Why did the idea of having a black boy excite her so much more than of having a black girl?
Hmmmm.....
Wouldn’t her, a white girl, delivering a black man’s ******** be as equally as wonderful as delivering a black man’s son? She felt vaguely ashamed at even questioning the equality of male and female babies. In theory all genders were equal, but theory aside, all men wanted sons more than *********. They just did. It seemed wrong, but it was nature. It just was.
It also seemed vaguely un-feminist for her to be prejudiced against a girl baby. She was not a die hard feminist, but prided herself on being a strong independent woman.
Strong?
Independent?
Was she really all those things? Was she any of those things? Lying with her black lover, exhausted in the aftermath of passionate fucking, she’d come to doubt all of her previous beliefs about men and women and babies and race and interracial relationships and probably more other things as well. Not just question her beliefs, but to actually doubt and possibly even renounce them.
Was it possible? Was it possible for one time in bed with her amazing black lover to make her renounce every thing she’d believed and lived in her life?
How could her surrender to his black cock, to his physical domination and her worship of him and her desire to have him dominate her be consistent with being a strong woman? How could her renouncing her own white race be consistent with racial equality?
With him on top of her and deep inside her...as deep inside as a man could go...could she really pretend to be independent? She was the opposite, going together with him and feeling more complete than ever in her life. No. Her desire was. She was independent of him before they met and now that they were joined...joined with him deep inside her...she never wanted him to pull out. Never.
Of course it was inevitable that he would, at least physically, but she never wanted him out of her life even if they physically separated after making love.
What she felt was the exact opposite of strength and what she wanted was the opposite of independence.
Never had she felt so protected as in his arms and in his bed and never did she want to lose those feelings.
Strong and independent?
They were code words that really meant loneliness, isolation, despair. For a woman to be “strong and independent” really meant to be alone and to live with constant gnawing loneliness as her only companion. To be “strong and independent” meant to be permanently alone and unhappy. To go to bed alone. To sleep alone. To wake up alone. To grow old alone. To die alone. That was the truth. That was the reality.
How could the culture have gotten in all so backwards? Why did her teachers, the arbiters of right and wrong and everything else, promote ideas that were the exact opposite of what she really wanted and really needed?
Was she so different from other women? Were other women really so different from these authority figures who ruled the culture?
How could everything be so completely upside down?
The one thing most contemporary culture got right was the impact of diversity, of race mixing. The one thing was the supremacy, the physical supremacy of black men. Black men with their indomitable strength and confidence and endurance. Centuries of slavery and degradation had not broken their spirit. Now that spirit, oppressed for hundreds of years, was unchained and was sweeping over the world like a tidal wave.
“Mmmmm...” A “tidal wave”? Really? She smiled. Yes, really. In her mind she visualized a tidal wave...a tidal wave of sperm. Like the wave of his sperm that gushed deep inside her.
No white guy ever made her feel this way. Lying under her black lover with his cock deep inside her, she could not even imagine sex with a white man ever again.
She remembered a tee shirt on a white girl she’d once seen. It said, “No White Bois.”
That shirt puzzled her at the time. What’s with the weird spelling of “bois”? And what about the message of “no white boys, however it was spelled? Wasn’t that racist? Wasn’t rejecting a single race, or any race, racial segregation? Was that even legal to reject all white boys?
Hmmmm.....
What the fuck was that about? Who would wear something so racist, especially in public? Now she knew what the fuck it was about. She knew why that white girl wore that tee shirt in public. At least she thought she did. She wore it in the open because the public needed to see it. She wore it because other white girls needed to see it. She wondered if that white girl’s shirt was just a fad or a whim...or if she had really experienced the fulfillment of being fucked by a magnificent black man? Complete sexual and emotional fulfillment with a superior black lover? Was she black bred? Did she go on to have a black baby?
“Hmmm...” God bless her if she had. God bless that girl. God bless her for sharing her message. God bless every white girl who took the chance and crossed the line as she had now. God bless the black men, the strong confident black men. God bless their big black balls and their big black cocks. Thank God for creating them. Thank God for the black baby she hoped would grow inside her, the gift she’d hoped to give its black father and to present to the world in nine months.
She marveled at her own transformation. All her life she’d dreaded getting pregnant as much as the plague. Getting pregnant would ruin everything, ruin her education, ruin her career, ruin her future, ruin her life. Her whole life!!! Sex was such a contradiction. She loved fucking but dreaded the nagging fear of getting pregnant, the nagging fear that always haunted her, that stalked her and snuffed out any enduring happiness. Apart from giving up her education and career, the very idea of having children with any of her lovers....her white lovers... was unthinkable. She knew that as a woman she was supposed to want children and to love the idea, but children with her white lovers was not a dream but a nightmare.
White men? White “bois?” Was there a difference? She thought about the girl with the “No White Bois” tee shirt. What made that other white girl cross the line and chose life, a real life, with a black man? How had she broken through and walked away from the suffocating, mind numbing presence of white “bois”?
No matter what you called them, white males were pathetic. Always trying to make an impression. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to say the right thing. Always trying not to screw up. Always trying to look cool. Always trying to be cool.
Trying. Trying. Trying.
And then always disappointing. Always letting you down. Always embarrassing you. Always making you feel embarrassed for them. Whether in public with their puffing and pretending to be tough or in private, pretending to be real men. Always falling short. Always leaving you unfilfilled, unsatisfied. Always leaving you with a gnawing emptiness. Always leaving you with broken promises.
And their phony bullshit pick up lines. Pick up lines for Christ’s sake! So contrived. So obvious. So transparent. She wondered. Do they write them out before hand? Do they share them with other white boys? Do they practice them? Do they rehearse them in front of mirrors before they use them?
Pale, pasty, lifeless bloodless white men. Not just in her life, but also in her dreams. Yeah, in her dreams. Nightmares really. Even in her dreams there was no escaping them. She’d dreamed of being hunted, pursued, and stalked by apparitions of emaciated, white cadavers with tiny white dicks and shriveled white balls running after her and trying to catch her and fuck her with their miniature genitals. Why was she so afraid of getting pregnant by them? Could they even make a woman pregnant? Were they capable? Capable or not, they’d catch her and paw her with their boney fingers and glare at her with bloodshot eyes peering out of sunken sockets, and try to climb on top of her and fuck her.
Fuck her? With their one inch penises? Was that even possible? Was it even possible to penetrate a woman such a small penis?
Oh God!!!! Then she’d wake up. She’d wake up to the sound of her own screams. Her screams saved her. Her screams woke her up just as she was about to be ***** by emaciated white cadavers with tiny penises. She was spared the ultimate horror of actually being ***** by them because she was awakened, mercifully awakened, by the sound of her own screams. She’d wake up screaming and lying in a night gown and sheets soaked wet by her perspiration. Only in her dreams had she known such fear, such terror.
She wondered? How could white boys, so pathetic and insecure in real life, be so terrifying in her dreams? How ironic. She didn’t have nightmares about monsters or creatures from outer space, or serial killers or man eating sharks, but about sniveling white weaklings who rehearsed phony pick up lines in front of mirror.
Oh God! She took a deep breath. Maybe that was reason enough to give up white boys... just to rid herself of those nightmares.
Now this. Now him. Never before...never before had she thrown caution aside and fucked without any thought of birth control. No pill. No condom. No diaphram. Just two people, a man and a woman, as close as a man and woman can get with nothing....absolutely nothing...between them.
Even though she’d felt the full flow from his sperm bloated black balls drain into her...Oh God!!
She prayed silently that she was pregnant. She prayed that natures miracle, previously regarded by her as a curse, had occurred in side of her.
God bless her lover. God bless he magnificent cock. God bless his sperm. God bless abolition. God bless civil rights. God bless Martin Luther King. God bless the people who made the tee shirt that said “No White Bois” and God bless the white girl who wore it. Most of all God bless the strong black man who made her feel that way. God bless the black man who opened her eyes and her heart and made life worth living. God bless the black man who has claimed her with his sperm and who is hopefully making a new life within her.
Maybe if she asked, he’d buy her one of those tee shirts. Hmmm...Probably a better idea to just get one on her own and surprise him with it the next time they were together.
“No White Bois.” That way he’d know she’d totally crossed the line, once and for all. What a nice message to give him, her amazing black lover.
Where would she get one? Where? Were they still made? Maybe she could have one custom made. She knew there were places that did custom tee shirts. That was probably the best way. She could have it made the next day. She could have it for the next time they met. More than just surprising him, she wanted that shirt to wear in public. Shirts like that were made to be worn in public. Its message, its message of “No White Bois,” however weirdly it was spelled, was pretty clear. No more white men or nightmares about white men for this white woman. No more.
It was cute and expressive and it struck a nerve with her, but it left other things unsaid. She wanted to say that. but she wanted to say more. Lying there under his weight with his wonderful cock deep inside her, she felt an insight, a sense of clarity going beyond just white boi renunciation. She felt more than that.
What did she feel? What was the clarity she achieved? What had he done for her? Anyone can turn their back on their own race. That may be necessary. It may be essential, but it wasn’t enough. Renouncing your own kind, however necessary, still left you alone and unfulfilled.
For all practical purposes, she’d already pretty much given up on white boys before. She was lonely but at least it stopped the nightmares. But that was only part of it. What she had now was domination and fulfillment and a feeling of belonging. The nagging, gnawing loneliness was gone. Why had she never felt this way before? So complete? So happy? So needed? So protected? So satisfied?
Hmmm.... There’s a message there. Her feelings were deep and complicated, but there was a message that she wanted to proclaim. It went so far beyond just renouncing white bois. You can’t replace something with nothing and black men are definitely something. They were the something she’d hungered for all her life and just now found. Freed from so much agony and despair by surrendering herself to him.
How could these conflicting feelings exist? How could she possible reconcile such conflicting feelings. The feeling of surrender to black cock domination and, at the same time, the feeling of emancipation. Can domination and emancipation really be reconciled? Aren’t they exact opposites?
“No they’re not.” she answered her own question. “No they’re not.” And then it came to her. The message she wanted to proclaim came to her, silently in her mind.
Wow. Did she really think that? Did she really say that, even in words spoken silently in her mind?
The next time. Of course there would be a next time. Of course there would be. There had to be. There just did.
She lightly ran her finger tips over his back as he lay on top of her, dozing and breathing quietly. His skin was so smooth, so tight. He was so muscular, so toned, so strong. He was so alive, so powerful even as he slept. As she turned to move, he stirred and moved. Wow! Even asleep he was a force of nature. She couldn’t move, at least not easily. She rested. Would she ever even want to move again? At that moment it was as though time was frozen and she’d never need to move...and certainly never want to move again. Of course she knew they’d both have to move eventually. Life had to go on. Even so, it was wonderful to enjoy the moment for as long as the moment lasted.
The thought of surprising him with her tee shirt thrilled her. It would be more than a novelty, more than a joke. It would be a statement, a statement that she had crossed the line forever, that she would never look back, and that she belonged to him, a statement that she’d given herself to him. It would be a public statement to anyone who saw them together...a public statement that she was his and his alone. She imagined wearing it when her pregnancy was well advanced and they were together in public. There would be no mistaking her message then. The image of it thrilled her with excitement. Never had she proclaimed anything so publicly. Everyone would know he'd fucked her and that she was pregnant with his baby. She who had so steadfastly opposed pregnancy was now eager to proclaim her pregnancy and her domination by this black man.
“Belong to him.” Oh my God! What happened to the strong, independent woman? Did she ever even exist? She never wanted to hear those words again, not even silently in her mind.
Finally, for the first time in her life, she’d achieved moral and intellectual clarity and crossed an invisible line over which she’d never go back. The message of White girl emancipation would be embodied in a few simple words that she would put on tee shirts of her own:
Hmmmm.....
Wouldn’t her, a white girl, delivering a black man’s ******** be as equally as wonderful as delivering a black man’s son? She felt vaguely ashamed at even questioning the equality of male and female babies. In theory all genders were equal, but theory aside, all men wanted sons more than *********. They just did. It seemed wrong, but it was nature. It just was.
It also seemed vaguely un-feminist for her to be prejudiced against a girl baby. She was not a die hard feminist, but prided herself on being a strong independent woman.
Strong?
Independent?
Was she really all those things? Was she any of those things? Lying with her black lover, exhausted in the aftermath of passionate fucking, she’d come to doubt all of her previous beliefs about men and women and babies and race and interracial relationships and probably more other things as well. Not just question her beliefs, but to actually doubt and possibly even renounce them.
Was it possible? Was it possible for one time in bed with her amazing black lover to make her renounce every thing she’d believed and lived in her life?
How could her surrender to his black cock, to his physical domination and her worship of him and her desire to have him dominate her be consistent with being a strong woman? How could her renouncing her own white race be consistent with racial equality?
With him on top of her and deep inside her...as deep inside as a man could go...could she really pretend to be independent? She was the opposite, going together with him and feeling more complete than ever in her life. No. Her desire was. She was independent of him before they met and now that they were joined...joined with him deep inside her...she never wanted him to pull out. Never.
Of course it was inevitable that he would, at least physically, but she never wanted him out of her life even if they physically separated after making love.
What she felt was the exact opposite of strength and what she wanted was the opposite of independence.
Never had she felt so protected as in his arms and in his bed and never did she want to lose those feelings.
Strong and independent?
They were code words that really meant loneliness, isolation, despair. For a woman to be “strong and independent” really meant to be alone and to live with constant gnawing loneliness as her only companion. To be “strong and independent” meant to be permanently alone and unhappy. To go to bed alone. To sleep alone. To wake up alone. To grow old alone. To die alone. That was the truth. That was the reality.
How could the culture have gotten in all so backwards? Why did her teachers, the arbiters of right and wrong and everything else, promote ideas that were the exact opposite of what she really wanted and really needed?
Was she so different from other women? Were other women really so different from these authority figures who ruled the culture?
How could everything be so completely upside down?
The one thing most contemporary culture got right was the impact of diversity, of race mixing. The one thing was the supremacy, the physical supremacy of black men. Black men with their indomitable strength and confidence and endurance. Centuries of slavery and degradation had not broken their spirit. Now that spirit, oppressed for hundreds of years, was unchained and was sweeping over the world like a tidal wave.
“Mmmmm...” A “tidal wave”? Really? She smiled. Yes, really. In her mind she visualized a tidal wave...a tidal wave of sperm. Like the wave of his sperm that gushed deep inside her.
No white guy ever made her feel this way. Lying under her black lover with his cock deep inside her, she could not even imagine sex with a white man ever again.
She remembered a tee shirt on a white girl she’d once seen. It said, “No White Bois.”
That shirt puzzled her at the time. What’s with the weird spelling of “bois”? And what about the message of “no white boys, however it was spelled? Wasn’t that racist? Wasn’t rejecting a single race, or any race, racial segregation? Was that even legal to reject all white boys?
Hmmmm.....
What the fuck was that about? Who would wear something so racist, especially in public? Now she knew what the fuck it was about. She knew why that white girl wore that tee shirt in public. At least she thought she did. She wore it in the open because the public needed to see it. She wore it because other white girls needed to see it. She wondered if that white girl’s shirt was just a fad or a whim...or if she had really experienced the fulfillment of being fucked by a magnificent black man? Complete sexual and emotional fulfillment with a superior black lover? Was she black bred? Did she go on to have a black baby?
“Hmmm...” God bless her if she had. God bless that girl. God bless her for sharing her message. God bless every white girl who took the chance and crossed the line as she had now. God bless the black men, the strong confident black men. God bless their big black balls and their big black cocks. Thank God for creating them. Thank God for the black baby she hoped would grow inside her, the gift she’d hoped to give its black father and to present to the world in nine months.
She marveled at her own transformation. All her life she’d dreaded getting pregnant as much as the plague. Getting pregnant would ruin everything, ruin her education, ruin her career, ruin her future, ruin her life. Her whole life!!! Sex was such a contradiction. She loved fucking but dreaded the nagging fear of getting pregnant, the nagging fear that always haunted her, that stalked her and snuffed out any enduring happiness. Apart from giving up her education and career, the very idea of having children with any of her lovers....her white lovers... was unthinkable. She knew that as a woman she was supposed to want children and to love the idea, but children with her white lovers was not a dream but a nightmare.
White men? White “bois?” Was there a difference? She thought about the girl with the “No White Bois” tee shirt. What made that other white girl cross the line and chose life, a real life, with a black man? How had she broken through and walked away from the suffocating, mind numbing presence of white “bois”?
No matter what you called them, white males were pathetic. Always trying to make an impression. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to say the right thing. Always trying not to screw up. Always trying to look cool. Always trying to be cool.
Trying. Trying. Trying.
And then always disappointing. Always letting you down. Always embarrassing you. Always making you feel embarrassed for them. Whether in public with their puffing and pretending to be tough or in private, pretending to be real men. Always falling short. Always leaving you unfilfilled, unsatisfied. Always leaving you with a gnawing emptiness. Always leaving you with broken promises.
And their phony bullshit pick up lines. Pick up lines for Christ’s sake! So contrived. So obvious. So transparent. She wondered. Do they write them out before hand? Do they share them with other white boys? Do they practice them? Do they rehearse them in front of mirrors before they use them?
Pale, pasty, lifeless bloodless white men. Not just in her life, but also in her dreams. Yeah, in her dreams. Nightmares really. Even in her dreams there was no escaping them. She’d dreamed of being hunted, pursued, and stalked by apparitions of emaciated, white cadavers with tiny white dicks and shriveled white balls running after her and trying to catch her and fuck her with their miniature genitals. Why was she so afraid of getting pregnant by them? Could they even make a woman pregnant? Were they capable? Capable or not, they’d catch her and paw her with their boney fingers and glare at her with bloodshot eyes peering out of sunken sockets, and try to climb on top of her and fuck her.
Fuck her? With their one inch penises? Was that even possible? Was it even possible to penetrate a woman such a small penis?
Oh God!!!! Then she’d wake up. She’d wake up to the sound of her own screams. Her screams saved her. Her screams woke her up just as she was about to be ***** by emaciated white cadavers with tiny penises. She was spared the ultimate horror of actually being ***** by them because she was awakened, mercifully awakened, by the sound of her own screams. She’d wake up screaming and lying in a night gown and sheets soaked wet by her perspiration. Only in her dreams had she known such fear, such terror.
She wondered? How could white boys, so pathetic and insecure in real life, be so terrifying in her dreams? How ironic. She didn’t have nightmares about monsters or creatures from outer space, or serial killers or man eating sharks, but about sniveling white weaklings who rehearsed phony pick up lines in front of mirror.
Oh God! She took a deep breath. Maybe that was reason enough to give up white boys... just to rid herself of those nightmares.
Now this. Now him. Never before...never before had she thrown caution aside and fucked without any thought of birth control. No pill. No condom. No diaphram. Just two people, a man and a woman, as close as a man and woman can get with nothing....absolutely nothing...between them.
Even though she’d felt the full flow from his sperm bloated black balls drain into her...Oh God!!
She prayed silently that she was pregnant. She prayed that natures miracle, previously regarded by her as a curse, had occurred in side of her.
God bless her lover. God bless he magnificent cock. God bless his sperm. God bless abolition. God bless civil rights. God bless Martin Luther King. God bless the people who made the tee shirt that said “No White Bois” and God bless the white girl who wore it. Most of all God bless the strong black man who made her feel that way. God bless the black man who opened her eyes and her heart and made life worth living. God bless the black man who has claimed her with his sperm and who is hopefully making a new life within her.
Maybe if she asked, he’d buy her one of those tee shirts. Hmmm...Probably a better idea to just get one on her own and surprise him with it the next time they were together.
“No White Bois.” That way he’d know she’d totally crossed the line, once and for all. What a nice message to give him, her amazing black lover.
Where would she get one? Where? Were they still made? Maybe she could have one custom made. She knew there were places that did custom tee shirts. That was probably the best way. She could have it made the next day. She could have it for the next time they met. More than just surprising him, she wanted that shirt to wear in public. Shirts like that were made to be worn in public. Its message, its message of “No White Bois,” however weirdly it was spelled, was pretty clear. No more white men or nightmares about white men for this white woman. No more.
It was cute and expressive and it struck a nerve with her, but it left other things unsaid. She wanted to say that. but she wanted to say more. Lying there under his weight with his wonderful cock deep inside her, she felt an insight, a sense of clarity going beyond just white boi renunciation. She felt more than that.
What did she feel? What was the clarity she achieved? What had he done for her? Anyone can turn their back on their own race. That may be necessary. It may be essential, but it wasn’t enough. Renouncing your own kind, however necessary, still left you alone and unfulfilled.
For all practical purposes, she’d already pretty much given up on white boys before. She was lonely but at least it stopped the nightmares. But that was only part of it. What she had now was domination and fulfillment and a feeling of belonging. The nagging, gnawing loneliness was gone. Why had she never felt this way before? So complete? So happy? So needed? So protected? So satisfied?
Hmmm.... There’s a message there. Her feelings were deep and complicated, but there was a message that she wanted to proclaim. It went so far beyond just renouncing white bois. You can’t replace something with nothing and black men are definitely something. They were the something she’d hungered for all her life and just now found. Freed from so much agony and despair by surrendering herself to him.
How could these conflicting feelings exist? How could she possible reconcile such conflicting feelings. The feeling of surrender to black cock domination and, at the same time, the feeling of emancipation. Can domination and emancipation really be reconciled? Aren’t they exact opposites?
“No they’re not.” she answered her own question. “No they’re not.” And then it came to her. The message she wanted to proclaim came to her, silently in her mind.
“White Girl Emancipation Through Black Cock Domination.”
Wow. Did she really think that? Did she really say that, even in words spoken silently in her mind?
The next time. Of course there would be a next time. Of course there would be. There had to be. There just did.
She lightly ran her finger tips over his back as he lay on top of her, dozing and breathing quietly. His skin was so smooth, so tight. He was so muscular, so toned, so strong. He was so alive, so powerful even as he slept. As she turned to move, he stirred and moved. Wow! Even asleep he was a force of nature. She couldn’t move, at least not easily. She rested. Would she ever even want to move again? At that moment it was as though time was frozen and she’d never need to move...and certainly never want to move again. Of course she knew they’d both have to move eventually. Life had to go on. Even so, it was wonderful to enjoy the moment for as long as the moment lasted.
The thought of surprising him with her tee shirt thrilled her. It would be more than a novelty, more than a joke. It would be a statement, a statement that she had crossed the line forever, that she would never look back, and that she belonged to him, a statement that she’d given herself to him. It would be a public statement to anyone who saw them together...a public statement that she was his and his alone. She imagined wearing it when her pregnancy was well advanced and they were together in public. There would be no mistaking her message then. The image of it thrilled her with excitement. Never had she proclaimed anything so publicly. Everyone would know he'd fucked her and that she was pregnant with his baby. She who had so steadfastly opposed pregnancy was now eager to proclaim her pregnancy and her domination by this black man.
“Belong to him.” Oh my God! What happened to the strong, independent woman? Did she ever even exist? She never wanted to hear those words again, not even silently in her mind.
Finally, for the first time in her life, she’d achieved moral and intellectual clarity and crossed an invisible line over which she’d never go back. The message of White girl emancipation would be embodied in a few simple words that she would put on tee shirts of her own:
“White Girl Emancipation Through Black Cock Domination.”
