His name was Antoine LeFebre, but no one ever called him that, or even thought of him by that name.  He was simply Officer Bubba.

He was easily recognizable for a number of reasons.  For one thing, he was the only black man on the Twin Lakes police force.  That alone wasn’t saying much; Twin Lakes was a small resort town about an hour away from a decent-sized city—a perfect place for white flight.  The percentage of the local population that was black was somewhere on the order of two percent.

But Officer Bubba was also noticeable—and strikingly so—for his build.  He worked out on his home gym relentlessly, and it showed.  In his early thirties, he was just under six and a half feet tall and weighed in at nearly 275 pounds, every bit of it hard, toned muscle.

His swollen chest was as smooth as his head, which he shaved daily; the only hair on his head was a mustache that covered his firm upper lip.  His physique was intimidating as fuck, and the natural scowl on his face only added to the effect.

Officer Bubba was strong and powerful—but he didn’t feel like it.  He’d been with the TLPD for seven years and was the only officer not to have gotten a promotion in that time.  His raises had been minimal.  And suddenly things had taken a turn for the worse.

It had begun with the BLM protests.  As a small, mainly upper-middle-class town, Twin Lakes had strongly come out in favor of backing the blue and repeated comments about all lives mattering.  As a cop, it should have been gratifying to Bubba, but the comments of his brother officers—and from the members of the general public with whom he interacted—the buff black stud could tell he was regarded with suspicion, if not downright contempt, merely due to his race.  Twin Lakes seemed to think he was looking for a reason to commit mayhem.

After a while, he began to think so too.

In the last six months, he’d arrested two black boys—one for underage possession of alcohol, the other for shoplifting.  In the same time period, he’d arrested ten white boys.  Four of them had been driving drunk (two of them had had BACs so high they’d needed medical treatment), one had been shoplifting, two had been dealing meth and three had been in on the armed robbery of a convenience store.

The only white kids to do any time were the meth dealers and the one who’d actually held the gun during the robbery.  And none of them got more than two years in the reform school—which was exactly what the black kid charged with underaged possession got.  The other one was over eighteen and had a prior for marijuana possession; he got eighteen months in the state pen.

As the arresting officer, Bubba was in court each time as a matter of course.  And each time, he found himself getting angrier and angrier.  And now, the huge, hulking cop had reached the boiling point.  No one knew it, not even himself.

But he was about to find out, on tonight’s patrol.

It was a hot night, and he was sweating as he slowly cruised through town, but he kept the AC off and the windows down so he’d be able to pick any sign of trouble.  He’d prepared for the heat, though; under his lightweight short-sleeved unform shirt and matching black chinos, he was wearing nothing at all except his Belleville steel-toed flight deck boots.  The boots had rubber soles that silenced his approach, an attribute for which he was soon to have a need.

He’d just driven through the intersection at Main and Warwick, turning left onto the latter street, when a flash of movement caught his eye.  It wasn’t much, but it was down an alley that ran behind the buildings fronting onto Main—businesses including a jewelry store, a drug store, and a bank. 

Bubba drove past the alley and pulled the cruiser over quietly.  He left the car, as carefully as he could, and approached the alley cautiously.  There was a flickering security light part-way down that might have been what triggered him, but he didn’t think so.  He began to inch his way in, creeping silently down the narrow, garbage-strewn passage.  He didn’t want to disturb whatever was going on, at least until he could figure out what it was.

What it was, was Bennie.

Bubba knew Bennie.  All the Twin Lakes cops knew Bennie.  And Bennie, when he looked up, knew Officer Bubba—and he wasn’t happy to see him.

Bennie was a particularly obnoxious stench in the nose of the local law; a high school dropout by the age of fifteen, he’d almost managed to reach his twentieth birthday—three weeks away—without developing a single useful talent or any useful value to society.  He did odd jobs and temped at physical labor when he had to, but most of the time he earned what little money he had by selling drugs.  He’d tried other shit, too, most of which ended in failure, like the time he tried to set up a moonshine still.  The worthless fuck had gotten off easy; he’d been gone when it exploded, but his idiotic partner Tim Edwards hadn’t been so lucky.  Tim was still in some charity hospital up north, learning how to read Braille.

Bennie was tall and broad-shouldered, with a snub nose, freckles, and red-gold hair, now mostly covered by a black ball cap worn backwards.  Despite—or perhaps because of—the heat, he was wearing a leather biker jacket over a soiled white t-shirt.  Bubba knew that trick; people would think he was sweating because of the heat, not realizing the asshole was higher than fuck on crack, which induces sweating.  Bennie’s tight jeans had seen better days and his Reebok hightops were no longer as white as they once were.  He still had the tight, firm body of an adolescent, but within a year or so, the drugs would be taking a much heavier physical toll than they had so far.

The fucker hadn’t yet realized he was being watched.  He was trying to get into rear door of one of the businesses.  Bubba peered into the darkness, trying to read the lettering on the door—the drugstore.  Of course.  Even if he couldn’t find any cash, there were plenty other things a boy like Bennie could use in there. 

Bubba had seen enough.  He stepped into the faint circle thrown by the single dim security light in the alley, and he made it obvious enough even for a waste like Bennie to realize it.  The punk whirled around and there was a pregnant pause as the two males eyes each other.  There was a brief moment of tension, as if violence were about to erupt, but Bennie wasn’t so high that he seriously thought he could take on Officer Bubba.  A petulant look formed on his arrogantly handsome face.

“Officer Bubba,” the boy sneered, “Fuckin’ figures.”

Bubba reached for the cuffs tethered to his utility belt.  “You know the drill, Bennie,” he said calmly, his deep bass voice rumbling in the confined space of the alley.  “Turn around.  Hands behind your back.”

“Aw, what the fuck,” the kid whined, “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”  But he complied with the cop’s order.  Bubba got the steel bracelets around the perp’s wrists and shoved him towards the street.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” the strung-out little shit demanded.  He was still complaining when Bubba opened the rear door.  “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!” he shouted.

“You were breaking into Sorenson’s Drugs,” Bubba said as calmly and evenly as before.  Bennie started to respond, but Bubba pushed him into the back seat and slammed the door.  He walked around to the driver’s side, still able to hear the boy squawking inside.  Sighing, the muscle-bound cop lowered himself into the car, his bulk settling it on its suspension slightly.  It was gonna be a long ride to the station…

It turned out to be a lot longer than either of them had suspected at the outset—mostly due to Bennie’s mouth.

“Makes ya feel big, arrestin’ me for shit I ain’t doin’, huh?” he snarled at the smooth back of Bubba’s shaved head.

“I already told you what you’re going to be charged with,” Bubba replied wearily.

“I wasn’t doin’ a goddam thing!  You ain’t got no proof, ya asshole cop!”

“I saw you myself; I’ll be there to testify.”

“Yeah?  Who the fuck is gonna believe you?”  Bennie leaned forward, hissing in Bubba’s ear.  “Ain’t no one’s gonna take the word of a nigger over a white man in this town, even if the nigger’s a cop.”

High as he was, even Bennie could see the way Bubba’s huge, rippling muscles tightened at this remark.  The punk knew he’d scored at hit and continued the attack.

“You know my uncle Ken?” he said in a slight undertone.  Bubba didn’t reply.  Of course he knew Ken Hammond, one of the best criminal lawyers in the county.  The man didn’t often come down here; he was too busy up in the state capitol, trying to put himself forward as a possible attorney general for the state in the next election.  “He’s gonna get me off this.  You’ll see.”

“You may be kin, but Ken Hammond isn’t going to risk his political career for a piece of crap like you,” Bubba responded.  He was aware that his control over his anger was starting to slip, and it worried him.  He wasn’t sure what would happen.

“All the fuck you know about it, ya dumbass jigaboo,” Bennie spat out.  Bubba ground his teeth and gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles paled.  “Uncle Ken ain’t gonna let no fuckin’ nig-nog take down our family.  See, once he’s in office, he’s gonna make sure all you fuckin’ porch monkeys learn yer place.  He’ll not only get me off, he’ll sue yer coon ass for harassment.  Hey, Sambo, how many nappy-headed monkeys gonna be on your jury?  He’ll get you fired and take everything you got—but don’t worry, boy.  I hear Anderson’s Packing need some big dumb black bucks like you to haul—”

He never got to finish his sentence; Bubba swung the car violently to the left at the next intersection, throwing the obnoxious little asshole into the corner.

“OW!!  Goddammit, you did that deliberately, ya nigger sonovabitch!  I’m gonna have yer fuckin’ badge just for that!  I’m gonna—hey, where the fuck are you going?!?”

It was obvious that they were no longer heading for the station; in fact, they were heading out of town and Bubba was accelerating.  “Goddamit, I asked a question, ya fuckin’ spade!  Where the hell are you takin’ me?!?”

But Bubba remained a silent, looming presence in the driver’s seat.  So silent, that Bennie began to get unnerved—not that it made him any less abusive.  He was the type who overcame his own insecurities by finding someone else he could despise, and the cop was the most blatant target for his uneasy catcalls.

“Whatsa matter, ya too stupid to understand English, ya coon?”  The kid’s voice was developing a hoarse edge from anxiety; it drowned out the low sound of Bubba grinding his teeth.  But they were nearly at their destination.

Bubba had found the place three years ago during a cross-country search for a fugitive.  It was an abandoned cabin set not too far off the county road, but down a dirt path so overgrown it was almost invisible.  The place wasn’t wired for electricity, but it was still furnished—to a certain extent.  It hadn’t been used for years, though.  Since then, the cop had periodically checked up on the place—more to make sure the local kids weren’t using it for something stupid—but had never seen any signs that anyone else had been near it.

When the patrol car pulled off the road, appearing to almost be driving directly into the woods, Bennie verged on hysteria.  High as he was, he knew this was all very wrong.  The big black cop was bringing him out here to do something he couldn’t do back at the station. “What the fuck are you doin’?!?” he screamed, the crack in his voice making his fear obvious, “Are you headin’ back home, ya jungle bunny?  Goin’ back to a tree like a good monkey?”

Bubba brought the car to an abrupt stop; they had reached the cabin, but Bennie didn’t see it in the overgrown darkness.  He thought his taunts had finally gotten through to the cop.  Fucker might scream at him, but he wasn’t gonna really do anything…

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the obnoxious teen sneered.  “Wait till I tell my uncle about this.  He won’t just have yer badge, nigger; he’s the grand-fuckin’-dragon of the county KKK and he’s gonna run all you yard apes outta here for good!”

But Bubba didn’t turn the car around, he shut it off and got out.  Bennie froze, his old fears reappearing as the cop opened the rear door and snarled, “Get out!”

Bennie did, silently for once, his hands still cuffed behind his back.  Something glinted in the faint moonlight that penetrated the tree cover—it was Bubba’s gun.  The Twin Lakes PD certainly hadn’t been defunded; the metallic gleam was that of a .357 Magnum.  Despite the punk’s fear, he simply couldn’t believe the cop was just gonna blow him away.

Unfortunately for him, he was right. 

“Well now what?” the boy demanded, his face flushing in self-directed anger; he could hear how his own voice wavered in fear and knew the cop could hear it too.  “Whaddaya want, ya moron?  You drag me out here to suck my dick?  You a faggot, nigger?  You a—UUNNHH!”

Bennie had only seen a brief flash, not enough to allow him to react, as Bubba pistol-whipped him in the head, sending his cap flying and him reeling.  Bennie fell to his knees, pressing his hands against the side of the patrol car as he struggled to maintain consciousness.

“Get up, you piece of shit,” Bubba said calmly while Bennie leaned against the cool metal panel and gingerly felt around the bleeding gash on his temple.  The boy was stunned, but his fear was dwindling, rage filling in the hole.  The cop had hit him.  The fucking nigger cop had hit him!

Bennie rose to his feet again and turned to Bubba, snarling, only to find himself looking down the intimidatingly wide barrel of the gun.  He paused, his anger in abeyance.  He couldn’t do anything yet, but the moment he could, the jigaboo better watch the fuck out.

Officer Bubba didn’t need to be told anything of what was running through Bennie’s mind; the strung-out teen was so pathetically transparent he might as well have had thought bubbles over his head.  Of course he was gonna try to make a break for it at some point.

And that was where Bubba paused.  What, exactly, was he doing out here?

He’d driven out here in a kind of blind rage; he had no specific plans.  But things had certainly gone too far for this to end well.  Bennie might have been lying about being connected to the KKK—the worthless piece of shit was a notorious liar—but he had a basis now for the threat to take Bubba’s badge.  He had, after all, assaulted a prisoner in custody.  And Bennie was exactly the type to broadcast that fact, pissing and moaning to anyone who’d listen.

There was only one answer.  The little fuck had to die.

And the moment Bubba realized that, he also realized that his huge black python of a cock was starting to swell.

A smile spread across the hulking cop’s savage face—a cold, cruel smile.  After all, if it had to be done, why not enjoy himself?  The white boy needed to learn a lesson before he died, and Bubba was just the man to teach it.

Bennie, for his part, wasn’t able to read Bubba like the cop had read him.  He could, though, see the hateful smile on the cop’s almost simian visage; the boy quailed, his bravado faltering for a moment before he remembered how often his uncle had told him that niggers can smell fear and that he needed to master himself before he could take his proper place as master of a coon.  Heeding Uncle Ken’s words, Bennie stood up straight and thrust out his jaw, the strung-out teen presenting a ludicrous caricature of courage.  His fear was palpable.

“Move it,” Bubba barked, waving the pistol towards the cabin.

“Make me, motherfucker,” Bennie sneered.

Bubba’s response was swift and decisive.  He promptly shot Bennie in the left foot, blowing off two toes.

The roar of the gun and the sudden burning pain left the arrogant punk gasping and bleating before finally finding his voice—not that he was capable of saying anything more coherent that “Ohfuckohshitfuckfuckfuck…”

“Get moving,” Bubba said in the same calm, even tone as before.  Bennie turned his tear-stained face up to the cop; for the first time, fear had overcome the obnoxious cockiness.

Bubba made another discovery:  the white boy’s fear turned him on.  The expression on the kid’s face—suddenly, Bubba was feeling the sexual arousal of establishing dominance over another male.  How far could he take this?  And was would it feel like when he finally exerted his ultimate power over the boy’s life?

He didn’t know, but he damn sure wanted to find out.  But that was for later.  First, he had a more immediate task to assert his control.  He pulled his flashlight from his utility belt, aiming the beam of light at the cabin door.  “Get moving, I said. Next shot, I’m aiming higher.”

Bennie, gulped.  His chin quivered as if he was going to make one last attempt to prove he wasn’t afraid, but he gave it up and headed for the door, limping.  Behind him, Bubba noticed the way the teen’s tight jeans cradled his boyish ass and felt his own cock stiffen even more.  He hadn’t thought much about sexuality, but it occurred to him how fucking humiliating it would be for the racist little fuck to have a huge black dick up its ass.

Plus, it would feel good.  Bubba’s grin widened.  After all, it wasn’t like he was a faggot.  If it was gonna die anyway, it would be like fucking—well, a piece of meat.  He could do that.  He could cum inside a squealing, kicking piece of meat.

By the time Bennie had forced the door open and entered the decrepit cabin, Bubba had already stopped thinking of him as human.  Bennie had become an ‘it’.

Navigating the interior of the cabin would have been impossible without the cop’s flashlight.  The front windows had broken, and debris had blown in.  The elements hadn’t been kind to the furniture.  Behind, however, was a kitchen and a bedroom, both with intact windows and in considerably better shape.  But they weren’t staying inside the cabin.  Bubba kept prodding Bennie in the back, directing him into the kitchen and out the rear door.

Behind the cabin were the collapsed remains of a tool shed and a clearing—well, an area free of trees or dense underbrush, at any rate.  The cold light of a full moon illuminated the area, giving the scene an eerie light that did little to calm Bennie’s nerves.

“Over there,” Bubba said evenly, shoving the punk in the direction of the shed.  “See that shovel?  Grab it, boy.  You’re gonna do some digging.”

The shovel was as decrepit as the cabin—rusty, its wood handle gray and full of splinters.  The teen nudged it with one of his sneakers and turned to face the cop.  The refusal he was so obviously about to utter faded from his lips as he found himself looking levelly at the barrel of the gun again.  His fear had almost made him forget the throbbing pain in his foot but having the cause of that pain jammed into his face refreshed him memory very well.  His face fell into what was a natural expression of annoying adolescent petulance, but he picked up the shovel and followed Bubba’s motions into the clearing.

“Dig me a ditch, boy,” Bubba commanded, his savage face twisted into a sneer.  “Right there.  Three feet deep, three wide, six long.  Now, motherfucker!”

Bennie jumped.  He’d never heard that word—or that tone—from Office Bubba before.  His protests died away and he leaned forward, using his weight to drive the dull tip of the shovel into the earth.

It was hard work, and after a few minutes, Bennie needed a breather.  He hadn’t looked at Bubba while he’d been digging—for several reasons, none of which he felt like examining closely—and now he turned to say he was taking a break.  But his words failed him.

As Bennie had been digging, Bubba had stripped off his shirt and his wide belt of black leather.  Bennie looked around and was confronted with a huge black powerhouse of a man, his huge nipples jutting above the massive rock-like pecs and casting a shadow in the moonlight.  Below the powerful washboard abs, the teen could see a frighteningly large bugle in the crotch, but that was far less worrying—at the moment—than the fact that the huge cop had doubled over the leather belt and was swinging it.

“Oh my god…” Bennie gasped involuntarily and was rewarded with a grin of such cruel shark-like intensity that the kid wished he’d never left home that day.

“Yeah, boy, I am your God,” Bubba snarled, his large white eyes gleaming with a sense of absolute control.  “Take off your shirt.  Now.  Take it off or I’ll hurt you.”

Bennie gaped.  This couldn’t be happening—but once Bubba raised the arm holding the belt, the boy suspended his disbelief long enough to shrug off his leather jacket and peel the t-shirt off, tossing them aside the way he always threw aside his clothes.

The teen turned back to Bubba.  He wasn’t badly built; he was lazy but not inactive and he had a strong, wiry body.  But compared to Bubba, he almost looked like a different species, and he knew it.

Without his shirt, the night breeze blew across his bare, sweat-covered chest, making him shiver.  “W-what was th-that for?” he asked the cop, his voice quavering more from the chill than fear.

“You’re gonna dig that trench, boy, and if you slack off I’m gonna beat your bare back like a slave.  You hear me, you worthless piece of white trash?  I’m gonna whip you like a fucking field hand if you give me any shit—”

“FUCK YOU, NIGGER!!” Bennie screamed, his face beet red, and Bubba waded in, swinging the belt.

Bennie saw it coming and cowered, crouching down and holding his arms over his head.  This last measure wasn’t as protective as he’d hoped; Bubba grabbed one of his arms, jerked him up, and began beating him.

For a moment, there was confusion in the clearing, black and white forms entwining, the loud lashing sound of the leather strap hitting tender flesh, and the bleating and squealing of the teenaged punk.  After five minutes, Bennie was lying on the ground, sobbing and gasping, his smooth chest and pale back stippled and swelling with angry red welts.

And standing over him was a large black man who’d suddenly come to the realization of just how fucking good it had felt to beat the boy.  It wasn’t just emotionally satisfying; it was physically stimulating.  His huge black shaft was straining the material in his crotch. 

Was it time to let it out to play?

Well, why not?  Not like this juvenile delinquent was going to be in a position to tell anyone about it; his fate was already sealed.  And besides—the little motherfucker needed it.  Racist little shit needed a ride on his big black lighting rod.  Fucker thought he was a superior race?  Let’s see how he reacts to getting pumped full of nigger sperm.

It was probably lucky for Bennie that he couldn’t see the look on Bubba’s face as these ideas sparked in the cop’s mind; the kid was already in for a bad night.  Still sobbing, the youth slowly climbed to his feet.  He’d only dug about a third of the trench, but he began to edge toward the side. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, boy?” the cop rumbled.  Bennie flinched at the sound of Bubba’s voice, but couldn’t bring himself to look at the heavily muscled black man looming over him.  “You ain’t done yet.  Get back to work, motherfucker.”

Full of fear and racial hate, Bennie picked up the shovel, turned his back on the cop, and resumed digging.  It was exhausting work, and his lean, lithe body ached from the beating he’d endured, but he knew worse would be in store if he didn’t finish the task.  He didn’t know why he had to dig like this, but he refused to even look at Bubba, much less speak to him to ask.  He just kept shoveling the dirt.

After what seemed like hours—but had only been about forty minutes or so—the teen punk had completed his assigned task and was standing in trench approximately six feet long, three deep, and three wide.  He stood and wiped the sweat form his eyes with the back of his arm and tossed the shovel aside.  Just as he did so, he heard an unmistakable sound behind him.

It was the sound of a zipper being pulled.

Curiosity overcame Bennie’s hate of Bubba and he whirled around.  At that moment, Bubba happened to be bending over, picking up the belt he’d dropped.  Even from this angle, the hulking cop looked insanely powerful, his taut muscled ass visible though the tight chinos, flexing with enough force to crack nuts.

Worse was to come, though, when Bubba stood up and turned around.   The cop grinned at seeing that the punk had finished—but Bennie’s look of horror wasn’t directed at Bubba’s face, it was directed at the frighteningly huge cock that jutted out nearly a foot, thick in proportion and wreathed in pulsing veins.  The monstrous shaft had an upward bend that made inserting it into any orifice an obviously traumatic experience.

Bennie had heard all the stories about nigger dicks, but he’d never seen one. 

He went pale.  “D-dude, what the fuck…” he gasped in a breathy tone, his eyes huge, “I-I ain’t n-no faggot!”  He gulped, then quickly looked up at Bubba.  “No of-offence, man, but I, uh, I ain’t gay…”

“Neither am I, you piece of shit,” Bubba growled, “Now get your worthless ass over here and suck it.”

This time, Bennie’s fear and outrage reverberated through the woods.  It did him as little good as his previous outburst.

“I ain’t suckin’ yer dick, ya goddam coon faggot!  Stay back, you sick fuckin’ nigger!  Help!  HELP!!!”

His scram faded to nothing in the dark woods, and there was no response.  It began to dawn on Bennie that what he wanted or didn’t want was probably gonna have little bearing on what was about to actually happen.  As if to reinforce this sudden reality check, the teen heard the low, ominous chuckle of the cop behind him.

“You done, boy?  Now get over here and take this thick black tubesteak down your creamy white throat, asswipe.”

Reluctantly, Bennie glanced up at the huge, heavily-muscled man looming over him, massive dick throbbing, face twisted into an ugly leer, and decided this wasn’t happening.  That had been some seriously fucked-up crack he’d smoked, to cause this kinda trip, but it was the only possible explanation.

“I meant now, motherfucker!” Bubba snarled and slashed at Bennie with the belt, this time catching him full in the face with the buckle, leaving a vicious gash across his cheek.  The kid yelped and fell to his knees, clutching his face.  Bad trip or not, this was his reality, and it was about to get a lot fucking worse.

“You stupid piece of shit, you know where you are?” the cop demanded, jumping down into the trench, his heavy boots compacting the loose soil with a thump.  “Answer me, fuckwad, you know what this is?”

On his knees, still clutching his bleeding face, Bennie knew he had to give an answer.  “N-no,” he sniveled.

“No what, motherfucker?”

“No-no s-sir,” Bennie replied, hot snotty tears of embarrassment at calling a nigger ‘sir’ running down his face.

“You’re in your grave, asshole.  Best stroke of work you’ve ever done, you worthless excuse for a human being, digging your own grave.  You get to take a nice long dirt nap here once I’m done with you…”

As Bennie looked up at Bubba in horror, the black man—and his inhumanly huge shaft—both seemed to swell with menace.

“…but before then, I think I deserve some fun.  Scream, white boy.  Scream all you want.  I’m gonna do everything I’ve ever imagined to you, and no one’s gonna stop me.  You and your white power fucks back the blue, right?  So back your ass right up on this thick dick.  Work the shaft, you piece of cracker shit, and I might let you live.  Probably not, but it’s your only hope.”

Bennie gaped, his underdeveloped adolescent mind whirling uselessly.  Bubba saw it and smirked.

“Aw fuck yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t cooperate.  I’ve been wanting to do this forever.”  And before Bennie could protest, Bubba waded in with his belt in one hand and his policy baton in the other.  Within seconds, Bennie began to understand the true nature of Hell.

He bleated in terror, a shrill inarticulate sound, as he ducked his head and raised his arms to ward off the blows.  The effort was just as useless as everything else in his life; the first blow of the baton snapped two fingers on his right hand.  The kid screeched and jerked his hands away, allowing Bubba to lash his smooth pecs and flat belly with the belt.

Bennie collapsed to the ground, wailing.  He instinctively curled into a fetal position to protect his wounded hand and his welt-mottled torso, but Bubba bent down, grabbed the punk by his sweat-slick hair, and mercilessly pulled him to his knees.

“Are you gonna suck my big nigger cock, motherfucker, do I have to hurt you again?” he growled.

Silently, with tears of pain, fear, and rage rolling down his cheeks, Bennie opened his mouth.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Bubba jeered, “You white pride fucks are all faggots.  Choke on it, bitch!”

Gripping Bennie’s head in an iron-like grasp, Bubba forced the entire length of his monstrous hog down the boy’s throat, burying Bennie’s nose in his ebony pubes.  The punk’s eyes were already watering, but he began to gag instantly.

“That’s it, boy.  You like having a coon use your mouth like a cunt, yeah?  Of course you do.  Shit, your little white boy dick is already hard, ain’t it?”

Bennie was desperately trying to escape this hellish nightmare.  His nostrils were saturated by the smell of rank nigger pube sweat that had gotten in before the huge horse dick plugged his esophagus so deeply the head was brushing his larynx.  He beat frantically against Bubba’s thighs; it was like beating oak trees.  He was choking to death on a spade’s dick and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

And then, suddenly, he was free.  With a might shove, Bennie propelled himself back off Bubba’s cock and tumbled over onto his back, gasping and retching as he looked up at the grinning cop. 

His face was red and puffy but as he drew in more air, it gradually resolved itself into a twisted gaze of hate.  Again, Bubba read the worthless little punk perfectly; he’d been trained for this sort of thing.  The little fuck was gonna go for the gun in the holster at his waist.

Sure enough, the boy bunched up, his lean, lithe body coiling for a leap.  But just as Bennie sprang forward, he glimpsed the cop’s huge arm, bicep bulging with strength, as it drew back to meet his rush.  Unfortunately for the young thug, his momentum was now too great to either stop or change course.  He was heading straight for Bubba’s onrushing fist.

The cop aimed for Bennie’s face, but it was a fake-out.  Even as he darted forward, the kid had time to raise his hands—but Bubba lowered his and delivered a devastating gutpunch.  Bennie’s belly was flat and firm, but it couldn’t handle the wrecking-ball impact of Bubba’s vicious sucker-punch.

“HOOG!” the teen punk inarticulately cried out as the blow forced the air from his lungs.  He was literally knocked off his feet by the force, landing on his back in the trench.  His face was congested and grimacing as he tried desperately to inhale, but Bubba was there before he had a chance to recover, towering over the punk bitch as he wallowed and gasped in the grave he’d dug himself.

The moon was behind Bubba at this point, displaying a terrifying silhouette of pure muscled power that even Bennie, dazed as he was, could perceive.  And despite the fact that he was illuminated form behind, the cop’s massive, ebon-black cock was plainly visible; in fact, it seemed to have swollen since that last time Bennie had focused on it.  But the cunt’s fear and desperation, high as they were, went to astronomic levels when that huge ominous shadow began to speak in a deep, rumbling bass.

“You’ve gotten too damn many slaps on the wrist, you white piece of trash,” Bubba sneered, “Time for you to get slapped down by a real man.  Think you’re ready for the big time, little boy?  Let’s see how big you can take it.  Spread those legs, motherfucker; I’m gonna make you my bitch before you die.” 

And even as the protests began to well up on Bennie’s lips, Bubba’s fists began to fall, splitting those lips and knocking out the teeth behind them.  The teen punk started fighting back, beating at the powerful black man, but the cop’s blow fell like hail.  The boy cowered under the onslaught until he collapsed prone onto the freshly-turned earth, stunned, bruised and bleeding.

He wasn’t so stunned that he couldn’t feel the muscle-bound nigger ripping his jeans off, yanking them down and pulling his Reeboks off with them.  Within three seconds, the teen’s smooth bare ass felt the chill of the night air.  As the massive cop roughly pried his legs apart, Bennie made one last attempt to preserve his anal virginity.  When Bubba bent over him, he swung at the cop.

What happened next was too fast for the stupid little fuck to see; he knew his punch didn’t land and that the momentum of his arm had been arrested but he had no idea that Bubba had grabbed him by the forearm until the muscle-bound stud gave it a quick, casual twist that snapped the radius and the ulna simultaneously, with the ease of breaking a breadstick.

Bennie’s high-pitched screech was that of a little girl, but the way his thick boycock spasm as the pain jolted his nervous system wasn’t.  The teen troublemaker had lifted his head from the ground, his swollen, tear-streaked face focused on the grotesque angle at which his right arm now lay; he wasn’t paying attention to his dick right now—or, for that matter, to Bubba.  With an evil simian leer, the hulking black man thrust his huge tool into Bennie’s tight, tender fuckhole, instantly ripping the boy’s sphincter apart as the coal-black shaft tore through the bitch’s colon with the force of a runaway train.

Bubba grunted with pleasure as he felt himself tear the punk’s ass open; he placed his huge hands on the kid’s smooth, firm thighs to keep the legs apart and began reaming the boy mercilessly. The sounds coming from Bennie were less indicative of pleasure—the worthless cunt was screaming like a pig being slaughtered.

“Goddamit,” the cop growled, his heavy, powerful body pinning the lean young boy to the ground, “I like my bitches to scream, but you’re giving me a headache—shut the fuck up!!”

Bubba punctuated each word with a roundhouse punch driven straight from his shoulder into Bennie’s face, four blows in rapid succession that obliterated the teen’s face, lips, and most of his front teeth.  The punk wheezed in agony and suddenly gagged and choked momentarily before coughing up three teeth that had lodged in its trachea.

The cop, on the other hand was having an epiphany.  The way the piece of shit white thug clamped down on his big black hog while being beaten was fucking phenomenal.  Nothing had ever felt so good on his dick.  Could he make the cunt do it again?

It turned out he could.  Each time he beat the motherfucker, it worked his tackle better than any pussy had done.  He drove his massive fist into the boy’s chest, belly, and face until there was little left of Bennie but a pile of bleeding, moaning hamburger that had massaged the cop’s cock into he was almost ready to cum.

Almost.  He needed more.  The bitch had to suffer more; it was obvious that was the only way to make it bring him to orgasm.  But he’d already beat it to a pulp; what else was there?

The cop’s innate bloodlust dictated the next move; it was unplanned.  Bubba himself wasn’t aware why he found his big strong hands reaching out for the white fucker’s neck; it just seemed right.  It seemed even more right when he clutched the teen’s neck in a vise-like grip and began crushing it.  The moment his finger sank into the yielding flesh, the boy came alive, working his thick, throbbing manshift as if he desperately needed the older man’s seed inside him. 

Bennie had been barely conscious after the beating; in a red haze of pain, the adolescent punk was aware of the massive gorilla cock that was shredding his colon, but little more.  That changed when his air supply was cut off, though; the teen was revitalized by panic.  His pain, his racial anger, his plans of revenge were all forgotten as the youth’s instinctive fight for survival began.

“Take it, bitch,” Bubba grunted as he felt the teen rectum squeeze his pulsating rod tightly, “Take what you fucking deserve.”  The kid’s left hand was clawing at the cop’s finger in an utterly useless attempt to pry loose the iron-like death grip.  His smooth chest heaved and jerked as he struggled to breath, his back arching with the effort and rubbing his lean, sweat-slick torso against his hulking nigger’s body.  As he did, Bubba could feel the boy’s dick pressed against his belly like a hot steel rod.

The black cop lowered his head till he could look the choking white boy directly in his bulging, bloodshot eyes.  “You’re hard as fuck with my dick up your ass,” Bubba hissed, his powerful body continuing to thrust as he spoke, “I knew you were a faggot.  Fuck, bitch, I’m gonna get a fucking promotion for terminating your perverted ass!”

Bennie heard the words.  He was having trouble with his hearing—his racing, ragged pulse was beating so hard on the inside that he thought his head was gonna explode—but he could still hear the coon’s vicious taunts.  His terror swelled to white-hot proportions, overcoming all other concerns, even pain.  He beat at Bubba’s face with both arms, not heeding the agony and futility with which his broken right arm flopped pathetically with no impact at all on the cop’s assault.

Not that his good hand had any noticeable impact, either, aside from pissing the black buck off on spurring him to greater violence.  With a roar, Bubba let go of Bennie’s throat with one hand, keeping the other in a strangling grasp as he began to beat the teen again, making sure that it knew its place. 

For a moment, it was a scene of unspeakable sexual brutality, the hulking black man raping the white twink, his powerful, muscular ass pumping and thrusting cruelly, remorselessly ripping open the boy’s guts while the thick beefy sounds of flesh striking flesh rose from the shallow grave.

It was more than Bubba had ever imagined; almost more than he could take.  The sheer sense, not just of power, but of righteous power that flooded his massive, muscle-bound frame was utterly indescribable.  Feeling and seeing the teen asswipe die on his dick was amazing and watching the way Bennie’s mangled face had darkened until it was nearly as black as his own had been incredible, but it was seeing the way the cunt started to drool like an idiot as its brain died from lack of oxygen was such a turn-on that the cop could almost literally feel his own cum boiling over in his balls.

 Bennie was nearly gone; his entire existence reduced to a long silent scream of tortured agony—and the knowledge that he was dying so a fucking coon could use him as a cumdump.  Despair, and the humiliating awareness of his own erection that somehow made its way through his misfiring nervous system added to the horror of the teen punk’s last few moments on earth.  But it was the pain that held center stage.

The toes that had been blown off were a distant memory; part of a dim past that almost didn’t seem to have happened to him.  The agonizing pressure in the youth’s head and lungs was beyond anything he’d thought possible; it felt like his brain was going to be forced out of his skull, the way his tongue already was.  Even worse was the way his esophagus was being crushed; the sharp spiking pain of cartilage being compressed beyond its ability to recover was like having a ball of glass shards jammed in his throat.

But it was the fireplug-sized cock ripping his guts to shred that the dying teen suffered from the most before the brain damage progressed to the point where he didn’t feel anything at all.  His own dick and balls were swollen and aching as if they were gonna burst at every excruciatingly deep thrust of the muscular nigger’s powerful ass.

Things were fading, though…the world was going away.  The big black explosions in his field of vision, where hemorrhages in his bulging eyes were clouding his sight, had just left him blind; the last visual image in his dying mind was the terrifying simian snarl on the cop’s face as he neared orgasm.

Bubba had never killed anyone before; he didn’t know how close the meat was to death—only how close he himself was to cumming.  As his balls contracted and an almost painful electric shock rain down the length of his massive black member, the cop’s urge to squeeze, to crush, to kill, was instinctive.

The thick crackling sound that erupted under his hands as Bennie’s trachea collapsed satisfied a deep, primal urge the huge black buck never knew he had.  It, and the way the cunt jerked and squeezed on his cock, sparked a literal geyser of semen as his engorged shaft swelled and spewed hot alpha manseed into the teen’s mangled guts.

Bennie could no longer hear or see—but he could feel the ultimate destruction of his windpipe.  There was nothing remotely resembling lucid thought in the howling tornado of pain and fear that was his last mental experience on earth, but some part of him recognized that death was imminent—and so was release.

The lithe adolescent thrashed and convulsed; as it pressed helplessly against the black man’s sweaty, muscled torso, Bennie gave up his last load of sperm.  A solid jet, thick and pearly, splattered over Bubba’s chest so hard residue spattered back into the kid’s face.

Bennie died with a nigger cock unloading his ass and his own cum smeared on his face, lying on his back in the grave that the nigger had forced him to dig.  Not quite eighty minutes ago, the teen waste had taken a final hit off his crack pipe, slipped on his hightops and his leather jacket, and headed out to see if he could get into Sorenson’s for some codeine to help when he was coming down, with no idea he’d be dead before dawn.

The corpse was still jerking when Bubba let go of it; his hands were sunk so deep into the meat’s throat that he was surprised at the effort needed to remove them.  He stayed where he was for another two minutes, though, his huge muscled frame shuddering occasionally, accompanied by sexual grunts, as the dead boy’s death throes continued to milk the last drops of semen from his still-swollen dick. 

Eventually, though, it was over.  Bubba was almost sad as he extracted his huge horsedick from the corpse’s ass; he’d never cum so hard or so thoroughly drained his balls before.  With a sigh, he climbed up out of the grave and picked up Bennie’s t-shirt which was lying nearby.  He used it to wipe as much of the dead teen’s cum off his torso as he could, before tossing it into the trench where it landed on top of the punk’s jeans and kicks.  Kicking the boy’s leather jacket into the hole as well, the cop picked up the shovel.

It took far less time to refill the trench than it had taken Bennie to dig it; of course, less material needed to go back in.  The white boy’s splayed, cum-spattered corpse was still quivering as the last few clods of earth hid it from sight.  Bubba didn’t bother to scatter the remaining dirt; no one was coming back here.

Except maybe him. 

The cop put his shirt back on and slipped into the driver’s seat of the car.  He used the rear-view mirror to make sure as little looked out of place as possible; the fact that he kept his low savage brow shaved clean helped.  He started the car and began the slow, careful process of turning around in the limited space available.  He needed to head back ASAP; he was overdue in reporting in.

But as he carefully negotiated the overgrown track back to the road, Bubba’s mind was filled with the sights, the sounds, the sensations of his adventure.  Despite the most intense orgasm he’d ever had, the mere memory had him fully erect.  And more—it felt right.  It was right.  This place was full of KKK types whose brats avoided any consequences of their crimes.

After all, all he’d done was administer justice, right?  Damn right.

The grin on the cop’s face as the patrol car reached the county road and turned towards town was blood-chillingly evil.  Twin Lakes was a corrupt town.  Some of the filth inhabiting it needed to be taught a lesson the hard way, and he was just the nigger to teach them.

From now on, the white trash in town needed to watch out when Office Bubba was on patrol.