Her gaze rose. “What do you think?”

Tyrone grunted in agreement. God, how deep his voice was. The low pitch sent a shiver up Sam’s spine. Veronica edged closer, flattening her tits against his back.

“Time to pay your reparations,” she purred by his ear, extending her arm to take the girthy shaft in her palm. “Oh, don’t be scared, hubby. It’s not gonna bite.”

Sam grew huge eyes. She’d lifted the swelling cock to reveal a pair of plump balls in a wrinkly sack from which protruded curly black hair. A couple of years ago, Veronica had forced him to attend a pride parade taking place in a town not far away, and there had been cops there, riding proud stallions that pranced down the street with their tails held high. The fat nuts to which his eyes were now glued reminded him of the balls he’d seen there.

“Give it a kiss,” whispered his wife, guiding the black mamba toward his mouth the way a parent might coerce their young one to eat. “Show him the respect he deserves.”

Sam raised his eyes. Above, towering over him, clenching his powerful abs, Tyrone was smirking. That smirk radiated with stomach-churning arrogance.

Sam whimpered. Beneath the sea of pink frills, his cock twitched to life, the way it began to sear suggesting that blood was flowing into it. He didn’t know why. The cock disgusted him. Veronica helped him purse his lips, using her free hand to squish his cheeks. The one that supported the dick eased closer, pressing the plump mushroom against Sam’s lips.

A whine of disgust was all Sam could manage, unable to move away, forced to kiss the sticky surface. His face turned beet-red when the cockhead throbbed.

“Good boy,” sniggered Veronica, “make up for all that white privilege!”

She shook his face, causing his lips to brush the tip to and fro, and the black body that consumed his vision twitched with pleasure.

“Always knew you were a little bitch,” growled Tyrone, his head cocked back in a picture of delight. “Put your girly hands to use and fondle my balls, white boy.”

Sam hesitated, only for a moment, and then Veronica withdrew with a gasp. Sam’s head flew sideways, lolled, and when he recovered, stinging pain burned on his cheek.

“Yo, I ain’t telling you again, bitch boy.” Amusement twinned with false vexation could be heard in the growling voice. “Fondle my balls or I am gon’ slap the shit out of you.” Veronica cracked up, her high-pitched laugh bouncing off the walls.

On the verge of tears, Sam dove into action, lifting his hands to cup one plump ball in each palm. They were heavy, almost breathtakingly so, and he could swear he could feel big chunks of sperm swirling inside. Blushing furiously, he began to caress the black balls. Veronica moved her hand back and forth, her pearly white digits and scarlet-painted nails in stark contrast to the dark dick, wanking the shaft gently.

“Open your mouth, Sam,” she said, working the dick with movements redolent of the porn stars he’d watched so eagerly in his younger days, deftly and with confidence.

“It’s about time you showed proper appreciation for big, black cock.”

Chapte Te

Tyrone clenched his ass, pushing his hips forward.

“Hmmph!” protested Sam, squeezing his lips shut. The dick didn’t care, prodding and poking his pink kissers. Veronica did care, growling in his ear.

“Open your fucking mouth, Sam,” she sneered, trying to plunge her fingers between his lips to pry them open. “Open your mouth or I swear, I’ll beg them to beat you up!”

Sam whimpered loudly, succumbing to her digits. The moment his lips parted an inch, his wife leaned on him, pushing him forward, and Sam, who’d been in the middle of uttering another protest, was promptly muffled as the bulbous cockhead entered his mouth.

Tyrone sighed, the muscles in his stomach working hard as he tensed. To the right, as thick and rigid as the one in his mouth, appeared another cock, bouncing impatiently.

Veronica giggled, quick to embrace Deshawn, beginning to jerk him off. Meanwhile, her tits squeezed Sam toward Tyrone, filling the wet warmth of his mouth with inch after inch.

As the musky surface slid over his tongue, Sam grimaced, the disgusting tang of cheese assaulting his taste buds. The more cock he was fed, the more prominent the flavor, and when four inches of throbbing meat filled his mouth, he gagged.

“That’s it, sweet cheeks,” groaned Tyrone, placing a hand on the top of his head, the powerful fingers clasping his skull with terrifying strength. “Gag on Blackzilla!”

Veronica snorted laughter, wanking the cocks faster. The pleasant smell of her apricot perfume was losing the fight for supremacy against the stench of dicks.

Sam tried to withdraw, couldn’t budge, and scowled at his bully. The sheer girth of the dark member stretched his pink lips to the point of pain. Saliva flooded his mouth.

Tyrone retracted his hips and Sam’s pink lips rolled up the shaft, staining the black manhood with streaks of gloss. Then he pushed forward again, feeding Sam dick until five inches of musky meat had vanished between his plump lips. Squirming on the floor, Sam fought hard to keep from gagging as the brown anaconda throbbed against his tongue.

“That’s not how you suck cock!” Veronica let the black cock go and slapped his cheek several times, hard enough for tears to appear in his eyes. “Blow him, bitch!”

Sam sobbed, his cheeks going hollow as he sucked with all his might. In response, the thick dick grew squirted a couple of drops of repulsive liquid into the back of his throat.

Veronica wasn’t satisfied. “Oh, for fuck's sake, show us some enthusiasm! Don’t just sit there and chew on it! Move your head and make some noise!”

Sam obeyed, beginning to bob his head, rolling his lips up and down the shaft, slurping on the musky cock like he was sucking on a massive lollipop.

The sight proved too much for the black men to bear. Their laughter filled the room, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Veronica joined in, wanking Deshawn all the while.

“She told you to make some noise!” Tyrone managed to pause his laughter long enough to plant a loud smack on Sam’s cheek. “Moan with my dick in your mouth, white boy!”

Heavily encouraged by the slap, Sam emitted a moan, his fingers fondling the hairy balls as if he was dealing with an irreplaceable family heirloom of enormous value. His tormentors broke out in new fits of laughter, and Sam thought he’d die of shame. And moaned again.

He didn’t understand why his prick was as hard as a rock, drowning in satin frills, its pink tip leaking sticky goo that joined the soft fabric to the baby carrot that was his shaft.

Wiggling his tongue around to cover his teeth, he picked up the pace, moving back and forth in a steady rhythm, pleasing the twitching cock with his feminine lips.

With every bob, he swallowed another inch of black dick, coating the dark shaft in a layer of spit that formed ropes and quivered with his every movement, joining lips to cock.

Six inches deep, the bulbous tip brushed the back of his throat. Sam gagged again. His wife didn’t let him escape this time. She lay on him with all her weight.

“Go on, hubby,” she giggled, snapping her teeth by his ear. “Mmm, can you taste how strong he is? How does it feel, sucking a dick five times your size?”

Sam groaned, forced forward, his eyes rolling in their sockets as another few inches of rigid meat slid into his throat, causing him to gag again. He was frothing at the mouth now.

“I bet you love it,” she moaned, tugging Deshawn closer, pecking the tip of his cock. “What’s that, honey? I don’t understand! Stop talking with your mouth full!”

“Show your wife how much of a man you are,” sniggered Tyrone, bucking his hips, forcing more cock between Sam’s lips. “Yo, D, slap the silly bitch!

A meaty smack resounded through the room, Veronica squealed, and before she recovered from the surprise, Deshawn hauled her off the floor and slapped her again.

“Hmmph!” Sam started to struggle, letting go of the black balls, digging his nails into the dark thighs, trying to shove Tyrone away. “Hmmph! Hmmph! Hmmph!”

“Go on,” growled his bully, grinning down at him, beginning to buck his hips. “Protect your wife, white boy. Be a man. Show her that you can stand up for her.”

Sam couldn’t move, pinned in place by a pair of black hands that held him by the pigtails. As Tyrone started to thrust, Deshawn struck Veronica again. Glaring at Tyrone, Sam kept squirming, though he stood no chance, forced to endure the black cock drilling his mouth. “Hurry up, white boy!” Grinding his teeth, Tyrone thrust harder. “If you don’t stop him, Big D’s gon’ stuff his dick up your wife’s sweet ass. You gon’ let him do that, Sammy?”

Sam clawed at the dark-skinned crotch, his eyes glazing over. The black dick was dominating him, beating him into submission, striking the back of his throat with every rough thrust, making him gag, the obscene slurping sounds resounding through the room.

“Come here,” growled Deshawn in the background, tossing Veronica on the bed. Through the tears fogging his vision, Sam could still make out the handprints on his wife’s cheeks.

“I’ll tell you what,” snickered Tyrone. He slowed his thrusts, secured his grip on Sam’s pigtails, and pulled him forward with all his might. “If you break free and stop Deshawn from putting his dick up your wife’s fine ass, I’m gon’ throw her out.”

Sam twitched, having given up, his neck craning to fit the whole length of Tyrone’s massive member in his throat, gagging repeatedly, the taste of dick muddling his brain.

“I’m serious,” he continued, pulling Sam so close that his pink lips embraced the root of the musky shaft. “If you can stop Big D, just once, I’mma throw her slutty ass out and you won’t have to worry about your bitch bouncing her bum on our dicks. C’mon, white boy.”

“Save your wife, Sammy,” snickered Deshawn, wrestling with Veronica, whose squeals of joy revealed what she truly thought about the rough treatment. “Protect your girl!”

Gagging horribly on the fat dick, Sam went limp. Tears flowed down his cheeks, probably messing up his mascara. Beneath his frilly skirt, his cock had gone soft.

“Pussy ass white boy,” snorted Tyrone, letting him go. Sam gagged a final time as ten inches of black meat slid out of his mouth. He dropped to the floor, completely exhausted.

Taking a seat on the bed, Tyrone lay back and spread his legs.

“If you ain’t gon’ protect your girl,” his bully continued, “I’m gon’ show your bitch why we nicknamed your sissy ass buttbreath back in middle school.”

Chapte Eleve

Tyrone prodded Sam in the face with his toes.

“Get up,” he told him, the tone in his voice making it abundantly clear that to refuse would bring consequences. “On all fours, bitch.”

Sam scrambled to his knees. For some reason he could not comprehend, his cock ached with need. On the bed, Deshawn was in the process of mounting his wife.

He’d put her on all fours. Now he was tearing her bikini bottom, shredding the fabric to bare her bum. His dick was rock hard, pointing in the direction of the pale backside.

A slap drew his attention, causing him to shut his eyes. Stars zoomed and exploded in the darkness behind his eyelids. When he opened them, Tyrone spread his buttocks.

“You know what to do,” he snickered, flashing his puffy butthole, somehow darker than the rest of his skin. “Show your pretty little wife how to worship a black ass.”

Sam crawled forward. Thoughts of the old days flashed through his mind. He’d hated Tyrone then, almost as much as he hated him now, and despised the fact that he always won.

Tyrone had been cruel to the girls in his class and somehow, he’d ended up dating at least five of them, perhaps more, while Sam had spent his evenings jerking off in his room.

He’d been childish and disruptive in class, and still their teacher - miss Cane - had become so fond of him, she’d hugged him for five whole minutes on the last day of school. Sam had always been helpful and polite, but miss Cane had barely offered him as much as a glance. Though, the worst part of it all, that which had kept Sam up at night, boiling with anger, was admitting to himself that Tyrone was both stronger and tougher—and more attractive.

The realization that he wouldn’t be able to stop Tyrone if he, for instance, decided to slap Sam’s mother silly had been tough to come to terms with. Excruciating, actually. Men weren’t made to accept such facts. It was simply not compatible with the male sex.

As he thought about this, his lips flattened against the black butt, staining the dark skin with gloss. Kissing his way across the buttock, he switched to the other, sobbing softly.

The shredded remains of a red bikini top flew by. Deshawn intertwined his fingers into his wife’s hair, forcing her to face Sam. A gleam of disgust flashed in her eyes.

“Smell my ass,” mumbled Tyrone, edging closer, his feet high in the air. Sam immediately quit kissing and leaned closer. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the black butthole.

“Ew,” gasped Veronica, staring at Sam in disbelief. Deshawn didn’t let her look for long. He forced her back down on all fours and shoved her face into the bedsheets.

Sam couldn’t see her anymore, his own black lover blocking his line of sight. A squeal that wavered into a moan suggested that Deshawn had entered his wife. Sam sobbed.

He kept sniffing, filling his nose with the stench of ass. Then he leaned forward, the last shreds of whatever masculine pride he still possessed dwindling into nothing.

He stuck out his tongue, tracing the rim of the puffy sphincter. The aftertaste made him whimper with disgust; it was difficult to believe Tyrone had spent the day in water.

Deshawn started to grunt; Veronica began to moan; Tyrone smirked victoriously; Sam puckered his lips and squished them against the asshole like he was kissing his wife.

“That’s right, bitch boy,” laughed Tyrone, spreading his asscheeks wide. “Tell your wife how much you love kissing black ass.”

“I love kissing black ass,” mumbled Sam, scarlet from his neck to the roots of his hair. He placed kiss after kiss on each of the buttocks, dodging the butthole.

“Fucking pussy,” spat Veronica, the sound of flesh smacking against flesh becoming louder and louder. Her moans rose in volume. “Fucking wimp!”

“You love licking black ass,” Tyrone corrected him. “Your fat-titted wife gon’ learn what a white boy does when a black man slaps his cracker ass.”

“Lick his fucking shitter, bitch!” Veronica was almost screaming now, the bed on which she was getting pounded rocking back and forth.

Sam pushed his tongue against the pooper, cringing at the taste. Wasting no time, he started lapping at the asshole. With every lick, the wrinkly starfish twitched.

Inches from his face, towering over him like some phallic statue, the black dick oozed power and precum, twitching and jerking in response to his tongue, almost hypnotically.

Beneath lay the balls, heaving, shifting, bringing to mind a slumbering beast. Sam had no choice but to stare at them while he pleasured the ass, tonguing the outer rims of the pooper. He’d given up. Couldn’t bear another slap. And when Tyrone moved on the mattress, no doubt planning another slap, Sam split his lips, embraced the shitter, and sucked on the black asshole with all his might. It worked. Tyrone lay back, groaning.

Sam didn’t know what was worse: the sounds his bully made, so deep and manly, a noise no straight guy should ever have to hear;

or his wife’s frantic moans, playing in perfect rhythm with the creaking bedposts. He’d never heard her moan like that. Not once. No matter how many times he’d gone down on her, she’d never been quite satisfied. Not like this.

Sam suckled on the shitter while tears streamed down his cheeks. The sphincter protruded; his bully was pushing his asshole out at Sam’s tongue, the pace of his breaths quickening. Sam withdrew, a few ropes of drool still connecting him to the black bum. He licked them away like an obedient housewife, cringing at the musky tang that washed over his taste buds in waves. Gleaming with spit, the asshole winked at him impatiently, demanding more. “Please,” sobbed Sam, cowering beneath the black buttocks. “I can’t— The taste—”

Tyrone grabbed his pigtails, yanked Sam forward, and forced his face between the asscheeks. Sam squealed, the firm buttocks muffling the sound of his voice. At first, he tried to push himself away. He quickly realized he stood no chance against Tyrone’s massive hands.

His trashing grew worse; Sam flailed his arms and kicked his feet and crawled around on the floor. Tyrone responded by clenching his buttocks. Sam howled. The ass was crushing his face, the powerful glutes squeezing him into submission. His lungs cried out for air.

Tyrone let him go. The moment Sam escaped the sweaty prison of ass flesh, he gasped for air. The black veil that had blossomed before his eyes faded as he filled his lungs.

Then he was hovering in the air, trapped beneath a powerful arm that had wrapped around his waist and hoisted him off the floor. Tyrone was carrying him toward the nightstand.

“A’ight, white boy,” said Tyrone, toting Sam past Deshawn and his wife, the former slamming his lap against the latter’s buttocks. “Time to clap your cheeks.”

Sam heard Tyrone open a drawer. The lump clogging his throat turned to rock and slid down his gullet. Terror gripped him by the balls and squeezed.

On the bed, bobbing back and forth, Veronica barked laughter.

Chapte Twelv

Tyrone lifted the frilly skirt to Sam’s midriff, baring his bum.

“I’m not gay,” whimpered Sam, squirming in the arm that held him. Tyrone parted his buttocks. A finger coated in sticky liquid prodded Sam’s butthole. He squealed.

“I’m not gay! I’m not gay! I’m not gay! I’m not gay! I’m not gaaay!”

“Shut your white ass up,” grumbled Tyrone, tracing the tip of his finger up and down the crack of Sam’s rump, circling the rim of his butthole, lubing it up.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” moaned Veronica. “It’s sexy to be gay.”

“No!” Sam drove his nails into the arm that held him, clawing at it like a frightened cat. “You can’t clap my cheeks! You can’t! Please! I’m begging youooohhh—”

Tyrone cut him off, forcing Sam’s butthole to swallow the tip of his finger. Blushing like a bride on her wedding night, Sam went wild, trashing as if his life depended on it.

“Stop that,” growled Tyrone, sinking his digit up to the knuckle. “You need a black dick up your ass, Sammy. It’s the only way to cure a fragile little white boy.”

The finger twisted in his bum. Sam hissed through clenched teeth. His ass was a largely untouched territory. He hadn’t had anything up there in years, not since his wife shoved a thermometer up his butt to stop him from taking a sunny Friday off work.

His butthole spasmed around the thick digit, chewing on the knuckle. Sam squirmed and wriggled but couldn’t escape the anal probe. To soothe him, Tyrone withdrew his finger, then pushed it deep, beginning - quite slowly - to finger his ass like foreplay for a vagina. “Stooop,” whimpered Sam, struggling weakly. “Veronica! Make him stop!”

“Fuck you!” Veronica drove her butt up in tune with her lover’s thrusts, her eyes rolling in their sockets. “Enjoy your dicking, hubby!”

Sam fell, suddenly and unexpectedly, landing on all fours on the bed. The black finger slid out of his butt with an audible pop. At that, a shiver ran up his spine, paralyzing him long enough for Tyrone to make his next move. Grabbing the back of Sam’s head, Tyrone shoved him down on his belly. Pinned in place, Sam had no choice but to watch Deshawn pound his wife. They were fucking like sloppy drunks, clapping flesh as if they hated each other.

“Sit tight, Sammy,” said Tyrone, sauntering over to the nightstand. Squirting lube into the palm of his hand, the black bully rubbed it all over his cock until the shaft was gleaming. Sam didn’t sit tight. When Tyrone started toward him, the wide-eyed white boy yelped and tried to crawl away. He didn’t get far. Strong hands caught his ankles, powerful arms yanked him back, and then Sam was on his belly once more, crying out as Tyrone mounted him. “You gon’ be my girl tonight,” Tyrone sneered into Sam’s ear, wrapping his bulky arm around Sam’s scrawny neck, “and I am gon’ make sure you moan like one, too.”

Tyrone lay down, the weight of his frame squishing Sam into the mattress. Sam gasped. The fat cock had slipped between his buttocks, trapped there like a hot dog between buns.

Sam’s breath got caught in his throat. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god!”

A few feet away, drooling on the bed sheets, Veronica giggled. She was watching them while Deshawn pumped her, a touch of craziness gleaming in her eyes.

Two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle shifted atop Sam’s frame. Twelve inches of black meat slid through his crack, the sticky lube on its surface rubbing off on Sam’s cheeks. The bulbous tip searched for his entrance, found it, paused, and prodded it.

“Your wife never gon’ look at you the same way,” whispered Tyrone, easing forward. “Say goodbye to your manhood, sissy.”

He pushed forward, hard, squeezing the tip of his dick against Sam’s butthole. Sam split his lips and squeaked in a voice that suggested he was of another gender.

His ass caved in, relenting to the fat cock, and Tyrone slid inside with a feral growl. Two inches of black dick broke his butthole, the rim of his sphincter convulsing frantically.

Sam howled, kicking his feet like an angry child. Tears sprayed from his eyes. Atop him, his bully sniggered, thrusting deeper, working the hefty anaconda up the tight bum.

“You’re too biiig!” Sam was almost screaming. “God, you’re so fucking big!”

“Damn right,” snarled his bully, feeding the clenching asshole a few more inches of black sausage, “and I am gon’ fuck you so hard, your white boy ass ain’t never gon’ forget it.” “Too big,” Sam moaned, clawing at the black forearm that flexed against his throat. Much to his surprise, Tyrone withdrew an inch or two, and the sensation made his own cock - soft and limp and squished in a sea of frills - twitch with pleasure. At that, Sam sobbed.

Tyrone bucked his hips, filling Sam’s ass once more, pushing deeper than before. His mouth was right by Sam’s ear, and Sam heard the pace of his breath quicken with every thrust. Fucking inch after inch of girthy cock meat into the pale ass, Tyrone held Sam tight, the sheer width of his shaft punishing the tight pooper, sending ripples of pain up Sam’s spine. A moment later, after he’d plugged the white butt with at least half his shaft, he slowed down. “You my lil’ bitch now,” he cooed, almost lovingly, into Sam’s ear, and Sam was suddenly sure his cheeks resembled the color of a ripe tomato. “Call me daddy.”

“Daddy,” whined Sam, flexing his buttocks around the black dick, squeezing the doughy mounds of butt flesh around the throbbing shaft in a vain attempt to keep it out.

Veronica howled laughter, the amused squeals wavering and fading into moans. He couldn’t see her. He was squeezing his eyes shut, trying - and failing - to relax his backside.

“Let your wife know how much you love black guys,” continued Tyrone, driving his dick so far up Sam’s rump, the brown ring chewed on the base of his cock. “Tell her.”

“I love—” Sam broke off, his words trailing off into a high-pitched moan. The cock in his ass throbbed with glee, drops of what could only be precum leaking out of its tip. It was fat and warm and veiny and filled his bottom to the brim, stretching his butthole painfully.

Tyrone thrust, flattening Sam’s raw buttocks beneath his hairy crotch. Searing pain swept over the tender asscheeks. Sam hugged the black arm with all his might, squealing.

“I love black guys! I love black guys! I love black guys! I love black guys! Fuck!”

Tyrone extracted his cock all the way to the tip, grabbed Sam by the hips, and guided him up on all fours. Sam’s eyes lolled in their sockets. He was worried his asshole would tear.

“Drag the bitch over here,” said Tyrone, angling Sam to face the mirror. “Let’s fuck these pretty white girls next to each other. We’ll give ‘em a night to remember.”

Deshawn obeyed, shuffling back while forcing Veronica to do the same. The black men lined up husband and wife next to each other, keeping both on all fours.

Sam shivered. The scent of his wife crept up his nostrils, mixing with the stench of sweat and sex. She was so close now, perhaps only a foot away, moaning softly.

Tyrone’s fat member coiled against his rear. Deshawn started to thrust, smacking his crotch against Veronica’s fat ass, making the pale buttcheeks wobble. Tyrone followed suit.

As the monstrous shaft pushed deeper into his backside, Sam collapsed, biting down on the bedsheets with all his might. Tyrone kept pushing deeper, his bulky abs clenching and bulging in response to the way Sam’s butthole started to chew on his girthy rod.

Six inches deep, Tyrone was fucking him, surprisingly gently, slowly picking up the pace. The anal reaming numbed his butthole, the searing pain faded slightly and jumbled with a sensation that could only be described as awkward. Like he needed a toilet.

With every thrust, Sam was forced to take an additional inch, and before long Tyrone was smacking his lap against one of the pale buttocks. By his side, Deshawn sped up, humping his wife like a crazed black stallion trying to impregnate its pale little mare.

Sam gave up. He couldn’t handle the overpowering sensations that coursed through his body and seeped into his mind. Tyrone was pounding him stupid. His thoughts shifted from clear to hazy and slid out of his reach. The cock pummeling his butt provided satisfying friction of skin grinding against skin, resembling the pleasurable sensation of scratching a hard-to-reach itch, taking away from the pain, paving the way for degrading delectation.

Veronica started to scream, loudly and without a care. Sam didn’t care. The shaft plugging his butt kept him from caring. The

electrifying thumps of crotch slapping buttocks lit a fire in his belly, one he’d never felt before. Beyond orgasmic in its intensity.

As he lay there, rocking back and forth, his old bully buttfucking the last shreds of his masculinity away, three ropes of sticky goo spurted from his flaccid dicklet.

He didn’t care about the way Tyrone broke out in laughter. He didn’t care about the way Veronica moaned and cried and bucked furiously against her lover. Flicking his teary gaze at the mirror, he watched himself get blacked next to his wife, moaning like a bitch in heat.

He no longer held any sway over what kind of sounds he made. He’d relented all control to the black dick punishing his backside. And when Tyrone slammed into his rear for what felt like the thousandth time, Sam pushed back, his jiggling buttocks meeting the black lap. “Your hubby just squirted on my balls,” snickered Tyrone, picking up the pace, drilling Sam’s ass harder. “Yeah, that’s right, Sammy-girl; you a real bitch now.”

Sam could only moan in response. His lips had split, his tongue hung out, and his eyes had crossed in a manner he hadn’t thought possible until today. He felt drunk.

“There’s no turning back now.” Tyrone’s voice quivered. “You about—” He broke off, growled, and started bucking furiously. “You about be a white girl, Sammy.”

Sam wasn’t listening. His world was spinning. In his bum, the fat dick seemed to swell and then throbbed. Tyrone slowed down. His fingers gripped Sam’s doughy buttocks.

Veronica screamed with pleasure, shaking as if she was having a fit. Deshawn showed no signs of slowing down, pounding the pale ass with all his strength.

Tyrone came. Burst after burst pumped out of his cock, spraying ample amounts of hot goo deep in Sam’s ass. Sam cried out in a wordless scream of ecstasy as a series of soul-shattering spasms flowed through his body. The rim of his shitter shuddered and contracted, draining the black balls, milking every drop of warm nutbutter out of the twitching shaft. Sticky sperm filled his anal canal to the brim, expanding it, clogging it.

Tyrone pulled out with a pop and a squelch, and Sam squeaked as cum spurted from his gaping asshole. Some of it shot out of his bum like water fired from a toy gun; the rest oozed out and seeped down the back of his thighs, dripping onto the bedsheets.

A few inches to the left lay Veronica, heaving for her breath, every muscle in her body twitching with the after-tremors of her orgasm. Her eyes were glazed over. Her new lover lay on top, kneading her breasts and placing kisses up and down the nape of her neck.

In the background, somewhere far away, a door opened and closed, and a female voice called out. Sam couldn’t move. His butthole was as sore as his buttocks. He’d expended all his energy taking the dicking, and now all he could do was lie there, ass in

the air, sperm sputtering from his winking rear, the hot sweaty mess that he was completely spent.

The female voice called out once more. Tyrone scrambled off Sam and staggered toward the door. Deshawn swore, clambering off Veronica. Sam lay there, exhausted, tooting cum. Before Tyrone could reach the door, a tawny face peered inside. Sam watched through his thigh gap, too well-humped to care as Amanda stepped inside, carrying a pizza.

Veronica groaned, shifting on the bed. Cum dribbled out from between her thighs. Deshawn had left her a creampie. Sam eyed her for a moment, whined, and farted cum again.

The pizza box hit the floor with a thump, cheese and pepperoni spilling everywhere.

The End