Piggies

You could hear the suction of those feet against the linoleum floor downstairs. That heavy body propelled by the perspiring smoothness of those feet. You imagined her every curve, seeing its every possible gesticulation, as Keenan sat there before you, sitting bare-assed on the edge of the bathtub, his hips thrusted forward, presenting his proud pink cock to that pink toothbrush.

He groaned as he massaged himself with its bristles. Then you watched him work his way down his shaft, back to his testicles, its bed of flesh giving way to its gentle pressure. He looked up at you. “Do you think she’ll brush while I’m still here?”

You stared at him for a moment. He just sat there, rubbing the phalanx of brush bristles against his most private and irritated pink flesh. “I don’t know,” you said. “I don’t know when she brushes.”

He kept his eyes on you as he massaged himself. Then he looked behind his back. “Is that her shampoo?” A shampoo bottle sat on the shelf, pink and rocket-shaped.

“Yeah,” you said.

He grunted to himself, his modest body fat jiggling from his gentle scrubbing. “I’ll finish in there.” He looked over at you. “So she can have a little bit of me in her hair all day.”

You hesitated for a moment over a thought. “I can help?” You blurted it out through your dry throat.

His arm stopped moving. Your mom’s toothbrush bristles sat bent against the pink discoloration of his balls. A grin slowly came to his face and he continued brushing. “I don’t like white boys,” he said.

You stared at him. He stared down at his cock.

“Besides, you look too much like your mom.”

You heard her, the house thudding softly with her every step below. Her feet sticking softly on the floor. She had made that sound for years, so you knew she couldn’t even hear it anymore. The sound fell consistent like rain drops and was as right to her ears.

“She was my first crush, you know. When we were kids.” He pushed her toothbrush down beneath his testicles, brushing where his ass and under-thigh met. “I forget how cute she was then. Every time I try to remember those day, I see her like she is now.”

You grimaced. She’s still cute, you thought. Isn’t she?

He handed you the toothbrush. “Here,” he said. He grabbed his thighs and pulled them up. “Get my asshole with it.” You leaned in and started. “Yeah,” he groaned. “Nice and deep. I want her to taste it.” You admired the beige-pink bed of flesh that Keenan held beneath himself, feeling the bristles which ran softly against it as if it were the flesh of your own body. After some moments of silent scrubbing, sprinkled with the reverberating sound of her movement crawling up every wall and column in the house, he spoke. “Great ass though.” He exhaled. Then some moments more. “That’s never changed.”

You kept scrubbing, keeping low to get his most private nooks, watching that private flesh give. Or at least that’s how you played it. Really, you were keeping low to hide your growing smile.

“They’re calling it, the whitest city in America.”

“Ooh, Susanne. That’s an ugly designation.”

“It sure is, Steve.” The woman in red adjusted in her seat. The image cut to footage of college football. Every player on the field running their drills as well as the coach in back blowing his whistle every few intervals, were all as white as snow, their heads blonde, occasionally darker, and eyes of disproportionate and striking blue. “Due to a loophole in state law, Roseburgh Massachusetts has been able to avoid the executive action by former President Fields, the Esau-Mavet act, which ensured a minimal number of black residents to every white majority neighborhood. This act, and many like it, were instrumental in pulling our country forward along, quote, ‘the long arc of progress.’”

“The one that Dr. King talked about.”

“That’s right, Steve. Republican Senator Gomer Shabbot has suggested President Baron Trump move to indict Roseburgh’s mayor for avoiding federal law.”

“The apple really does fall far from the tree, doesn’t it Susanne?”

“It sure does, Steve. Head of the Justice Department Zoran Mamdani had these words to say in a press conference last evening.”

“We’ve been able to drag the imprisonment rate for black Americans down to a reasonable 3% of all incarcerated, thanks to criminal justice reform. In the same span of time, we’ve been able to alter the proportion of white males in positions of authority in the legal system from a shocking 63% just ten years ago, to a much more impressive 19% in more recent years. Within that same span of time though, Roseburgh Massachusetts has simply sat there like a sore thumb on the consciousness of this country. Is this what Jesus would have wanted? He was a prophet for the word of God, one who spoke to the multitude, warning them of the evils of this bizarre notion of purity. Would the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon, smile down on a den of iniquity this pronounced and swollen? What about the Buddha, content under his tree? Would he sit as placidly, as at peace with the world, knowing that racial supremacy still has a stronghold in it? Would he be okay with us knowing that we did nothing to stop it?”

A lone throat gulped in your living room. Above it, your father’s face, staring at the screen, his eyes glassy. The brows above them contorted.

On his television, a member of the press’s finger shot up, and she stood after being motioned to. “What about claims that racial neighborhood quotas bring crime?” There was a smile in the corner of her pretty mouth. A smile in the corner of all their pretty mouths. The few male faces in the press stared ahead or looked down at their sheets, devoid of all affectation.

Secretary Mamdani laughed. “Yes, yes. That old classic. No, as we all know, crime by African Americans and other people of color is a rare phenomenon. Nobody doubts that these things happen. I, as the Secretary of Justice, am appalled by them as much as anyone. Crime is crime. And crime is evil. Nobody disagrees. But if we’re to look at the perpetrators of said crime, if race is what we’re to take from it, then who commits said crimes? Well, as we’ve found, and as is reflected in the prison population, whites make up 30% of all Americans, yet commit upwards of 85% of all crime.” He adjusted his footing. “Does this sound like whites should be the ones to feel fear to you?”

A chorus of feminine chuckles erupted from the press.

As your father sat there, watching, a bead of sweat fell from his dwindling hairline. It found its way to the blonde bed of his eyebrow, and was obliterated with a twitching blink.

Upstairs, your mom stood, her bare feet on the bathroom tiles, the bathtub, its edge a little wet with sweat, sat there empty. She stood before the mirror, her lips puckered out as she brushed her teeth. The white foam spilled out the corners of her mouth as she washed the strange taste out. Her heavy ass jiggled below.

She spat out, rinsed, then spat out again. She then slowly pulled down the straps of her shirt, then the whole shirt, bra and all, and soon she was loose from her pants and panties. She stood naked there, her skin pink and beige, thick and voluptuous, discolored and blemished with age. Her ass though, smooth, stared at itself in the mirror, tensing and untensing as she wobbled into the bathtub. She stabilized herself. Sighed, and then pulled the curtain closed. The showerhead turned on. After some sounds of slapping water and suds, the sound of a shampoo cap snapping open echoed through the cozy little bathroom. Then the sound of that bottle squirting. The sound of lathering. And, after some time, the sound of rinsing.

All the while, two pools of subtle moisture, shaped like a young man’s naked feet, sat on the floor, facing the direction of two puddles on the bath-edge, their area thick and spread like the recent ghost of a young man’s naked and pink thighs.

A group of black men stood, onyxed nude under a harsh light. All their faces were hard and mean, their eyes cruel, their lips pouting, not in protest, but to display their lack of it, their brows hardened by experience. They were stripped nude and washed with the hose, and then lead, by men in riot gear, toward this little gray room, one they hadn’t seen before.

A little Asian man in a suit came in and sat in the chair. He placed a clipboard on his knee. “So gentleman,” he said, his voice tangy like waving sheet metal. “3% of the prison was black aabbouutt… let’s see here… about a week ago. That number has jumped to 3.1%.” There was a silence in the room as he jotted something down on his sheet. “So lucky day for you. Since you’ve been here the longest—let’s see.. whooh! 8 months for some of you—you are now in that extra 0.1%. And that’s a blemish, a horrible blemish on the wonderful record of this administration. So… what that means…” he jotted a few things down on the sheet. “…you’re all free… to go.” He crossed a T and dotted an I with passion, then stood up. He smiled sarcastically at the men. “Be good, boys,” he said. Then he turned and left.

The men stood there, their faces unchanged, their bodies much the same. Muscular but weight in all the right places, their cocks hanging, looking like chocolate treats. Their feet firm to the ground, their breathing unchanged. It was as if they hadn’t heard what was said.

“You heard him,” said one of the guards.

They were lead out, finally seeing real sunlight after some time. They stood in the evidence room. Each man nude, as their belongings were counted out before them.

“One red switchblade. Check! One trojan extra-large condom. Check! One Paris, The Devil Made Me Do It on Compact Disc. Check!” The naked man only stared at his box of things. Amongst the pile, only one thing had his silent attention. Then the guard grabbed it and brought it up to the other. “One metallic lighter with image of nude blonde female. Check!”

Your mom stepped nude out of the bathtub, content. Then suddenly, a chill shot through her. Her towel fell to the floor.

She stared at herself, her big, sweet tits hanging. Her areolas pink and light, almost indistinguishable from her flesh.

Slowly she leaned down and grabbed her towel pulling it up, covering herself.

She turned and stepped out of the bathroom, abandoning it to her leftover steam. The sound of her feet sucking to the hardwood floor echoed in, growing fainter with each step. It only stopped when her bedroom door was closed shut.

The men sat silent, their wrists in cuffs, as the prison bus rattled down the highway. After some hours of driving, one of them turned their head. “Where are you taking us?”

The driver didn’t turn around. Most of them had forgotten what he even looked like. The back of his hat faced them. He said nothing.

“Where are you—”

“Roseburgh,” the driver said.

There was nothing for a moment. Then “where’s that?”

The driver didn’t respond, only turning his head slightly. His face still not visible. “You boys don’t watch the news much, do you?” His head turned slightly again back to its usual position. “Roseburgh,” he mumbled to himself. And then again: “Roseburgh.” The word came out sour. He shook his head.

---

6 Months Later

Bella Bertolucci, who had moved to Roseburgh with her family from Florence six year ago, was missing. She had been missing for weeks, and the absence was felt. A negative and oppressive space hung over the heads of everyone, especially the fevered, hormone-stoked young men, who could see, hear, and smell the sight of her big, soft ass, the sweet timbre of her voice and accent, and the lingering smell of her perfume and the soft sweat of her tanned skin. 

You sat in class, staring at her empty seat, seeing the large circle of discoloration she had left there innocuously through the innocent act of sitting in that space. Those cheeks hadn’t sat there for a month now.

Suddenly, like peeling metal, a chair in the opposite corner of the room scraped.

Everyone turned to see Timmy standing there above all others. He was staring at the empty chair in the center of the room, the one you had your eyes on. His lip quivered, then his mouth fell open, as if they could no longer contain the words. “The niggers got her!” rocketed out.

A gasp sounded placelessly through the classroom.

“It’s those niggers they bussed in. There was no crime before them, and then…” Suddenly, he froze. He looked around at all the white faces, seeing astonishment in their eyes, some shock, a few with growing scowls. He sucked in air for another syllable, but all that came out was a squeak.

Later that night, police were at his house. As they cuffed him, CNN played in the living room. His parents stood before the officers, pleading: “How much will the fine be? Can’t I just pay it now? How long before he’s out? He’ll be back to school tomorrow, surely?”

His trial was in 3 months. There was no bail.

He lay on his bunkbed every night. After the first week, he looked across, over the shoulder of the guard, who usually slept at a desk, where the image of Bella stood, smiling, just under letters in large print: “MISSING.”

He could see her tits, their big shape in red, within that innocuous picture. He reached beneath the sheets, reached beneath his jumper pants, grabbed his cock, waiting for him like it had been every previous night, aching and hard. Slowly, shamefully, he began jerking.

When he imagined her body being ravaged, it was those big, beautiful breasts under her teeth-gritting red face he imagined. Suddenly a hand reached out, grabbing the fullness of that swinging breast, right at the moment of Timmy’s bursting orgasm. That hand that grabbed them, squeezing into their milky white softness so securely, was black.

When your mom suggested she take the bus home, you heard your dad’s screech over the phone. “No! Don’t! Don’t… I’ll pick you up.”

“Are you sure?” she said, and looked at you. “It’s quite out of the way.”

Your dad’s voice was calm, or at least he was trying to make it so. Even then though, you heard the occasional shrill note come through. “…dangerous… It’s no trouble. I like the ride any-…people keep…missing….mugged…you’ll probably be fine, but…better safe than…you know how they are…”

You scowled a bit, not even knowing why. Just feeling a sudden ick at the nature of the last sentiment.

You stared at your mom, seeing in the listening expression, her beauty. She’s still cute, you thought. She is. Keenan is crazy.

As she spoke, you imagined that mouth, the pink toothbrush moving in and out in the humid space between her teeth and her cheeks, it happening not too long after those brush bristles were tugged along Keenan’s smooth, pink, and bothered genitals.

After imagining that toothbrush pushing in and out of that open mouth a few times, it slowly transformed into the image of Keenan’s cock, thrusting in and out of your mom’s lips. She’s still cute, Keenan, you thought. Cuter than ever, even. You imagined Keenan with her, nude, laying against her, fucking her. His arm around her neck, thrusting flush with her from behind, his mouth hanging open in ecstasy, their two pinks bodies meeting, rubbing, and separating. His little crush as a boy, back when he would stare at her from afar, hanging on to her every word and gesture. You looked at her now, bigger, lines in her face, a faint loss of something, you didn’t know what, but with overwhelming beauty still visible, especially in the hanging bangs of her blonde head.

You felt something welling up in your gut and chest, and your eyes began to slowly fall, looking away, lest it begin to show in your face. Your gaze crawled down her body, down past those big tits, which you imagined Keenan’s pink hands grabbing, down toward her protruding ass, which had only gotten bigger in time, and you imagined, instead of a seat, Keenan’s beige lap cradling nakedly from below. Keenan had been a few months younger than you, but he had also always felt so mature. You wanted him to be your dad. You wanted to be near him, and as often as possible. Ever since graduation, you had hardly seen him. You needed him to be nude under your roof, always. Naked between your walls, his bare feet walking the same floorboards your mother’s did. Those six months ago, on the edge of the bathtub, had been the last time you had experienced anything close. You could still imagine him sitting there, looking down into that shampoo bottle as his nuts tightened and he bust into that little waiting hole; and the expression on his face, the slightly, peaceful smile, when he looked back up at you.

You looked back up at your mom’s face. “Okay, okay,” she said, nodding her head. As she did, her golden bangs bobbed against her forehead, and you imagined Keenan’s seed running through them as the water from above cleansed each strand.

She belongs to you, Keenan, you thought. Just take her. Take me. Your dad’s face came to you, always stressed, always worried, and it brought you great joy even the very little Keenan had already taken of your mom through sabotaging her toiletries. Take everything, you thought. Every beige inch of her.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. We’ll wait then.” She looked over at you with supplication. “We’ll wait.” She shrugged. “Okay, babe. See you soon. Bye. Bye.” She hung up the phone and placed it back in her purse. She looked to you, smiled then looked back down.

You looked where she was looking, down at her feet. Her toes pink, their nails painted white, in her flip-flops. The story in those toes, the implied history in their blemishes, the personality in their smoothness and moisturization, as well as their small signs of dryness, all appeared to you, along with the various hues, their palette unique and familiar, exotic and cozy. How much information could be contained in a single big toe.

Your thought of that soft beige-pink world was interrupted by something suddenly flashing by. You looked up to see a black woman, her clothes barely hanging to her, passing before you. Her hair had been straightened, dyed brunette and hanging to one side. She wore a scowl, and her body was thick, awkwardly shaped, with a huge ass. You looked at her, seeing her skin, seeing the deep well of brown in it, pleasing yet still strange.

You followed her up as she limped forward, frazzled, carrying a baby haphazardly in one arm. And when you did, you were shocked to see her looking back at you, her face already in a scowl, as if it wasn’t your staring which disgusted her, but your very presence there on that bench. You looked back down and she continued on, limping into the store, her child in tow.

You were now looking back at your mom’s big toe. You hadn’t realized it until your thoughts settled. You then heard the sound of glass breaking in the distance. “Bitchass…” “Fuck you, nigga.” “Bitchass.”

You stared down at your mom’s toes. But in your peripherals, you saw her arms, slowly, subtly, tightening around her purse.

“In today’s news, the investigation of various missing persons has come upon new and promising evidence. Underwear, allegedly belonging to Bella Bertolluci, one of the first to go missing, was found in a dumpster behind Frey Street. Along with the nose ring of Daphne Stewart.”

“It appears the culprit has a type, doesn’t it Diane?”

“It does, Reggie. Officials say to be on the lookout for any suspicious white males.”

“They have a lead, Diane?”

“Not yet, Reggie, but just through the nature of the crimes, they have a reasonable profile. Given that all the victims were female. All arguably attractive. And the lack of a ransom note of any kind. It all points to these kidnappings being sexual in nature. The complete lack of humanity, and the need to dominate the female body. All of this makes it reasonable, if not a bit obvious, to assume it’s a white male, if not many white males.”

“Of course, Diane. Of course.”

“All of the fathers of the victims are being investigated as suspects, and…”

There was a gunshot in the distance.

You looked at your dad in the driver’s seat. He swallowed. He reached for the radio and changed the channel.

“It’s toooo haarrdd livviinng.But I’m afraaiid to diieeee.

Because I don’t know what’s up there.

Beyond the skyyyy

It’s been a long, a long time coming

But a—“

He switched the channel.

Picket lines, brother! and picket signs

Don’t punish me with brutality

Come on, talk to me, so you can see

Ohhhh-uh, what’s going on

What’s going on. I’ll tell you what’s—”

He switched the channel again.

So fuck Charles Manson

Pull him out his truck, hit him with a brick, then I’m dancin’

He switched again.

“Another potential victim, Lucy Reinhardt, has disappeared. She worked at Orange Julius in the Viewpoint Mall and had failed to come home the previous evening.”

You sat there, seeing Lucy Reinhardt in your mind vividly, remembering a few years back, when you had caught her sneaking looks at you in biology class. Now you saw that same moment, not one jot or tittle of it replaced, but with an emptiness where her coy expression once stood. You imagined the seat she sat in, empty of that round ass. It was as if she had been plucked out of history itself. And then, for a sudden moment, a figure stood there. But it was much darker, much more strained, older and frazzled. She stared back at you with those white eyes in her dark face, scowling, her baby held haphazard to her chest.

Another gunshot, now further in the distance, sounded.

Slowly the windows rolled up. You looked to your father, who hand was resting on the window control. He only stared ahead. The only indication of what he was thinking being reflected by the throbbing vein in his temple.

Your dad stood in the shower, his dick shrivelled up and soft, as he stared at the soapy surface of your mom’s perfect ass cheeks. It was the first time he had ever stared at it for so long without becoming hard. Little white bubbles dripped down her black crack and its edges as she lathered her hair with shampoo. He stared at the every jiggle in her cheeks, the every subtle motion and shifting of flesh. The every blemish which had slowly gained on it, and which he loved so much. And then he thought of it, as vivid as a lucid dream, a big black hand coming down to meet it, grabbing it before him with a giant, confident, squeeze.

Every girl who had been taken, he reflected, had an ass like this one. No, every girl who was taken had an ass a fraction this good. The only thought that occurred then which could calm his nerves: every girl who had been taken was half my wife’s age.

A volley of water splashed down, washing away much of the suds, all while your mom shifted her stance, and one wet, now-clean cheek jiggled violently against the other.

Your dad shut his eyes in horror, realizing that if the kidnapper(s) had any taste at all, it wouldn’t matter her age. Age was just a number. It was the flesh which actually spoke.

You sat in the shadowy cul-de-sac of your bedroom, staring at your laptop’s white screen, your eyes glassy, your mouth hanging open. You had been stuck there, motionless, for minutes after seeing it.

Before you saw the ad, sitting there on the page like any other. It looked back at you with a cruel playfulness.

“Put Her on the PAWG Database,” it read in big, proud letter. And beneath: “You won’t regret it 😊”

All of this, even just the words alone, would have been enough to grab you. You knew what a PAWG was, typing that term into porn search engines often enough yourself. And you knew what a database was, as did everyone. Neither word, on their own, held any unique power except for the obvious. Yet, here they were, sitting hip-to-hip with one another, and you stared at the combination, sitting before the reality of them, settling within their inseparability from this point onward.

All of this would have been enough. But it wasn’t even close to the most shocking moment. What held you there, staring with your mouth agape, astonished, were the images in the ad itself. Kelsi Monroe, Mandy Muse, Savannah Bond, were all there. Pretty standard. Whatever this scam was, it was using all the classics of copious white ass flesh to draw eyes. But among that series of face and bodies, others stood. Many which you didn’t recognize, but two which you were shocked you did.

Bella Bertolluci’s school photo, the one which could be seen two pages down from your own in the yearbook, sat now on the garish surface of the banner, not too far from Lucy Reinhardt’s, whose face was sandwiched now between the vulgar full-body shots of Abella Danger and Tommy King.

You stared at that image for so long that you had lost any notion of time.

Every face there, every enticing smile stared back at you. With time, your cursor slowly crawled, as if you were possessed, toward the image. It landed on the word PAWG. You could feel yourself readying to click down, feeling it as if it were a natural impulse, not even a choice, and, as you did, the thought of your mom sitting there, on that bench today, came back to you, her eager ear to her phone, ignorant, her ass, just like any other part of her, propping her up, her perpetual throne.

Just as you were about to click, you heard a gunshot, this one much closer than all the others, likely only blocks away. You clicked out of the page immediately, and it was sucked back into your desktop.

You looked to your window, too afraid to look out into the evening darkness, too afraid to see something you’d regret seeing under a distant lamppost. But in moments you heard sirens. A young black man “go, go. Fuck it, let’s go!,” a car door slamming and wheels peeling off.

Then the sounds faded and you sat there in the darkness.

Further in the house, your parents lay within that same darkness, sleeping. Your mom’s ass poked up in the air, silent, unknowing. And soon, even the moonlight was choked-out by black clouds, and that ass, however white in its panties, disappeared in the weight of all the universe’s darkness.

He saw them emerge from the aisle. He watched them with the corner of his eye. And as he saw them move to another, away from the Fantasy section and toward the Science Fiction, he followed them obliquely. He took care to not let his eyes rest on them for too long, only letting his gaze crawl passed when switching from one bookshelf to the next.

Every time he did though, his sight was filled by those twin booties in those pants. One was bigger than the other, less finely-shaped, but made delicate with more ‘tree-rings,’ likely being double the age of the other.

Their faces were the same. If the young one was lucky, she’d look that good when she reached her mother’s age.

“What do you like about these books?” the mother asked.

Keenan passed by them innocuously, the knuckles of his left hand floating close to each bottom.

The daughter was silent for a moment as she looked over a few book-spines. “They take me to another world,” she finally said.

“What’s wrong with this one?” her mother asked jovially.

Suddenly, the sound of a distant popping, a gunshot, could be heard.

Keenan stood nearby, his gaze filled with book-spines, but his conscious thought filled with nothing other than those two pairs of ass cheek standing just to his left, both within grabbing distance.

He stood by the pillows and “Wuthering Heights” memorabilia as his two targets bought their books at the checkout. Before they were even finished, being locked in small talk with the cashier, Keenan turned and left. He went to his car, pulled out of his spot, and then positioned himself at the edge of the parking lot with a clear vantage of the doors.

They opened two times, vomiting forth white figures of mediocrity, aged and overweight, before the two ice cream scoops of vanilla finally came out. When they did, he slowly pulled up, admiring the way their bodies moved, admiring the broken copy-and-paste of the way their hips swayed and their flesh gave to the physics of the world. He pulled up, clearing cars from his path to see which one they got into, and then zeroing in on it (seeing the daughter pull that phat ass up into the passenger seat), he slowly followed.

The streets and houses passed by, and he fluctuated between one car behind to a few, always close enough though to keep an eye on where they were headed. Occasionally, they’d go down a familiar street, one he knew lacked any diversity in direction, and he’d turn off, knowing he’d meet them further down, shaking any suspicion they could have had (though he knew it was unlikely they had any) that he was following. He was just a white guy driving a car. Like so many others on the road.

He came turning out of one detour, and he saw the target again, now parked on a driveway. The two asses, complimenting each other so nicely, tensed and untensed as the two women, one with arms-and-chest-full of summer reading, walked up the drive.

They disappeared into the house, and Keenan sat, parked across the street. He looked to the stop sign, saw the street name. Then looked to the house, saw its number, right next to its homey little doorway. He pulled out his phone, writing both down.

He then sat there, staring at the premises. The blinds were closed. Nothing was visible within. He looked to the car, seeing that bumper sticker slapped to it proudly, right next to the Co-Exist sticker. It read “Justice for the Victims of Elmhurst,” with a red prohibitive cross over a generic assault rifle. He had had his eyes on that sticker as he followed them, his gut bubbling with excitement. Now it sat there, giving off more information than they’d ever know.

After some time, he rounded the house to see no backyard fence exist. No dog chain either. He pulled back around, and within an hour, neither woman, nor anyone else, came out with a dog or a leash. The sky began to darken, the sun already beyond the horizon. He felt secure now with his intel. Just as he lifted his phone, he heard the tires of another vehicle crawling slowly. He looked up to see an electric car, pulling up next to the other. His gaze shot with second-nature toward its bumper as it crawled up that same driveway those two delectable asses did. On the bumper was a sticker which read “R.I.P. to the N.R.A. or we’ll be D.O.A.”

Keenan smiled. He opened his phone browser, then opened google. He googled “P” and it auto-filled. “PAWG Database.”

The first result sat there in purple. He clicked on it.

He clicked impatiently passed the VPN reminder.

“New Entry”

He clicked that.

Name: Unknown.

Address: He pasted it in.

Men in the house: 1+

Guns: N/A

Dogs: N/A

Neighborhood: Suburbs

The “Vulnerability” value auto-filled: “High”

Keenan stared at it there, in bright red, with a grin. He turned his ignition on, smiled in the corner of his mouth, and watched the house, its porchlight shining next to the door, as he crawled down the street and away into anonymity.

On his way further down the street, he saw a shirtless black man screaming to himself down the sidewalk. “She didn’t say that! She didn’t say that to me! I know, I know, I know. She didn’t fuck’ say that to me!”

Two young men were slap boxing next to a broken fence and the house it belonged to had cardboard pasted against its broken window. All of this, less than a mile from unbroken suburbia. The town had changed so much in the last seven months, it was almost impossible to fathom.

A familiar thrill rose in Keenan’s gut, barely any less intense than the first time. He had entered eight into the database so far. Only two had taken though. But each gave him a thrill unlike any other, especially to see his handiwork all over the news. He could still hear the sobbing in Italian from his neighbor through his bedroom window. That ass. He could only imagine what was being done with that perfect white ass. Done to her, tied up and gagged, in a house like the one with the cardboard. She could be anywhere now. And given the perfection of those Bertolucci genes, she’d stay in that anywhere, a gift for those chocolaty bodies moving nude around her, occasionally leaning down, removing her gag only to feed and hydrate her, or, just as often, to satiate their fleshy appendages with her pretty mouth.

He had come a long way since being that little blonde boy with his little crushes. Now he was something else. No ass in this little city was safe anymore, not with him on the prowl.

Roseburgh Massachusetts had been a secure little enclave in the world for too long. Now he would be its reckoning.

He thought he had done enough, that he could go home now and enjoy himself in his bedroom. If he was lucky, he’d hear Bella’s parents sobbing through his window as he lay there, nude from the waist down, feeling the summer air soothe his raging prick.

But just as he was about to turn down his street, he hit the signal the other way, turning, heading back to the mall. Just one more, he thought. His throat was dry, the edges of his mouth forming up into quite the expression. One more. And then I can rest.

Your mom did what your dad told her not to. She had gotten on the bus. A frazzle-haired black lady had stepped off at the stop, holding her son to her chest. She scowled at your mom on her way out. “Excuse me,” your mom said to no reply, and then pulled herself up the stairs.

The driver sat there, an apathetic black man looking ill-fitted in his uniform. She paid her fare and then turned, freezing in place.

Staring back at her, as if they were the audience and she was the show, was a sea of black faces. All of them. No exceptions. Old, young, most in between. Male, female, many looking like they were on their way to work or leisure, some looking like they were headed nowhere.

Your mom slowly regained herself, then she continued. There were only two open seats. The first one was between two young black men who looked on her with ambiguous expressions. She then turned to the other free seat, but upon approaching it, the two women sitting there shot her dirty looks. She stopped for a second, awkwardly, then she turned and grabbed a standing hook. She was the only white passenger on the bus and now the only passenger standing. As people got off and on, and the opportunities for seats arose, she simply stood in place, only regretting it once the bus jolted back into motion and she felt the inertia in her thighs.

As the bus turned, as it accelerated, as it braked, her body swayed, jiggled, and tensed in turn. Her butt stood big and round, for all sitting behind her to watch. The young men next to the empty seat stared at it, their eyes focused but their mouths still ambiguous.

The bus finally stopped just in front of the mall.

Your mom’s ass jiggled, expelling its final bits of bus inertia, and then it settled. When it did, she felt settled herself. Only then, she got off the bus.

“But… I haven’t even worn them yet.” She held her shorts in her hands, thrust toward the face of the cashier. “I just got them today. Look, you can see on the receipt here.”

She motioned with her pointer and middle-finger, the receipt clenched between them. The lady working there didn’t even look at it. “No refunds ma’am,” she said. Her hair was tied into dreads. She was chewing gum. She smelt faintly of marijuana.

“But you do give refunds. I’ve been here a thousand times. I—”

“Ma’am, I work here. Don’t you think I’d know if we give refunds or not?”

Your mom only stared.

“If you want to buy another pair of shorts, they’re over there.” She said it, her expression flat, and more hateful in its flatness than any expression had been with a scowl.

Your mom didn’t say anything, still holding the shorts and receipt before her, as if still begging. The shorts hung limply there, their pocket pulled out and inverted, displaying the tear.

Then, after an awkward second, your mom felt herself being pushed from the waist. “Excuse you, Karen.”

She stepped aside and looked over to see a fat black woman with her things, ready to pay. Next to her stood her husband, boyfriend, brother, maybe even her son… He looked at your mom, up and down, brazenly. “’built different these days,” he murmured under his breath. The fat woman didn’t even respond, only holding out her credit card impatiently while the cashier ringed in her things.

Your mom stood there, feeling strange, feeling like an outsider. The décor of the store hadn’t changed, your mom had been a patron of it for years. Yet it never felt more foreign to her than it had in this moment.

She stuffed the shorts back into her purse, took a few steps toward the entrance, turned to look again at the three dark bodies standing there. Only the male looked back at her. He was staring. But not at her face.

She turned again and then walked off.

The black male again murmured: “Just built different. That’s all…”

Your mom looked down into her purse and pushed the shorts in deeper. Her car keys poked through its open pocket.

As she did so, feeling a citrusy bubble in her gut rising, she heard something which perked her ears. It was her name. She looked up.

A familiar face stood before her. A face which smiled from ear to ear. The smile was from a familiar mouth, but now with a blonde beard decorating it, doing so with the same shade of blonde that decorated his full head of hair. “Keenan?” she said.

“The one and only.” He held out his arms wide, and she laughed and held out hers. He leaned forward and hugged her. She felt him tug her tightly, and then he let go. He looked her in the eyes, his own jovial. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” she said. “How’s your par—” she stopped herself. “How’s your dad?”

“You know,” he said sheepishly. “Good.”

“That’s good. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” he said. “What, like six months?”

She squinted. “Six months? I remember it being a lot longer than that. You were this high last time I saw you.” She held her hand, fingers outstretched, at the level of her waist.

Keenan looked down at it, her pink fingers, then he let his gaze draw over to her hips, and to the ass that protruded behind her. He looked up at her face, her smiling mouth, and the blonde locks above. “I’ve seen you since then,” he said. “But you probably didn’t recognize me.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. You’re all grown up now.” Her eyes lit up innocently at the thought, the sheer passage of time.

It was in that expression, the widening of those eyes and their settling back into the temperature of her smile, that it occurred to him: She’s still cute, he thought. “All grown up,” he repeated. “In body and mind.”

She laughed.

“But you look exactly the same,” he said.

She put her fingers to her chest, her purse bouncing softly on her hip. “Oh, you’re too sweet. I wish it were true.”

It isn’t true, he thought. You look better now. “And you’re still married to—”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“Damn—” There was a smile in the corner of his mouth. “I mean… congratulations…” He gazed on her warmly, playfully.

Your mom’s beige face rapidly became pink, then was overtaken by a lush red. “Thank you,” she said. “Still very married.” Her awkward reply only furthered her embarrassment.

“Still married. With a son. With a…” He tilted his head. “With a dog?”

She stood there for a moment, her fingers still on her chest. “No,” she said. “No dog.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You guys didn’t really have a yard for one.” He stood there, as if in thought. “You still live in the same place that you did when I was young, right?”

“The same. I still have the same couches in the basement you’d all crash on on weekends.”

“I slept on the floor, usually. Your son hogged the couch.” He exhaled slowly, then looked off in the direction of the food court. His eyes narrowed as if he was seeing something else. “Guns? You guys had guns in the basement, didn’t you? Like for hunting?”

Your mom slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “You must be thinking of a different—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking of Eric’s place. Your husband never hunted.”

“No,” she said.

As he stood there, nodding his head, he saw the shape of her lower half in his peripherals. He felt that old same warmth filling his gut. “Listen,” he said. “I gotta go, but I wanted to get in touch with your son again. He still lives with you, right?”

“He does,” she said, nodding.

“Good, good,” he said. “Well, it was nice talking to you again.”

“It sure was, Keenan.”

“I’ll be seeing you soon, I guess.” He laughed and began walking off.

Your mom did the same. As she went, he stopped at the food court, steadied himself against a table and looked at her. He saw that same ass now, wild in even its most humble motions. A simple walk and it quaked as if the world were in peril. He pulled out the chair and sat down, not taking his eyes off of your mom’s ass cheeks. Slowly, he pulled his phone from his pocket, and a thick syrupy sensation floated in and around himself. He opened it up, googled it and found it. And that old familiar form came.

Name: He typed your mom’s first and last name, feeling that old same rush at putting it into words that he felt as child, saying her name to himself in his bedroom.

Address: He typed it in from memory, the image of your house, the memories he built there, coming to him naturally; the garden which sat in front, giving a sweet scent to the breeze, the sprinkler he’d run through with you, laughing at the way you winced when you did.

Men in the house: 2 (one and a half, he thought, still imagining you wincing)

Guns: N/A

Dogs: N/A

Neighborhood: Suburbs

The “Vulnerability” value auto-filled: “High”

He stared at it for a moment, feeling as if his soul was about to leave his body, sinking, overstimulated, into his seat.

His thumb hovered over the button for a moment. Then it fell.

“Submit.”

And as he sat there for a moment, he looked out around himself. Your mom was no longer in sight. He slowly placed his phone back into his pocket and turned in his seat. All around him were strange faces. He was so deep in his thoughts, (that house, that yard, that basement with the couch, that toothbrush, that smile, that giant ass,) that it took him a moment to realize: he was the only white person here.

Two big, round butts sat, poking up in the air, next to each other. One was slightly bigger than the other, but less perfect in shape. It had blemishes and marks from age. The other was nice and smooth, a whole life ahead of it, with such an expansive space for the marks of experience and time. Its companion ass was a testament to what time brought. The woman the older ass was attached to lay on her temple, her mouth stuffed with book pages, trappped inside with clear packing tape. She looked into her daughter’s frightened eyes. She then saw a black shadow fall over her daughter’s quivering cheek.

“Mine! Mine! Mine!” might have been what she was trying to say. “Spare hers! Take mine!”

But she could tell then by the changing shape of the shadow, and by the wincing on her daughter’s face, which soon turned to tears, that it was too late. They took her daughter’s first.

The husband/father sat in the corner of the basement, as nude as his wife and daughter were, his mouth stuffed with his daughter’s panties, similarly taped shut. A gun was pressed to his head. The gunman stood behind him, naked from the waist down, and beyond the horrors of what he could see before him, his daughter’s giant and round buttocks eclipsed by the black butt cheeks and thrusting black hips, he could also see a large, hanging black penis in his peripheral, occasionally straying, from just the slight sway of the gunman’s hips, into his exact line of sight. His wife’s ass sat, also giant and big, next to his daughter’s, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would be used too. This is what these men came for. And they wanted it bad. They had kicked open the door for it.

When the mom saw her daughter’s face stop rocking back and forth against the floor, she believed her pain to be over. She felt a twisted sense of relief to feel her own ass being penetrated by that impossibly large cock, only for that relief to fade as another shadow loomed over her daughter’s head. Slowly a giant black cock lowered into view. The mom watched, her body being rocked back and forth from the thrusts behind her, her insides penetrated to a point she would have assumed impossible before this night, as the other black penis fell to her daughter’s tear-soaked face, falling along its length, then smacking itself against her cheek and eye.

Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tolkien, the pages were torn as the hours passed, the bookshelf pilfered bare, used to wipe liquids, used as plates for their food, used to stuff orifices. Even the biggest philistine, given a mother and daughter and an infinite window of time, would find the most creative ways to express themselves, doing so with all the inspiration and artistic genius reserved for history’s greats. All of this would be true. But it only became more true when both the mother and daughter were shaped the way these two were. Even truer than that when the male close to them was forced to watch, and, in time, to participate.

Most will never know how desperate hunger could make a man, not until they see him eating his meals (takeout) straight from his daughter’s ass, doing so after watching it being mashed between her giant ass cheeks by forceful, aggressive black hands. The face above, white eyes and teeth, gleaming as it watched the white man’s hungry mouth.

This would be his last meal, eaten with his wrists tied behind his back, leaning on his knees next to his wife, their tongues probing between their daughter’s cheeks for every scrap they could get. The daughter would eat her share from her mom’s ass in turn, her mom arcing her back in a way which allowed her daughter’s tongue to reach in deeper. The black men sat aside, eating from plates, laughing at the sight, tearing book pages to wipe their mouths and the sauce which dropped to their naked thighs. As one of them bit from his drumstick with mirth, he played with the cap of his lighter with his opposite hand. The naked blonde woman that decorated it was the only smiling white face in the house.

Eventually, that lighter would be put to use. The book-case, from wall to wall, engulfed in indiscriminate fire, the window billowing out with their black smog, all that’s left of dozens of books after their words were devoured. The father would kneel in the basement, the only one left in the house. His wrists tied behind his back, his eyes filled with blinding tears from the overwhelming heat and the black smoke. Plastic dripped on him from the ceiling, giving him a searing taste of the inferno to come. Ironically, it was the water from burst pipes, boiling with steam, which got to him first. He couldn’t even hear his own screams over the sound of it all coming down around him.

His was the only body found, adding two more missing persons cases to Roseburgh Massachusetts.

It was only after dental records could be established that the father stopped being a suspect.

Timmy, sitting among other pale faces, and the occasional Asian or Indian, sat at the lunch tables in Stonebrook Penitentiary, staring up at the screen. Two white face, mother and daughter, both beautiful in their similarities and differences, with those now-familiar words below them: MISSING.

He lifted another spoonful of cornmeal to his lips.

He knew that once he got back to his bunk, him and his bunkmate would have a new thought to enjoy, the two of them, hip-to-naked-white-hip on the bed. He murmured something under his breath.

“What?” asked another white inmate.

Timmy just shook his head and took another spoonful. He swallowed, his eyes still up on the screen. “Heaven,” he repeated. “Heaven.”

It was as if the summer heat itself had devoured all female pants, at least those which covered calves and thighs. White ass sat cradled in pairs of shorts, all over the city, with smooth thighs bare. Young women clopped up and down the sidewalks, passed crosswalks, all in flip-flops, some barefoot in the evening when the pavement wasn’t too hot.

And as each one did so, figures seemed to populate the background, like specters looming into this pale and pink world. They loomed with white eyes within those dark pools, faces with vague expressions that just floated passed, their gazes unapologetic, almost unchallant, as they stared at those white bodies. And even as they did, the girls, as if programmed, didn’t seem to see it. Instead, their heads were on a swivel, filled with the titillating horror of each missing persons updates, on the lookout, as they were informed to be, on guard against white men.

You could feel the eyes as soon you came into their vicinity, all of them aimed at you, their pink mouths below stiff in their seriousness, those smooth thighs tensing, in preparation to run, their delicate fingers wrapped around their phones, preparing to make a suspicious persons call to the authorities at the drop of a hat.

Because of this, you could no longer walk around in public without blushing, your face burning with nerves. And you weren’t the only one. All white men, all ages, now walked with a strange gait, their faces aimed low, their eyes down on the pavement, their tongues clenched between their teeth, waiting by the doors of any establishment to make sure they wouldn’t accidentally meet a woman in the vestibule.

Occasionally, you’d catch a sour whiff of pepper spray floating, well past its half-life, through the wind, some unfortunate sap, wrong place, wrong time, putting accidental terror in the heart of a poor young, white thing, forcing her, on impulse, to reach into her purse and blind him with searing pain. The local 7-11 was shutdown after such an incident, where a paying white male customer was sprayed upon coming to the clerk with a slurpee a little too quickly. He dropped it, bolting, screaming out the door, while the aggrieved woman lay behind the counter, screaming at the pain she had caused herself with blowback, unable to find her way out of the store through the cloud of bitter chemical.

The man was arrested afterwards, and cleared of any wrongdoing after his alibi checked out, but not before being charged for marijuana possession.

“WhITe MeN ARe The CaNCeR OF ThIS eaRTH!”

You saw it scrawled out in spraypaint on wall by the basketball court. And it stayed there. Nobody dared clean it. Nobody dared paint over it. Nobody dared bring the suspicion upon themselves. You thought of Timmy, what he had said that one day in class as he stared at that empty and warped seat. You thought of where he was now.

You heard a chorus of sweet, laughing voices. You ducked behind the wall. Two girls, blonde, both walked past, not seeing you there. You realized the horror they’d feel if they saw you, hiding there, and you regretted your impulse to duck away. But even still, you couldn’t keep your eyes off them. You watched them,  two heavy volumes of soft white ass cheek, in different-colored shorts.

Their hatred for you, their disgust, and their joy without you all occurred to you viscerally. And then you felt it, this thick syrupy charge, falling through your cavernous body, filling it with a strange ambrosiac sense.

You watched the girls as they climbed a stoop, one pulling out her keys to go in. You looked up over her shoulder at the address which sat there. You looked down at those smooth white thighs, those fleshy calves, and the heels which peeked at you from the base of their flip-flops.

That ad flashed in your mind: “Put Her on the PAWG Database”

The girls went inside, and you saw their faces, sweet and jovial, just as they closed the door, leaving only the serene sight of a suburban front stoop.

Then the second part to the ad, the one which seemed to escalate, came to you: “Make the World a Playground for Black Men.”

 The syrup had become you now. So much so, you could almost taste it when you gulped.

Your pink cock twitched there, hard against the sweet incoming breeze. You had spent just short of an hour with your cursor floating over that button. “Submit” it read. Your cock twitched now, twitched irrepressibly at the horror that your finger was about to perform. It hung there, over that clicker, with all the gravity of something gasping over a black abyss.

You shut your eyes, imagining what you were about to set in motion, visualizing it against the darkness behind your eyelids.

Your finger was about to fall, when suddenly, a giant bang reverberated through the walls of your house.

Your eyes shot open.

Another bang. Another. And then the sound of wood cracking, splintering, and a door swinging open.

Before your mind could cling to any other possibility, you heard your mom’s scream, guttural and sharp. And then nothing, only the silence where her scream and struggle once was. It was only then, in that silence, that you realized: you had never heard her scream before.

You came out into the hallway, still somehow nude from the waist down. A lump sat in your throat, and a weird sensation, like surrealism made somatic, rattled through your bones. You continued slowly down the hallway’s darkness. You could see the living room, the way it always was, untarnished by anything. That sight alone made it feel like those recent sounds were nothing but a dream. But you continued, feeling a cool breeze tickling your naked and blushing thighs coming from somewhere further down. You came to the kitchen wall and you stood there for a moment. Then, slowly, you peeked your head out. And, just as slowly, what appeared to you was the first and only symbol of change in the whole house.

It was the front door, kicked wide open, hanging there on a hinge. The sweet air blew in. Nothing, no sign of life stood there. Just the sight of the open door and the swaying trees outside. Down on the ground sat a single shoe, pink, belonging to your mother, lonely without its sister shoe, sitting at the door it watched it leave through, still attached to the other foot, which, you could imagine, was kicking now in the back of a van or tiny sedan, bouncing up and down over every speedbump and pothole. All while the woman it was attached to murmured. Murmured fruitlessly into that pale palm of that dark black hand.

You only stood there, feeling numb for a moment.

And then feeling slowly came back to you. Only a little.

Your cock twitched.

“WhITe MeN ARe The CaNCeR OF ThIS eaRTH!”

Keenan loomed down at it, grinning from ear to ear, all from the shadowy crow’s nest of his apartment. It sat there, barely-faded since he scrawled with spray paint that one night. His white cock stood erect and firm, invisible to the outside world behind his daylight window glass.

It twitched in the darkness.

Three young white women, all in shorts which hugged their fat, round asses, stood around the graffiti, laughing, bouncing a basketball between them. The sweet timbre of their mirthful laughter floated up to his window and into his burning ear.

He looked away from the girls and back up at his message, big and unignorable, behind them. It appeared as if it were an act of passion and irrepressible hate. But every jot and tittle of it was painstakingly crafted with a careful hand, the only passion being the passion for his craft, and the small reverberating echo it would send out into the world, the butterfly effect of immeasurable racial consequence, seen generations down, all from his tiny… little… push.

Another voice came faintly to Keenan’s pink ear, causing it to twitch. The three girls turned to look at the edge of the concrete wall, their asses jiggling from the sudden shift of their bodies. Then, as if on perfect comedic cue, a figure, tall, handsome, and black appeared from beyond the corner, his arms up to his shoulders bare. He looked at the three delicious things, his expression halfway between hospitality and predation, the difference between him and them couldn’t have been more demonstrable, in skin, body, or aura. And then, just as sudden as his arrival, his big black mouth warped into that of a smile.

Feminine giggles floated their way up to Keenan’s ear. He shuts his eyes. His ear twitched only a half-second earlier than his cock did. The four figures played basketball with one another, the black man dominant over the other three. And after what was likely an hour, Keenan smiled as two of the tiny white things, grins on their mouths, walked coyly along the hip of the black man, looking back at their outlier friend with apology in their eyes.

They all said goodbye, the young black man and the two girls disappeared behind the wall. Their asses, sweet and scrumptious and soon to be nude, disappeared with them. The third girl made as if to turn and leave. Then she stopped in place. Her ass was still in subtle motion from inertia. She looked back, staring at the place where the other three disappeared, a look of regret in her eyes. Birds chirped indifferently in the distance.

Keenan stared at her with a grin, then back up at the message, seeing in it a strange power, seeing in her reluctance a strange spell cast over this young mind.

“Go,” Keenan mumbled. Then louder, as loud as a whisper: “Go with them.”

The girl never heard it, being so far away. It was awash in the sound of cars, sirens, honking horns, and even the birds chirping. Even distant screams of some unnecessary fight made those words impossible. Nor did she look up at the message written over her head. But in either case, as if driven by both, she stepped forward, walked a few steps, then she began to jog. “Wait!” Keenan could hear her yell. And her ass, sweet, pale, and divine, disappeared, jiggling, beyond the concrete barrier, leaving only the message there, big and unbroken now, scrawled in his masterful hand.

Keenan’s white cock throbbed blissfully. He looked down at it, less as its master, and more as its slave. He smiled.

Your mom’s shirt and bra were torn from her chest and two giant white tits fell open and loose. They bounced once and then settled. Then continued bouncing as the struggle did.

All the while, her feet kicked against the carpet. They continued kicking as they dragged her to the chair. The more she kicked, the more her giant white tits jiggled, their pink nipples swaying about chaotically, barely distinguishable from her flesh.

The men threw her to her chair with ease. They looked on her wordlessly. Looming down at her with silent judgement, no expression in their protruding mouths. With a strange patience to the moment, secure in what was to come.

The neighborhood felt familiar on her way in, though she could only catch glimpses of it when they dragged her from the garage to the house. At the same time, it appeared to her like a whole new world. She had seen other black people of various ages and genders on the street, only a flash, but it made her fear that calling for help might only call more perpetrators in. She was aware of her nudity and felt raw from it, exposed. She saw herself as attractive for her age, which only peaked her terror. But she also saw herself as well past her prime, adding to the cruelty of the moment and her sense of humiliation.

She felt her wrists being bound. She felt the damp air nip warmly at her exposed nipples and the undersides of her breasts. The same breasts she always was shocked to feel your father’s mouth falling to, sucking them between his lips, pushing her pink nipple with his pink tongue.

She had never seen any men naked before, other than him, at least no one in person. But even with the movies she had seen, she had never seen the nudity of a black man before. Now black men stood nude before her, almost looking like statues, but for the fact that they moved. And every time they did, her eyes, to her own horror, were drawn to that which flapped freely between their dark thighs.

Outer sunlight spilled in from the edges of cardboard partition on the windows. It was only then she had realized that she was in the living room of a house now.

Signs of the previous owners, though subtle, sat in the nuances of the place, still left over from the speed of their flight from the neighborhood once the federal government bought it carelessly for a premium and turned it over as public housing for the new Roseburgh residents.

The dark figures stood ill-fitting against the décor.

Your mom realized that this wasn’t something she would wake up from. She wasn’t in bed, tossing and turning to a nightmare next to your snoring father. She was here. And she wasn’t just seeing the strange and horrible figures before her; hearing them, smelling them. They were seeing her. Likewise, they heard her body rub against the fabric of the chair. And they smelled the peculiar scent of her breasts in fear.

The three black cocks lifted hard into the gloomy blackness, the only thing which separated them from her.

But for how long would the separation last?

---

A black cock sat erect in the daylight air. The young man it was attached to lay back on a bed, his fuzzy head on his pillow. He watched as the white ass that previously swallowed his black cock, wetting it with itself, now jiggled away freely, playfully pink and sore. The girl that white ass was attached to giggled with humor as she went over to her other nude friend. Another white ass, slightly bigger and softer than the last, saw its moment, and it scooted in, positioning itself carefully over his lap, positioning its pink opening over the tip of his black cockhead.

The black man grinned. He could feel the pleasure which awaited dancing on his cockhead.

The other two girls, already tasted by him, cheered their friend, the most reluctant one, on. Slowly, the timid one with the best ass began to sit, and the black man watched his cock, the entire length and girth of it, disappear slowly, inch by many inch, inside her soft body. He rolled his eyes back with pleasure, but never without shock or a sense of unworthiness. The ass slowly began to bounce. Then it found its rhythm: up and down, up and down. Her ass, its full, soft weight, slapped against his hips and pelvis. Her insides giving every inch of his shaft pleasure, and his every inch giving unknown places within her the same.

There were no white men in the room. No white men in their thoughts. Just two giggling white girls. One bouncing, jiggling white ass. And one black cock disappearing inside, reappearing every moment, as if to establish its unbelievable length, before disappearing within again.

The ass bounced down, its rhythm and image and those slapping sounds, all perfect. He had no thoughts in his head, only pleasure, and he enjoyed it without worry that he would ever be deprived of it.

---

The last thought your mom had in her busy mind before they grabbed her, was the smell in the room, oppressive and dominating, which had fille the room.

They unstrapped her from her bonds with impatience, her captivity being her own fault, and they pulled her loose with power.

She shrieked once, not before she was silenced with a black cock against her tongue.

From behind, mercilessly, her white ass was stuffed just the same. She felt inch and after impossible inch being pushed inside her. It eventually stopped, but much later than she ever could have expected or imagined. And soon, to her shock, that impossible length began to move, going back and forth within her.

She thought there had been three initially, but more men, as if they were multiplying, came wordlessly into the room. She could see them fill the empty space in her peripheral. It was as if they had done this before. As if there was nothing to communicate. As if it was all a matter of procedure, and they gave that appearance until the very last. Until their cock entered her, and their eyes rolled back like sharks, and they began thrusting. It took her a second, through visceral terror, for it to set in. It was her they were deriving this pleasure from. Her who only existed for them for this purpose.

The sensation of her hair being grabbed and of the cock swishing around within her body in a circular motion, came to her at once, making it almost unclear, among the sights, smells, and sounds which also clouded her mind, which sensation was which.

Wafting scents, offensive in their totality, unmistakably now were coming from the men’s crotches. She could smell the crotch, the thighs, cock, balls, and pelvis from men standing far off, stroking themselves, just as well as she could smell and taste the crotch of the man before her, his cock inside her mouth.

Your dad never smelled like this, nor did he ever get this deep inside your mom’s torso. He wasn’t capable of it. The cock which thrust through her pushed so much of her aside that she wondered if there’d be any part of her left in there, as if she wouldn’t just be left with a hollow void going at least as deep as her gut.

Unarticulated as their every other thought, the men viscerally knew your mom to be as perfect, despite her imperfections, as the younger ones they had also plucked fresh from the streets and bit into with savoring lips. Age wasn’t even a thought in their minds, only form. Your mom’s ass, while blemished, was still a prize, perhaps their best. Its pink color, and roundness, was perfect. Its promise, which had been signalled to all of your friends almost a decade prior at your every sleepover party and get-together, was now being fulfilled, late but not woefully so. It was as if the anticipation only spiced the meal. Some god of retribution, not just with eyes on her, but with eyes on her whole race, eating wonderfully now at seeing such a long-awaited cosmic justice come to be.

Roseburgh Massachusetts, sitting since the nation’s founding. Growing bigger with passing decades and centuries, its streets filling with lily white faces, lily white culture, and religion, pushing the Iroquois deeper into the wilderness to do so. Two hundred years of this expanding pink-beige mass. And then, with time, the bricks cracking, the paint peeling, the sidewalks crumbling, and its inner-core hollowing, factories sitting vacant behind greying glass like derelict castles in France or Germany. And that space, after some time, that space filling with new blood. New minds. New flesh. New color.

Your mom lay there, around as long as you have been and longer, growing thicker with the passing years, her flesh jiggling, her mind filled with white habits and white thoughts. But with time, her skin showing blemishes, sometimes cracks. Her movement less nubile and fierce, more settled in its ways and its comforts. And now, its spaces, underutilized from age, being filled with new bodies, new flesh, new intentions.

Your dad had never used her butthole. Very few women in Roseburgh had been used there. Before the change, that is. Now there was a growing list of utilized buttholes, and you could see that gaining list nightly on the seven o’ clock news. The faces of the victims, always pretty, always sweet, always innocent, faced forward as the newscaster spoke, the elephant in the room always being the stretched and desecrated buttholes they hid beneath themselves now.

Every white man, no matter how angry or fearful, had that thought, and had it vividly, at seeing those innocent white smiles, no longer just victims, but fantasies.

Though your mom was lost in a fleury of sensation, she could still feel the cock which pushed into her from behind with all the focus and specificity of a conscious thought. Though as directly and lucidly as she dwelled on it, the moment and sensation were still dreamlike and surreal, never seeing herself in such a predicament, not even capable of imagining it before this moment. Barely capable of believing it as it was happening. Yet, here she was. Her lot and fate changed, and changed as subtly, as that of Roseburgh’s itself.

Your mom’s generation, a more ignorant generation, had no idea growing up that such a future could be their own. Though your generation, at least outside of this one last city, had seen the change, rapid, within their lifetime, and had not only adopted but celebrated all that came with it. Race-mixing, the celebration of foreign cultures as more exotic and meaningful to anything whites had ever produced, and the slow phasing out of white men as possible sexual partners. All of this was a given the whole nation over, and had been for a decade now. It was shocking how long Roseburgh got away with holding out. Though not surprising how swiftly the outer nation acted upon finding out.

While the product of this swift and decisive action was rather extreme, in its level of violence and criminality, owing mostly to where the migrants to Roseburgh were derived from—namely above-quota prisons and the slums of various overcrowded cities—many of the elements remained uniform with the rest of the country; with Roseburgh, eager to catch up, but only in a sped up fashion.

Black on white crime had grown rampant, yet there had never been a time when the discussion of that topic had been more taboo. Even noticing the pattern made one as guilty as lynching parties in the previous century. And as extreme of an overreaction this likely was, it did a lot of heavy-lifting in terms of keeping the most corrosive elements of whiteness at bay.

And while no reasonable person would ever claim that any particular white was responsible for the evils of whiteness, and therefore none were deserving of what your mother was going through in this moment, it was also impossible to claim that there wasn’t a strange and oblique justice occurring here. Even a blind man could see it. And this impulse, rich and glowing in the collective unconscious, drove the collective delusion, born of playful cruelty, that the recent kidnappings were being performed by white men.

Everyone knew, even if deep down at the bedrock of their soul, that white men were the only ones in any position to defend white women. And because they knew this, they knew that to portray this reality the opposite of how it truly was only served to scratch multiple itches in Roseburgh’s collective flank. The catharsis of giving in. The thrill of willingly taking one’s hands off the steering wheel. The relief of finding a scapegoat. And most of all, the bare-naked strategy for making it all happen. This new social contagion, anti-whiteness, had the benefit of making every participating white man and woman, regardless of their politics or religion, into a little Napoleon. All fighting their little war against the continued proliferation and sovereignty of the white race.

Your mom was one of the many pieces of shapely white flesh, collateral damage caught in that strategic pincer, black cock and pelvi on all sides of her. Her image, smiling on the news just all the others, would be enough to evoke extreme and vivid sympathy, even with all the exhaustion brought by dozens of faces before it. But if they could only see her now, see her body, see its tone, and see what it was going through, black bodies on its every side, bumping into it, sending it into a paroxysm of jiggles, all sympathy would be lost. The image itself making all things as clear as crystal.

Perhaps this was the only saving grace of whites. It was the ability—more so, the need—to be self-critical. Where this need came from, and the intensity of its expression, nobody would know. Yet the non-white world, seeing the succulent pink flesh of this thought and impulse, was quick to leap on it, extracting from it all the goodness and pleasure it could provide.

Your mom was the feast. The succulent white pig on the spit, ready for billions of eager mouths.

The darkness of the outer world, melinated and impoverished, couldn’t be kept at bay forever. And the growing awareness, born of a humble seed, within the fortress of glimmering ivory which was the white west, was doomed to flower into something like this:

Into a beauty unimaginable and fierce. A justice so supreme, that once enacted, even those on trial couldn’t help but dissolve into forceful ecstasy.

Populist republicanism, with all its embarrassing and desperate will to stop this, and the old klan-hooded democrat progressivism early in the previous century, with its courting of racial sciences on one end, and its populist anti-black mob stoking on the other, all of it sat now in the full scope of history, exposing itself for what it truly was. It wasn’t an attempt to forestall the white destruction that was coming, but a prophecy as to its inevitability.

And it wasn’t just America which wore this bipartisan stain on its pristine white flesh. Europe was only now beginning to feel the full and wonderful force of its giant white, fleshy body falling to the dirt with one last reverberating jiggle for the clouds to watch above. Its southern shores filled with wave after wave of clay-colored legionnaire, eager to do their part, replacing Italian, Spaniard, Frenchman, Greek, Swede, Pole, and Englishman, one home after home, neighborhood after neighborhood, nation after nation at a time.

Again, just like over the pond, the jack-booted thuggery here of national socialism, with its weak-willed desperation to save the beauty of blonde hair and blue eyes, lay defeated in the dust, a monument to the great pig roast that was to come.

And here it was. No inch of the world, no matter how secluded, down in a valley or up in the high hills, “safe” from the beauty of the onslaught.

Roseburgh was the last of them. At least in North America (there were some waning strongholds in Eastern Europe. Though they wouldn’t last long). There would be nobody who would come in to “save” it. But multitudes upon multitudes, an entire globe of smiling, laughing faces. And as the demographic transformed, it wouldn’t just be reflected in the faces and fleshtones which walked the streets and sidewalks, and which stood at the rails and escalators in the crowding malls, but also in who filled the positions of authority. Municipal services, police, the fire department, the education system. And each gain would only snowball, defensively at first, knowing that to get leverage within the white system, non-whites would have to push against its resilience. But as more and more ground is gained, more and more aggression, open and offensive, would become the norm. All until the white piggy, fleshy and succulent, was surrounded, defenseless and whimpering, on all sides.

 The force of the thrusts caused your mom, once or twice, to oink like a pig. Her pink flesh sat obscene and garrish, only given a quiet tastefulness up against the beautiful subtleties of black skin.

Unlike with the sweet fillipina, or the arab mother of three, white women gained now inherint dignity by gaining the status of motherhood. If anything, it was only a moment that made the façade of them having any nobility at all obvious.

Again, without articulating, only through experience after experience, did these men learn about the absurdity of the white woman, which could be seen plainly when they pulled up their hair, exposing the shape of their forehead and temples. Entire sciences could be derived from the examination of those skulls, mapping in it all the various pathologies known to the white race.

The lack of moral logic in the brow, the inability to take any responsibility for anything apparent in the every protrusion and dip.

How could such overwhelming pleasure be derived from such a ridiculous creature? More than that, how could white men, partners in this ridiculousness, ever be the sole inheritor of this pleasure? It was only the vivid thought of this, alive now in the mind of everyone in Roseburgh, which highlighted the absurdity. And, perhaps, this is why they allowed it. This is why, when white men became the scapegoat for a trouble which clearly came from outside, they took on this mantel of perpetrator with tight-lipped silence.

Timmy, once such a good student, sat on the edge of his bunk, his orange prison jumpsuit pulled down to his thigh, his cellmate next to him and the same, mutually jerking to the endless white flesh of their town being ravaged. Jerking to the thought of themselves, tucked away in this cell, away from it all, cleared with all the power of the state so that it could happen without pushback.

Bella Bertolluci’s father, to his own shock, at the edge of his own bed, the sound of a fight down the street. His cock out, his mind filled with thoughts of what was happening, what had already happened, to his daughter’s soft, white ass.

A young white man, shocked at himself, his eyes wide, yet tugging with unbearable pleasure, knowing that the young black man he had introduced his crush to was now reaping the benefits of that decision, that giant, long, black cock plunging forcefully through the body he himself desired for so long. He found, somehow, through this act of self-sabotage, that he regretted nothing.

And you, much the same as them, sitting on the edge of the couch, the sweet air and sounds of birds, distant sirens, and a nearby fight a few doors down, all of it wafting in through the bust living room door, hanging limply from its hinge.

Your mom wouldn’t be the last one, and as you felt the pleasure grow and then burst in you, as violently as a broken water main, you sat there in fascination of that thought, feeling the glow fade as your orgasm finished.

She wasn’t the first. Far from it. But even more so, she was further, much further from the last. This was still only the beginning. Your mom was only a canary in the coal mine. Soon to be famous as such. Her face smiling, pink and white, in every television set in town.

You lay there, nude from the waist down. Then, slowly, dutifully, you got up. You straightened yourself out. You kicked your pants aside. Then you moved to your bedroom. Your laptop sat there on your desk. You opened it up. You opened your browser with your thoughts filled with not only two smiling white female faces, but dozens more. Your thoughts filled with the addresses of each and every face. Your thoughts filled with every relevant detail, the men and dogs in their lives and household. And, just as vividly, your thoughts were filled with the image of their perfect, soft, round, white asses. You typed into the google search bar nothing except the letter “p”.

You didn’t need to type any more than that. Autofill did the rest.