Sasuke Sarutobi

Bridgeport Slave

Chapter 1
Cadillac Heaven

Behind him came a litany of cusses that would shame even the stoutest pimps. They flowed from the mouths of a pack of boys whose hooves beat the pavement as they chased after Curtis.

The twelve-year-old wanted to look back. He wanted to see if they had gained on him. He wanted to see Joo-Joo Tim's face again.

He really didn't need to. Curtis would never forget that priceless moment when he yanked Joo-Joo's pants and underwear down in front of half of fifth grade and even Ms. Wittman had to raise her hand to hide her laughing smile. Curtis couldn't boast about any endowment downstairs, but what he had was way bigger than Joo-Joo's. Curtis had seen MaryJane's and Charleston Chew's bigger than the thing tucked between Joo-Joo's legs.

He didn't have the chance to enjoy the moment. Joo-Joo went from a quiet, casual bully to some reject character from a two-dollar Western flick. He drew his pants up almost as fast as those gunslingers would draw their guns. Curtis tore off before Joo-Joo could pull the zipper up.

Faintly Curtis had heard Joo-Joo Tim call his crew. He heard the giggling and then the shouting that went back and forth until Joo-Joo managed to get his boys to follow Curtis.

He didn't have any idea where he was now. He just ran. Better to run than get caught-at least that was what he thought.

He chanced a glance and saw the boys were right behind him. Curtis's leg begged for a break, but he pushed them further. He heard more shouting, something he couldn't make out, probably another barrage of swears. It wasn't until he ran another block that he stopped to catch his breath.

So far his only his legs had protested. Once he stopped, the rest of his body joined the chorus. His chest nearly caved in as he sucked in deep breaths. It'd be pretty embarrassing to pass out on the spot, but Curtis felt like he was about to. Slowly he lifted his head and tried to take slower breaths.

Then his heart skipped two beats.

Off in the distance bleachers rose high above the apartment buildings and stores. He could just make out the tall lights that cast down on the baseball field during night games. Suddenly he felt like the whole world stopped, and as he glanced around. Every person, every one of them white as a sheet, glared at him.

I'm in Bridgeport, he thought.

A little tingly feeling crept down his throat. His Daddy had told him to stay out of Bridgeport. Every colored kid living west of Halsted knew that. Joo-Joo's shouts suddenly came to mind and Curtis realized what he had tried to do. He had tried to warn Curtis about where they were.

A colored kid walking into Bridgeport was like a man dressed in meat walking into a lion's den. It didn't mean every lion would eat him, just the ones who got to him first.

Curtis ran his hand through his sweaty afro and tried to play it cool. If he sulked out of there maybe no one would mess with him. Then again, sulking was too slow.

His body began to shout as he thought of running, but he had no other choice. His Daddy had told Curtis about the time the white folks killed a colored boy who swam in the wrong part of Lake Michigan. They threw rocks at the kid until he passed out and drowned. Then they spread rumors that "the niggers killed a white boy" and gangs of angry whites went into colored neighborhoods beating every man, woman and child they came across.

They did that over water they didn't own, so what would they do to some skinny boy literally standing on their property?

Curtis didn't wait to find out. He summoned up the rest of his strength and peeled off back the way he had came. As he turned the corner he ran face first into a wall of plaid.

"Fucking nigger!"

Curtis fell on his behind. The jolt from the bump rode up his spine to his teeth. The boy he bumped into landed on his side. He looked at least as tall as Curtis's 16-year-old brother Jeffrey, but he was paler than any white person Curtis had ever seen. It made the boy's dark red hair stand out even more. His two friends tried to help him up, but he brushed him off.

"What the fuck you doing here, boy?" the boy shouted. Curtis couldn't bother with stupid questions like that. He broke for the space between the boy's friends, but they grabbed him.

"I'm sorry!" Curtis said. He wasn't really, but years of being grabbed and punched hard in the stomach had conditioned him to just blurt it out. "I didn't see you."

"What'd you say?" the boy said.

"That nigger called you a ghost," one of his friends said.

"No I didn't!"

"He said it again!"

"You calling me a ghost, boy?"

"No!" Curtis said. The boys crowded around him. Curtis struggled, knowing he couldn't break free, but trying anyway. "I was just running--"

"Sure you was."

"I was! I was running from Joo-Joo--"

The red-haired boy pulled Curtis by his shirt. "You call me a fucking Jew?!"

"No! No! It's Tim. That's his name. We call him Joo-Joo cuz he be stutterin' all the time! I swear!"

Curtis barely had time to close his eyes when the red-haired kid spat in his face. Nobody had ever done that to him and the shock of it lingered as the spit oozed down the crook of his nose and rolled over his lips.

Then the wind left his lungs.

Curtis's small body wrapped around the red-haired boy's fist as it drove into his stomach. The other boys let him drop to the ground. As he sucked in a breath, a white-tipped shoe slammed into his cheek. Everything went blank for a moment and then came the tangy smell that always followed a blow to the face. Between the blows came laughter.

He could just make out people looking at what the boys were doing. They looked, but they didn't stop. They kept walking. Some shook their heads, but they kept walking.

"Please 3;" Curtis managed to spit out before he got socked in the teeth.

"Kiss my ass, nigger."

"Watch your mouth, Teddy," a voice said.

The boys stopped just as quickly as they started. A tower of a man came over. He had to be the tallest person Curtis ever saw. The man looked like someone had taken him by both ends and pulled. He looked just like Teddy the red-haired boy, pale as a sheet.

The man stared at Teddy, but he didn't look angry or glad. He was completely blank. It sent another jolt up Curtis's spine.

"This nigger knocked me down," Teddy said.

"I didn't mean to," Curtis coughed. He could feel the blood running down the back of his throat. "I was runnin' and I didn't se-I mean, I wasn't lookin' and I bumped into 'em." He looked up at Teddy. "I'm sorry."

Teddy turned to the big man. "Help him up," the man said. The boys stood still for a moment, but a quick glance from the man was enough for them to obey him. They pulled Curtis to his feet, blood dripping down his face.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Curtis."

"Where do you live?"

"Off 47th."

The man looked around at the bystanders who quickly found something else to stare at. "Come on. I'll take you home."

Curtis started to say no. His Daddy would already tear the skin off him for getting in trouble at school. By now somebody would've snitched on him. The last thing he needed was another whipping for being late. But mostly he held back on saying no because he wasn't sure he could make it home by himself. He could barely see and struggled to not pass out on the spot.

The man and Teddy led Curtis to the nicest car he had ever seen. He wasn't good with car models, but he knew a Cadillac when he saw one. The baby-blue paint shimmered like water. Teddy opened the door motioned for Curtis to get in. Curtis glanced at him and saw that all the rage in Teddy's face was gone. The boy was genuinely trying to help Curtis. That confused Curtis's already aching head more.

He started to climb in when he noticed the perfect white interior. Now what kind of person would mess up a Caddie by getting blood all over the white seat? Curtis pulled back and almost fell down, but Teddy caught him. The look Teddy's father gave his son was far from gentle. The man popped the trunk and pulled out a blanket. He stretched it out on the back seat and helped Curtis into the car.

"You'll be home real soon," Curtis thought he heard the man say. He wasn't sure because once his head hit the seat cushion he was in Cadillac heaven.

The cool snap of musty basement air woke Curtis up. It was the kind of funk that got in his nose and lingered. Only now it carried the metal tang of blood. Curtis sniffed hard as he stood up. A lone yellow bulb hung in the center of the basement. Beneath it was a drain that looked like it'd stolen more than its fair share of pennies and nickels. The light didn't stretch out much further, but from the little light there was Curtis could make out a table off in one of the corners, a few chairs, something like might've been a bookcase and what used to be some kind of wall-mounted rack. Closer to him was a pile of rolled up material that could've been old bed spreads or sleeping bags. To his left was a staircase, its wood chipped with use and old age.

Curtis didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but judging from his face's puffiness, the dried blood on his clothes and the dull pain it had to be a few hours. Why hadn't the man taken him home? Daddy'll beat the skin off me for sure now, Curtis thought.

He headed up the stairs. He tugged and pushed on the door, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again, running his hand up and down the door frame checking for a lock. Nothing. He pounded on the door.

"Hey, Mister!" he shouted. "Mister! Let me out!"

Nothing.

He pounded and shouted for what seemed like a half hour before the door snatched open. The man stood in front of it, practically dwarfing the frame. Curtis tried to make his way out, but with one hand the man shoved him backwards. Curtis managed to grab the banister before he went head first into the concrete. He heard Teddy the red-haired boy giggle.

"What's with all this noise, boy?" the man said.

Curtis could feel a scowl skirt across his face. The last white guy to call him boy was a cop. Curtis had tried to be nice to him after one of the other boys stole the cops club and tossed it over a telephone pole. Or tried to. The lash wrapped around one of the wires and the cop could only watch his stick dangle. Curtis had offered the man part of his Hershey bar as an apology. The man told him to mind his business, boy. He might as well have called Curtis nigger because that was what he meant.

And here was another white man saying the same thing.

The man didn't seem to notice or care about Curtis's reaction. The man walked down the stairs in an even stride with Teddy right behind him. Curtis backed away. He wasn't sure what this guy was about, especially after locking him in the basement, but Curtis still wanted out and maybe playing nice would help.

"Thanks for helpin' me, Mister," Curtis said, his voice shaking. "Can I go home now?"

"What're you talking about?"

"You said you'd take me home, Mister. My Daddy'll tear me up if I don't get in on time."

The man smiled. "Yeah, he will. Come here."

Curtis hesitated. "What for?" he asked.

"Come here," the man said again. Something about him was off. Curtis hadn't spoken to many white folks before, but he knew that tone they used when talking to colored folks. They'd talk down to them like they were kids, sometimes like babies. This man was different.

It reminded Curtis of how people talked to dogs.

"What's your daddy do when you act up, boy?" the white man said.

"What's that got-"

"What does he do?"

"He whups me."

"You want a whupping?"

Curtis jumped back. He's gonna kill me! he thought. His eyes raced around the room, but there was only one way out and the white man and Teddy were blocking it. Curtis's heart beat so hard he could barely hear the man when he spoken again.

"Do you want a whupping?"

"You ain't my Daddy! You cain't whup me."

A smooth, John Wayne smile rode across the man's face. "I'm sure your daddy doesn't like you sassing your elders."

"You said you was gonna take me home," Curtis said, trying not to let his fear creep into his voice. He was sure it did though.

"I did?"

"Yeah. You said you would. Take me home. I won't come back here no more. I promise."

The man smiled wider as he took a step forward. Curtis tore towards the stairs. He almost got to the door before something grabbed his belt and pulled him back. He landed face first on the basement floor, bits of dust and grit popping into his mouth.

When Curtis looked up he saw Teddy hugging the railing. The white man stood there like nothing had happened. But Curtis was pretty sure that the man had yanked him down with those long arms of his.

Why won't he just take me home? Curtis thought. He'd never tell anyone what happened. He'd never come to Bridgeport again. He wouldn't even mess with Joo-Joo Tim anymore.

"Take off your clothes, boy," the man said.

Curtis glared at him. "No," Curtis said. He'd gotten bare-assed whuppings before. Even if Curtis would let this white guy whup him, he wasn't taking off his clothes.

"You're just gonna have to kill me," Curtis said. "Cuz I ain't taking my clothes off."

The man's face went completely blank. Curtis had never seen anything like that before. The man's eyes looked like glass. It reminded him of the mannequins in Marshall Fields. Absolutely dead.

"Do it," the man said. He put his hand on his belt, fingering the buckle. "I won't tell you again."

Curtis backed away. "Please, Mister," he said. "I 3; I just wanna go home."

The boy's face jerked to the side. When he looked up he saw the man's belt in his hand. Curtis hadn't even seen him pull it free. The boy touched his lip. He wasn't bleeding, but it sure felt like it.

"Plea-" Curtis couldn't get the words out before the belt smacked him in the lips. He stared at the man, but the man's expression didn't change. His hands shaking, Curtis unbuttoned his bloody shirt and pulled it off. As he started to fold his shirt, the man snatched it from him and tossed it aside. With a sniff, Curtis kicked his shoes off and tossed them with his shirt.

He stood there in his undershirt, shorts and socks. The cool basement air sent shivers through the boy's body, changing the boy's dull pain to throbbing aches.

"Take them off," the man said.

"Please, Mister 3;"

"You're a hardheaded nigger, aren't you?"

It took everything Curtis had not to swing on the man. He'd been called nigger tons of times by other colored kids and grown ups, but never by a white person. Never the way they said. Never to really make Curtis think he wasn't even human.

"I ain't no nigga," Curtis said. It came out much weaker than he meant. The man swung the belt. This time Curtis saw it coming and held up his arm. The belt wrapped around it, snapping to a stinging halt. Curtis jerked it as hard as he could, but so did the man. The strap wound tighter on Curtis's arm, pulling him towards the man. The man grabbed Curtis by the jaw, his fingers digging into the soft underside, pushing Curtis's tongue out of his mouth.

The sudden pain of his balls grinding into his pelvis almost made Curtis pass out. His body went limp from the shock and it took him a moment to realize the man had kneed him in the balls. The man jerked Curtis back to his feet using the belt and socked him again. Curtis screamed a high-pitched yelp.

"Your Daddy must tan your hide everyday, nigger. Take them off."

"W-why?" Curtis said. The man pulled Curtis up again by the arm. The boy slipped his free thumb into his shorts and pulled them down, suddenly feeling horrible for what he'd done to Joo-Joo.

"He's got a baby dick," Teddy said.

"Well there's one rumor that isn't true," the man said as he looked down at Curtis's crotch. His dick wasn't tiny, but Curtis knew that like everything else about him, it was small for his age. Nobody other than his brother and his Daddy has seen him completely naked. He'd been spared the embarrassing taunts at gym because none of the other boys changed without wrapping towels around themselves first. The basement's chilled air kissing Curtis naked body didn't help.

"Take your shirt off and turn around and put your hands on that wall," the man said as he unwrapped the belt from around Curtis's arm. The boy didn't even bother to argue. He pulled the shirt off and stumbled over to the wall and leaned against it. It was colder than he expected. The man kicked his legs apart.

The first whack sent a thick streak of pain up Curtis's back. He screamed more from surprise than the pain. The second time it was the pain. The blows landed on the bruises the boys gave him earlier. Each hit made Curtis arch his back and howl.

"Not a sound," the man said. But Curtis couldn't help it. The blows tore into his body, drove all the way to his bones. His hand slipped off the wall and he fell to the ground sobbing.

"Get up, nigger," the man said. Curtis tried to push himself to his feet. "You know better than to be come into Bridgeport. You're supposed to stay on the nigger's side. By all rights I should kill you."

"Don't kill me!" Curtis begged. It'd been easy before to say "just kill me," but now he was pretty sure the man would actually do it.

"I won't come back!" he shouted. "I swear I won't come back! Don't kill me!"

The man jerked Curtis up. The boy's shoulders heaved as he backed against the wall. There wasn't anywhere else he could go. "Get me that rope on the shelf," the man said to his son.

"Please, Mister."

The man glared at Curtis. He tossed his belt onto his shoulder and folded his arms. "I can do anything I want. I could kill you on the street and there isn't a soul who'd say I did it. Give me a reason not to kill you."

Damned if this wasn't the wrong time for Curtis's mind to go blank. He couldn't think of a single thing. "I won't come back," he muttered.

"You can't come back if you're dead, nigger," the man said as he took the rope from his son. "Get over by that staircase," he said to Curtis.

The boy obeyed. For a moment he thought about running for the door again, but he didn't know where exactly he was. If he was in the middle of Bridgeport there wasn't a single white person who'd help him.

The man took Curtis's wrists and tied them tight. The boy's hands deepened to a dark red. The man looped the slack around the highest part of the banister. With a quick tug he hoisted Curtis off the floor. He tied off the slack, leaving Curtis dangling, his toes just skipping on the ground.

"My grandfather used to say the only way to get the truth out of a nigger was to beat him."

"P-please," Curtis sobbed. "I-I 3;" He searched for something to say, anything. "I'll do whateva you want," he said. "Whateva. Please don't kill me."

The belt slammed into his back. Curtis hollered so hard he almost threw up.

"Whatever I tell you to?" the man said as his whipped the belt deep into Curtis' arm pit. Curtis jerked to the side, his tender flesh stinging.

"Anything you want!" he cried.

"That's not what you say, now is it?"

"I-I don't know what you mean."

The man belted Curtis again. The boy squirmed, but he could only sway side to side.

"Your Daddy didn't teach you to show respect to your betters?"

"Ye-yeah he did 3; sir."

"No, that's not it either." The man tore into Curtis harder than before. Curtis bit his tongue. It was the only thing he could do to keep from screaming.

"I own you, boy. I'm going to do anything I want with you. You know what makes you?"

"No 3;"

The man swung again, the belt wrapping around to middle of Curtis' chest.

"Yes, you do," the man said. "What does it make you?" He didn't wait for Curtis to speak. The belt popped the boy hard in the mouth. Blood trickled down his chin. It reminded him of the time he'd swore at his Daddy. He'd never seen his Daddy that mad. He couldn't remember much about what happened, except the part when his Daddy said he was going to beat him like a slave.

"I'm a slave," Curtis sobbed.

"You're my slave 'what'?"

"I'm your slave, sir."

"Is that what you call your owner?"

Curtis cringed. He knew what the man wanted, but didn't want to say it. He thought about his Grand-daddy's stories about his father. He had been a kid during the Civil War. Curtis knew some of what happened to him. The beatings. The salt in the wounds. The starvation. Other things his Granddaddy wouldn't say. Curtis couldn't imagine what it was like being owned before, but now he could. As much as he hated himself for doing it, he did what the man asked.

"Mah 3; M-master 3;"

"No, that's not the way you say it," the man said swinging again. Curtis could hearing the wetness and knew he was bleeding.

"Say it right," the man said.

Another blow came. What'd the man mean by say it right? He'd called him what he wanted. Another blow smacked into his naked thighs. Pain seared all the way to his groin. Curtis tried to think about what the man wanted when he remembered the way the housemaids always talked in movies. If his Daddy heard him talking like that he'd 3;

"M-massuh," Curtis whispered.

The man struck him hard. "Say it louder."

"Massuh."

"Louder." The belt sailed across Curtis' face.

"Massuh!" Curtis screamed.

The man finally cut loose on Curtis. He punctuated his every word with another blow to some tender part of Curtis' body.

"What are you, boy?"

"I'm a slave, Massuh"

"What kind of slave?"

"U-uh 3; a nigger slave, Massuh?"

"Don't ask me. Tell me."

"I'm a nigga slave, Massuh."

"And you aren't ever leaving, are you nigger?"

"No, Massuh. I'm gonna be a good nigga slave, Massuh."

"Or you'll be a dead nigger."

Curtis thought he felt something touch his hair, but he couldn't be sure. His head felt heavy and he was too tired to hold it up.

Pain woke Curtis up. His twelve-year-old body hung limp from the banister. His wrists felt like someone tried to pull his hands off. He couldn't even feel his fingers. The tension ran down to his shoulders into his chest, and the more he tried to breathe, the more it hurt. Any little movement, even just swaying, lit his back on fire. All he could do was cry, but even that hurt.

He didn't know how long he hung there. From the smell he knew he'd peed and shit himself. Every now and then he swayed into it.

The door creaked open. He felt the rope slacken and suddenly dropped to the floor. As much as that hurt, he was relieved to get his arms down. The man came around the staircase and stared at Curtis's mess.

"You're smelling up my basement."

"I'm sorry 3; Massuh," Curtis whimpered. He barely got the words out. All the screaming made his throat raw and he didn't have an ounce of spit to swallow. But mostly he hated saying them. There had to be a way out. Maybe if he played along with the man he'd get his fill like bullies always did and then let Curtis go.

The man picked up the slack of the rope and jerked Curtis forward. The boy landed on his knees in front of the man. He untied Curtis's hands. The rush of fresh blood made them cramp.

"You're going to clean up that mess, nigger."

"Yes, Massuh." Curtis looked around, but he didn't see anything to pick the crap up with. He didn't want to, but the only thing left were his hands. Squinting, he reached for it. The man's shoe caught Curtis in the nose.

"No. You use your mouth."

Curtis looked at the man. He couldn't be serious. That was nasty. That was beyond nasty. Even pigs didn't eat their own mess.

The man slipped his fingers around his belt and pulled it free in one move. The sides were covered in quarter-size studs. Just the thought of those tearing into him made Curtis shake.

"Please, Massuh," he said. All he saw was the flash of silver. The belt got him on the face and shoulder, the studs catching his cheek and collarbones. He squealed, only to receive another strike.

"No talking without permission. And that includes screaming. I don't want to hear you unless I say so, understand?"

Curtis started to answer, but thought better of it. He nodded his head instead.

"Clean it up," the white man said.

Lips trembling, Curtis lowered his head down to his shit. It smelled horrible, worse than cow shit. It wasn't just the shit either. The pee was rank and smelled like the stuff his Ma used to clean the sink with. His stomach tried to push what was left it in back up his throat.

There's not a lot of it, he thought, only to feel even worse for thinking it. He closed his eyes and lowered his head until he felt the cold stool touch his lips. He scooped as much of it in his mouth as he could, swallowed and immediately threw up.

The belt slashed across his back. "Eat it," the man said.

Curtis eyes ached as the tears came. Trembling, he tried again. The man belted him once more. Curtis gulped down the mess and quickly lapped up the pee. It tasted awful, like swallowing a pool of ammonia spiked with salt. His stomach churned and he swallowed hard to keep it down, but he couldn't stop the retching.

"Stand up," the man said. Curtis struggled to his feet. The man lifted his chin and smacked the boy in the face. "Next time you keep it down. You see that chair? Go to it."

Curtis wobbled to the chair. Its wood frame looked worn. The cushion was gone, but the support panels were still there. The legs all had ropes tied to them. It took a moment for it to sink in, and before Curtis could back away, the man took him by the waist and leaned the boy over the top of the chair. He pulled Curtis's already sore arms down and tied them with the rope from the front legs. Curtis' arms barely reached past the seat cushion panels. The man tugged Curtis' lower half as tight as he could. Curtis groaned as the wood cut into this skin and pressed hard against his pelvis. His legs were tied to the back of the chair. His toes brushed against the wood, but couldn't reach the floor.

All Curtis could think of now was that his butt was completely exposed. The man could tear him apart and there wasn't anything he could do about it. Only no hit came. He heard the man behind him shuffling around. What was he doing?

He heard the man spit and felt it roll down his exposed butt crack. Some of it made its way to his balls and dripped down. It felt worse than when Teddy spit in his face. All Curtis could do was stay still and wait for the man to pound him with the belt. Curtis could practically feel the little metal studs tearing into him.

Suddenly a peel of pain tore out of the boy. Something was in his butt! Something was actually inside his butt!

"S-stop, Massuh!" he shouted. Pain tore across his shoulders. The studs banged against his head.

"What'd I say before, nigger?" the man said. He swung the belt hard enough for Curtis to hear it before it connected. He hissed and coughed, but he didn't scream.

"N-no sounds, Massuh 3;" he answered. "I'll be quiet, Massuh."

"No," the man laughed, "you won't."

The man shoved whatever it was further into Curtis's butt. The boy tried to hold his breath to keep from screaming, but it only made his chest hurt more, and that only added to his nausea from eating the shit and piss and having most of the blood rush to his head.

It wasn't until he felt the thing pull out that Curtis realized it was the man's finger inside him.

The man worked his finger deep into the boy's butthole. It felt like taking a dump in the reverse, like the man was clawing at Curtis's insides, practically trying to drag them out.

The pain got immediately worse when the man forced another finger in. Curtis groaned loudly. The belt smacked him in the face, blood trickling into his eye. The man spread his fingers, widening Curtis's hole. Another sob escaped, another blow from the belt came. The boy tried to cry as softly as he could, but every time he thought he could keep from screaming the man found a new way to twist his fingers or force them deeper into Curtis to drill out another sound. His right side ached from all the strikes. The basement was a perfect echo chamber and almost every little sound Curtis made came out much louder.

When the man finally pulled his fingers out, Curtis exhaled. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath again. The man came around and stuck his fingers under Curtis's mouth. They smelled like mess and looked like too, expect for the small flecks of red and pink. The man didn't move his hand. He didn't speak.

Curtis wanted to turn away, but he couldn't. His head was locked in place by his shoulders. Even if he could turn away, he already knew it'd be a bad idea. The man would just force his fingers into Curtis's mouth like he'd done with his butt. Curtis thought about it for a second longer and then opened his mouth. The man shoved the fingers in, probing the boy's mouth as viciously as he'd probed the boy's other hole. Curtis did his best to work the bits of mess off the fingers, swallowing them as fast as he could so he wouldn't have to taste it. The man pulled them free and dried them in Curtis's hair.

The boy closed his eyes as the man walked back behind him. Tears fell. He didn't understand why the man was doing this. He didn't understand why the man wouldn't just let him go. But now he knew why his Granddaddy hated white people so much. He was glad his Granddaddy was dead. Curtis would never be able to look him in the eye after this.

A very familiar sound cut into Curtis's thoughts. He'd heard it hundreds of times. The sliding metal wasn't something any kid would ever forget. Half the time they played with their zippers out of boredom. The tears fell faster. It was bad enough the man had spit on him. Now he was going to pee on him too.

Only he didn't feel the warm stream. He heard the man breathing fast. The twelve-year-old boy searched his mind for all the things that someone could do to make that sound, but nothing came to him 3;

At least not until pain seared into his butthole. Curtis screamed hard enough to rock the chair. No belt hit came, but he felt the man's hands dig into his hips.

The man's dick was inside him!

Curtis knew it. He could feel the man's legs against the back of his thighs. He could feel the man's weight leaning against him. The boy's mind raced trying to figure out why the man would do something like that. Nobody did that kind of stuff except for 3;

"I ain't no sissy, Massuh 3;" Curtis sobbed. "I ain't no sissy. I don't like boys, Massuh."

The man scoffed. "I'm no queer, and you aren't a boy. You're a nigger. And to think I was going to go slow for you."

The pain eased as the man's dick slipped out. Then he rammed deep it into Curtis's bowels, almost making the boy vomit again. The boy squealed as the fire tore in and out of his belly. The man gripped him hard, driving his fingers into the boy's flesh. Curtis bucked forward with each thrust. He sobbed hard, drool oozing out of his mouth .

"Like that cock, nigger?"

It felt like Curtis was taking the worst bowel movement of his life, one that wouldn't go out, but just sat there pushing the walls of his butthole to their limit.

"Your little nigger ass is made for cock!" the man shouted. Curtis shrieked as the man rammed it into him. The man worked Curtis's butthole with his dick, digging deeper into the boy, leaning on the bottom rungs of the chair to drive further inside. Curtis could see the man's naked legs as they shook with each pump. Every time the man drove deeper inside the boy, he pulled Curtis's legs up the sides of the chair. Splinters of wood wedged into the boy's flesh, but it wasn't enough to take his mind off the burning in his bowels. Speeding up, the man stepped onto the panels where the cushion had once been. He leaned over Curtis's bound body, breathing on the boy's back.

"You want this cock, don't you boy?"

Curtis's mind went blank, but he thought he heard himself say, " 3; Yes, Massuh."

"You love it."

"I love it, Massuh," Curtis sobbed. He heard the man grunt more commands, dirty things he'd heard his Daddy say to his Ma when they said they were "arguing" at night. All he could manage between the sobs was "Yes, Massuh." The only thing on the boy's mind was the dick working its way in and out of him. It scorched his insides with every thrust.

The man grunted and howled. There was a wet slap when the man pulled out of the boy. Curtis sucked in deep breaths between his cries. He'd promised to do anything the man said as long as he didn't kill him, but now all Curtis wanted was to die. Nothing could be worse than what just happened.

"Clean it," the man said. Curtis lifted his head and for a moment stopped crying. He'd never seen a white man's dick before and never another guy's hard dick. It arched up to the left. The tip was wide and thick, but the middle was skinnier. It hung there throbbing, a purplish mass covered in Curtis's mess and blood. The man didn't wait for Curtis's response. He took the boy's head and shoved his dick into the boy's mouth as Curtis sucked in a breath.

The taste wasn't as bad as eating his mess, but it was still awful. Curtis let his lips close around the man's dick as the man shoved it in and out of his mouth. A few times he pushed it down Curtis's throat, making the boy gag hard. The man shook with each pump, slowly grinding his hips like Curtis had seen some of the older boys do with girls on the dance floor.

Suddenly something warm splashed against the back of his throat. Instinctively Curtis swallowed, but he didn't really have a choice. The man held his head firm as glob after glob of warmth pumped out. Curtis swallowed as much of the man's nut as he could before the man yanked his dick free.

The man lifted the boy's head until their eyes met. "Like I said," the man said, "you'll do whatever I want or I'll kill you."

Curtis looked away. He didn't care anymore. The man could kill him right now. Who'd want anything to do with a boy who'd had another man's dick in his butt and in his mouth?

"Or," the man continued. "I can find your family."

Curtis's eyes shot up.

"Nobody'd miss a few niggers."

"Please, Massuh 3;" Curtis sobbed. "Don't hurt 'em!"

"What're you going to give me then?"

The boy sniffed. Only one thing came to his mind. "You can put your dick in me again, Massuh. I won't scream or cry neither. I'll swallow your nut, too. Just don't hurt 'em 3;"

"You'll let me fuck you."

Curtis paused. His Daddy always said fucking was what you did to whores. The boy's head dropped. "Yeah 3;"

"Say it."

"I'll let you fuck me, Massuh."

The man tilted Curtis's head up further. Their eyes met again. "And you'll like it."

Dizziness swirled around the boy's head. It was such a disgusting thing to ask for. Why would Curtis like something like that? But he didn't want his family hurt. And he didn't want to feel that belt anymore.

"I'll love it, Massuh," he said. "I can't wait to do 3; to fuck again, Massuh."

Letting the boy's head drop, the man patted Curtis on the head. "That's a good nigger."

The boy's chest heaved with sobs. Every breath Curtis took puckered his loosened hole. He could still feel the white man's dick inside him probing around the edges of his guts, trying to push its way into his stomach. The taste of his own mess and the white man's nut lingered in his mouth. Curtis wanted to throw up, but he didn't have the strength to force himself to. He'd hoped he would pass out like he had before, but he hadn't.

When the white man left he'd turned off the single light bulb hanging from the basement ceiling. It felt like days passed, but Curtis knew that wasn't true. The white man hadn't been gone long at all. It was just the pain. The pain in his shoulders from having them stretched for hours now. The pain in his legs from the splintered wood digging into them. The pain pulsing from his butthole to the inside of his belly.

A lock turned. Curtis panicked. He'd promised to be good, but the fear took him and he screamed when the door opened. Teddy stood there for a moment.

"Stupid nigger," the red-haired boy said as he came down the stairs. He had a glass in his hand.

"Dad said to drink some of this," Teddy said. He lifted the small boy's head and put the glass to his lips. Curtis sipped it cautiously until he tasted the cool blandness of water. He gulped down as much as he could before Teddy pulled the glass away. The older boy turned as the sound of footsteps echoed.

Now Curtis knew to panic. He managed to avoid screaming as the white man came down the stairs. Teddy leaned over and patted Curtis's head. "I'm real sorry," he said to Curtis.

The Curtis watched as Teddy stepped aside so his father could pass. It was a weird thing to see and it reminded him of how scared Teddy had looked before when the white man stopped him from beating Curtis to death.

"Watch," the white man said as Teddy headed out of the basement. The older boy turned around with a curious look on his face.

"That's okay," Teddy said.

"Sit," the white man said, turning on the light. He might as well have called Teddy a 'nigger'. It sounded just the same to Curtis. And just like Curtis, Teddy didn't bother to argue. He sat down on the second step after he closed the basement door.

The white man stood in front of Curtis and stripped. Tears fell down the boy's face, but even through his blurry vision Curtis could see the white man was in great shape. Every muscle flexed as the man leaned down to pull off his pants. The man paused as he slipped his thumbs into the band of his underwear. Curtis wiggled his fingers in an effort to pull free, but he wasn't going anywhere.

The man whirled his limp dick in front of the Curtis's face, slapping it against the boy's jaw a few times. Curtis just wanted it to be over. He opened his mouth and waited for the white man's dick to slip in. Instead, the man kept slapping his dick against the boy's face. After a few more pops, the dick stiffened to its full length.

The man's dickhead looked like a purple mushroom. Clear slime drooled out of it. Curtis choked back a gag and worked his lips around the head. The taste wasn't as bad as before. There was a hint of soap on it. The clear slime was another matter. It was sweet and tangy. Not outright disgusting, but nothing Curtis wanted in his mouth.

The rest of the man's dick slipped into the boy's mouth easily. The white man crammed his cock in up to his pubes and pulled out slowly only to shove it all the way in again. Curtis gagged and choked, spit and clear slime oozing out the corners of his mouth. With each moan, the man shoved his dick further down Curtis's throat.

Curtis realized that the man was matching his moans, pacing his pumps with each sound of pain Curtis made. The man enjoyed his pain!

That gave the boy an idea. He sucked as hard as he could on the white man's dick, imagining that he was sucking on the best Tootsie Pop ever. Tears flowed down his face, but he tried to pretend to like sucking on the man's dick. He wanted it over and figured that if the man squirted busted a nut again he'd be done with Curtis for a while.

The man matched Curtis's new enthusiasm by probing the boy's mouth at an angle. He pushed the side of Curtis's face into his pubes while his dick tried to poke a whole in Curtis's cheek. The man's balls slapped against the boy's chin, sticking there with sweat for a moment, then peeling off.

Curtis gasped when the man finally pulled free. The man glanced at his son before spitting on his hand and rubbing his dick. He paced around to Curtis's ass. The squeal that came out of the boy made even the white man wince. He didn't give a warning when he shoved his dick in all the way to his pubes.

He pulled his dick out all the way to the head and plowed back into the boy's ass. Waves of pain pulsed down Curtis's spine. The only thing he could think was, "don't scream." If he screamed, the man would pound him worse. So Curtis groaned weird things like "It feels good, Massuh" and "I love it, Massuh."

That riled the man up. He sped up his pumping, pounding the boy's ass hard enough to make the chair scoot across the floor. He didn't say a word. He just grunted softly every time his hips slapped into the boy's tiny ass. He stepped onto where the cushion used to be and arched his butt into the air.

His body dwarfed the little boy's. Curtis stopped faking enjoyment and howled in agony. That only seemed to fuel the man more. The snap of his hips became faster and tighter. His short pumps didn't give the kid a chance for a break. His dick drove its way deep into the boy's bowels, relentlessly tearing into him as the man's grunts got louder and louder.

His noises were no longer human and neither were Curtis's. Animal grunts poured out of the man as Curtis squealed. The sound of the boy's cries were muted by the man's howls. He arched his back, digging as deep as he could into Curtis's butthole.

Fire washed the boy's insides, and then oozed its way down the boy's balls. As the man relaxed, the back leg of the chair snapped. The man's foot slipped as the rest of the chair collapsed. The man landed on top of Curtis, his dick still impaling the boy.

Teddy hopped off the stairs to help his father up. Curtis gasped hard. It felt like he was choking, but there was nothing in his throat. The man lifted Curtis up. Air eased into the boy's lungs. It took a moment for Curtis to notice how gentle the man's touch was. The white man's face, however, was stone cold.

"Can you breathe?" the man asked.

Curtis gagged on his first words. In his second attempt he managed to wheeze out, "I'm fine, Massuh."

"You better be," the man said. He dropped Curtis, letting the boy's head hit the cement floor. As much as it hurt, Curtis welcomed the sudden, sharp pain. It took his mind off his aching butthole.

"I'd hate to lose a nigger slave before I got my fill," the man said. He motioned to Teddy. "Untie him."

As Teddy untied Curtis, the man got dressed. Teddy was much gentler than his father. He stripped the ropes off Curtis's wrists and ankles and carried the boy back to the corner near the stairs. Curtis closed his eyes. The blow to his head started to settle in. He felt Teddy lift him up again and put something warm but covered in dust around him.

Teddy eased Curtis's head to a small pillow he made out of Curtis's clothes. Curtis moaned softly. His vision blurred. As everything faded, he heard Teddy whisper something that sounded a lot like, "I'm real sorry."

Chapter 2
Basic Training

The regrets were fleeting, momentary mental hiccups. Eventually they passed, but before they did they plagued Thomas.

That was just what the nigger in the basement was doing.

Thomas had offered to take the Negro boy named Curtis home after Theodore and his friends pummeled the boy. But after getting the boy in his car, Thomas's mind drifted and an old thought surfaced.

For years Thomas wanted someone for the house. Loretta was about as reliable as a dog in heat. She spent more time with her mother and sister than at the house. She claimed it was because there were too many memories of Franklin, but Thomas suspected that she had found someone else, and he was pretty sure that someone wasn't a man.

Several times he found clothes in the closet he knew Loretta did not own. The smell coming off them matched Loretta's perfume, but it was mixed with another. Whoever this other woman was had all of Loretta's attention, leaving Thomas to deal with the house, the cooking, the cleaning, and his remaining son by himself.

It also left him without an outlet for his other business. He was never keen on handling it himself. He preferred someone else to do the honors. In that department, Loretta was completely unskilled. That was his first clue of her real sexual proclivities. It amazed him that they managed to have two children given how terrible she was at sex. He tolerated it only because it gave him some way to get off.

He thanked God for the family tradition.

Thomas hated to admit it, but between his two sons he loved Franklin the most. Theodore had Thomas's love, but Franklin had his heart. It took two years for Thomas to pull himself together after his son died. He missed the boy deeply. His eyes, his smile, his hair, his smell, his laugh. His ass.

That more than anything had won Thomas's heart. Franklin loved the family tradition. Theodore simply went along with it. Thomas made it a point never to hurt them. The family tradition was about the love between men. The love between father and son. Love shared in the deepest ecstasy.

It was a corny line his father told him years before when Thomas learned the family tradition, but he found it to be true. Even Theodore, who seemed to hate every minute of it, got lost in the ecstasy sometimes.

Franklin took to the tradition in earnest. When Thomas came home Frankie would greet him with a deep kiss. He would climb on Thomas's lap as they watched television and squeeze his butt cheeks against Thomas's cock. The boy had been fascinated by his father's cock and played with it every chance he got.

But with Franklin gone there just wasn't much Thomas could get out of the family tradition. His heart was gone, and the more he thought about it, the angrier it made him. No one, not a single person in his family had ever died of cancer. But there were plenty who had died of it in Loretta's family. Even though he knew otherwise, he felt his wife had killed his son.

That anger soured everything. What little love he felt for Loretta vanished. He could care less who she fucked. He still loved Theodore, but found it impossible to show it. When his son had tried to make love to him shortly after Frankie's death, Thomas let his rage go and left his only son shaking in pain. It took hours to clean the blood out of the sheets, and a pink stain still remained on Theodore's bed.

It was at that point that Thomas realized he needed someone else. Someone to take care of the house and its needs, but mostly someone for his needs. This pain and rage couldn't stay inside. He needed it out, and the Negro boy was perfect.

Thomas had nothing against Negros. He actually rather liked them. He didn't care at all about where Negros lived, where they ate, where they worked. As long as they didn't bother anyone and behaved themselves he could get along with them.

But the Negro boy was different. It wasn't what or who he was so much as who he looked like.

He looked like Franklin.

The Negro boy's nose was flatter and wider. His lips were thicker. His skin obviously darker. But his eyes were the same. Those deep brown eyes full of life and love.

It disgusted Thomas. Here this boy, this Negro, this nigger got to live while his son rotted in the ground. How was that fair? Why should this nigger get Franklin's love instead of Franklin himself?

The more Thomas thought about it as he drove the boy home, the more his anger told him that someone had to pay. He didn't give a damn about his useless, lesbian wife and he didn't want to take it out on Theodore again.

But this nigger was perfect. He, the very antithesis of Franklin, would get it all. Where Franklin had been Thomas's heart, so would the nigger. The nigger would be his blacken heart, dead and cold, merciless and enraged. The nigger would get everything Thomas's heart had to give until there was nothing left.

For a moment, a fleeting mental hiccup, Thomas thought his intent was too cruel. This boy had done nothing to him, yet Thomas wanted to make him suffer. Surely Franklin wouldn't have wanted that.

But the regret lasted for only a breath.

He already had the nigger. He'd already beaten the nigger. He'd already fucked the nigger. The nigger was already his plaything. And wasn't that what they were best at? Hadn't they proven to be best at being slaves more than anything else? All these years of freedom, almost a century's worth, and they'd done more as slaves than they had as free men. Why not put the nigger back in his rightful place?

It seemed only fair. If Thomas should suffer, the nigger should, too.

Taking a sip from his coffee, Thomas watched the little nigger boy squirm in his sleep. He figured the nigger, Curtis if Thomas recalled rightly, couldn't have been any older than twelve or thirteen. The nigger's voice was just beginning to break, but the rest of his body hadn't caught up yet. The boy's cock was still small, his balls smooth.

Listening to the boy's soft moans made Thomas's cock squeeze against his pants. He'd always wanted a slave. Ever since his Grandpa Vernon told him stories about living in Virginia Thomas had fantasized about owning a couple of niggers. He never told anyone. Half the time he tried to convince himself those thoughts weren't his own, but he couldn't help wondering what it owning a few would have been like.

Grandpa Vernon always said it was best to have more than one nigger just case they got sick, died, or tried to run away. He said the younger they were the better because they'd accept their condition more. Grandpa Vernon would weave tales about "breaking a buck," tearing down their wills until they submitted unconditionally.

Thomas couldn't wait to break Curtis. Looking at the nigger boy's shivering body already covered in welts and bruises made Thomas's imagination grow. There were thousands of things he wanted to try.

But now it was sinking in that it wasn't just enough to break the nigger. Thomas would have to keep him alive. This was a nigger boy after all. He couldn't wail on the nigger forever. The nigger would need time to heal.

The other nagging thought was something Grandpa Vernon spoke about a few times. Those were the only times when his grandfather sounded like he regretted being a slave-owner. Sometimes he would speak about a slave being pushed so far that there was nothing left. There was no going back once it was done. Grandpa Vernon never said what the niggers acted like after they ended up like that. Thomas was curious, but all that would come in time. For the moment, he needed to get the nigger to know his place.

Thomas headed back to the kitchen and returned with a plate of bacon, eggs, and oatmeal. His good for nothing lesbian wife had cooked, probably just for Theodore. But Teddy had left for school already, and there was no point in wasting food.

A smile danced across Thomas's face. Thoughts of Ivan Petrovich Pavlov crept into his mind. He set the plate of food down and watched the nigger boy.

"Get up, boy," Thomas said.

The nigger flinched. Thomas repeated his command. The nigger rolled over, his face scrunched in agony as he put weight on his welts. He struggled to his feet. Knees wobbling, the nigger balanced himself on the banister.

"Kneel on the stairs," Thomas said. The nigger shuffled over to the stairs and eased down on his knees. Thomas fought a grin. Grandpa Vernon had told him dozens of stories about the things he'd have his slaves do. One of them Thomas desperately wanted to try out just to see if it could actually work.

The nigger glanced at Thomas once, then his eyes leveled on the plate and stayed there. A loud grumble told Thomas all he needed to know. He placed the plate on his lap, the nigger's eyes following in tow.

"Hungry, nigger?" Thomas asked. The nigger nodded, but didn't speak. "I bet you would like a piece of this bacon?" Thomas held up the strip pork, the smell pluming off it. He had half a mind to swing the strip back and forth just to see if the nigger's eyes would follow it. Instead, he opened his mouth and slowly munched on the juicy morsel, smacking loudly as he savored the salty tang.

The nigger's stomach growled louder. His eyes began to swim.

"I guess you want some breakfast?" Thomas said. The nigger boy nodded. Thomas shook his head. "What did I tell you yesterday, nigger?"

The nigger's head lowered a bit. "Yes, Massuh," he said, his hoarse voice barely a whisper. "Can I get some breakfast, Massuh?"

Thomas again fought back a grin. The nigger boy was just too perfect.

"Oh sure," Thomas said. He lifted the plate. The boy looked at him with awe. "Well?" Thomas said.

The boy started to reach for the plate. Thomas lifted it higher. "Did I say you could have my breakfast? Here's your breakfast." Thomas pushed his swelling cock against his pants. The nigger's eyes closed, but he didn't cry.

"Come on," Thomas said as he spread his legs. "I don't want you to starve."

"P-please 3;" the nigger said. He looked at Thomas, tears kissing the edges of his eyelashes. "I mean, please, Massuh."

For a moment Thomas considered giving the Negro boy a piece of bacon, but the nigger's eyes looked so much like Franklin's in his last moment that Thomas could barely choke back the anger.

He let his body go numb, let all the feeling drain away. He saw the nigger flinch, and guessed that the change was visible.

The nigger boy obliged him without any noise or whimpers. He climbed the stairs and perched between Thomas's knees. Once there, he looked up at Thomas. This time Thomas couldn't hold the grin. It slid across his face. The nigger shrunk down in fear, but kept looking at Thomas and that made the man smile harder. The nigger boy was actually asking for permission to unzip Thomas's pants. Thomas nodded.

The nigger's hands were as soft as cotton. He fished Thomas's cock out and kissed it.

"Go slow," Thomas said. "Treat it like the last meal you'll ever get."

The nigger winced before slipping his tongue around Thomas's cock head and sucking it into his mouth. Thomas lifted the fork from the plate and scooped some of the eggs up. His cock pulsed as the nigger ran his tongue under Thomas's cock head and played with his foreskin. The nigger dipped down further, sliding his wet lips over Thomas's shaft. Thomas swallowed the eggs as the nigger struggled to push more cock into his mouth.

The nigger's stomach grumbled. Even though the nigger focused on sucking Thomas's cock, his eyes were on the plate of food. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking against Thomas's piss hole every time the boy brought his head up. He pushed down hard with his lips, not letting any spit dribble down. It took a moment for Thomas to realize the boy's pace matching the clicking of the fork against the plate.

A chuckle rose in Thomas's chest. The nigger was actually doing what Grandpa Vernon said. He was so hungry that he couldn't help but think Thomas's cock tasted like bacon and eggs.

Closing his eyes, the nigger bobbed his head up and down. It occurred to Thomas that this might not have been the first time the nigger had sucked a cock. The nigger wasn't great at it, but he seemed to have a good idea what to do.

"Go faster," Thomas said. The nigger muttered something unintelligible through a mouthful of cock and sped up. He placed his hands on the step just under Thomas's balls and leaned forward. His head rocked up and down, slowly gaining rhythm. From Thomas's view the nigger looked like he was bobbing his head to music.

"Keep your lips tight," Thomas said as a wave of pleasure pulsed down his cock. His balls twitched, and without command the nigger cupped them with both hands. He pushed them up towards Thomas's shaft, massaging them with his fingers as his tongue rolled around Thomas's cock.

The nigger's fingers explored Thomas's balls, feeling every wrinkled, caressing the wiry hairs. Moans of pleasure rose from the nigger's throat as he quickened his paced. He crammed Thomas's cock into his mouth, using Thomas's balls to push more of it in.

As Thomas finished the last of his food, he finally let go. A stream of warm semen pumped out of his cock. The nigger pulled his head up, but kept his lips sealed tight. Thomas heard the first gulp. He felt the second. The nigger sucked harder than before, pulling every drip of semen out.

The sensation was too much. Thomas pushed the nigger's head away, fighting away thoughts of Franklin and how just like Franklin the nigger lingered too long after Thomas came.

"Good breakfast, nigger?" Thomas asked between breaths.

"Yes, Massuh," the nigger said, licking his lips. Another growl rose from his stomach. The nigger covered his stomach and looked up at Thomas.

"That's all you get, boy," Thomas said. "Now put my cock away."

The nigger obeyed. After zipping Thomas's pants the nigger looked up. Thomas slid the plate off his lap and stood. He glanced over the nigger's head and looked at the mess behind the boy.

The remains of the chair and rope still lay in the middle of the floor. Thomas's cock hardened with the thought of burying it in the nigger's ass again. But that could wait. The nigger's eyes still had some fleeting hope that if the nigger did enough for Thomas he would let the nigger go.

There was no way that would happen. Thomas needed to teach the nigger his place.

"Stand up," Thomas said. The nigger stood. "Go and move all those pieces of chair to the back corner. And don't miss any splinters."

"Yes, Massuh," the nigger said. He took slow steps down the stairs and limped over to the broken chair. Whatever pain the nigger was in, he did a good job of hiding it. He cleared the big pieces first and piled them in the corner. Thomas was surprised by how meticulous the nigger was. With only the light coming from the doorway the nigger picked up dozens of tiny pieces of splintered wood. He ran his hand over the ground, pausing and needling up invisible flecks and placing them in his palm.

When he finished he stood and faced Thomas. Thomas walked over and passed his foot over the ground. There wasn't any crunching of wood or scraping sound.

"Guess those small hands come in handy," he said. The nigger smiled. It was genuine, and it set Thomas off again.

The damn nigger had Franklin's smile.

"Get your clothes," he growled. The nigger went to the side of the steps and picked up the bundle of clothes he'd used as blanket.

"Upstairs," Thomas said. He grabbed the nigger by the arm and squeezed hard. The nigger gasped in pain. "And don't even think about running."

"I won't, Massuh!" the nigger cried. Thomas pushed the nigger, slamming the boy's knees into the steps. The nigger cried out only for Thomas to push him again.

"Up the damn steps, boy!"

The nigger scrambled, tripping on the final stair and landing on his elbows. Thomas hauled the nigger up by his hair, pulling out another scream from the boy. He popped the nigger in the mouth and squeezed his hand tight around the nigger's jaw.

"Up here you keep your mouth shut!" Thomas said. The nigger tried to nod, but Thomas's hand kept the nigger's head in place. "If I hear you again, you'll regret it."

He let the nigger's head go, and the nigger nodded. Thomas pointed the way out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the front room. He pushed the nigger towards the fireplace.

"Throw them in," he said.

The nigger looked up at Thomas. "But, Ma-"

Thomas whacked the nigger's head. The nigger hissed.

"You'll pay for that," Thomas said. "And for dirty the carpet."

The nigger's eyes flashed down, his head following the dirty foot prints leading back towards the kitchen. His head shot up, his eyes fixed on Thomas. The tears in them pleaded for mercy. Thomas fought a smile. Accident or not, dirty carpet was a dirty carpet. He'd have the nigger clean it later. For the moment, he just wanted to savor the fear.

"Throw the clothes in the pit," Thomas said. The nigger didn't hesitate. He tossed them in as tears rolled down his cheeks. Thomas took the matches from the top of the mantle. With his foot he rolled one of the kindling logs in the fireplace over the nigger's clothes. The logs would catch fire almost as fast as gasoline. Even though it was a little warm outside for a fire, no one would question it.

Thomas pulled out a match from the box and emptied the rest of the matched on the mantle. He handed the single match and empty box to the nigger.

"Don't get any ideas," Thomas said. "Burn the clothes."

The nigger looked at him again with pleading eyes, but Thomas was unmoved. The clothes represented the nigger's old life. Getting rid of them would get rid of any evidence Thomas even had the nigger. Making the nigger burn them himself would force the boy to burn, to literally destroy, his only link to the past.

The fear and pain in the nigger's eyes told Thomas that the nigger understood this.

Thomas cocked an eyebrow, and the nigger got the point. More tears fell as the boy struck the match. In the silence the strike echoed. The nigger held the match for a moment. He knelt and placed the match against the clothes. When they didn't catch fire, he quickly moved it to the log before the match's flame died. The log took the flame instantly, causing the nigger to fall backwards.

The clothes burned bright, the flames lingering on them long enough for the threads to pop loose. The nigger stood up, sniffing and wiping his eyes. He sighed, and glanced up at Thomas.

"I'm sorry, Massuh," he said, his voice small.

Thomas thought about striking him, but held back when he realized why the nigger had spoken. "A sigh isn't a word, boy," Thomas said. "But don't do it again."

"Yes, Massuh."

They stood there until the clothes were little more than blackened chunks. Thomas had the nigger bring water from the kitchen and pour it on the flame. It would ruin the kindling log, but there was no point in letting the fire burn.

The nigger sat the bucket next to the fireplace, tear stains peckering his cheeks.

"Now," Thomas said. The nigger looked up. "Now, we've got to do something about you, you dirty little nigger."

The nigger's face contorted into a silent scream. Thomas stood over the boy with the bucket and poured cold water over the nigger's head. The chill of the water hung in the air. The nigger gagged and cried, shaking as the water trickled down his legs.

Once Thomas had jumped into the pond on his family's the old estate in Virginia. Even though it was spring and warm outside, the water still carried the winter's chill. Thomas lost his breath the moment he hit the water. His brother Robert had to swim in to pull him out.

He figured the ice water he poured over the nigger was twice as cold as that. As the nigger shivered, Thomas refilled the bucket.

The nigger was filthy. Thomas hadn't realized just how dirty the basement was. The water in the tub was practically black, and this was just from a few days of the nigger sleeping on an old sleeping bag. Thomas hadn't even used soap yet. He wanted all the grit off the nigger before he soaped him up. That way none of it would fester in the boy's wounds.

Of course, the nigger didn't seem to realize how considerate Thomas was being. The nigger squirmed under torrent of cold water, his mouth twisted in a yelp.

Once most of the dirt was off, Thomas picked up the bar of pumice soap he kept under the sink for after he worked on his car and set about washing the nigger. Or he tried to. The moment his hand touched the water in the tub, it locked up. He jerked his hand back, the soap falling into the water.

The water was so cold it burned. Thomas flexed his hand to get the blood back in it. "Wash yourself," he said to the nigger.

The nigger fished the soap out of the water and rubbed it over his chest. He tried to build up a lather, but his hand shook too much. The soap slipped and fell in the water. Fishing it out again, the nigger rubbed the bar between his palms and set it on the edge of the tub. He rubbed his soapy hands over his chest, arms, and stomach, grabbed the bar and repeated the process all over his body.

Thomas sighed. The boy did a piss-poor job of washing himself. Thomas slapped the nigger on the head and took the soap. The nigger lowered his head, tears pouring down his face as his body shook.

This was not working. As much as Thomas enjoyed seeing the dark skinned boy turn blue - something he didn't even know niggers could do - the boy was simply too cold to do anything.

Thomas pulled the plug on the drain and turned on the cold and hot water. He didn't let the water get too warm, but he allowed it get warm enough so that he could tolerate it. He dipped his hands in the stream. It was cold, but not nearly as cold as before. The nigger only shook and cried as Thomas washed his body. Thomas decided that since the nigger had remained silent through his cold ordeal he would go easy on the boy. Pumice soap wasn't gentle, and the last thing Thomas wanted to do was open any of the sores in the nigger's back. The blood would make a mess and he'd have to wash the nigger again.

The nigger stayed quiet. Eventually he stopped shaking and crying. Thomas found himself staring at the boy's body. The nigger really was quite the runt for his age. All tendons and no muscle. The bit of belly fat only made him look younger. His thighs were thick, but the rest of his legs were skinny. It reminded Thomas of a sprinter's build. He recalled Teddy saying the nigger literally ran into him. The boy probably ran from bigger boys all the time.

There was an odd beauty about the nigger. The way his skin shone in the pale bathroom light. The way his skin and eyes were almost the same color brown. The way his hair capped his head like a football helmet.

Had the nigger not looked so much like Franklin Thomas might have liked the boy. But the resemblance annoyed him and killed any hope of that.

Thomas worked his way down to the nigger's baby cock. For a nigger his cock was small. Hell, for kid almost in high school the boy's cock was small. It sat tight against the boy's body, his balls pulled in under them just like Greek sculptures of boys.

Thomas fingered what was left the nigger's foreskin. He rubbed around the boy's cock head, teasing it to stiffen. It didn't take long for the cock to respond. It grew from its stubby appearance to nearly four inches [10 cm]. So the nigger was a grower and not a shower. It was still smaller than average, but it fit his small frame. It curved downward and slightly to the right. Already the skin had darkened. Soon the nigger would grow pubic hair and make semen, if he didn't already.

Thomas couldn't wait. One of the things he loved to do with his sons was tease them with delayed releases. Eventually he would let them come, but this nigger wouldn't get that chance. Thomas could tease the nigger for hours and never allow one ounce of semen to pass between the boy's cock lips.

But the nigger was a teenage boy, and Thomas was well aware of what teenage boys love to do.

His hand tightened on the nigger's cock and balls. He squeezed as hard as he could. The nigger squealed in pain, placing his hands up and apologizing furiously.

"I'm sorry, Massuh!" the nigger howled. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"I told you no talking up here," Thomas said as he squeezed tighter.

"I know, Massuh!" The nigger dropped his voice. "I-I'm sorry for sc-screamin'." The nigger leaned over, tears pit-patting the water in the tub.

"Look at me, nigger." The boy turned his head, his eyes squinting in pain.

"Listen good. This," Thomas said as he tugged on the nigger's crotch. The boy sucked in air. "This isn't yours. It's mine. There's only two things it's for. Pissing and fucking. You're only going to piss when I tell you to. You won't be doing any fucking.

"I know how this thing works. I know there's times when it wants to be held and touched and stroked. You do any of that, and I'll cut it off."

Fear danced in the nigger's eyes.

"You're not to touch it," Thomas continued, "unless I tell you to. I don't care if you're pissing or bathing. Unless I say you can touch my cock," he pulled hard on it to emphasize his point, "you keep your hands off it. If you so much as accidentally brush your hand against it you'd better tell me. You understand?"

"Yes, Massuh!" the nigger yelped.

"And if I catch you-"

"You won't, Massuh."

Thomas twisted the nigger's junk. The nigger squealed, his knees buckling. "Don't interrupt me again." The nigger nodded.

Thomas went on. "If I catch you touching my cock, I'm going to cut it off with a butter knife and toss it in the fire just like your cloths. Got it?"

"Y-yes, Massuh."

Thomas eased his grip. The nigger sighed in relief and wiped his face. Thomas filled the bucket with water and poured it over the nigger's head.

"Now tell me," he said, "did you play with your- I mean my cock before?"

"A l-little, Massuh," the nigger said. He started to say something else, but stopped.

"Go on."

"Well 3; me and my brotha Jeff used to play together, Massuh." Thomas smile as he witnessed something he never knew was possible: the nigger blushed.

"What do you mean?"

The nigger blushed more. Thomas bit his lip to keep from laughing. The boy didn't have the darkest skin. but it still amazed Thomas that he could see the nigger's skin redden so much. That was something Franklin never did. Thomas found it endearing. Here was something from the nigger that was all his own. Something Thomas could enjoy without thinking about Frankie.

Wiping water from his eyes, the nigger said, "W-well me and Jeff shared a bed, Massuh. My Daddy wouldn't get Jeff his own, so I slept with him. Sometimes at night, Massuh, Jeff would 3; y'know 3;"

The nigger made a rubbing gesture with his hand. Thomas cocked a smile. "Like this?" he said as he rubbed the boy's cock. Red flushed the boy's face again.

"Y-yeah, Massuh. Like that."

"He'd do that to you?"

"Sometimes."

"Did you like it?"

The nigger paused. Thomas could sense the doubt. Obviously the boy liked it. What boy didn't like his cock being rubbed? But the nigger's hesitation wasn't just about admitting that he and his brother engaged in incest. Thomas figured the nigger knew that what he said next would be used against him. If he answered yes, Thomas might use it against him. If he said no-if he lied-Thomas would punish him.

"I did, Massuh," the nigger finally answered. "I 3; I wanted to see if it was true 3;"

"If what was true?" Thomas asked.

"That I could make nut."

Thomas licked his lips. So the nigger couldn't come yet.

He tugged on the nigger's cock, using the soap to keep his grip loose and wet. His pinky finger fiddled with the boy's cock head and poked its way into the boy's pisshole.

"Can you?" Thomas asked. The nigger shook his head. Thomas let a wild grin loose. "We'll see about that."

After Thomas finished bathing the nigger he had the boy clean the carpet. The boy did a fine job of it. He seemed genuinely interested in getting the stains out of the carpet. He managed to lift a nasty mud stain out that Thomas's good-for-nothing wife couldn't.

Afterward, Thomas ate lunch. He had the nigger feed him his beef sandwich. The whole time he played with the nigger's cock. The plan was to force the boy to get an erection every time he smelled food. Thomas would need to keep the nigger hungry and feed him a steady diet of jissom, but eventually the boy's hunger pangs would make him crave Thomas's cock.

Once Thomas finished his meal and had the nigger clean the dishes, he took the nigger back into the basement.

For any of his ideas to work, Thomas would need to teach the nigger his place. Already the boy listened well, but the hope remained in his eyes. The boy wasn't fixated on Thomas. He just wanted to please Thomas so whatever happened would end soon.

That wouldn't do. A slave should have no other though than pleasing his master for the sake of his master's pleasure. The nigger needed to learn to focus on that and not when the pain would be over. He needed to learn that even if his Master punished him harshly, it was still a gift that he should cherish.

Thomas tied the nigger to the banister, tying the boy's wrists tight enough to force his hands to clench. The nigger hissed, but didn't struggle. Thomas hoisted him off the ground until the nigger's toes barely touched the floor.

There wasn't much in the basement he could use. Most of his extra junk he'd moved to the storage room near the lake so he and his brother could use it for the boats. Thomas's eyes traced the basement, trying to find something that would make for a great teaching tool.

He sucked his teeth when his eyes landed on the adjustable podium. He couldn't remember where the damn thing came from, but he did remember that the board could off.

It took him a few minutes to detach the board. It was attached to a rod casing that slipped over the adjustable pole. Once Thomas pulled the rod off he had a pole that could adjust from two and a half feet to four feet [75 - 125 cm].

Perfect.

Thomas plopped the pole directly under one of the overhead pipes. He grabbed the pipe with both hands, spitting as dust fell into his face, and pulled his body up until his elbows were flush against the pipe. He hung there for a moment. The pipe creaked, but it didn't budge. Thomas dropped down to his feet.

Perfect.

He stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the steps. He struggled with the knot on the ropes that held the nigger. The boy didn't weigh much, but his swaying had pulled the knot tight. Once Thomas got the nigger loose he led the boy to the pole and pipe.

"Stand still," he said. The nigger nodded. Thomas tossed the end of the rope over the pipe and pulled as hard as he could. The nigger's arms shot up and the rest of his body followed.

A squeal danced off the boy's lips. He sucked in hard breaths as Thomas adjusted the boy's height off the ground. Once he got it right he tied off the rope and wrapped the excess around the pipe.

The nigger's feet dangled several inches off the ground. His arms were drawn tight against his head. What little muscle the boy had rippled as his body swayed. Thomas held the nigger steady as he pushed the pole under the boy.

"Alright," Thomas said. "Now you're going to learn your place."

The nigger's eyes widened.

"I know what you're thinking," Thomas said. "I told you that you're my nigger slave forever. I really don't know why you'd think I'd change my mind, but I can see in your eyes that's what you're thinking."

Thomas let the nigger go and searched for something heavy. He found the pile of extra cement bricks he'd used for lining his backyard. Those would do nicely. He grabbed several and walked them back to the nigger.

"I've been real nice to you, nigger," Thomas continued. "I could've left you a bloody mess, but I cleaned you up. I fed you. I even let you come upstairs."

The pile of bricks grew.

"But here you are still thinking about leaving me."

"I wasn't thinkin' that, Massuh!" the nigger. "I was-" The nigger clammed up as Thomas glanced at him.

"You're a hard-headed nigger like I said before. Well, we're going to stop all that mouthing off right now."

Thomas sat the final bricks on the top of the pile. He figured he had a good twenty or thirty pounds [10-15 kg] of bricks in the pile. That should be enough to keep the pole solid.

The nigger fidgeted as Thomas spun him around. Thomas stopped the boy once his back faced the stairs. He picked up the pole and crammed it into the nigger's asshole. The nigger screamed. The edges of the pole were covered, but it was still a flat surface. The nigger's ass tried to stay clamped shut, but Thomas was done with being gentle. He held the boy's waist and pushed with all his might. The nigger's legs flung, trying to wriggle free of the pole, but the pole wasn't going anywhere.

Thomas adjusted the length so that a good six inches [15 cm] would stay crammed up the nigger's ass. The man scoffed at the fuss the nigger put up. The pole wasn't much thicker than three of Thomas's fingers, but from the nigger howled as if he had a baseball bat in his ass.

Steadying the boy's body, Thomas placed the bricks on the legs of the podium pole. The legs lay flush against the ground, so all Thomas needed to do was cover them completely and evenly. Once he stacked the bricks on the pole legs, he gave the pole a push. The nigger yelped again, but Thomas ignored him. The pole swayed a little, but it wasn't going to fall over.

Thomas stepped back and admired his work. The nigger's own body weight caused the boy to slide further down the pole. At least seven inches [18 cm] of it was buried in the kid's ass. The nigger still fought to get the pole out, trying to crawl up it with his feet. He was nothing if not inventive.

But Thomas was smarter. The man took some of the slack from the rope and tied it to the nigger's feet. He took the rest of the slack and tied four bricks to it. It wouldn't keep the nigger from wiggling, but it would keep him from pulling his legs up.

Now Thomas had the nigger's attention.

"I'm sorry, Massuh!" the nigger cried. "I'm sorry! Please! Please take it out!"

Thomas planted his knuckles in the small of the nigger's back. The nigger hacked. His body trembled from the kidney shot.

"I told you before not to speak unless I said so," Thomas said. He balled up his fist and let it fly. The boy's body jerked forward.

"Yes, Massuh!"

"You're still talking." Another shot to side of the nigger's ribs. The boy sobbed. "From now on," Thomas continued," keep your mouth closed until I tell you to speak."

He arched his hand back and slapped the back of the nigger's head with all his might. The nigger wailed, but he didn't speak.

"My Daddy had a saying," Thomas said as he undid his belt. He pulled it from his waist in a smooth gesture and wrapped the loose end around his hand. The buckle dangled as he paced.

"He'd say, 'It takes a licking to keep it sticking.' And he's right. The only way you'll learn is if I beat it into you."

The nigger sobbed loudly and muttered nonsense. Thomas let the buckle fly. It whipped around the nigger's chest. Thomas didn't know a boy could scream that loud. He picked up his shirt off the steps and crammed it into the nigger's mouth.

He let the buckle fly again, this time aiming for the nigger's butt. Even the low light the vicious welt the buckle left was clear. Thomas ripped into the boy, pacing himself so he could swing full-force and avoid getting smacked with the buckle when he pulled his hand back.

Even with the gag the nigger's screams were loud. Thomas could hear the boy begging, and each time the boy spoke Thomas pelted him harder. It took nine lashes for the nigger to get the point. After about twenty lashes the whimpering stopped. Thomas looked at the nigger's face and found the boy had passed out.

Thomas went upstairs and filled a bucket full of cold water. He splashed over the nigger. The boy jolted awake.Red water soaked the bricks. It trickled down the crack of the nigger's ass. That made Thomas's cock come to life.

He tossed the belt to the floor, kicked some of the bricks off the pole legs, and pulled the pole out of the nigger's ass. Before the boy's hole could close, Thomas fished out his stiffening cock and shoved it in.

The nigger's muffled squeals only make Thomas's cock harder. The squish of loose flesh on the nigger's back fueled his lust. With one hand he loosened the rope around the nigger's wrists and pulled the boy free. He crouched down to untie the bricks and the nigger's feet, keeping the boy impaled on his cock the whole time. Once he had the nigger free, he took the boy to the steps and lurched over him.

The nigger didn't have time to catch himself before he landed chest first on the stairs. He cough out the gag and sucked in breaths as Thomas drove his cock deep into the boy's ass. The nigger's fingers scrambled to find a place to push up with, but Thomas pressed all his weight on the boy.

The nigger's ass was still tight, sucking in Thomas's cock and squeezing as Thomas pumped. The raw fuck slowly became moist as the blood from the boy's back worked its way up Thomas's cock. It wasn't the best lube, but Thomas didn't care. The nigger's howls drove him wild.

The boy had the best scream. His voice would break as the end, cracking into perfect adolescent squeals.

The nigger's balls pulled tight to his body, allowing Thomas's balls to clap against them. Thomas grinded his hairy nuts over the boy's smooth ones, digging further into the nigger's ass like he was trying to force his cock out of the boy's mouth.

"Please 3;" the nigger coughed. "Please, Massuh 3;"

Rage surged through Thomas. "Still?" he yelled. "Still?!"

He stood up, holding the nigger by the waist. "I told you to shut your fucking mouth!"

Thomas dug his fingers around the boy's pelvis. The nigger's fingers grabbed for the stairs, but Thomas leaned back. There was no running away from this. The nigger needed to learn his place.

Thomas pushed the boy off his cock and then drew him back as hard as he could. The sudden impact of fleshy bone against fleshy bone made Thomas's legs buckled, but he kept his balance. He pounded the nigger with a vicious rhythm, thrusting as fast as he could until his cock was nothing by a red blur.

The smack of flesh sounded like punches. Thomas continued to punch-fuck the nigger until heat swelled in his balls. All he heard was the squish of his meat impaling the nigger. All he felt were the cold-hot flashes from his cock pumping in and out. All he saw was the nigger's body flailing around like doll, the force of Thonas's thrusts too much for the boy to even keep his wits.

Semen burst out of Thomas's cock. He dropped the nigger. His cock broke free and lashed torrents of white streams onto the nigger's quivering body.

Thomas grabbed a handful of the nigger's hair and pulled the boy's lips to his bloody cock. He waited until the nigger sucked in air between sobs and mashed his cock into the boy's mouth. He probed the nigger's throat, ignoring the boy's gags, enjoying the retching contractions that pulled his cock further down the nigger's throat.

He held the nigger's head with both hands until the nigger stopped clawing at them. With a firm push he let the boy fall back onto the steps.

The nigger looked like a butchered pig. Splotches of red covered his body and the stairs. Thomas wiped his stained hands on his pants and ordered the nigger to stand. The boy managed to make it to his feet. Sobs poured out of him, his body trembling and swaying. Thomas pulled the boy's head back to his softening cock.

"Make it hard," he ordered.

The nigger opened his mouth and lapped the semi-stiff cock into his mouth. He worked his tongue around the head, and then went limp. Thomas caught him under his arms before the boy fell. He slapped the boy hard in the face, squeezing out another whimper from the boy.

"Do it right," Thomas said. The nigger lifted his head and gripped Thomas's hips with his hands. He kissed Thomas's cock and slipped it into his mouth. It only took a moment for blood to surge in and harden it.

Thomas pushed the boy away and turned him around. He pressed the nigger's shoulders until the boy was perched on all fours on the stairs. Pressing his cock head against the nigger's hole. The nigger groaned as the cock slid in. Thomas pulled on the boy's shoulders until his cock was all the way in and then pushed them away to pull his cock out. He did this a few times until the nigger got the point and bobbed on Thomas's cock.

"Faster," Thomas said.

The nigger sped up, squeezing his ass each time he moved forward. He braced his hands on the steps and pushed off. The light sound of smacking skin echoed in the basement. Cries hiccupped out of the boy, but he kept going. Thomas felt his balls squeeze tight against his body. He pulled the nigger close, diving deep into the boy's ass and let out another stream of semen. When he pulled out, he watched the semen ooze from the nigger's bloody hole.

Thomas picked up the nigger and tied him to the pipe again. The pole glided up the nigger's ass. Thomas didn't bother tying the boy's feet again. He let the boy dangle.

He picked up his shirt, now pink with blood, and spun it into a makeshift rope. He crammed the middle part of it into the nigger's mouth and wrapped the rest around it and tied it tight to the nigger's head.

Thomas picked up his belt and looked at the nigger. The boy was too dazed to protest. Tears rolled down the bridge of his nose.

"You'll learn your place, nigger," he said as he pulled the cord to the basement light.

Chapter 3
All Wet

Teddy's eyes shot up. Mr. Wilson, Teddy's homeroom teacher, glared at him. The stocky old man's marble eyes searched Teddy's face.

Teddy's mind had been on the nigger in his basement. It had been a month since his dad had taken the boy. He'd told Teddy to keep it a secret, as if Teddy would blab about it to his friends. Oh, hey guys! Remember that coon we beat up? Guess what. I got him in my basement.

At first, Teddy felt guilty about not helping the boy. Who would want to be locked up in a basement with some guy digging into them all the time? He'd watch the nigger from time to time because of that guilt. But after a while, Teddy got used to the boy being there. Every now and then, there would be a scream or yelp from the basement, but for the most part Teddy could forget the nigger was even in the house. The only time it really sunk in was when Teddy's dad would have the nigger suck his cock at breakfast and dinner.

"Mr Jackson 3;" the teacher chimed. The class roared.

"Yes, Mr. Wilson?" Teddy said. He could feel the blood rushing to his pale, freckled face.

"Try to stay with us," Mr. Wilson said. Snickers popped across the room.

Mr. Wilson turned his stocky body back to the chalkboard and wrote in clean cursive 'Southern Plantations and the Civil War.'

Teddy fiddled around with his pen before writing the title in his notebook. He hated history class, and he slumped in his chair, leaning on his skinny arm, to show it. He didn't mind learning about the past, but every year the information changed. Instead of teachers being up front about things, they showed it off piece by piece. It wasn't until he was in 5th grade that he learned the white colonists had given small pox-infested blankets to the Indians to kill them. That seemed like a pretty big thing to leave out.

"Okay," Mr. Wilson said. "Who knows why the Civil War happened?"

The class remained silent. Mr. Wilson peered around. Students ducked their heads down trying not to get picked. "Mr. Jackson," Mr. Wilson said.

Teddy sat up in this seat, adjusting his shirt. His pale skin flush red again. "Uh 3; cotton?" he muttered. The class giggled. The boy behind Teddy slapped him on the shoulder.

"Close," Mr. Wilson said. "It was actually about who picked the cotton."

"Niggers," one girl shouted out. She wasn't much to look at, but Teddy heard she was the easy type. Every boy but him had apparently had her.

"Negroes," Mr. Wilson said sternly.

"My daddy said it was because of the North trying to tell the South how to run their businesses," the girl said.

Mr. Wilson drew a line under the title on the chalkboard. "Forget what everyone else told you. The war was actually about slavery, specifically whether it would continue. Do you know why this was so important? Anyone? Mr. Jackson?"

Teddy fought back a sigh. Now Mr. Wilson was just picking on him. He struggled for an answer that wouldn't land him in detention. "Because 3;they needed the cheap labor?"

"Exactly. Slaves worked for free, which meant all the money they pulled in from the crops went into their owners' pockets. Ending slavery would bring an end to the big plantation profits."

"But what about all the white laborers?" another student asked. "Couldn't they just hire them?"

"They'd have to pay the labors, wouldn't they?" Mr. Wilson said. "And many of those labors were German, Polish, and Irish. The Southerns didn't exactly like people from the old country.

"So they had to make a decision: do we end slavery and take a financial hit that would cripple our local economy or do we continue it while creating tension with the North who think we have too much political power with fewer citizens."

"But what about nig, I mean negroes?" a chunky boy said.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Wilson looked at the boy.

The boy leaned forward. "They're meant to be slaves. They're good at that kind of stuff. What else can they do?"

Teddy turned to look at the boy. He'd known Gill since they were in 2nd grade. Except for Teddy and a few other boys, Gill had no friends. It wasn't just his size or the way he duck waddled when he walked that turned everyone else off. Gill had a poor way with words, along with a talent for making himself look stupid. Even though Teddy agreed that niggers were better off working in fields than running them, he had the sense to say a better way than that.

Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. If he was annoyed by the question, he didn't show it. "I think negroes have shown themselves more than capable of doing more than just manual labor. There are negro doctors, lawyers, teachers, pilots, policemen, and firemen.

"But even if they were only suited for labor, don't you think they should be paid to do it?"

"I guess," Gill said. "It doesn't seem so bad having somebody take care of everything else for you though."

Teddy could see the twinkle in Mr. Wilson's eye. He loved nothing more than to school a kid when they got something wrong, and he was about to do that to Gill.

"Did you know," Mr. Wilson said, "that if a slave couldn't finish his share of work his owner or overseer could beat him to death on the spot?"

"That's not true," some girl said.

Mr. Wilson shook his head. "It most certainly is. A slave owner could do anything to his slaves that he wanted, and he could allow his overseer the same freedom as well. I remember reading about one slave owner put a slave in a type of headstock. It was a block of wood that fit around the slave's neck. It was just large enough to keep him from sleeping, sitting, or eating properly. The slave owner did this because he caught the slave resting and talking too much. He left it on the slave for a year.

"Can you imagine walking around, doing back-breaking labor with a 15-pound [7 kg] piece of unfinished wound clamped around your neck?"

Teddy didn't want to imagine it. He heard enough stories from his granddaddy about his great granddaddy to know slave owners did some pretty nasty things to their slaves.

That made him think of the nigger again. His own dad had the boy naked in the basement freezing his sack off. If it were his slave, Teddy would have him cleaning the house or something. He'd keep him clean, fed, and clothed. He'd at least let him sleep on something soft.

He fought back a chuckle. Just a month ago, he tried to bash the nigger's teeth in and he was thinking about how to make him into a maid.

"Some of you look shocked," Mr. Wilson said. "Well, there is a reason for all this. Most slaves weren't chained to the grounds of the plantation. They could run at any time. The only thing that kept them in their place was this kind of threat. It's what you have to do if you want to keep people enslaved, especially if they outnumber you like the slaves did in the south."

Now his dad's behavior made more sense. Teddy's dad always tied the nigger up before he left home, and he forbade Teddy from letting the nigger out. He beat the coon for no reason at all. All of that to make sure that when he did let the nigger roam the house he wouldn't leave.

Teddy would have to test that when he got home.

Any minute the next period's bell would ring. Teddy rushed to dry his rusty red hair. Coach Perkins always made the class play matches until the last minute. Then the boys would have to rush to take a shower and get dressed. And any boy who tried to skip the showers had to run three laps around the gym in whatever he was wearing. Coach Perkin caught one kid in the slipping his shorts on. He made the poor boy run his laps in nothing but his socks and undershirt.

Teddy boy stood by his open locker with half his clothes on the bench. The room doubled as the gym and sports teams' locker rooms. The school didn't have enough mullah to build a decent locker room for the teams, so everyone got stuck with the crap they'd built before the war.

The green paint had peeled off most of the lockers, leaving their scarred steel skins exposed and ripe for rust. Teddy's locker had a good bit building up on it. The rows of lockers were tight. There was just enough space between the benches and the lockers for someone to stand up straight. If they opened their locker, they would have to step to the side. If anyone got to gym late and got stuck with a bottom locker, they'd have to stand next to it just to open it.

Teddy pushed his towel down his legs, working off the water. Despite all this workouts and basketball practices, Teddy didn't have strip of muscle. Coach Perkins called him a walking bag of tendons. About the only thing he had going for him was his speed. Teddy could whip through the other team's defense and shoot a basket before anyone could catch him. Not that it'd actually go in the basket.

Along with his crappy build, Teddy had crappy skills. He could shoot a basket on a windless day six-inches [15 cm] from the rim if it were at eye-level. Anything else would roll off the rim if it made it that far.

Teddy tried to push those facts out his mind. He'd rather think about the nigger in the basement. Ever since Mr. Wilson's class, Teddy had wanted to go home and explore the boy. He'd have the time. His dad would be out late tonight. Wouldn't come home until well after dark. Teddy would have plenty of time to figure out how to untie the nigger, play around, and tie him back up before his dad got home.

The only problem was the dirt. There was no way Teddy would mess around in the basement. He'd have to scrub himself for hours to get the dust and mold off. And it was so cold down there his balls would crawl up into his body.

He'd have to take the nigger upstairs to his room, and that meant giving the coon a bath. That was the wrinkle. There was no way his dad wouldn't know Teddy had taken the nigger out of the basement if he was squeaky clean. Teddy needed a way to get around that, but before he could think of something Gill slapped him hard on his naked ass.

"Hey!" Teddy shouted, rubbing his butt. Gill laughed his way to his locker and fished around for his towel. Gill was sore about his size. He wasn't a blob, just wide enough for his ass cheeks creep over the side of a chair. His stomach and back looked like a lumpy mushroom. His pecker wasn't anything to talk about either. The dinky thing sat in a mess of wiry hair and belly fat. Only his balls peeked through, two little hairy orbs pale from the lack of light.

"Can you believe Mr. Wilson?" Gill said as he dried himself.

"What?" Teddy said.

"Mr. Wilson. Him going on and on about how hard the nigras have it." Gill's family was Southern, and like them Gill had a tendency to run his letters to together. Last year, Gill got picked to read a portion of Hamlet, and by the time he was done people would've sworn Hamlet was from Alabama.

"Oh yeah," Teddy said. He went to drying his back. "That was weird."

"What was?" a voice said. Teddy saw Joker walking past the rest of the boys in a plain stride. Everyone called him Joker because when he grinned he looked like the Batman villain.

"Mr. Wilson's speech," Gill said. Joker shrugged, water dripping from his perfect shoulders. He never worked out, but he had a perfect body. All muscle, no fat. And out of Teddy's friends Joker had the biggest cock. If they weren't already naked, Joker would've found a reason to whip it out just to brag about it. His uncut meat dangled above a perfect set of balls. They actually looked round, and sat in a smooth sack of skin without a hair on them. Teddy wasn't sure if Joker shaved the hair off or if he was just naturally hairless. Of course, since Joker was blond his body hair was hard to see.

"It wasn't a speech." Two boys walked up to the trio. Sammy and Hank made up the rest of Teddy's gang. Hank was the smallest of the group, but had the deepest voice. His low-hung balls explained that one. They were practically at his knees.

Sammy was the poster child for the boy next door. If his hair got any blonder and his eyes any lighter Teddy figured someone would have to arrest Sammy for being in Hilter's Youth.

"Hey," Hank said, looking at Teddy. "What happened with that coon?"

"What?" Sammy said.

"That nigger Teddy's dad took home. What happened with that?"

"Yeah," Gill mumbled. "What happened?"

Teddy fought back a blush. "I dunno," he lied.

"What d'you mean you don't know?" Hank asked. He worked the towel between his legs, sawing it back and forward.

"I had my dad drop me off at the park so I could practice," Teddy said. He slipped on his underwear, and started combing his hair. "I guess he took the nigger wherever he came from."

"Shucks, I thought you'd gone with them."

"No, I didn't want to disappoint coach."

Gill laughed. His balls jiggled along with his belly fat. "With what? Another one of your lazy lay-ups?"

The other boys giggled.

"Har har," Teddy said.

Hank wiped his chest over and tossed the towel down. He was still plenty wet, but that didn't stop him from pulling on his shirt. "Well, I was asking cuz my girlfriend's cousin-"

"You don't got a girlfriend," Sammy said.

Hank socked the boy on the head. "As I was saying 3;" He glared at Sammy. "I was asking cuz my girlfriend's cousin works at one of those coon schools, and she said that some of those coons been looking for a missing boy."

Teddy couldn't hold back the blush this time. "I bet there's tons of missing niggers. What makes you think it's the one my dad took home."

"Dunno. That's the only one I seen in a while. Just came to mind."

"Well, my dad took care of that one, so I don't think it's him."

"I hope his teeth are fine," Joker said. The others looked at him.

"Where'd that come from?" Gill asked.

"My cousin got kicked in the teeth once. Lost his top four. Has to wear this really bad clip-on thing. Can't even eat with it on. Wouldn't wish that on nobody."

"If his teeth were broke, they'd have been on the ground."

"I guess."

"Now," Gill said as he leveled his eyes on Hank. "About this 'girlfriend' 3;"

Teddy parted ways with his friends once they left school. He came up with some lie about practicing for basketball. His friends didn't seem to buy, probably because of the gray clouds crawling across the sky.

He figured he had until eight o' clock to mess around with the nigger. After a bit of thinking, he finally came up with how to get around the nigger being dirty. His old bathrobe would work. He'd just have to turn it inside out so it would be easier to clean.

Teddy's neighborhood was a few blocks away from his school. Brown and orange leaves already damp from the growing misty air peppered the lawns and sidewalks. The chill in the air would get colder by the end of the week. Soon the leaves would wear a coat of snow.

No cars sat on the street. Everyone packed them into their garages. It made for a pretty picture of immaculate desolation.

Each row house looked different. Teddy thought it had something to do with the Great Fire and the neighborhood once being the stomping ground for old money. A few houses were new, but most were a couple decades old.

Teddy's house was nestled between two red brick homes. Its yellow stone had turned gray over time. Last year, his dad replaced the old shingles with new dark brown ones. The door sat just to the left of the house. The designed should've gave the entryway spacious feel, but it really just made it easy for people to peek through the front window and see if anyone was home.

No one was home. From the smell of it, his mother had not been there. When she came home, she always drenched the place with her perfume. She hadn't been home in days. Teddy knew about her little game with his dad, about her and her lady friend. He didn't mind it really. He never really liked his mother, and she couldn't stand him. That might have had something to do with Teddy and his dad's family tradition, but Teddy wasn't sure. His mother had always been sore around him.

He made his way to his room and dumped his bag next to his bed. To call his room a mess didn't do it justice. Since his dad moved out Frankie's bed, Teddy had filled the extra space with basketball gear, books, clothes, and discarded candy wrappers. Before Frankie died, Teddy's dad would've torn his son apart over the mess. Now he didn't seem to care. Then again, Teddy couldn't remember the last time his dad had come into his room.

He pushed the thought out his mind as he shuffled past his jock strap and tennis shoes to his closet. He fished out his bathrobe, a pale blue puff of cotton. After tripping over his basketball shorts, Teddy headed to the basement. He stopped at the fridge and popped a few pieces of ham into his mouth, and then he stepped to the basement door.

The worst thing Teddy could think of if his dad caught him with the nigger upstairs was a whipping. He hadn't gotten one of those in a while, but he knew is dad wasn't afraid of laying it to his 15-year-old son.

"Fuck it," Teddy said. He twisted the doorknob and plunged into the darkness.

It stank of sweat and musk. Teddy clung to the rail. His body blocked most of the light coming from the kitchen. He slipped on the last step.

"Dammit!" he said as he stumbled. He waved his hand over his head until he found the cord for the single dim basement light. Even with it on the basement was still dark. He spotted the nigger in the corner next to the steps. He looked asleep or maybe passed out.

"Hey," Teddy said. He nudged the nigger with his foot. "Hey!" He kicked the boy harder. The nigger shook and leaned forward.

"Yes, Massuh," the boy said. His voice cracked as he spoke.

"Stand up." The nigger obeyed. Teddy sighed as he heard the links of chains rattle, but perked up when he saw that the dog chain connected to some rope around the nigger's wrists. All Teddy needed to do was untie the rope. Easy as pie.

Or so he thought. The knot was some complicated piece of nautical crap his dad loved to use. Teddy knew how to tie the knot, but he had never tried to untie it before. The damn thing tightened the more he tried to work it loose. It took him a couple of minutes just to wriggle enough of it free to start untying it.

"Jesus," he said as he finally got a piece free. "It's like he thinks you could untie your damn self."

The nigger said nothing as Teddy unwrapped the rope. Teddy waved the boy into the light so he could have a better look at him, but it was too dark to tell if the nigger was dirty or just really black.

With a sigh, Teddy turned his bathrobe inside out and put it on. He turned around, leaned forward, sticking his butt out towards the nigger. "Hop on my back," Teddy said, waving hands. He waited and nothing happened. He glanced over his shoulder. "Come on! I can't have you fucking up the floor with your dirty feet." The nigger wrapped his arms around Teddy's shoulders. Teddy lifted expecting a heavy weight and almost fell over. The nigger was lighter than Teddy's book bag. Teddy hunched his shoulders, propping the nigger further up his back and headed upstairs. Once he got to the kitchen, he noticed the smell coming off the nigger. It smelled like soap.

Perfect. His dad had cleaned the nigger before he left. Teddy pushed one of the nigger's feet up. The boy's soles were dusty, but otherwise clean. With his foot, Teddy pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat the nigger in it. He used an old dishtowel to wipe the nigger's soles. Now he wouldn't have to carry the boy up the stairs.

Teddy led the nigger by the hand up to his room. Once inside, he closed him door and kicked his doorstopper under it. That would buy him some time if his dad or mother came home and barged in.

The nigger stood in the middle of Teddy's pile of clothes. Teddy stared at him for a moment. The boy was skinnier than Teddy. He could see the nigger's ribs and shoulder blades. His knobby knees twitched, probably out of fear or maybe just the strain of standing.

Bruises pocked the boy's body. Even his hands looked scarred. Teddy's eyes fell on the nigger's cock. The little thing sat perky on a pair of hairless marbles. Even though they were small, they fit the boy's body. Teddy smiled. The nigger looked like a classical painting of a cherub gone wrong.

"Turn around," Teddy said. The nigger obeyed. His back bore more scars and bruises, but Teddy could still make out the boy's ribs. His pelvis pointed through his flesh, and little knobs of his spine rode down to the nigger's ass. Amazingly, the nigger's ass was still meaty. It sat plump and round, marked with welts, but otherwise inviting.

"Come here," Teddy said as he threw off the robe. The nigger came to him and stopped.

"Yes, Massuh," he said.

"Take off my pants." The nigger's fingers got to work. Teddy unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled it off. He wore no undershirt. Couldn't stand the things. The nigger pulled Teddy's pants down as Teddy stepped out of his shoes. He stepped out of the pants and pointed to his briefs.

"Come on," he said. The nigger pulled the underwear down. Teddy put his hand on the nigger's head and stopped the boy from rising. "Ever seen a white man's cock this close, nigger?"

"Yes, Massuh."

Teddy started to hit the boy, then realized how stupid he sounded. Of course the nigger had seen a white man's cock before. Teddy's dad had fed him one every morning.

"Well, don't just look at it," Teddy said trying to shake off the embarrassment, "eat it!"

The nigger's lips parted and took Teddy's cock between them. They squeezed hard as they pushed up Teddy's shaft and kissed his pubes. Teddy's cock answered with a resounding hard-on.

Teddy wasn't as big as his dad. His cock head didn't plume out into a mushroom. His pole wasn't peppered with veins. He barely had enough hair call them pubes. His rod matched his skinny, muscle-free body.

Teddy felt the nigger's tongue twirl around his cock, working its tip into his piss hole, and dipping down as the nigger's head bobbed. Teddy's hand inched to the nigger's head. His fingers crept into the nigger's hair.

Soft. Teddy expected coon hair to feel like steel wire, but the hair was cushy and thick. It was so thick that Teddy couldn't actually feel the nigger's scalp. But he did get a good hold of the nigger's head.

He pumped the boy's head, fast in, slow out. Eventually the nigger caught the rhythm and tightened his lips as he came up. His tongue danced around Teddy's cock, his throat easily taking Teddy's member. Teddy felt a rising and pushed the nigger away.

He didn't want to go in the nigger's mouth.

The nigger sat back on his haunches looking up at Teddy. Teddy's slender cock throbbed with lust. Its pink head teared with clear cum. Teddy glanced down at the nigger and saw that he was hard, too. The nigger's cock curved to the right just like Teddy's.

He lifted the nigger up and sat him on the bed. Teddy pushed the boy back a little further so he could sit between the coon's legs. The nigger's cock was barely larger than his middle finger. It was redder than the rest of his body, and already darkening near the base.

Teddy marveled at it. The little plump head sat like a dewdrop atop the skinny shaft. Tiny veins ran around it. The nigger's balls pulled tight in their sac. They didn't have a hair on them yet, but they were already as wrinkled as Teddy's balls.

The nigger's hole puckered as Teddy pushed the boy's legs into the air. The bruises peppered the nigger's ass. Thin red tears ran like streams towards the boy's swollen rim. Teddy's dad had really worked the boy's ass over. The hole didn't stay shut. It pulsed with the nigger's breath, staying just wide enough for Teddy to see the pinkish lining.

Teddy's cock wanted in. Teddy pushed the nigger's knees to the boy's shoulders. His cock rubbed against the hole, licking at it as Teddy's cock head found its way in. The nigger whimpered when Teddy slid in.

It was tighter than Teddy expected, but the nigger's hole took Teddy's cock easily. Teddy leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the nigger's head as his pressed his hips down. He angled his cock, poking against the nigger's ass walls. The boy muffled a groan. Teddy sped up, working deeper into the angle, his balls slapping against nigger's butt. Teddy circled his waist, twisting his cock in and out the boy. The nigger's ass sucked the cock in, its swollen lips losing all fight in them.

Teddy buried his face in the nigger's hair as his cock sank deeper into the boy. The nigger's ass was a little dry, but not enough to hurt. Now he knew why his dad fucked the nigger so often. The nigger's ass seemed to crave cock. It squeezed tight as Teddy pumped, and that made Teddy go faster. The pit-pat of skin on skin rang, and soon Teddy's balls bubbled with cum.

He hugged the nigger harder, speeding up his rhythm and let stream after stream of cum unload in the nigger's ass.

His breath shuddered as the last drops fell. He lay there for a while, still inside the nigger, enjoying the feel of his cum slowly oozing out between his cock and the nigger's ass lips.

It only took him a moment to catch his breath, and he was ready again. He sat up and flipped the nigger's legs to the side. The nigger got the idea, and turned the rest of his body so that he was on all fours.

"Now I'm going to get started," Teddy said as he mushed the nigger's welted ass between his fingers.

The doorbell rang.

Teddy swore loud enough to rattle the window. Or so he thought. We he looked up he saw that it was dark outside. Rain covered the window. He heard another clap of thunder.

The doorbell rang again. Teddy groaned as he slid off the bed and pulled on some clothes. His cock wanted more nigger ass and it wouldn't go down. Teddy took off his pants and pulled on his jock strap. It was tight enough to hide his pole. He made the nigger hide under his bed, and then he headed downstairs.

The doorbell rang a third time. Teddy fought the urge to cuss at the door. He couldn't know who it was. But he didn't hide his anger when he snatched the door open. Joker stood in the doorway drenched. Even soaking wet he looked perfect. His shirt twisted around every one of his abs as he shook.

"What the hell happened to you?" Teddy asked.

Joker ran his hand through his hair. "Got caught in the rain. I forgot my books back at school and had to go get 'em. When I left it started pouring. It's too far to walk to my place, so I thought 3;"

"Yeah, okay," Teddy said. Joker took a step in, but Teddy pushed him back.

"What're you doing?" Joker said.

"What're you doing? My dad'll tear the skin off me if you get the carpet wet."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?"

Teddy cocked a smile.

"Fine 3;" Joker grunted, although Teddy knew Joker wasn't shy about stripping in public. Joker had to strip down to his underwear before Teddy would let him in. They went to the bathroom and rung the clothes out, draping them over the shower pole to let them dry. Teddy offered to dry them with their dryer, but Joker wouldn't have it.

"You'd probably shrink 'em."

"I know how a dryer works!" Teddy insisted, but Joker still refused.

Joker ended up completely naked in the end because his underwear was wet. He sat on the edge of the toilet with his arms draped around each other. Teddy handed him a towel and watched Joker try to dry himself. It didn't go well.

"Damn, my hands are so cold I can't get a grip on the towel."

"Here," Teddy said. He took the towel and dried off Joker's back. It was the first time he'd touched Joker's body. Joker was indeed all muscle. Hard as bone. Teddy worked his way across Joker's shoulders and neck, searching for at least some fat. Nothing.

Joker turned to face Teddy. Their cheeks touched. Or rather, Teddy's cheek and Joker's cheekbone touched. Without a word, Joker kissed Teddy on the lips. Teddy was so shocked that he didn't move until he felt Joker's hand caress his crotch.