Black Magick free porn video

found this wonderful story about a white boy with no purpose in life, and not knowing his true destiny to serve as a dominant Black Man's pet.
I only wish I could have been found like Danny, and had my life give the purpose to be a Snowflake for a Man like Master Shabaz.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Danny Sullivan planned on spending the long Thanksgiving weekend with his girlfriend at her off-campus apartment, but when Stephanie broke up with him at the last minute (having caught him cheating for the third time), the sophomore stud decided to hitchhike home for the holiday.
Despite being cautioned by friends and parents alike,
Danny had done this several times with no hassles.
He took it for granted nothing bad would ever happen to him.

It was dusk and snow, which the local meteorologists failed to forecast,
was falling thickly when Danny put out his thumb on the access ramp to the Pennsylvania turnpike. Although two hundred miles lay between him and home, he expected to arrive in time for late breakfast, maybe lunch. His insulated hooded parka, one of numerous gifts from Stephanie, protected him from the raging elements.

The change in weather seemed driven by some mysterious, threatening
malevolence. Standing in the cold for over an hour as the mercury plummeted and the wind howled in all directions, Danny still had no cause for despair. He was confident his luck would hold out. It always did. Fortune seemed to watch over him like a guardian angel. His leaf-green eyes peered through the thick, fluffy precipitation, trusting any minute some generous stranger would deliver him from this predicament.

"That's more like it," he beamed, when at last a black Escalade SUV with
tinted windows pulled to the side of the access ramp.
Danny trotted over to it. The large side door slid open.
Once again Fortune was looking out for him. Didn't she always?

"Looks like you need a lift!" greeted the driver.

"Sure do! Thanks a lot!" Danny replied. "How far are you going?"

"Philly."
"That's where I'm headed. I've got a couple bucks I can give you for gas."
"Climb in!"

It was dark inside the vehicle, so Danny didn't notice two other shadowy
figures sitting behind him until the SUV was moving at top speed.

"Don't move!" growled a menacing voice. Danny froze, feeling the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck.
Another surly voice demanded: "Empty yo' pockets!"

Trembling, Danny handed over his embossed leather wallet to the young guy in the passenger seat. As he counted Danny's cash, the young man chortled, "You was holdin out on us, whiteboy.
Looks like you got more than a couple bucks!"
Danny's wallet contained almost two hundred dollars.

Danny was quickly deprived of his gold Rolex (another gift from an
ex-girlfriend), cell phone, parka, and brand-new Timberlands. He felt
utterly helpless, dreading what these hoodlums might demand next.
The lethal weapon was still pressed firmly against his neck.

"Get them clothes off!" demanded the voice behind him.
"Yahhh, that's right! Strip, bitch!" growled the driver. "Hurry it up!"

In blind panic, Danny unbuttoned his flannel shirt and slid off his
trousers until all that remained were his white athletic socks and white
Calvin boxer briefs. Danny prayed silently that he wouldn't have to remove his underpants. Surely, these criminals had no need of those. He felt utterly helpless for the first time in his young life.

"You ever wonder what it's like to suck a black cock?"
said one of the two men behind him.

Oh shit, thought Danny: these crazy niggers are gonna **** me... I don't believe this is happening... this is a fucking nightmare.

Danny's frenzied thought: calm down... you're gonna get through
this... I'll just do what they want... and then forget it ever happened...

A powerful arm crooked Danny by the throat, and he felt the cold steel
barrel of the pistol pass between his quivering lips.
"Suck the piece, bitch!"
"Now you know what it's like sucking black dick! When it goes off, bam!!!
You in heaven!"
"He's suckin real good. I bet he's done this before. You a faggot, boy?"

Danny tried to shake his head no, but his body was far too petrified to
move. He expected to die any second now. If sucking their cocks spared his life, he was prepared to do just that.

"I think whiteboy wants the real thing," chuckled the front seat passenger, as if reading Danny's mind.

There was a round of harsh laughter. The deadly weapon was slowly
withdrawn. The SUV pulled over to the side of the turnpike.
The door slid open.

A pair of strong hands grabbed Danny by his bare shoulders from behind and shoved him toward the opening. A swift boot to Danny's cotton-clad buttocks sent him sprawling from the vehicle.
He landed face first in a deep bank of snow.
"So long, sucka!"

The black Escalade sped off, leaving Danny Sullivan half-naked in the
frigid snow, grateful to be alive. Danny staggered along the highway. His boxer briefs were soaked, and his nuts felt like ice cubes. A few vehicles sped by, but no one wanted to stop for a half-naked youth frantically waving his arms. A sign proclaimed,
Next Exit 13 Miles.
Snow continued falling steadily.
The wind roared.
How long before hypothermia sets in, he wondered.

Looking around, he spied the lighted windows of an isolated structure on a small, flat hill not too distant from the turnpike.
It was Danny's only hope.

Making his way across a snow-covered field, stumbling and sliding as he
made the steep ascent, Danny came at last to a two-story farmhouse. A wrap-around veranda enclosed the front and side.
Smoke billowed from the chimney.

Shivering, he knocked on the door.
He could hear music and what sounded like someone chanting.

"Who's there?" boomed a deep baritone.

"Help me," pleaded Danny through chattering teeth.
"I was robbed. I was hitchhiking and these... these guys robbed me." He was about to say "these niggers,"
but luckily he did not because at that moment a very tall black man, silhouetted against the light, opened the door.

"What happened to your clothes?"

"They t-t-took them! The g-g-guys who robbed me.
P-p-please, can I come in?"

Picture Danny with snowflakes glittering in his long brown hair as he
clutched himself in vain for warmth. This good looking college boy, naked
save for his socks and underwear, shivering in the merciless cold.

"Of course, come inside."

There was a fire blazing in the hearth, beside which were two empty bowls set out for a pet. Upon the walls hung primitive African masks with
fearsome faces. Tall bookcases displayed countless volumes. A large-screen TV sat atop a stand. No sofa, but capacious leather armchairs were arranged in a semi circle before the fireplace.

"I'll get you a blanket," said the good Samaritan.
He strode from the living room, returning with a heavy woolen blanket.
He tossed it over to Danny, who wrapped it around himself as much for warmth as to conceal his state of dishabille.

One would think that getting warm was all that mattered under these
circumstances, but for some reason being nearly naked was equally
distressing to Danny. Being in a stranger's home with only wet boxer briefs clinging to his shrunken privates felt like a callous insult heaped upon injury. Almost too ignominious to bear.

"Sit by the fire and get warm, son."

"Th-thank you, thank you so m-much!"
said Danny, teeth still chattering, grateful to be safe and warm.
"I saw your lights from the highway. Thank you so much!"

"Not a problem. Are you hurt? You want me to call 911?"

"N-no... I'm okay... I guess. I'm just... really, really cold.
I just need to get warm."

"Of course. What's your name, son?"

"D-danny Sullivan."

Danny extended his hand, but an odd, tense moment passed before it was received by a firm, lingering grip. The warmth of that large, brown hand seemed to flow into Danny. He almost did not want to let go.

"Pleased to meet you, Danny. I am Master Shabaz."

"Thank you again, Mister Shabaz."

Obviously, Danny had not heard Master Shabaz correctly. It was a wonder his brittle ears still functioned at all. For the first time, Danny took a
steady, long look at his gracious benefactor.
Shabaz loomed several inches taller than the six foot youth. He had dark
brown, chiseled features, with large obsidian eyes, and a bright dazzling
smile framed by full, sensuous lips. A perfectly trimmed, jet-black chin
beard set off the line of his jaw. Upon his head was a gray Kufi cap,
flat-topped and round, stitched with silver thread. Dr****g from his broad
shoulders was a black, ankle-length linen thawb, the sort of robe Danny had seen in pictures of men from Africa and the Middle East.
Black canvas slippers encased his large feet.

"Well, Danny Sullivan, all things considered, you were quite lucky
tonight. There isn't another house around for miles. I don't think you
would have lasted much longer out there in just your drawers."

"Yeah, lucky," said Danny, bitterly, shivering under the blanket.

"So, tell me. What happened to you, exactly?"

Danny related how the ruthless thugs robbed and stripped him.

"Is that all they did to you?" inquired Shabaz, with a gleam in his dark,
jewel-like eyes, as he came to rest in a large brown-leather
armchair. "Suppose you tell me everything."

Something strong and reassuring about this man filled Danny with
trust. Much to his own surprise, he shared the entire story, including how
he was made to suck the barrel of a pistol. Of course, Danny did not refer
the thug's obscene comment, likening it to fellating a black man's
cock. Danny dared not mention that, nor did he bother to include the
ethnicity of his assailants.

"What were you thinking, attempting such a journey in this kind of
weather?"

"That's just it," said Danny. "Before I set out, I listened to the weather
report. There was nothing about it snowing, let alone a fucking
blizzard. It was strange. The storm came out of nowhere just as I was
leaving."
"Yes, that is very strange," said Shabaz, with a hint of irony,
as if he knew more than he was willing to say.

Danny rambled on about his friends and family, his achievements, how
Stephanie caught him cheating, his hobbies, all kinds of trivial
matters. He was not sure why. But it was like a burden being lifted from
his shoulders. Giving the facts of his life as if they were separate from
himself, something he knew about, like a movie he had seen, or a book he had read. Like someone else's life not his own.

With steepled fingers, Shabaz listened intently, asking questions at
various points, encouraging the college boy to repeat his traumatic
experience once more as if he found it all too incredible to believe.
Then, he shook his head with compassionate dismay.


"You've certainly been through a lot," he sighed, consolingly. "Listen,
Danny, there's a bathroom down that hallway to the left. Why don't you take a long hot shower while I see if I can't find something for you to
wear. How does that sound?"

"That sounds great! I can't thank you enough!"

"I'm sure you can't."

"I mean it," said Danny. "I really appreciate this. I don't know what I
would have done. I could have been..." He choked, unable to finish.

"Take your shower. You will feel better." It was more of an order than a
suggestion, one that Danny was more than complacent to obey. He really did not want to think about it.

The piping hot shower did the trick, massaging Danny's tense, aching
muscles. He lingered under the scorching water longer than necessary so happy to thaw out. If only he could would scrub away the grime of his recent terrible experience.

This bathroom suited Danny with its paneled, spartan decor,
so unlike the way Stephanie furnished her pink-tiled bathroom with girlish
charm. No fragrant little floral-shaped soaps set out for show, pretty
guest towels, decorative bottles filled with lotions and perfume,
cosmetics. Why did chicks value so much artifice?
Was it to please men or themselves?

Like so many men, Danny thought the vanity of women was unnecessary when good pussy and breakfast in the morning were all that really mattered. It was that kind of sexist thinking that always got him into trouble. Luckily his charm and good looks always enabled him to move on to the next girl. So many fish in the sea.

There was a single large white towel hanging on a brass rack, which Danny used to vigorously rub his shaggy brown mane, before drying off the rest of his body. Steam fogged the mirror above the sink, which he was about to wipe away, but decided against. It was an u*********s decision to avoid looking at his own reflection as if that might bring back unpleasant memories.

Securing the towel around his waist, Danny poked his head out the bathroom door and glanced around. Shabaz stood a few feet away, beckoning Danny to follow him back to the living room.
"I found you some sweatpants and a tee-shirt that should fit."

Flushed with self-consciousness at wearing nothing more than a towel around his loins in a stranger's home, Danny told himself it was a step up from the scandalous condition he arrived in.
After all, beggars can't be choosers.

"Give me the towel and get dressed," said Shabaz, offering the clothes in one hand, and holding out the other for the towel.

It was an almost outrageous request. Did this man expect Danny to stand
before him naked? Why couldn't he get dressed in the bathroom?
Yet the authoritative timbre of his savior's voice was strangely compelling.

The important thing was that Danny was safe and warm.
Still, the self-confidence he always relied upon and took for granted recoiled inside, curled up like a snail without a shell.

Uncertain what else to do, Danny simply complied. The towel came off, and the tall, dark man studied him up and down as if taking a quick
inspection. The youth's small, pink nipples hardened, even as his penis and balls shriveled and contracted. He felt as if more than his private parts were revealed. It was painful to endure.

"I'm sure these will fit," said Shabaz. "They belonged to someone who used to live with me." He sounded sad, as if recalling a companion who meant a lot to him but now was gone.

How mortifying this would have been had his benefactor been a woman? It was ironic, Danny reflected, that a naked man does not feel discomfited being flaccid around other men, but around women one wants to be erect. The sweatpants and shirt were a little tight, clinging to Danny's
well-formed swimmer's physique. But what did that matter?
It was better than being nude.

Strange that sexual thoughts should cross his mind. Strange that he felt
sexual at all. After all, they were both men. Of course, black men were
sexually intimidating. Danny had seen naked black men in the locker
room. There was something to the popular myth however much he did not want to accept it.

Shabaz exuded such an aura of masculinity that Danny felt weak and
insufficient by comparison, but why, why, was he thinking about these
things? Why had the thugs in the Escalade threatened him sexually? Taking his parka he could understand, but the rest of his clothes? What was that about? Why did Shabaz order him to hand over the towel?

No, he was determined not going to associate this kindly gentleman with
those niggers. Shabaz was nothing like them. He was not the same at all.


"I want to thank you again, Mister Shabaz," said Danny, pushing aside these invasive prurient notions once and for all.

"That's Master Shabaz," the tall, deep-voiced black man corrected gently.

"Oh? Okay. Master Shabaz."

Master? That sounded like something a student of the martial arts would
call his teacher. Maybe that was it. In some ways, Shabaz reminded Danny of his coach.

"Master is my given name," chuckled Shabaz, as if gleaning the young man's thoughts. "You see, Danny, my mother was from South Africa where she suffered many indignities. She wanted me to be addressed with respect. You don't mind me calling you Danny, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"Actually, my mother named me Bwana."

"Like in the Tarzan movies?"

"Something like that. It's Swahili for Sir or Master. When we moved to the
States, my mother decided Master would subject me to less ridicule."

"I can't imagine anyone making fun of you," replied Danny, uncertain why he said that. He was used to getting compliments, not dispensing them.

"Let's just say that some of my classmates tried, but I showed them the
error of their ways. A man who does not insist upon being treated with
respect can't really be considered a man worthy of the name,
now can he?"

"No, I guess not."

"It would please me if you called me Master. I don't see any reason why we shouldn't be on a first name basis, do you?"
"Sure, okay.... Master," said Danny. "You're the boss."

"That's better," Shabaz laughed cordially. "You're very polite.
I like that about you. Your parents did a good job raising you."

Danny smiled. When this was all over, he could not wait to tell his friends
about the strange black man named Master who came to his rescue.

"I made some hot chocolate to warm you up," said Master Shabaz, producing a large mug. "I have also taken the liberty of preparing something for you to eat. But, first, drink."

"Thank you," said Danny, sipping the rich, sweet, dark beverage.
It had something else in it besides chocolate that yielded a nutty flavor.
"Oh, yeah, yes! Thank you so much... Master. You're a godsend!"

"So are you, Danny," nodded Shabaz. "So are you."

"What is it that you do?"
Danny ventured, sitting down in one of the capacious armchairs.

"I'm a writer, among other things. Stories, articles, books.
Nothing you have read before, I'm quite sure.
I will show them to you later if you are interested."

Danny looked around the room, taking it all in.
The wooden African masks on the wall appeared to be laughing or scowling, depending on their chiseled expressions.

It was then Danny saw an odd piece of antique furniture which had he not
seen before. It was a prie-dieu with a narrow ledge upon which crouched the stone statue of a black dog-like creature with gleaming ebony eyes and large upright, pointed ears. Around the throat was an unusual collar
adorned with glittering, faceted gems.

"What is that?" he asked.
The strange statue seemed to stare back at him.
"An artifact picked up on my travels," said Shabaz.
"The people of Nubian Egypt believed the jackal was the sacred totem of Anubis, God of the Dead."

"The dead?" A shiver ran down Danny's spine like ice water,
like he was back outside in the cold, dark, infinite night that nearly caused his demise.

"Figuratively speaking, of course," said Shabaz, as if that was meant to
ease the young man's superstitious dread. "Death is not the end. It is but
a transformation. Death is the beginning of life, just as life is the onset
of death. The circle of existence. According to myth, the jackal was reputed to guide the living from one life to the next.
Would you like a new existence, Danny?"

"I'm happy with the one I have,"
said Danny, finishing his chocolate, and craving more.
It was the most delicious thing his buds had ever tasted.
Not just sweet, but nourishing. Relaxing and invigorating at once.
He meant to ask Master Shabaz what went into it.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, I think so.
Except for what happened tonight, my life has been pretty good."

"The world is full of unforeseeable misfortune.
Wouldn't you like a life where you are safe from harm?
One with real meaning in which you are needed and have a purpose?"

A chord was struck, making Danny aware of how true that was.
Emotions new to him. His lifelong habit of depending on fortune and using others seemed to crumble within his soul.
It was all true.
He did not feel needed.
He did not have a purpose.

Questions arose in his mind.
Was Master Shabaz lonely, living out here in the country all by himself? Did he have a wife and friends?
Were there others like him?
Why did his air of self-sufficiency fill Danny with a sense of inadequacy? Why did Danny feel so small and helpless?

"I never thought about having a purpose.
I always figured we were meant to enjoy life. To have fun, you know?"

"I think that is part of it," Shabaz smiled. His white teeth gleamed
against the burnished polish of his dark skin.
"But there is more to life than hedonism. One must know his place.
If you don't know your place, you are lost.”

Danny tried to stand, but his legs wobbled unsteadily.
His tousled head was heavy with sudden drowsiness.
Outside, the wind howled like a banshee or a wild a****l in pain.
"Don't know why I feel... so tired," he mumbled.

As Danny collapsed, Master Shabaz sprang to his feet, catching the young man in his arms, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing at all.

"So tired..."
Danny moaned. His eyelids fluttered.

He was vaguely aware of being carried down a flight of stairs. His head
came to rest on soft linen pillows. His heavy limbs were useless.
The last thing Danny Sullivan heard before passing out was the voice of his benefactor, deep and warm, urging him to rest.

"Sleep, little one.
Sleep well, and dream of the new life that awaits you.
You are home at last."

Then came blessed oblivion like an overwhelming, drowning tide of
blackness.
One Year Anniversary

It was early morning. Master Shabaz stood at a window in the living room,
looking out on the heavily falling snow. The land surrounding his house on
the hill lay beneath a thick white blanket. The turnpike was visible in the
distance since all the trees were bare. It was one year to the day since
Danny Sullivan knocked on his door, frozen to the marrow after his
terrifying brush with death.

Shabaz wore a long, hooded bathrobe of black cotton cinched at the waist
with a sash. One large, brown hand held a glass water-pipe, with a blend of opium and chanvre-indiens filling its brass bowl. He took a slow, deep
inhalation of smoke, held it in his lungs for a minute before exhaling.
The fumes circled above his head like an evanescent halo.

There was a roaring fire in the hearth, soft jazz saxophone on the stereo,
just as there was a year ago. How swiftly the months had flown.
Setting his pipe on a low, round table, Master Shabaz took a seat in front of the fireplace. Then, he took up a large, leather bound tome and leafed through it slowly, pausing over the full page illustrations. One caught his
attention in particular, a very detailed drawing of an antique silver
chalice labeled the Warren Cup.

One side of the unusual vessel depicted a bearded man and beardless youth engaged in anal penetration. The lad appeared to be lowering himself by means of a strap onto the others enormous phallus. Shabaz smiled with obvious delectation. How like the Romans, he mused, to have devised such an ingenious contraption, let alone adorn its likeness upon a silver cup. The purport of this craftsmanship was evidently designed to arouse concupiscence.

Shabaz turned the page and lingered over another illustration of satyrs
pursuing nymphs with small, pink-tipped breasts and ample, fleshy
buttocks.

Another page featured voluptuous, naked women with kohl-lined
eyes and ruby-painted lips engaged in providing a swarthy sultan with oral
pleasure. There were pictures of slim, smooth-skinned, handsome Ganymedes with girlish blond locks devoted to the same erotic task.
Pink-lipped mouths hovering over enormous black members, frozen in time, poised on the brink of consummation.

Not that Master Shabaz had need of stimulation. His nature rose of its own accord each morning, as testosterone naturally brought his blood to a boil, making its way to the sexual parts which produce and discharge the
life-force seed of man. He lived in accord with that rhythm which modern
man abjures in his over-active mentality. A solitary individual like
Master Shabaz kept himself apart from the madding crowd lest he draw
unwanted attention. His needs were simple, but even such a man may require companionship at times. Only a saint bound by vows of chastity and self-denial could dwell in isolation without someone to speak to now and then, or to slake his carnal urges when they naturally arose.

That very hour of need was upon him.
Shabaz closed the book, and took another puff from the water pipe.
He undid the sash around his waist and parted the luxurious robe.
His dark brown member stood erect like a long, thick, wooden baton.
Jet-black hair curled about the base, thick and lustrous.
His heavy testicles were the size and color of plums.

"Snowflake!" he called. "Come here, boy! Come get your bone!"

The young man formerly known as Danny Sullivan scampered into the room on his hands and knees. He was utterly naked save for a collar stitched with strange symbols and studded with lustrous black gems.

A stainless steel cage to prevent self-abuse contained his cock and balls. In his rectum was inserted a black rubber plug with a long tail like that of an Irish setter. The simple, uncomplicated expression on Snowflake's pallid face was that of unquestioning devotion.


"Good boy," said Shabaz, reaching out to stroke the youth's tousled brown
hair, and to scratch behind his tender ears. "Did you sleep well? Did my
little pup dream of chasing butterflies? Yes, you're a good boy, aren't
you. Ready for your bone? Was that what you were dreaming about? Go on, little guy. Get your bone. Make your Master feel good. Do your job."

With a soft, eager yip of delight, the human canine knelt between his
owner's powerful, thick, brown thighs, and began to expertly lick the large
testicles and throbbing shaft of flesh until everything shone wet and
glistening with saliva. He wrapped his avid, pale-pink lips upon the
bulbous, dark-brown head and took it into his mouth, moving slowly downward until the massive shaft filled his throat. Master Shabaz grunted with deep, rumbling satisfaction.

Snowflake, as he now answered to, enjoyed giving his Master head more than anything else in the world.
It had taken awhile getting used to that massive pole of flesh inside his ass, but over time that became pleasurable as well. Yet even a long, hard, deep fuck was nothing compared to the fullness of his Master's big African bone massaging his gums, or the sweet, nutty, creamy reward which made his taste-buds tingle.

The college boy's past life was little more than a half-remembered
dream. It seemed as if he had always been the Master's faithful companion, house pet, and servant, and nothing else. At least nothing
important. Nothing that held any real purpose. Sometimes when Snowflake was left alone for hours, curled up before the fire or waiting patiently by the door for his Master to return from a walk, vague snatches of memory came back to him. Images of faces, people he no longer recognized. The soft, friendly laughter of women.

He had no memory at all of Master Shabaz directing him to write a letter to his parents explaining he dropped out of college because he was gay and living in Los Angeles with the man of his heart. They were not to try to
contact him. That went without saying because Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan wanted nothing more to do with a homosexual son. He was dead to them.

"You do that so well, boy," murmured Shabaz, as his member pulsed with
sensual excitement. He was accustomed to these ministrations each and every morning from his pet. The perfect way to start off every day before sitting down to write in his study. Opium served to heighten the warm, wet
sensation of Snowflake's mouth, but it was the application of his agile,
fluent tongue which sent shivers throughout the Master's lower body.

Snowflake sucked away knowing it was never up to him when Master Shabaz would ejaculate. That decision belonged to the Master alone, who let the act go on until he was ready. Dogs do not make decisions. A good dog simply obeys, for obedience is not a response but a state of mind.
It was not long or did it take forever, Snowflake could not be sure, he felt his Master's member pulse and throb until it exploded with delicious nectar, thick, gooey, and sweet, rich in Nubian DNA.
The sound of his Master's groans of pleasure made Snowflake happy.

Sometimes Master Shabaz wanted the act to last for an hour or even longer as he reclined in a reverie of perfect contentment. At other times, he needed to get off quickly, which was always a disappointment to little
Snowflake. Nonetheless, the good dog understood, as well as a subhuman creature can possibly understand anything abstract at all, that he had a lifetime ahead of providing service.
His simple a****l consciousness belonged to the everlasting present.
He lived in the eternity of now.

Sucking the Master's beautiful, juicy bone was not Snowflake's only duty in the remote farmhouse on the hill. When necessary Snowflake was permitted to stand on his hind legs in order to prepare meals and see to other chores. He had been well trained in that regard. In the finished basement, where Snowflake slept on a soft, clean, comfortable mattress littered with pillows, were free weights and a Solo-flex machine which he was expected to use to keep in good physical condition. And he ate nutritious meals and lapped spring water from the two bowls by the fireplace. During the warm summer months, Snowflake frolicked in the grassy field, playing fetch, chasing butterflies, barking at squirrels in the trees.

In the evening after the dishes were washed and put away, Snowflake loved curling up at his Master's feet while Shabaz watched the news and
occasionally movies and shows on the large screen TV in the den. He was so proud to be collared by a Man of such power and wisdom and compassion. The savior who took him in from the cold and gave him shelter, purpose, and meaning out of the goodness of his heart.
He could not imagine any other existence.
It was a good life, the perfect existence.

On this morning of their anniversary, after Snowflake gulped his Master's
exquisite semen, Shabaz brought out a number of gifts from an
armoire. There was a thick warm, leopard-print blanket for Snowflake's
bed. Rawhide chew toys. Tasty biscuits and milk bone treats. There were two new handsome tails attached to anal plugs. It was a very special day, and Snowflake was a very fortunate little dog indeed. He barked happily.

"Do you know what day it is, little one?" cooed Master Shabaz, as if
talking to an infant. "It has been a year since you came to live with me. I
was lonely then. But I prayed to the gods for a new companion, and you
showed up unannounced at my door. Oh, if you could have seen how you looked that fateful night. You were cold and wet, lost and scared...."

Wagging his tail, Snowflake licked the outstretched hand of his loving
Master. He sometimes understood what his Master was actually saying, but that was only when his Master wished it so. Mostly, it was the tone of
voice that Snowflake heard and responded to.

"You looked so pitiful, just a mongrel with nowhere to turn, a miserable
subhuman thing pretending to be a man, left to perish in the cold by very
bad men. But I saw your potential. I knew what you needed. Yes, I did. I
saw it in your big green puppy dog eyes. So, I cleaned you up, and fed you, and put you to bed. I gave you the new life you needed. The life for which you were meant. Oh, you looked so endearingly foolish pretending to be a man. But you were never a man. You were always a dog, weren't you. Only you did not realize it at the time. But you know it now.
You know what you are.

"There are so many like you out there in the world wandering about like
strays, pretending to be men, living empty lives without purpose or
meaning. Taking without giving. You all need forever homes,
but there just aren't enough Masters to go around.
And my life was empty without you here to keep me company. My friends tell me that a good dog is not enough, that a man needs a special partner, an equal to share his life, and they may be right.
But having you here with me makes up for that... a little.
Enough for now. Quantum satis."

For a brief moment, a melancholy shadow crossed the Master's chiseled
features. He was a complex man. But the instant passed. He smiled, and his dark eyes kindled as he returned his full attention to the naked, white,
simple creature squatting on the floor, proudly wagging its tail. "I have
another anniversary gift for you, little one," he said,
affectionately. "Roll over on your back."

Using the key which hung around his neck on a silver chain, Master Shabaz unlocked the steel cage which contained Snowflake's penis and balls. The limp, white pizzle and low-hanging testicles dangled free for the first time in months. Snowflake looked up with a questioning glance.
It was not an expression of Why, for being subhuman,
the creature was incapable of asking that.
The question Why was too abstract for him to manage.
It was a simple gaze that inquired, What? What do you want of me?
What will you tell me to do?
What, Master?

"I want you to play with yourself," said Master Shabaz.
"Go on, boy. Use your front paws.
Grasp that little thing between your legs and get it hard. That's your toy.
It was never more than that. Just a toy-thing.
But because it is our anniversary,
and because you have been such a good puppy, you get to play with it."

Snowflake seemed not to understand at first.

It had been so long since he had used that slender tube of flesh to do anything but urinate when let outdoors.

The toilet was off limits even on cold, snowy days like today.
Twice a day, he was let out. There were several trees on the property marked with his distinctive scent. If his penis had any other purpose than that, he seemed to have forgotten.
The steel chastity cage was simply a preventative measure.

"Go on, boy. Get it hard. You can do it. Do it for me.
Get that little white piece of doggy meat nice and hard.
You're a good boy. Play with it. You remember how that feels?
Stroke it, my sweet little bitch. What's the matter? You can't get it hard? Has it been so long you don't know what to do with it?
You better get it hard, little one. That's an order.
Don't disobey your Owner. You hear me, Snowflake?
Get that thing hard! I know your pizzle is only good for pissing,
but if you don't get it hard, I'm going to get upset.
Don't make me have to punish you on your special day.
Unless you want to be punished. Is that you want?
Don't make me get my belt. Because I will. There you go, little one.
It's getting there. I knew you could do it if you tried.
You're a good little dog. You can do it."

Snowflake lay upon his back, milky white legs in the air, stroking his
slender, pale penis desperately, looking up at his beloved Master with
tears welling in his green eyes, dimly recalling how he used to masturbate
in his former life.

All those hours he once spent jerking off compulsively
even when he had plenty of girlfriends to choose from because no pussy, no mouth, ever felt quite as good as his own right hand. He wanted to
ejaculate for his Master so badly. He did not wish to be punished.

Once when he took a shit inside the house, the Master rubbed his nose in it, and took a belt to his soft ass which stung for days.

"Come on, boy.
Think about sucking Master's big cock, think about how good it feels in your cunt-hole, and come for Daddy.
I am going to count to three.
And when I'm done, you are going to shoot, understand me?
I am in control. When I say three, you are going to have your little orgasm,
because that is my command. Are you ready, little guy?
Are you gonna spurt for Master like a good puppy?
One... stroke it harder... think about my black dick inside you...
Two.... Feel your little nuts about to explode or
I'm gonna have them cut off and you're never gonna need them again... Get ready.... Do what you're told....
Three!!!"

At that very instant Snowflake released his quivering, thin rod and thin,
milky semen gushed from the tip, spattering the hardwood floor. He remained on his back, panting awhile, before scrambling to all fours, looking at the puddle he made. Knowing not what else to do, he leaned forward with his tongue out, prepared to lap it up, but the Master stopped him with a firm rebuke.

"Don't eat that, boy," said Master Shabaz. "It's nasty. Go fetch a rag and
clean it up. Then, I want you to get dressed. The snow has stopped.
The driveway has to be shoveled, and the porch cleared off."

Clearing the long, twisting drive to the main road took three hours of
arduous labor. It was ludicrous and unnatural standing on his hind legs for
so long, not to mention wearing clothes. Denim overalls were tucked into
rubber boots, and a long-sleeved thermal undershirt with waterproof mittens encased his front paws.

During summer months when Snowflake mowed the yard and tended the garden he wore the same overalls absent a shirt. Garments of any kind made the canine feel like he was pretending to be something he was not. He could not wait to return inside to once again be naked and on all fours as his Master and nature intended.

With one of his new tails plugged into his hole, Snowflake was provided
lunch, two large cans of beef chunks and gravy warmed up and poured into the bowl which bore his name. It tasted delicious. Snowflake slept most of the afternoon, exhausted from his chores, curled up before the fireplace, while Master Shabaz watched a football game on the large screen TV. From time to time, Snowflake stirred, lifting his head to observe the helmeted figures in colorful uniforms but if their actions ever meant anything to him, it was not evident.

That evening as the full moon shone bright upon the snow-clad hill, three
guests arrived. It was rare that Master Shabaz had any visitors.
But this was a special occasion.

First to arrive was Master Antoine, a young man barely out of his teens,
carob-skinned, of medium height with a wiry physique and shaved head. He was casually dressed in a knee-length black tee-shirt, loose gray cargo pants, and black Converse high-tops.

Antoine held a long leash attached to the collar of a much older, naked
white male on his hands and knees. The hair on the creature's head,
shoulders, chest, and belly was gray. Like Snowflake, he too proudly
displayed a bushy tail plugged into his rectum.

At the sight of this intruder, Snowflake instinctively bared his teeth and
growled, only to be admonished by Shabaz with the threat of spending the
night in the basement if he did not behave. Snowflake whimpered and fell
silent, but did not take his eyes off this territorial imposition.
Masters Antoine and Shabaz embraced fraternally.

"I forget your pet's name," said Shabaz.

"I just call him Mutt," replied the Black youth. His deep voice held a
rural Southern accent. "He's a good boy. His previous owner was a faggot, can you imagine? Some white queer pretending to be a Master?"



"I have found when whites role-play Master and servant, they often take
turns," said Master Shabaz. "Both want to be the submissive, so one of
them has to pretend to be something he is not.
It can't be very fulfilling for either."

"As I understand it," said Antoine, "the so-called master married another
fag who did not want this poor a****l around. Fags marrying fags.
That's something else I will never comprehend."

"More role-playing," Shabaz opined, "in imitation of the exemplary bond
only Real Man with mutual love and respect can feel for one another."

"Ah, yes, warrior love. Very rare, but when it happens, it's said to run
deeper and stronger than the bond between a man and woman.
I have never known the pleasure, have you?"

Shabaz smiled, but did not reply. No more needed to be said of this matter, for Nubian silence, as it is called, is more articulate than speech.

"I see you do not keep his pizzle locked up," Shabaz observed.

"It isn't necessary. He was already old when I got him.
I have never seen him attain an erection."

Antoine: "It surprises me that you keep your pet's little thing in a
cage. If this one is anything like your last pet, he is more dog than
man. I don't know how you do it. I have always admired your way with these subhumans."

"I will share my secrets when the time is right," smiled Master Shabaz. "As
for the cage of chastity, that is because me pet has only been with me for
a year. Most of the time he does not function like a man at all, but when
there is work to be done, it is necessary that some of his human wits are
restored to him. It takes time and training to produce a servant worthy of
the name. Today, for example, I had him shovel the driveway. There was a
chance, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless, he might have remembered how to play with his little toy of flesh."
"We can't have that," Antoine laughed.

"Indeed not," said Shabaz. "The white man must be completely subdued. I tell him when to shit and piss, when to eat, when to work or rest."

"And when to play with its toy."

Master Antoine unhooked the leash from Mutt's collar and told it to get
acquainted with Snowflake.
The two creatures sniffed one another's hindquarters before curling up on the floor side by side before the fireplace.

No sooner had Master Shabaz offered Antoine a snifter of Nigerian brandy, came a knock at the door. The next guest had arrived.

Master Hieronymus was a tall, strapping man in his mid-thirties with
gold-nut skin, dark brown curls, and eyes the color of the earth. Shabaz
greeted him with an embrace. Their foreheads touched. Then Antoine reached out to dap the fist of the newcomer.

"I am glad you could make it," said Shabaz. "It usually does not snow this
time of year."

"The weather was no obstacle," said Hieronymus as he removed his heavy coat and hung it on a rack beside the door.
"Unfortunately, Omar could not make it. Hunter business."

`That's unfortunate," said Shabaz. "I was looking forward to seeing Omar
again. I appreciate what the Hunters do, but there are so many of these
creatures running loose and wild. What is one more?"

"Hunters serve at the pleasure of the Magistery," Hieronymus
shrugged. "They take their job very seriously."

"As do I."


Hieronymus wore a biceps-bulging, short-sleeved crimson silk shirt that
d****d his broad shoulders and deep chest. Blunt nipples poked the
fabric. His strong, thick legs were encased by black leather pants.
A brown leather band was strapped to his left wrist.

At his side was a naked white human canine on his hands and knees, about the same age as Mutt, shivering from the cold. His inquisitive nose
wrinkled at the potpourri of new scents which greeted him: wood, leather,
musk, black rose oil, and the stench of something else, something familiar
but unpleasant. His round eyes narrowed at the other two naked subhumans.

"You still have Kizingu, I see," Shabaz chuckled.

The name Kizingu was Swahili for "little white man," an apt appellation
indeed. Not only was the old fellow unimposing of stature, its fungus-white
pizzle and testicles were shriveled almost to the point of non-existence.

"Yes," nodded Hieronymus. "He isn't good for much anymore except to keep me company. Sleeps most of the time. But he is loyal to a fault. Still wants that bone, know what I'm saying? I don't have the heart to replace him."

"Not to mention his pension and Social Security checks come in handy."

"There is that," Hieronymus concurred. "I don't need the money, but it pays for his keep and medical bills."

At no point in their conversation, did Masters Shabaz and Hieronymus took away from one another. Their dark eyes met in an embrace of perfect
understanding as if thoughts passed back and forth between them above and beyond the words they chose for speech.

Nor did Master Antoine feel excluded. They were brothers linked by blood, history, revelation, and purpose.


The third and last guest to arrive was Master Malchizedek, followed by his
canine servant Boxer. Malchizedek was eldest of the four True Men
assembled, although his rightful age could not be guessed without some idea of his unique nature and practical knowledge of the arcane.

Although not tall and somewhat slight of frame, Malchizedek moved with
vigor and vitality. His bespoke suit of gray tweed with its suede vest and
the silver wolf's-head cane he carried bestowed an air of dignified,
gentlemanly elegance.

"I am glad you were able to come," said Master Shabaz, taking one of the
elder's small hands in both of his. "It is always an honor."

"The honor is mine, young one," said Malchizedek.

"Not so young anymore." Despite the cordial disagreement, there was no
mistaking the reverent tone. It was like that of a devoted pupil reunited
after long years with his beloved teacher.

"I will be the judge of that." Malchizedek settled the matter with
executive authority, and then changed the subject. "This is an important
night. There are forces at work which wait upon the outcome of this night
with favor. One more white b**st will be brought to heel of his own free
will. The Gods will be pleased."

"This is my hope," said Shabaz. "But I cannot be certain what little
Snowflake will choose. The decision rests with him."

"Can you not?" The ageless old man smiled. His dark brown face glowed with knowing reassurance.

Shabaz thought awhile. His brow darkened with concern, but then he looked upon the venerable Master's face, and smiled. "Perhaps, I can."

"Is Omar not here?"

"I am told he is on Hunter's business."
"Very good. I had hoped to see him, but that is more important. The
Magistery wants those stray creatures rounded up. Left to their own
devices, they are either a menace to themselves and others, or a perfectly
good commodity going to waste."

"But there are so many of them. More and more of these caucasians every day catching -- what do they call it? -- this jungle fever?
It's an epidemic."

Said Malchizedek solemnly, "As it was prophesied in the Book of Thoth. The first sign of the coming Age was foretold: `the white-skinned dwellers of caves from the frozen north shall return upon their knees begging
forgiveness like frightened, disobedient household servants long astray.'"

"It is also said: those who act like dogs will become as dogs."

"So true, so true," roared Malchizedek, and his mirth filled the
room. "Like this one here," he looked down at Boxer.

The servant pet was maybe forty-five years old, hairy chested, hairy
legged, hairy backed. The creature still retained some definition in his
arms and legs but his hirsute belly was swollen to a paunch.
His ugly little member resembled a white mushroom cap protruding from a thatch of fur.

While the canines became cautiously acquainted, rubbing snouts and sniffing hindquarters, the Masters sat down to share a long-stemmed pipe of kef. Soon the room was canopied by billows of smoke. Master Shabaz brought out a silver tray laden with meat and cheese, along with crystal goblets and three bottles of imported Senegalese wine. The four men spoke in low voices casually punctuated with laughter.

As the night wore on, the Masters fell silent, seated like grave kings of
old upon their thrones, and only their dark eyes kindled. It was a
fraternal communion the white pets would never be able to comprehend.


The pipe was refilled many times and passed around. They watched with
attention a documentary (privately distributed by the Black Magistery) on
the TV screen concerning the auction of white servants and plans already
underway for building compounds all across North America in secret
locales. All were in agreement, the future was looking bright.

When the clock chimed midnight, it was time to get down to business. Four thick, tall, black candles were ceremoniously lit. The subhuman pets were commanded to squat beside their Masters, all but Snowflake who knelt unknowingly, dim with doggy consciousness, in the center of the room with all eyes fixed upon him.

While the other pets still retained a glimmer of human thought and
awareness of self, Snowflake was deeply submerged in his canine
identity. He crouched, naked save for his chastity cage and collar, looking
around absently, patiently, heedless of the discussion taking place.

"This is the long-awaited hour.
This is the reason I have asked you, my brothers, to convene. As you know, the white race is by its nature and history fated to be our servants, but we do not take them into service against their will.
A year ago today, I called upon the Ancient Gods to deliver a servant to my door. Thus, by chance, as we sometimes call the winds of destiny, came to me this very creature you see before you.

He was nearly naked, almost frozen to death. Surely he would have died that night if not for my compassion and pity. As you know, it takes little effort to peer into such minds as these creatures possess. What I beheld was a young man without plans, without a future, a selfish, hapless mongrel who was relying upon luck and the generosity of others to get through life. I would have given him the opportunity to choose his destiny at that time, but it was clear to me that he could not choose what he did not know.

That is why I buckled the Collar of Obedience around his throat."


The other Masters nodded and murmured in accord. Of the four assembled, the youngest, Master Antoine, knew the least about arcane matters, but he even he had heard of the legendary Collars. This was the first time he saw one. Hieronymus had some experience with Black Magick and a little knowledge of the Dark Arts, but did not practice.
Of Melchizedek nothing further needs to be said.
Whatever transcendental knowledge the old one acquired on his long sojourn through time does not suffer reduction.
Only Master Shabaz had some idea.

"The Collar of Obedience must only be used when absolutely required,"
affirmed Malchizedek with authority.
"I find no fault with your decision. This poor creature would have perished without your timely beneficence."

"The Collar has effectively dimmed the boy's memories," said Shabaz. "From time to time, I have lessened its power to enable him to perform simple human tasks. He has dreamlike glimpses of his former self when he can almost remember who he was, when he almost knows what he is doing, but that is but an echo of the past, it fades away. He is as you see him, a loyal, friendly, well-trained canine."

"He seems like a good dog,"
smiled Malchizedek, patting Snowflake on the head.

"When I remove the Collar, all his memories will return," Shabaz
continued. " He will recall his human name and the life he lived. He will
remember the last twelve months, as well. Only then will he be able to
compare one existence with the other, and be sufficiently informed to
select the life he prefers."

"It shall be so," said Master Malchizedek, "but with one condition. If this
creature chooses to return to his former life as a human being, you must
return him to the outer world exactly as he came to you.
Naked, helpless, at the pitiless mercy of the elements."


"He will freeze to death outside," exclaimed Master Hieronymus.
"Is that necessary?"

"Master Malchizedek is correct," said Shabaz. "If little Snowflake does not
wish to continue in my service, he must return into the world exactly as he
left it. There can be no other way."

Shabaz looked like a tall priest d****d in his long, black thawb. He was a
man of great stature with slow, deliberate moves, always mindful, always
present. His deep voice wielded authority, yet his expression was ever one of patience, insight, and personal depth perception. This perfect balance of yin and yang inspired friendship among his peers, and devoted, servile obedience from lesser beings.

"Will he be informed of this?" asked Master Antoine, also considering the
moral implications.

It was a fact many of Antoine's and Hieronymus's servants called them the Benevolent Dark Lords. Black Dominion does not have to be cruel. Letting whites serve and worship should be an act of mercy. Of course, it is also said: a Black Master's wrath and mercy are one and the same.

"I am afraid not," said Master Shabaz, shaking his head.
"That knowledge might influence his decision. It cannot be otherwise."

Snowflake knelt before the assembled Masters, wagging his tail as if
oblivious to their stern faces. The other pets crouched on their haunches,
apprehensive with abject awe.

Once Master Shabaz unbuckled the Collar of Obedience from Snowflake's throat, a sudden change swept over the servant pet. His relaxed, happy, eager expression tensed. In his soft, adoring, unworried eyes was now a fractured gleam of light. He shook his tousled head like one waking from a deep sleep fraught with dreams. As his green eyes glanced over his nakedness, blood rushed to his cheeks.


"Do you remember your name?" asked Master Shabaz.

The naked servant cleared his throat, hesitating, not accustomed to forming words for the last twelve months. There was so much to process. He winced, realizing his anus with plugged with an Irish Setter's tail.

"It's Danny," he uttered, at last.
"I mean, it used to be. I'm not Danny anymore."

"What is your name now?"

"It's Snowflake."

"What do you remember?"

After another rush of hesitation, Danny spoke: "I remember all of it, but I
don't like who I used to be. I was a real prick, only thinking of myself. I
got into trouble and you rescued me. You helped me change.
You gave me a better life. Now, I feel useful. I have a purpose."

"I am pleased to hear you say that," smiled Shabaz, with genuine
warmth. "The time has come for you to make a choice. Do you wish to return to the world as Danny, or remain here with me as Snowflake?
Think it over, and choose your words carefully."

"I don't have to think it over," gushed the naked servant. "I know where I
belong. At your feet! Keeping you company, working for you,
pleasing you any way that I can."

The way Snowflake blushed at "pleasing" spoke of sudden embarrassment as if he had revealed more than he intended.

"Tell my friends what it is you like to do to please me above all other
things," said Master Shabaz. "Tell them what you love doing."

"I love sucking your cock, sir."

Master Antoine stirred in his high-backed seat.
"That's what I'm talking about!"

The young brother in high tops believed vigorously in whiteboys sucking
Black Dick by any means necessary.

Having a Collar of Obedience would come in handy. Antoine was about to ask Shabaz how he could get his hands on a Collar of Obedience or make one, when Master Melchizedek held up his hand for silence.

Hieronymus steepled his long brown fingers, and nodded with silent approval for Shabaz to continue.

The three white, naked, caucasian service-dogs fidgeted. Snowflake
straightened his carriage, although still on his knees.

The Collar of Obedience made caging his genitals unnecessary, but Shabaz thought it necessary as a reminder for those times when he had Snowflake on his hind legs allowed to think a little more like a man than a dog for awhile.

Shabaz resumed the interrogation with a statement of fact. "Before you came to live with me, you were a lover of women. You never gave a man sexual pleasure before. The thought of performing fellatio never crossed your mind. Is that true?"

"Yes, sir," said Snowflake. "I thought sucking cock was something only
females and faggots did."

"You were right. Only females and faggots suck dick.
Are you a female, Snowflake?"

"No, sir. Guess now I'm a faggot. All I know is that I love when you give
me permission to suck your cock. I love everything about it. I really do. I
still feel straight, I like chicks or would if you would let me, but I go
crazy thinking about your cock, wanting it in my mouth so bad like right
now. I don't know what I am."
"You're my cocksucker.
And you have always been a faggot. You just never realized it.
If I had physically forced you to worship my African phallus,
you would have come to enjoy it eventually,
but there may have been a struggle.
The Collar simply helped you become what you always were.
My faggot. My cocksucker.
My dog. My servant.
My bitch."

"Yes, sir. Now I see it, I was a faggot, all my life."

"Are you sure? We can't proceed unless you convince me you are."

"I've always been a faggot, sir. All my life.
I never realized it until you let me suck your cock, sir.
I love your cock. I love sucking your cock.
I love being your dog. I want to always be your bitch.
I know that I don't deserve you, I'm just a faggot,
but you mean everything to me."

"I'm almost convinced," said Shabaz. He turned to the other masters.
"Is anyone else convinced?"

Antoine and Malchizedek were satisfied, but Hieronymus wanted to hear a little more before he could make up his mind. Shabaz warmed the brother in the red silk shirt with a dazzling smile.

"Do you have more to say?" Shabaz asked of Snowflake.

"I don't know what else to say," said Snowflake, sounding defeated.
"I just want you to be my owner. If I left here, I would just find another Master whether I loved him or not, just to be owned. You showed me the truth about myself. I love you for that. I worship everything about you. If you let me be your dog, I'll never be any trouble, I'll be a good dog, you'll
see. Please let me be your dog again."

"I'm convinced," said Hiernonymus.

"So am I," Shabaz concurred.

"Thank you, Sir," said Snowflake with such sincerity there could be no
doubt of his convictions.

"One other decision remains," said Shabaz.
"You have chosen to continue living and working as my servant.
You may do this with or without the Collar of Obedience.
It is your choice.
If the Collar is restored, memory of your human existence will be erased.
You will have no choice but to obey my slightest command.
Should you choose to go without the Collar,
you will experience the joy that comes of willing servitude.
You will be the same as these other humbled pets, retaining free will and awareness of self, but dedicated to the service of your master."

What Snowflake said next brought raised brows of astonishment to Masters Hieronymus and Antoine. Even serene Malchizedek and stern Shabaz with their deeper insight into the minds of lesser beings, seemed somewhat surprised by something in this final development.

"I choose the Collar, sir,"
announced Snowflake, emphatically.
"I want to be under your power. I love being your obedient servant.
I want to forget all about that sorry excuse for a human being I used to be.
I need to be totally controlled.
Use me, Master! Use me, Master!"

There was an old
Swahili mantra taught to white servants as a sort of mission statement,
"Kutumia me, Bwana,"
which means in English
"Use me, Master!"


But Master Shabaz never taught Snowflake that. It was uncanny.
How did Snowflake know to say those words?
Those three words summed up a servant's existence.
They were the answer to any question a servant could come up with.
Use me, Master!
That was always the answer.

Maybe Snowflake was bound to say those three words sooner or later.
It was a possibility. But maybe there were other forces at work. Sometimes the Ancient Gods do more than watch the sacred rituals of Man, they make things happen that cannot be reduced to coincidence.

"Kutumia me, Bwana!" declared Shabaz in a loud, amused voice.
When he smiled, all hearts turned toward him.
"The true servant has spoken the three simple words that have ever been his birthright:
Use me, Master!"

The three white dogs yelped with happiness at the sound of those three
magical words which they knew so well.

Master Shabaz buckled the Collar of Obedience around Snowflakes tender,white throat. This was followed by a round of applause, and the pets yipped with joy. Snowflake gratefully licked his Master's hand.

After the clock chimed one, Shabaz showed his distinguished guests to
comfortable rooms on the second floor, each loyal, well-trained pet
trotting a few precise paces behind its owner. What transpired behind
closed doors was a tale told by the sound of slurping, choking, grunting,
and firm flesh slapping soft.

As for Snowflake, this was one of those rare occasions when he was
permitted to curl up at the foot of his Master's large, luxurious,
four-posted bed. But not, of course, before directing his eager, hungry
mouth to Master Shabaz's large, rigid, brown member, rewarded for his labor of love with African Ambrosia.
The Final Test

While the dogs were outdoors in the cold doing their business, the four
masters sat around the kitchen table in plush robes and slippers. A freshly
ground pot of Senegalese coffee and buttered wheat toast was all they took for breakfast.

Courtesy of Master Antoine, herb was shared: crushed to golden-red crumbs like pollen, redolent of far-away lands. Each master had his own pipe ready to be filled. They sat smoking for a long time, not speaking unless their very thoughts passed telepathically to and fro.

It is said:
the Superior Man must be fluent in many tongues, including silence.

At length, Master Shabaz rose and spoke aloud: "I wish to thank you, my
esteemed friends, for attending this celebration. It has been one year
since Snowflake came to live here. He replaced a service pet that was dear to me for many years. I will miss that dog. It was with a heavy heart that he had to be, shall we say, dismissed."

"Yes," said Shabaz with a sigh. "I did not want to dismiss him.
But there was no other choice. Disobedience cannot be tolerated.
Today, Snowflake must be put to the Final Test."

"Older faggots are easier to manage," put in Hieronymus, "but all of them
have to be closely watched. Sometimes it's not worth the trouble. I had a
lawyer buying me shit on the regular, but he let his ass get snatched by a
brother he had been servicing on the side. I'm glad that cat got his shit
together and stepped up to the plate. We need more brothers like that,
keeping this faggots in line. But I got to tell you, I was getting used to
that tribute."

"That's why I want one of those magick collars," said Antoine.
"For peace of mind, know what I'm saying?"

"You and I will discuss this later," said Malchizedek, putting his hand on
Antoine's shoulder. "After the Final Test."

"When do you want to start?" asked Hieronymus. He tapped gray ashes from his stone pipe and refilled the bowl with crumbled, red-gold leaf.

"Forgive me," said Antoine, "but what exactly is the Final Test?"

"The Final Test requires the Chosen One be taken by three Masters in
succession, excluding myself. I have fucked Snowflake many times in the
last year, but he was always under the enchantment of the Collar.
It would have been very painful for him otherwise,
and I was in no mood to waste time opening his hole gradually.
You will find that it is still quite tight.
Malchizedek says a caucasoid's sphincter is naturally receptive and
resilient, but you have probably learned that on your own."

"Say no more," exclaimed Antoine. "I was checking out your little bitch's
curvaceous hindquarters from the git-go. I don't mind hitting that."

"I'm down," Hieronymus declared. "My pet is quite skilled with his mouth,
but his pussy-hole has grown weak with the infirmity of his years."

"You don't think this one will hide beneath the porch?" chuckled
Malchizedek.

"He'd better not," said Shabaz, tersely.

The sound of scratching at the back door meant the naked service-dogs were cold and eager to come back inside. Although these were four grown white men, they were naked with ass-plugged tails waving from their rumps, scampering on their hands and knees, and they shook themselves like canines do when they are wet or chilled.

"Oh, yeah," Antoine exclaimed, leering as Snowflake wiggled his firm, round derriere. "You said he was straight, right? Lady's man? B.M.O.C.? I'm going to enjoy giving this asshole some pipe."
"I want the other a****ls to watch," said Shabaz, not unamused by Antoine's colloquialisms. "No matter how much we may (or may not) cherish them, they are inferior beings whose primary purpose is to be used. Master Malchizedek, since you are eldest, I invite you to go first to take Snowflake's... what's the word, Master Antoine?
His `ripe cherry,' am I right?"

"Close enough," Antoine confirmed, but not to be outdone by the African's
grasp of slang, he offered synonyms: "Also known as his maidenhead, hymen, and virginity. My grandmother would say we are taking his innocence. Her preacher would say he is about to be defiled."

Shabaz laughed. "I have already taken his ripe cherry, but this will be a
new experience nonetheless. This time the boy will know what he is
doing. He will know again for the first time what he is. The Collar can
command him to do or believe anything, but it works best with what is
already in his mind. I want him to feel utterly defiled. I want him to
experience his innocence taken piece by piece."

"The mongrel's `innocence' is a myth," stated Malchizedek. "He was
`defiled' the day he was conceived. Time was when all his herd served
loyally at our pleasure. They knew their place. They were bred for that
very purpose. Those were prosperous times. I remember as if they were
yesterday."

"You remember?" gulped Antoine. The wiry, carob-colored brother leaned back in his chair, scratching the crown of his polished pate in wonderment. It would be too fantastic to be believed if he had not seen with his own eyes so many incredible feats of Black Magick.

"Tell us more about the Age of Antiquity, Venerable One," said Hieronymus, shedding his robe. He was in his central thirties but retained a much younger face almost always brightened by an engaging smile. Smooth, flawless gold-nut skin glowed in contrast with the black ink of Chinese dragons around his bulging, right bicep. Black silk drawers did little to hide the print of his Afro-Caribbean dompa.

"Do we have time?" Malchizedek turned to their host.

"We have all the time in the world," answered Shabaz, warmly.

"These inferior creatures, of human kind yet descended from a distant
lineage, were naturally submissive and easily trained. In the same manner certain wolves were drawn to human encampments and slowly became domesticated into dogs so too these anthropoids became
our servants, drones, and pets. They did not then appear as they do
now. They resembled us to some extent, yet males could be easily marked out by the diminutiveness of their genitals.
That was why the males were always naked."

"Were the females naked as well?"
asked Hieronymus. His old, gray-haired servant-pet wandered back into the kitchen and rubbed against his thigh.
Hieronymus scratched behind one of Kizingu's ears and softly told him to get his white tail back into the living room.
This conversation was meant for the ears of men.

"Always...the females of their kind were not altogether uncomely to look upon, especially if a True Man were in desperate haste or thoroughly intoxicated. However, there were many who regarded these bitches as grotesque mockeries of the Original Woman,
and I cannot bring myself to say that they were wrong.
In any case, impregnating one was an abomination.

That was why we took to using the males. Their weak reproductive instinct and low levels of testosterone, not to mention an inherent predisposition for submissive behavior, made their libidos easy to redirect. Males who showed exceptional skill in this regard were bred with females until our progress with advanced a****l husbandry produced a population between five and ten percent of males in each generation born with an obsessive desire to sexually service True Men.

Or one another if no Man took an interest.

These `o'fakukoi,' as we call them in the Black Speech, were repelled by sexual advances from females, which made breeding them quite difficult.

More often than not the seed of a "fukuku' had to be extracted by other means. Although the majority of these primitives were deployed for labor, many men kept o'fakukoi as personal body slaves.

In the Beginning Times every single act of coitus with a woman produced a c***d, and often twins or multiples at that.

We have always been a fertile race.
To this day there are many of us who conceive as our Creator intend."

But we became greedy, breeding so many primitives for our work force, prizing the o'fakukoi above the others, that their numbers became overwhelming. Rich men owned harems of o'fakukoi. These sexual inverts generally enjoyed a life of greater ease than their heterosexual counterparts, sentenced from birth to a wretched life of drudgery and few creature comforts if any. Even a poor man could afford to own a fukuku to regularly assuage his natural lusts without increasing his dependents.

It soon became apparent that the number of o'fakuki was on the rise. Upwards to fifty percent of primitive males began showing signs of eagerness to foist themselves upon the genitals of True Men.

Some Men of Learning believed homosexuality had been a dominant trait among inferiors all along. Others argued heterosexual primitives were cleverly pretending to be inverts because of the advantages bestowed. The sneakiness of these creatures is not to be underestimated.
They have clever, little monkey minds, always getting into trouble,
always needing discipline."

"What happened?" asked Hieronymus.
"How did the primitives end up in Europe?"



"They became too many.
Vast numbers of them pleaded and cajoled to be used for sexual relief. They became unto a cult worshiping the True Phallus.
It was the rare male primitive who chose toiling like a b**st of burden over begging a True Man to fill his mouth and rectum with the Holy Seed.
Orgies and bacchanals were the order of the day.

The more we used male primitives, the more we felt disgust and
revulsion. It was a temptation not to subject them to cruel and malicious
sport, which, to be sure, they deserved.

At the acme of our decadence, some say in the last possible hour, we came to our senses as a great people and repented. The primitives were driven from the African Paradise, exiled to the frozen, inhospitable northern lands where they were ****d by Neanderthals, cowered in caves, and were wrapped in filthy a****l skins to conceal their shame. Their myths spoke of being expelled from the Garden of Eden, and many recalled how they worshiped the True Phallus of the Original Man.

Between the Neanderthal DNA and adaptation of the species to its harsh environment, these caucasoids soon looked very much as they appear to us today. Inferior cranial structure, tiny nostrils, little mouths, thin lips, wispy yellow, red, or brown hair, blue or green eyes, melanin-deficient skin, and of course pallid members like mushrooms with weak stems that even their own women think are funny looking."

There was a moment of silence shared by the four masters in profound
thought, but it was broken by Antoine exclaiming,
"I don't know about y'all, but that history lesson has my nature on the rise. Are we ready to get the party started?"
"It is time," said Shabaz.

The quartet of tail-wagging subhumans followed their master to a dark,
shuttered room on the first floor where the only furniture was a
king-sized, blanketed bed in the center and a long parson's table arranged with flickering, aromatic candles of different shapes and sizes for illumination.
Shabaz commanded Snowflake to kneel at attention. Wearing the Collar of Obedience, the erstwhile Big Man On Campus thought and responded as a happy canine. Tongue lolling, panting, eager-eyed, Snowflake had no idea what lay in store for him. His doggy mind was bound to the eternal present. Past and future meant nothing to him.

With the collar removed, Snowflake's submerged memories were restored, but he looked puzzled, cocking his head to the side.
This was not the life he chose.
He wanted to be rid of his human self forever in the service of his Master.

"Patience, little one," said his African Master. "This is the last time I
shall remove your collar. But you must not fail me.
This is the Final Test. Are you frightened?"

The whiteboy cleared his throat to find his voice, rusty from disuse, and
croaked, "A little, sir."

Shabaz squatted to be at eye level with the kneeling figure. He held
Snowflake's head with both hands and leaned in to penetrate the creature's eyes with his. "You should be," he said.
"But you will get over it. If your devotion is true. Will you be brave?"

"I'll t-try, s-sir," stammered the catamite, his handsome face marred by
uncertainty. He still did not know what the Final Test entailed.

"Do you remember being Danny Sullivan?" asked Shabaz.

"A little, sir," Snowflake muttered, trying to look away, but was held fast
by the African's large, dark brown hands.

"Don't lie to me, boy!" snapped Shabaz, testily. "You're not wearing the
Collar. You remember everything about Danny Sullivan, don't you!"

"Yes, yes, sir," Snowflake whimpered.


"When Danny Sullivan was with a girl, did he ever take her from behind?"
Shabaz asked. "Not in the most sacred of places but her nether
hole. Antoine, what am I trying to say here in language this primitive will
understand?"

Antoine spoke to Snowflake: "Bitch, your Master wants to know did you ever fuck a chick up the ass?"

The naked whiteboy nodded his tousled head in assent. The phantom memory returned the faintest of smiles to his meager lips and a blush to his pallid cheeks. Yes, Snowflake remembered clearly, Danny Sullivan fucked chicks up the ass every chance he got.

"Now we're getting somewhere," said Shabaz. "Don't hold out on us, little
guy. This is important. Tell us how it felt when you fucked a chick up the
ass. Be honest. Don't hold anything back."

"It felt great," said the restored psyche of Danny Sullivan. "It's a lot
tighter than pussy. I have a hard time cumming inside a vagina."

"Why's that, man?" Antoine asked.

"A vagina is too loose. It doesn't grip like an asshole does."
The whiteboy shrugged. There was no other way to say it.

"Dayummm," Antoine explained. "I don't know what kind of pussy you were fucking, but I've never known a cunt that didn't fit like a glove,
and a tight one at that."

"Snowflake, are you sure the vagina is at fault?" asked Shabaz,
patiently. "Are you sure it isn't something else?"

The whiteboy bit his bottom lip before subjecting himself to further
humiliation. Swallowing his pride or whatever particle of it remained,
Snowflake said the last four words any male ever wants to speak:
"I have a small penis."

Antoine laughed. Shabaz released Snowflake's head, and stood up to
stretch. Masters Hieronymus and Malchizedek were in a conference of their own with the other three a****ls. Shabaz was talking to Snowflake. He wanted Snowflake to fully comprehend what the Final Test would demand. He wanted him to know fear.

"I know that bothers you, little guy, but your pizzle is only a little
smaller than the average among your kind." His warm, consoling tone
deliberately acerbated the whiteboy's shame. Snowflake felt smaller and
more insignificant as Shabaz went on. "Of course, you have a micro-penis by our standards. I am impressed you seduced as many women as you did. Did any of them laugh when they saw what you have lacking?
Tell the truth."

"Some of them laughed. Some of them wanted me to fuck them in the ass
because they could not feel me inside their pussy."

"Their small, tight, nether holes felt good, didn't they," said
Shabaz. "Fucking women in the rectum made you feel like a man after being lost inside their vagina did not. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How did the women react? Could they feel you inside them?"

"Sir, they said it hurt. They wanted me to stop. They cried."

"Did you listen? Did you stop?"

"No, sir."

"I didn't think so. Boys like you never do. Antoine, don't you think it's
curious this subhuman's little pink penis made grown women cry?"

"Their assholes must have been super tight."


"Yes, I imagine so," Shabaz concurred. "Listen closely, Snowflake. In the
last year, I have used your hole as a cunt on many occasions.
Do you remember being fucked? Did you feel any pain?"

"I remember everything sir," said Snowflake.
"It didn't hurt because you told me to feel only pleasure.
I enjoyed being fucked,
but I think that I like sucking your cock even more."

"The Collar of Obedience has that power. Today, you must face the Final
Test with your mind and senses intact. Each one of my friends will fuck you in the ass today, filling that void inside you with their sacred seed.
In order to remain with me to the end of your days, you must submit no matter what the pain or ecstasy. If you cry out `No' or `Stop,' or say anything but `Use Me, Master,' you will fail the Test.
You won't live here anymore. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Are we ready?" asked Malchizedek.

"It is time," Shabaz declared. "Snowflake, hop onto the bed, and get into
position. Don't bring dishonor to me, boy. Do your job."

Masters Shabaz, Hieronymus, and Antoine repaired to the living room where smoke, brandy, and a platter of fruit, cheese, and Namibian honey cakes awaited. Leather-bound tomes in a mahogany bookcase with glass doors caught the eye of Master Hieronymus. He took out a very old-looking volume for closer examination, but it was written in an alphabet he did not recognize.

It seemed to Antoine that the statue of the jackal on the prie-dieu had
changed in some subtle way. Was its head tilted at that slight angle the
night before? Was it sitting more upright on its haunches? Was the glitter
in its ebony eyes keener? Black Magick, he told himself, Black Magick was the key. He wondered what Malchizedek wanted to talk to him about.

In the shuttered, candlelit room an audience of three service dogs past
their prime watched as the young white male with the lean, muscular
swimmer's build waited with trepidation on the bed. The Irish Setter tail
plugged into his anus swished nervously back and forth. Sweat lubricated
the crack between Snowflake's clenched cheeks as his un-collared thoughts ran rampant.

"My name isn't Snowflake," he panicked inwardly. "I'm not a dog. I'm not
gay. This is sick. This is my chance to escape. I could make it out the
front door before anyone could stop me. I'm fast. Maybe they won't catch
me. But I'm naked. It's freezing outside. I don't have a choice. They're
going to sodomize me, and there is nothing I can do to stop them.
I'm not going to say `Use Me, Master' when some dude is fucking me."

Another voice within his mind spoke up: "If a man is going to give up this
easily, maybe he wants to get fucked. Maybe he was never much of a man at all. A real man would fight back. You're not a man. It does not matter if he d**gged or hypnotized you, or if he has supernatural powers, a man cannot be made to do something he absolutely does not want to do. Some part of you must have always longed to be a black man's bitch."

There was a third voice inside the whiteboy's head, if it could be called a
voice. It was the sound of a dog clamoring for attention like a family pet
that did not want to be left behind. "Arf, arf, arf, arf," as if to say,
"I'm here, I'm here, let me out, I'm here!"

Master Malchizedek shed his robe before Snowflake's apprehensive eyes. He stood not tall, and was slight of frame with firm pectorals, sinewy arms and thighs, and a slender, fluent waist. From his crotch sprang an
uncircumcised phallus, fully erect, darker than the rest of his body and
disproportionately large, with low-dangling bull-testicles to match.

The Black Master pulled the whiteboy closer to the edge of the bed to
remove the tail hanging now between his legs. He applied a musky smelling ointment to his black member, and then with greasy hands pried the tight, white buns apart to slather the puckered rosebud hole.
He pulled back the hood of his glans and pushed the blunt tip deep inside, slowly and steadily. The whiteboy gritted his teeth in order not to scream.

The old service-dogs, unlike Danny Sullivan, were faggots to begin
with. Nothing excited them more than watching one of their virile Masters
in action. Without stirring from their corners, they craned their scrawny
necks to get a better look, drooling with desire to take the young man's
place. Only Boxer was able to see, despite the candle light, the girth of
his Black Master's Nubian cock ravaging Danny's enlarged hole.

Was that the wind outside whistling like a plaintive flute? The low, eerie
sound of lamentation gave the service-dogs goose bumps and caused the short gray hairs on their napes to stand on end. Flickering candles made the shadows dance.

"Ah, yes, little one," grunted Malchizedek with satisfaction, not even
breathing hard as his thrusts increased their tempo.
He spoke in such a way that he even a casual or crude remark sounded dignified and incontestable.
"You have a fine, white bottom for fucking.
Very fine, indeed. It would have been a shame to let a shapely ass like yours go to waste. You were lucky Master Shabaz rescued you. Very lucky, little one."

Malchizedek fell silent to pick up speed, moving his lithe hips faster and
faster, making Danny's gasps and groans punctuate his rhythm. Danny did not dare to speak. He did not want to fail the Test.

He did not want to disappoint his Master, and he did not want to be sent away. Being forbidden to utter anything but "Use Me, Master" made saying something else, anything else, a diabolical temptation.

It was like he wanted to be disobedient.
As if he needed to be punished.



"Your pretty rump would have fetched a purse of gold coins in the
marketplace of my youth,"
resumed Malchizedek, slowing his pace.
"It may be that your fine white ass was destined to be taken by a True Man.
Many of the o'fakukoi have told me when they were young they knew in their hearts that someday a True Man would fuck them.
For some this became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Others lived in dread of this actually happening, choosing to fantasize about Men of Color at a safe remove.
It is not unusual for an apparent heterosexual like you to have the same presentiments."

Danny found focusing on the Master's voice lessened his anguish as if that were the intended effect. There was authority in the strangely accented speech which compelled Danny to pay heed.

"Did the thought of a True Man fucking your sweet ass never cross your mind, little one? Don't speak. Simply give it some thought."

Danny tried to think. Not easy with an enormous cylinder of rock-hard flesh moving like a slow, relentless piston in his ass. It was true that black
men sometimes intimidated him. In the locker room, his own eyes confirmed the validity of the age-old myth.
But he never thought about black men sexually before.
He never thought about them looking sexually at him.

"Are you certain?" said Malchizedek, pulling the unspoken thought from the whiteboy's mind as easily as plucking a dandelion from the lawn. "Think back. Remember when you were fifteen, that time you went to Asbury Park with your friends? You spent all day walking the boardwalk, chasing girls, and splashing in the ocean. You left your friends to rinse off the salt water at a public facility so you could meet a girl for dinner. With no one in the locker room but yourself, you slipped off your trunks and stood beneath the cleansing water. Is it coming back to you?"


It was coming back, but slowly, for Danny had not thought about this
incident in years. He remembered now that hot summer day at the shore. The public locker room right off the boardwalk. He was alone. It was safe to shower naked. He faced the tiles, letting the jet of water pelt his face and chest. He had a strange sensation as if large hands were cupping his cheeks. He turned. Observing from several yards away was an imposing black man with unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. A cigarette dangled from his lip. A large flask protruded from his pocket. He was rubbing his crotch. "You don't have to turn around," he said. "I just wanna ponder your ass. That's a real sweet booty you got, whiteboy. You like to tease all the fellas, don't you."

Danny snatched up his trunks and rushed past the
leering stranger, leaving the rest of his clothes behind. He did not stop
until he was outside where he was met by the titters. He was still
naked. Frantically, he stepped into his trunks, and went to look for his
friends. He told them his clothes were stolen. He was too afraid to return
to the locker room. After that day, Danny never thought about what happened again. He buried it deep.

"You knew then what awaited you, only you were not ready to accept the truth. When that stranger praised your ass, your little penis got hard, did it not? When you ran outside, people were not laughing because you were naked. They laughed because your stiff penis was pitiful. Let that sink in. That's it. Remember. It gave you a thrill when a True Man talked about your best feature. You wanted to give him your ass, but you were afraid. Remember now? Your ass was meant to be admired and used. Is that not why you took up diving?
Wasn't it an excuse to wear those snug bathing suits?
And now, look where your fine ass has gotten you."

With that, the Master thrust swiftly, deeply, slapping Danny's ass, letting
his molten seed erupt. This was the signal for the three servant-dogs to
bark in unison. Melchizedek withdrew his tool inch by inch, easing it out
slowly. He cleaned it off with a warm, damp towel, reclaimed his luxurious
robe, and left without saying another word.

Danny Sullivan was on his belly, exhausted and sore. Not only did his
rectum complain about the pummeling it received, but his head was sounding off as well. Ass and mind, soundly screwed. How did the Master know about that repressed memory of Asbury Park? It was all true. When chicks told Danny that he had a cute ass, he always replied, "I know." What he never understood until this very moment was that his white bubble butt was meant for bigger and better things than compliments from girls.

A pair of strong hands suddenly gripped Danny's ankles and flipped him
effortlessly onto his back. Master Antoine stood between the outstretched,
milky thighs. He was naked, the firm contours of his muscular brown body
limned by wavering candlelight. The service-dogs once again squinted and strained their necks from the corners of the darkened room.

"Bitch, I want to see your face when I fuck you,' Antoine growled.

The whiteboy lifted his head so that his chin touched his chest to meet the
Master's intense gaze. Antoine's bald, brown cranium and the large knob of his dark brown dick shared a striking resemblance. Outside howled the wind with lupine melancholy, and tree branches thrashed the walls.
A storm was mounting an assault.

"This cock is for you, cracker," said Antoine, pulling the white body
toward him until Danny was helplessly impaled.

Danny moaned. There was no sharp pain this time, but the very fullness of so much meat throbbing inside his hole was a sensation like none other. He began breathing rapidly, short, quick breaths as the Master plunged to the full extent his large cock could reach. As the Master's pace picked up, sliding in an out, Danny found himself overcome by delirious pleasure. His long-lashed eyes squeezed shut.

"Open your damn eyes, motherfucker. "Look at me, bitch! You're loving this shit, aren't you? That's right! Yahhhh, feels good, doesn't it? Big black cock all up inside your curvaceous white ass, that's what you want, am I right? Your ass has been calling to me since I got here."
Antoine's dark, focused gaze bore down intensely. If Danny's pupils were
the windows to his soul, those panes melted into glassy tears running down his face, unable to hide the wave of unexpected ecstasy that came over him. It was more than the rough massage of his prostate, more than the bewildering fact that his ass was bouncing to receive the black man's
rhythmic thrusts. It was emotional. It was joy. Incomprehensible,
unforeseen, irrational joy.


Danny's thoughts were frazzled:
"Ohhh, God... I can't... I don't know... who I am anymore...
I don't know how much more I can take...but I don't want to stop.
I can't stop. I need to rest... no, no, no...
it feels so good... fuck me...fuck me...
fuck me!!!"

"You're loving this! They told me you weren't a faggot,
but you can't enough of this dick. I can see it on your face.
You're smiling. I knew you had to be a homo. You fucking faggot.
I was looking forward to nailing a straight boy not a queer.
I don't want you to enjoy this.
You wore that Collar for a year, that's why.
It made you love getting fucked. You're still feeling it.
You're lucky you're not wearing that
Collar now. Hell, yeah, you're lucky as fuck!
See, I'm not smooth like them other cats. I don't like crackers.
I like seeing you bitches suffer. I could really have some fun with you if you had your Collar on.
I'd leave your mind intact so it could witness your body do whatever the fuck it's told.
You hear me, you nasty, disgusting, sneaky little faggot? I see
you're still smiling! You must think you're one lucky dog!"

Throughout this invective, the Master's personal hound, Mutt, squatted with his head cocked, round eyes, and a wrinkled snout.
The old homosexual was aghast to hear his sweet, gentle owner speak this way. One of the things he loved most about his Master was the regard he showed for the well-being of his pets. Mutt truly believed Master Antoine had forgiven or at least tolerated the double calamity of being born white and gay. The mongrel crouched in abject shame, while the other two looked upon him sympathetically.

"You don't deserve this cock!"
Beads of sweat glistened on his brow as he began to pound with increasing fury.
His hands held the whiteboys legs apart like he pulling a wishbone.
"None of you faggots do. But a Man does what a Man has got to do.
Right now, I got to drop a
load inside your faggot pussy so my boy can finish the job."

Antoine ejaculated over the course of several long, deep thrusts. The walls of Danny's ravaged rectum were spattered with hot jism that oozed from his swollen, rubbery cunt-lips like butter. Nor did his round hole contract with the removal of that wrought-iron weapon of mass destruction. It remained wide open, gaping, like a dark tunnel or black hole still begging to be filled.

In the living room, Antoine was greeted by daps and handshakes from his
brethren. The air was heavy with cigar and cannabis smoke, blended with the fragrance from the birch log in the hearth.

"Did the creature speak?" asked Shabaz, d****d in his customary black thawb with gold stitching.

"Not a word," said Antoine.

"Not even `Use Me, Master'?"

"I think he was enjoying it too much. You should have seen the shit-eating
grin on that puppy's face! I don't know how straight you think he is.
He loves getting fucked, I can tell you that."

"All primitives do," said Malchizedek, wearing his suit of tweed.
"There is rampant potential for homosexuality in all of them.
Worship of the True Phallus is seared into their racial memory.
Millennia may pass, but the white man will never forget the
Power of Blackness that puts him to shame."

"I want him to understand that he exists for no other purpose than to be
used," said Shabaz, with concern in his voice. "I want him to beg for it as
he did last night. I took that as a propitious sign.
I don't know why he won't say it now."

"Patience, friend," said Malchizedek, leaning on his wolf's-head cane. "We
awakened the primitive's dormant identity. He is at war with himself. He
remembers the scared, defiant, selfish individual he used to be when he
pretended to be a man. He remembers the bliss of being at his Master's feet when he was more than eager to serve and by any means necessary.

"I will get the puppy to speak,"
declared Hieronymus, setting aside his
pipe and the volume of lore which held his attention. The shirtless brother
with the gold-burnished muscles stood in his red silk boxers, bulging with
readiness. He shot a lingering look at Shabaz who was deep in thought,
before sauntering barefoot to the room down the hall.

The boy struggling to remember his name lay in a fetal position with his
knees drawn and arms in a self-embrace. His tears had dried, and the
afterglow of bliss bestowed a restful calm at odds with the wind roaring at
the shuttered windows. Grumbling thunder added to the cacophony.

Despite his creaking joints, old Kizingu stirred with excitement as his
Afro-Caribbean owner entered and closed the door.

The other service dogs looked on with their wee, pink pizzles protruding obscenely. Hieronymus patted the whiteboy gently on the head, followed by a light slap to his face.


"Ready to be used some more? That's why you're here.
So Real Men can use you. That's your purpose.
You will never be one hundred percent happy,
not even wearing the Collar of Obedience,
if in your heart, you really do not want to be used.
Why don't you suck my cock while I'm talking."

Danny was positioned on his back with his head hanging over the edge of the large bed. Master Shabaz stood astride and stooped to insert his long
golden-brown rod into the whiteboy's gullet. Thin, pallid lips clamped the
turgid, thick-veined shaft. Smooth testicles like nectarines smacked the
whiteboy's face.

"Much better. You don't have to suck it. Keep your mouth open. Wider! No, wide! That's better. Good boy. See how you want to obey! You don't need that collar. But you need to want to be used."

This went on for several minutes. More than once, Danny choked and
gagged. Saliva spilled down his chin. Hieronymus was not gentle. He gave the whiteboy a second to catch his breath, and then plunged back into the designated orifice.

"Roll over. I'm going to fuck that fine ass. Hike it up.
Make like you're offering it to me.
Wiggle it like you want me to use it. Perfect.
You have some nice cakes for a whiteboy,
and I don't say that lightly.
When a boy with an ass like yours comes along,
it would be a waste not to use it.
It's not going to look this good forever.
White males lose muscle tone fast. If you didn't have a Master,
you would be lucky to keep your shape by thirty.
It's all downhill for you from there."

Hieronymus climbed on top of Danny, with his knees prodding the white
thighs further apart, and using his hands to pin the whiteboy's arms.

He rubbed his erection against Danny's ass, demonstrating its hardness,
sliding between the cheeks like they were tits.

The bulbous glans teased the slippery hole, but did not penetrate.
Not yet.

Danny Sullivan wanted that big cock inside him.
He could not help but want it. His hole felt empty now.
He was hollow.
He was nothing without a black man's cock inside him.
He needed to experience that raw ecstasy again.
It was all he had left.
His pink cunt lips dilated and contracted spasmodically.

"You want me to use your white ass like it's a pussy?"
whispered the Master into the whiteboy's ear.
"Is that what you want? Let me hear you say it."

It was impossible to think with the wind and thunder and the hungry
yearning of his hole.
Were the other dogs barking, or was that clamor in his mind?
He wanted to join in.
He wanted to bark and wag his tail.
He wanted to fetch sticks for his Master.
He wanted to beg on command for yummy treats.
He wanted to get fucked.
NO! He NEEDED to get FUCKED!!!!

"I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before.
I'm going to show you why it's called doggy style!
I'm going to use that ass like it's meant to be used.
I'm going to use you, whiteboy!
Tell me that's what you want.
Say it, whiteboy! Let it out!"


"Use me, Master!"
he croaked, only the sounds issuing from his hoarse vocal cords sounded like those of a b**st trying to imitate human speech.

"Louder!"

"USE ME, MASTER!!!"

"Again! Otra vez!"
The bilingual command was punctuated by a clap of thunder.

"USE ME, MASTER!!!!"
The whiteboy sobbed.

The wind and thunder stopped. The chorus of dogs receded like a echo. There was silence.

"That's all I wanted to hear," said Master Hieronymus, ramming his thick
Chorizo sausage into Snowflake's useful hole.

As the muscular black man's stabbing thrusts commenced, the white puppy dog was happy again.
"Use me, Master!"
Black cock and being used were fused together into a single concept. One desire. One purpose.
"Use me, Master!"
he cried yet again, weeping for joy,

He now knew that for this was he born.
This was his purpose on earth.
Shaped by the forces of Creation into the caricature of a real man,
what else could Danny Sullivan be but a hound called Snowflake,
a lowly subhuman programmed to be used by superior Men?


However, it was not Master Hieronymus's intent to deliver what was
promised. All that he was called upon to do was bring the primitive
caucasoid to utter the necessary words, and then plant his Nubian seed.

All exigent tradition and arcane ritual aside, this was sloppy thirds, after
all, although Snowflake did have a very sweet ass. It was tempting to
linger inside those slippery sugar walls, but Hieronymus was impatient to
rejoin his brothers. Picturing the last naked woman to grace his bed,
Hieronymus efficiently brought himself to orgasm. It was finished.

"I wish that I had more time to fuck you properly, little one.
You are so fuckable.
I would fuck you every day if you were my dog.
When you wear your Collar of Obedience,
remember you want to be used. That's your mission in life.
Master Shabaz is a wise and good Master. He will treat you well. Would you like me to visit some time?
Your Master has already offered me the use of your pretty ass whenever I want.
Bark, if you want me to come back."

"Arf! Arf! Arf!" yipped Snowflake, sitting up, offering a paw.

"Aren't you a clever dog," chuckled Hieronymus, shaking the limp appendage in imitation of a real handshake between human beings. He casually petted his longtime pet, Kizingu, on the head as he left to wash and get dressed. The old fellow would have followed along out of habit if not reminded to stay.

On his way to the bathroom, Hieronymus had a brief exchange in passing with Shabaz. As they were talking, the younger master adjusted the blinds to look out a window. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight.
Snow blanketed the fields.
"That's what I thought," he confirmed.

Shabaz smiled.

Snowflake, Kizingu, Mutt, and Rover waited patiently in the shuttered
room. The candles were low. Some had sputtered out.
They all looked up when Master Shabaz walked in.
The first thing he did was order the visiting pets to the living room.
They scurried out on their hands and knees, plugged tails wagging friskily.

The Master's next act was to lock the Collar of Obedience around
Snowflake's throat.

What little remained of Danny's humanity swirled out of
existence, flushed away like a bowel movement down a putrid pipe into the septic tank of oblivion, never to return.

"You were a good dog,"
Shabaz beamed. His eyes shone like dark jewels as he
examined the creature's hole.
With a finger, he scooped some of the dripping semen and offered it to Snowflake, who happily licked the digit clean.

"I'm proud of you. You passed the Final Test.
Yes, you did.
You want me to use you, don't you.
Yes, yes, I know you want to be used. Of course you do.
You always wanted to be used by a True Man.
That's why you came to me a year ago, cold and naked except for a rag of wet, white cotton clinging to your frozen haunches.
Now, go clean yourself up. Use the washcloth like I taught you. Then, you may join us in the living room."

Snowflake barked what probably meant OK in dog speech, jumped from the bed, and was off to do what he was told. Anyone observing this would have marveled at a house pet understanding English so clearly. It was something one might expect from Rin Tin Tin or Lassie, but then, they were fictional characters played by trained, canine professionals.
What made Snowflake remarkable was being just an ordinary dog.


Soon, all the Masters and their service-pets were assembled before the
roaring fireplace. Pipes were filled and lit one more time. Crystal glasses
filled with golden, Tanzanian cordial were raised in toast to the
Cause. The crawling subhumans were given savory, nutritious snacks in the shape of bones, factory-made by veterinary chefs for the health and
longevity of domesticated primitives.

Malchizedek took Antoine aside to present him with a small velvet
pouch. The younger man pulled out a shiny gem the size and shape of a hen's egg. The lustrous, black stone seemed lit from within by a fiery core. It sent a strange tingle through Antoine's palm.
His brows crinkled with curiosity.

"You expressed an interest in the Collars of Obedience, my son," said the
venerable mage. "But they are both rare and too powerful for you to wield
without deeper training in Black Magick. This is the Black Opal of Heka. It
is not as efficacious as a Collar, but it gets the job done."

With that, Malchizedek launched into a full explanation of how the magick
gem worked, and wished Antoine "luck," as it is called. The secrets of the
Black Arts were available to any brother with the will and discipline to
learn. Some, like Hieronymus, evinced scant interest beyond an academic
grasp of the fundamentals. Black Magick was not the only tool in a Master's utility belt when it came to dealing with the white horde.

"There's something I've always wondered about," said the brother from
Alabama. "Can caucazoids utilize Black Magick like we can? I mean, is that even a problem?"

"The primitives have no supernatural abilities," said the black man whose
origins could only be guessed. "Because they are melanin recessive. When our skin absorbs sunlight, it is converted by melanin into magickal
potential. Our capacity to store and transform sunlight makes us superior
to the primitives, spiritually, intellectually, and physically. Black
Magick is but one of our many natural advantages."


"Does that mean the darker a brother is, the more powerful?"

"Not at all," replied Malchizedek, firmly. "It's not the hue of your skin,
but the quality of your melanin. Do not underestimate the resolve of a True Man to rise above all obstacles. Remember, my son, that Men of Africa come in many shades. We spanned the globe before the primitives discovered fire."

Masters Shabaz and Hieronymus, their pets rubbing against their legs, were also in dialogue. The beatific expression on Snowflake's uplifted face was so adorable that Hieronymus remarked, "You have a good dog. He will never let you down. I only wish that I could have spent more time with him."

"You must visit us again," said the African. "When you can stay as long as
you like."

"I would like that," smiled the Afro-Caribbean.

With that understanding, the hour of departure was finally upon them. Hands were clasped, manly yet affectionate embraces shared, and binding words of fellowship exchanged.
Between Hieronymus and Shabaz was a glow of mutual warmth.
Their sui generis bond was like a Platonic ideal made flesh.

The last limousine disappeared down the long driveway, but for several
minutes Shabaz lingered at the door with Snowflake at his side, looking
into the distance. Black, skeletal trees stood in sharp relief against the
white, snow-clad fields like a work of chiaroscuro. He imagined tribes of
caucazoids clad in a****l pelts struggling to survive in such a cold,
barren landscape.

Came a sudden gust of glacial wind causing the long, black thawb to
flutter.

"Come inside, little one," urged the Master.
"I have something that will warm you up."