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Scott Clair hated his whiteness. He wasn't able to articulate it exactly in that way; he claimed to be coming to terms with his submissive nature and his overwhelming desire to serve the Black race. Had he been a bit more self-aware, a bit more introspective, he could have accurately described his self-hatred as stemming from his inherent need to feel superior. Whiteness was his disease, magnified by a Napoleonic complex of huge proportions given his height of 5'1". He suffered from narcissism extraordinaire. In his delusional mind, the universe owed him an apology for his height and he compensated for it by singing "Woe is me," every chance he got-- the 12" extended, remix, house music version. Lying was his first nature, he could construct a tale of deceit without so much as the blink of an eye, all to make himself seem more important or to perpetuate an image of his false sense of superiority. He treated people as objects to use and didn't give a damn who was hurt, used, or annoyed in the process. He felt he was the sun, the chosen son, around whom all the world had an obligation to rotate.

He began feeling uncomfortable with his identity, with his whiteness, with the advent of interracial porn. Initially, he was outraged and angered by Black men and their enormous cocks fucking white women. He would watch in disgust at the videos of men endowed with equipment that made his tiny penis look infantile in comparison and seethe in anger, proclaiming how he hated Black men for being lazy, ignorant, criminal, and nothing more than savages. Of course, all that internal dialogue was drowned out while he was masturbating furiously for hours on end to image after image of white women screaming in pleasure and pain while having the sex of their lives with Black men. He would go to Black blogs and forums and protest that size didn't matter and Black men did not, in fact, have bigger cocks, that it was all just a myth. He took pleasure in his anonymous rants of degrading Black men for being bad fathers, for all being illiterate rappers, and he always seemed to find a way to espouse racist, hateful beliefs that made white men seem inherently and naturally superior. Immediately after taunting anyone and everyone who expressed even the slightest outrage, disbelief, or anger at his psychotic rants, he would log on to one of the numerous pay sites he subscribed to and download videos of white women being fucked by Black men in every orifice so he could jerk off.

In phase two of his awakening, he had a grand epiphany whereby he decided he was sensitive to the Black race. He became a self-proclaimed, liberal, reformed racist who insisted that he was atoning for the sins of all white men, past and present, and righting the wrongs of slavery by being submissive to Black women. His motives might have been pure except for the fact that he wasn't even capable of seeing Black women as human beings but merely things to satisfy his perversions. He watched BET, he listened to Black talk radio, and he rented every Black movie ever made so he could claim expertise on Blackness. In his submission, he would get off on the idea of black women using him, making fun of his small appendage, slapping him around, maybe even fucking him with a strapon and going home to his white world where he never interacted with another Black person. His sexuality was compartmentalized. For a few hours a month, if he was lucky, a few hours a week, he could take off his white privilege, leave it at the door, and role-play to his heart's content that he was a slave to a Black woman. When it was over, he could go home and feel absolved of his white guilt and assured that he was free of all inklings of white supremacy and racist beliefs.

In reality, he used Black women like life-like toys. He used the threat of giving them money to fuck with them. He would promise them large amounts of money and then, for no reason whatsoever, he would rescind the offer with the hopes that the women would be irate and that they would in turn then beg and plead for the money in order for him to feel powerful and in control of their lives. He would demand that they fulfill his fantasies, in exactly the way he saw fit; he thought nothing of calling on them at obscene hours of the day or night whenever he wanted to live out his submissive fantasies, stalking them, completely disrespecting their time and lives. The fact that he erroneously viewed his fetish as being submissive is what allowed him to believe that he was pardoned of his responsibility of being a total and complete asshole who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, without regard, respect, or reverence to anyone else.

His fascination with the Black female body was colored by his hatred of the Black male one. The more a woman looked like a man, the more he was obsessed with being the "victim" of her abuse. If she was pumped up on steroids and bulging with muscles everywhere, if her facial features were masculine, if she wore her hair short and natural or if she was transgendered and sporting a big ole, juicy, fat cock, he would make that woman the center of his lust to the extent it would become a maniacal obsession. He would spend endless hours, furiously masturbating, thinking about being pulverized by these she-men, beaten to a bloody pulp, raped against his will, and had no reason to associate his desires with his hatred of the Black male.

It was, in fact, his hatred of the Black male, his odious and undeniable jealousy at his strength, power, and unquestionable masculinity, all things Scott dangerously lacked, which motivated his fantasies. He wanted to destroy the Black man, to castrate him, but short of being able to do that, he could covet these women who were essentially men and feel secure in knowing that he was dominating them passively with his threats of giving and withholding money. In truth, he was worshipping the black male, just minus the penis. Many a night, he would sit at his computer, nipple clamps in place, a black butt plug firmly in place stretching his anus, stroking his small cock with his thumb and forefinger, fantasizing about taking on Mike Tyson, Kimbo Slice, or some other black boxing champion and veritably kicking their ass. He was too stupid to even acknowledge or realize that his fantasies were sexual in nature, that he was jerking off to these images because they aroused him; he could only focus on the adrenaline he felt when he imagined himself victorious over these bastions of Black masculinity. His warped, delusional mind could only comprehend that he viewed the Black male body, the muscular black male body, as his enemy.

Simultaneously, he dreamt of being a Black man. Being transformed to a Black male body, in his warped mind, would mean women, both white and black, would throw themselves at his feet, that he could fuck whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Never, not once did he consider that being a Black man carried more burdens and responsibilities than just standing around on the basketball court waiting for some white woman to get lost in the hood. In his mind, being a Black man was about athleticism, sexuality, and masculinity.

It was indeed a Black man who masterminded phase three of his evolution. Having "graduated" from serving masculine Black women, and compelled by his deviant urges and conflicted emotions, Scott moved on to the worship of the mythical big black cock. He became obsessed with it, all the power it represented and he CRAVED to be degraded and humiliated by Black men with nothing less than 8 inches or more of man meat. His need to be submissive to Black men became obsessive, traveling to adult book stores, bath houses, and gay bars in search of the biggest, blackest cock he could find. The men the cocks were attached to were inconsequential; it was the penis that was his object of desire. He became the proverbial slut for black cock. That was, until he responded to a particular ad on craigslist.

The ad was simple enough. "Professional Black male seeks same for LTR." It outlined the specifics of who the guy was and what he was looking for: complexion, similar interests, education, height, and age—all the average things in a personal ad. The photo section included several pictures of a tall, very attractive, dark-skinned guy with a nice house, a nice car, and a package that was so big UPS would have refused to deliver it.

Had the ad not included the picture of the cock, Scott probably would have moved on, clicking on another ad to find someone who was looking for a quick, anonymous suck or fuck in the immediate future. It was the perfect cock: uncut, heavily veined, thick, Black, and what had to be 10 inches ... soft. Scott's mouth watered and his asspussy throbbed at the thought of feeling that huge monster invading him, pounding him, stretching him to beyond capacity, ripping him, filling him with load after load of scalding hot cum. He had to have it.

He fired off a response, quickly detailing what a fuck slut he was and how he had a hot, wet mouth perfect for sucking and a tight, hot, hole ideal for fucking. He attached a picture he found on the net of a beautiful young twink who could have been a perfect Calvin Klein model. It really didn't matter to him that he looked NOTHING like the picture, nothing mattered to him other than getting what he wanted. He waited for a response. And he waited. After two days, he figured he would send another response, this time being more explicit.

"Dear, Sir. I sent you an email the other day but it must have ended up in your spam folder or something. I'm a white, 30-something male," he lied, "who would love to drain your big cock. I'm expert at sucking cock, I have a hot white hole just ready for pounding all night long, and you can do whatever you want to me, treat me like shit, and I can take it all and then some. I especially enjoy race play and get off on being treated rough and you can even beat the crap out of me if you want. I'll kneel at your feet and worship your superior, Black cock. Anxiously awaiting your response. Submissively, Scott."

The response came quickly this time, within a few minutes. "Thanks you for your interest. I'm not looking for a sub or anything of the sort, but rather I'm looking for a long-term relationship EXACTLY like I described in my ad."

For most people, that would have been sufficient. Perhaps a few would have sent a response saying, "Fine, you don't know what you're missing," and left it at that. Scott, however, was not satisfied with that response. He became belligerent and typically arrogant. His response came in the form of an essay, describing how he was informed on Black issues, how liberal he was socially and how he supported Barack Obama. He wrote of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and the history of racism. He went on and on with statistics about Black men in the U.S. He ridiculed the man for his lack of knowledge of Black issues, not even knowing the man's position on anything. The whole objective of the correspondence was to piss this guy off. Scott was adept at being irritating, it was his weapon of choice and being rejected was not in his agenda.

Send.

No response.

He didn't even wait a full 24 hours for a response. He fired off another email, this time longer, this time more abrasive.

No response.

Outraged, Scott sat at his computer, looking at that picture of that gorgeous cock, jerking off incessantly, and figuring out ways to get under this guy's skin. That's all he wanted at this point. He wanted to annoy him, anger him, to make him frustrated and pissed off. He got a thrill from the attention, the fact that he knew he was an irritant; that was almost more arousing to him than getting fucked.

Still no response, he constructed yet another email, this time, taunting him by reverting back to his tried and true nature of being racially belligerent, claiming that the picture of the cock wasn't even real, that he probably had a tiny cock and was trying to compensate for not being a "real" black man. That would surely get a response.

And this time it did ... instantaneously. Failure Notice. Remote host said: 554 delivery error. The mail recipient, [email protected] is not accepting emails from your account.

"How dare that black piece of shit ignore me," Scott fumed. "I'll fix him," as he sent all three of his emails again, this time, each one from one of his many other email accounts. The drama was arousing to Scott and he fisted his tiny cock in anticipation of a response. This time, he was sure to get some sort of rise out of this guy. It wasn't even about the sex anymore; it was a game of power. Scott needed to prove that he could not and would not be dismissed. He needed to put this Black guy in his place and teach him a lesson. Scott's true racist nature had surfaced again, victim of his own delusions of supremacy.

He got a real response this time, simply stating, "Okay, you win. If you want to be dominated, I'll do it. Be at my house, Friday evening, and be prepared to be pushed past your limits. In fact, you better not have any limits." He gave an address and signed the email, "Your Black Dom Daddy".

Scott masturbated endlessly, for days on end, reading those few lines like they held the key to the universe. He fantasized about what it would be like to be the plaything of a strong, Black man who towered over his diminutive size. He didn't do as he was instructed of course. That would have been anti-climactic. He wasn't going to go through with it after everything he had written, he just wanted to get off on the idea of being a white fuck slut with no limits being tortured and used by a strong, Black Daddy. So he placated himself by pulling and stroking his tiny penis, imagining unspeakable, disgusting things.

Barely a week went by when Scott's curiosity got the best of him. He sent another email and not surprisingly, it was returned as blocked. He had no less than 25 email addressed created for just such a reason so he quickly resent it from another account and this time, he apologized profusely for his abhorrent behavior. He humbled himself, "Dear, Sir, what can I do to have you forgive me? I've been arrogant and I realize that now. I'll never do it again, I promise. I want to be your boy. I want you to own me." He didn't mean a word of what he said, it was all a part of his twisted pathology.

The response was more detailed this time. "I knew your faggot ass couldn't resist. The rules are simple. For an entire weekend I'll use you in ways that you've never thought of before. You'll be my complete bitch. Bring food and beverages to fix me breakfast, lunch, and dinner the entire time you're here. You'll be dressed in slutty heels and lingerie all weekend. You'll keep your holes ready for me to use ... in any way I see fit. If I bring my friends over, you'll service them any way they want. If I go out on a date, you'll suck my cock clean when I come home. You'll serve as my maid and make sure my place is immaculate and you'll be my footstool, ashtray, toilet, and cum dump. You'll be anything I tell you to be and you'll like it and beg for more."

Anger boiled up within Scott's soul, anger and pure, unadulterated lust. He'd never really given up his fallacy of white supremacy, he'd never really reconciled his hatred for Black men and their larger endowments, he was just going through the motions in an effort to satiate his lust for being degraded and abused. His desires to be raped, used, and beaten until unrecognizable were symptoms of a greater evil. Scott wanted to use Black sexuality to satisfy his perverse desires; he never had any intentions of being used to satisfy the desires of a Black person.

His compulsion to be used outweighed reason as he drove around impatiently in his car for 7:00 pm exactly. Being nosey, he opened the mailbox and saw that the name on the Car and Driver Magazine was Todd Harcourt. At least he had a name to put with the description of the supposed mortgage broker, sports enthusiast, and openly gay black man he was about to meet. Scott had purchased enough food for a week, all frozen dinners and semi-prepared deli foods and the like; he wasn't a great cook and didn't want to piss this guy off by trying to be creative in the kitchen when he knew good and god damn well that anything he fixed himself would taste like crap. He wanted to leave, to turn around and go home, but he knew that if he did, he would regret it. He'd packed an overnight bag with all the lingerie and high heels he'd stolen from previous girlfriends. With such a big cock pounding him, he knew there was going to be potential for issues so he'd given himself a series of intense and painful enemas to make sure his colon was free from any shit so there wouldn't be any accidents or mess. All lubed up with a butt plug shoved in to stretch his hole, he knocked on the door.

"Yes, how can I help you?" The guy looked confused more than anything, like he wasn't expecting anyone to show up.

"I'm ... from the internet ... you know ... your boy. You told me to be here for you to..." Scott paused mid sentence, afraid someone had played a joke on him. The guy standing before him was the guy from the pictures in the ad, but he wasn't sure exactly what was going on so he remained quiet, gripping his bags in his hands tighter and ready to make a run for it.

"Oh DAMN, I knew the picture you sent was fake but GOD DAMN. Could you have found a picture more opposite of what you look like? Shit! Oh well, get in here." The guy looked like he wanted to throw up he was so disgusted. Scott stepped inside the foyer as the door closed behind him. It was his nature to be so arrogant, so pathological in his need to misrepresent himself, that he didn't care that he sent pictures that looked nothing like his 40 something, unattractive self.

One thing was for certain, the guy hadn't lied one bit in his ad. He wasn't a millimeter shy of 6'4", he had a muscular, athletic build, bald head, dark chocolate skin and he was VERY attractive. Scott could see the picture of his fantastic cock in his mind and his tiny prick pulsed in anticipation. With the difference in height, Scott did in fact feel like a boy next to a strong Daddy. "Take off your clothes," were his only instructions.

Scott put his bags down and started to slowly undress. "Hurry up, shithead," the man bellowed and Scott began to pick up the pace. He took off his shoes and socks and pulled down his pants, standing there with nothing but a pair of tighty whities on and pitching a tent, a pup tent, but his erection was sticking out as far as possible.

"I thought I told you that you were to be dressed in women's lingerie the entire time you were in my presence, bitch."

"Yeah, but I didn't know exactly what was expected of me so I figured I would..." His words were cut off by a backhand that sent him flying into the wall. Real tears formed in his eyes as he felt the sting of the slap radiating on his cheek. The taste of warm blood trickled in his mouth from his cheek and he swallowed. He tried to steady himself to stand but he was disoriented and scared.

"You will be humble in my presence at all times. You will answer only when spoken to and if your answer isn't preceded by Yes, Master, or Yes, Daddy, you can be sure I'm going to discipline you much worse than that little tap. I really don't give a damn what you think, I only expect you to conform to my desires and that's it. Got it?"

A knot formed in Scott's throat. It felt like someone was choking him, no, stabbing him with a knife in his vocal chords. The words were stuck and he swallowed hard and responded, "Yes, Daddy."

Scott was already broken.

Extending his hand in what seemed to be a gesture of kindness, this exquisite male specimen helped Scott to his feet. Scott's hands were small; his fingers were stubby and short. In contrast, Todd's hands were large, not too large, but with long, graceful fingers. With his hand placed inside the much larger one, he instinctively knew what it was to be a little boy with a strong, protective parent. With tears in his eyes, Scott removed his underpants and stood covering his small penis, profoundly ashamed by its inferior size. "Move your fucking hands, let me see what you've got" were his only instructions and he instinctively covered his nipples like a teenage girl whose top had been pulled down at the neighborhood swimming pool.

Loud, uproarious laughter reverberated in the tiny alcove and Scott's heart sank at the same ratio that his cock rose. No matter how much he knew on a visceral level, no matter how much he intellectualized and articulated that his penis was small, extraordinarily small in fact, when he heard others say it, especially Black men, he felt anger, shame, and arousal at the same time. He was aroused by the humiliation but he just couldn't let go of that nasty "white male thing" that caused him to look at Black men with nothing but contempt and disgust. It was a part of his DNA, it was wired into his brain that he was inherently superior so while his rage bubbled beneath the surface, his lust dictated his need to give up that false sense of superiority and become what he knew he was deep, deep inside: a perverse, disgusting, depraved white pain, cum slut. He needed to be set free of his imprisonment of lies to be released so he could experience his true nature as something lower than a human.

"Suck my cock, bitch." The pressure of the hand on Scott's shoulder forced him to his knees. He knelt submissively before the fully clothed man before him. His hands trembled as he reached out to undo his jeans and pull down the zipper. Placing his hand inside his pants, he felt for the first time what was possibly the biggest cock he'd ever felt in his life. He could barely get his fingers around the girth. Fishing it out, he was struck with the strong aroma of unwashed masculinity. It was an intoxicating elixir of sweat, piss, and pure, manly funk. Scott inhaled the scent and it made him light headed; it made his cock leak precum.

Peeling back the foreskin, Scott looked up into the deep, dark eyes of his new owner. A foul, raunchy-smelling layer of head cheese coated the enormous crown of the beautiful, brown cock. "You like? I made it just for you. Eat up."

Rather than hesitating, Scott made a real show of cleaning that nasty smegma. He devoured it like he was starving, proud to show off his cocksucking skills and the devotion he had for the monstrous piece of meat that was before him. The thick paste filled his taste buds and Scott worked first to clean it and then to worship it. Barely able to get his mouth around it, barely able to get even a third of its enormous length into his mouth, Scott licked and kissed it passionately. If a man could form a relationship with a cock, this was the ideal mate for Scott. In his heart, he fell in love with that meat, feeling his chest expand and tighten like a schoolboy with his first crush. He tried to make love to it with his mouth, planting soft and tender kisses along its length to show his reverence.

"What the fuck is this kissing shit? Bitch, I told you to suck my mother fucking cock. NOW SUCK!" With that, he grabbed Scott's head and fucked his mouth savagely. Scott tried to push away, bracing himself against the firm, muscular thighs of his tormentor, trying to catch his breath as that cock ravaged his throat. He gagged and choked, feeling his esophagus being raped. He was being skull fucked; he was nothing more than a hole being abused. The steady pounding of that cock, its full length wanted to make him cry out in pain but he couldn't; he could barely gasp for air. The rhythm was fast and furious, his jaw was numb, and his gag reflect was abating after what had to be more than 10 minutes of the most hard core blow job he'd ever given ... sort of. There was no mistaking that he wasn't "giving" anything, his throat was being fucked and it hurt in a way that couldn't be described. Hot, salty tears stained his cheeks as he prayed for the torture to end, and simultaneously, never to end.

The reward at the end of his torture would come soon enough. His master, tormentor, and dream lover shoved the full length of his hardness deep in Scott's throat. His nose deeply embedded in the thick patch of wiry pubic hairs, Scott felt the expansive cock actually grow and lengthen in his mouth and could detect the peristaltic motion that brought the scalding white, hot, cum from his nuts, through his impressive tube of manliness, out and down Scott's throat, without even getting the benefit of tasting the scummy spunk he craved so desperately.

Scott collapsed to the floor, exhausted and broken, his face inches away from the feet of his skillful dominator. He wanted to cleave unto those feet, wrap his arms around those legs for protection and comfort and say, "Daddy, I'm sorry I was a bad boy. Please, forgive me." He couldn't say anything however because his throat was so sore he'd temporarily lost the ability to speak. It felt as if his vocal chords had been scraped with sandpaper.

"Before I forget, give me your keys and your wallet. I want some assurances you won't be leaving before I give you permission." The last thing in the world Scott wanted was to leave. He wanted to stay forever. He wanted to give up his measly life and be the boi of this ominous stranger. His identity was sacred however and he had spent years protecting it, lying, deceiving, and hiding his real life from those whom he used sexually. This time, he reluctantly handed over the requested items and felt a sense of relief. If he was going to be blackmailed, outed, and exposed to the world, now was the time, he'd let his perversions drive him too far. He wanted this man to know his true identity, to have control of his life and his destiny. It was his freedom.

"I expect you to change your clothes, fix me dinner and bring it to me in the den, and be prepared to service me in whatever way I desire." He pushed Scott away with his foot and went about his business like Scott wasn't even there.

Unsure of the layout of the house, Scott stumbled around until he found a powder room to change into his female attire. He was an ugly male to begin with which made him repulsive as a woman but he felt sexy in his red see-through baby doll nightie, his high-heel, patent leather, stiletto, Payless Pumps and black butt plug, framed perfectly by his crotchless panties. His tiny penis strained against the silky material and felt good. He rubbed it for as long as he thought he might be able to get away with it without being found out and emerged to fix dinner.

Cooking in someone else's house is a task. He struggled to find the right pots, the right plates, the tools he needed to pull off his linguine and shrimp, all pre-cooked of course. Salad was in a bag and all he had to do was find an opener for the beer. He wobbled and teetered in his heels that were giving him a blister but he ignored the pain in anticipation of more humiliation and degradation to come. That was his finish line, his raison d'etre. He overheard his new Master talking on the phone, conversing with a friend. "Nah man, I ain't never done no shit like this before. I figure he'll be begging to leave after a few hours. I ain't even going to tell you the shit I have planned for him ... Word. That's what I'm saying. Yeah man, I'll holla at you later, we'll hang out on Sunday morning or something. I'm out."

Scott fumed. He felt cheated. He wanted someone experienced in BDSM to control him, not some fucking amateur. His arrogance button was flicked on and he had half a mind to call the whole thing off and leave. He brought the plates out to the den and placed them on the coffee table with silverware and paper towels for napkins. He went back to the kitchen and got two beers and returned, sitting on the other end of the sofa. "I hope you like it, Sir. I can't take real credit..."

Before he knew what was happening, he felt a stinging kick to his side and he flew off the end of the sofa and landed flat on his ass. "Bitch, I told you I didn't want you speak to me unless spoken to. That's not a hard rule to follow, is it?"

Shaking his head, Scott mumbled, "No, Master," and apologized for being a dumbass.

"And while we're at it, who the fuck told you that you could eat with me?"

Before he could make the same mistake again, he fought the urge to give his opinion and state the obvious that he had to have some sort of sustenance to keep up his strength throughout the weekend.

"I'll take this beer and let me have that plate so I can fix it for you." Holding his finger aside one nostril, Todd hacked up phlegm from deep in his chest that sounded like he had walking pneumonia and blew it from his nose on Scott's plate of food. Repeating the procedure several times, there was a coating of green, brown, yellowish snot coating the Scampi. Scott's stomach turned and his cock leapt. Placing the plate on the floor, Scott was told to eat without the benefit of utensils or hands and eat it all.

With his ass high in the air, he lowered his face to the plate of food. "Oh, and if you throw up anything I give you to eat, you can be sure I'll make you eat it again. Understand?" Those instructions were clear and Scott felt nauseated as he began to eat the mucous covered dinner. It wasn't as bad as he imagined it was going to be after he got down the first few bites with thick, salty boogers, and before he knew it, he was proud to show that he could be such a nasty pig, eating snot like a pig eats slop from a trough.