Office Bubba: White Power Meets Black Muscles

It was the end of a long day and Officer Bubba was tired.  A cold front had blown through earlier in the day, wet and windy, with violent squalls.  There had been three fender-benders in town and a really nasty wreck out on the highway—they’d had to call the county meat wagon in on that one.  But the storm had passed, leaving only puddles, and Bubba was not only off duty, he was off for the next three days.

He had the privilege of taking the cruiser home; someone else on the force would come by and pick it up tomorrow.  He’d just swung off Main Street when a black Dodge Charger with expensive rims peeled out and cut him off, roaring up the street.  Bubba recognized it at once; there was only one car in town like that.  It belonged to Willie Dawson, the mayor’s kid.

Dawson himself wasn’t in town; wealthy enough to hire a private jet to fly to DC to help overthrow what his deranged mind saw as a rigged election, he was too canny to have actually been caught inside the Capitol and was now spending his time and money trying to help his fellow insurrectionists out of their legal issues.  And since he was the only one capable of controlling his worthless, spoiled son, it made sense that Willie was running amok.

Bubba grinned and switched on his siren.  As he chased after the speeding car, he could feel his weariness draining away and a sense of something else coming over him—excitement, anticipation, he couldn’t quite name it.  But the thought that it was time Willie learned the meaning of respect made his massive black cock achingly hard.

The officer was momentarily taken by surprise when the car swung to the left onto the county road—the Dawson property was to the right, and Bubba had heard of Willie’s boast that no cop would dare come after him at his father’s house.  Bubba would have been more than happy to prove him wrong.  Now, it looked like he wouldn’t get that chance.

A mile further on, Willie nearly lost it on a right-angle turn to the right; Bubba was close enough to see that there was someone in the passenger seat.  Even though the face was illuminated in his headlights for no more than a fraction of a second, Bubba recognized Dylan Channing.

He should have expected it, Bubba realized.  Dylan lived nearby in Willie’s upscale neighborhood and came from a family nearly as wealthy.  The two had been repeatedly nabbed in minor peccadillos—vandalism, petty shoplifting, minors in possession.  All had been dismissed due to the wealth of both families and the political clout of Willie’s father.

Bubba’s disgust had peaked when they had been pulled over, drunk out of their minds, and run in.  Bubba had been the receiving officer at the jail that night.  Their sneers and racial abuse had been bad enough—it had been much worse the next morning, when it was repeated after they were dismissed, the arraigning magistrate not even bothering to charge them, since they would never be indicted in any case.  From that point on, the two worthless punks went out of their way to show their utter lack of respect for authority—and the police in particular.

All the other cops bent over backwards to coddle the boys, encouraging the attitude.  Bubba had no intention of doing so and was almost overjoyed at the chance to put the little shits in their place.  The only problem was that he doubted he’d have the opportunity to truly teach them the lesson they needed to learn.  After all, they couldn’t go missing the way Bennie had; there’d be too many questions.

Little did he know that the bridge over Big Bear Creek, half a mile up the road, was about to present him with that very opportunity for which he’d been longing.  It was placed just after another hairpin turn, and combined with the still-slick roads and Willie’s aggressive driving, it proved too much for the adrenaline-fueled punk.

Bubba was too far back to see the actual wreck, but he saw the taillights of the Dodge as they left the road and then upended.  The car had rolled; the possibility of it being a severe wreck flashed across the cop’s mind.  He hoped not—dying in a car crash would be letting the little shits off too easily.

But he didn’t radio the accident in.  Not yet.  He wanted to make sure.  After all, if they were still alive…

And again he felt a strain and ache in his groin, and grinned maliciously, his white teeth flashing in his hard ebon face.

Bubba slowed his car to a stop in the middle of the road, just short of the bridge.  Shifting into park, he got out, his big black tactical boots thudding on the cracked asphalt as he approached the wreck.  The Charger was on its roof, obviously totaled, and hanging at a precarious angle over the raging, rain-swollen creek.  From inside, barely audible over the roaring of the rushing water, came the groans of the stunned youths.

So they weren’t dead—yet.  Bubba chuckled and approached the car.  Willie was already crawling out of the driver’s side window.  The eighteen-year-old punk was disheveled, his brown hair mussed, a trickle of blood seeping down his cheek from a small cut on his temple.  His black t-shirt with a Korn logo was torn across the front, showing his smooth chest, and there were a few drops of blood on the right thigh of his tight jeans.  He climbed shakily to his feet, shuffling his black and white Puma Fast Cat sneakers in the grass, but Bubba was busy extracting Dylan from the wreck.

A year younger than his buddy, the kid seemed to be utterly unharmed but bordering on shock.  He was mumbling and almost in tears.  Still upside-down and held in his seat by the seatbelt, his yellow t-shirt had fallen around his armpits, revealing his flat, heaving belly, covered with a fine peach fuzz.  Bubba pulled a tool from his utility belt and cut through the seatbelt with no effort at all.  Grabbing the blond youth under the arms, he dragged him from the vehicle.  The boy’s legs, in their tight, worn jeans, dragged on the ground, the heels of his bright red Adidas Originals kicks creating furrows in the dirt.

Bubba got the stunned youth to his cruiser and manhandled him into the back seat; Dylan put up no resistance.  He returned to the inverted Dodge to find that Willie had recovered himself somewhat.  The punk had worked his way around the vehicle and was leaning on the rear bumper, his hand on his head.  He raised his eyes and glared at Bubba.

“Fuckin’ figures,” he muttered in a surly tone.  “Fuckin’ nigger cop, yeah, right.  C’mon and bust me, coon.  Ain’t no way any charges are gonna be pressed, anyway.”

Bubba sighed.  The little shit was right.  “Get in the car, boy,” he snapped, wishing there was some way for the fucker to just disappear—and that’s when Willie materially aided him, unintentionally.

The boy leaned his full weight against the rear of car.  Its precarious angle on the rain-weakened bank of the creek did the rest; there was a deep metallic groaning and suddenly the entire car shifted and slithered toward the raging, swollen waterway.  Willie fell to the ground with a surprised cry as the Dodge tipped up and vanished from sight into the floodwaters.

The creek was wide and deep enough to completely cover the car at once, and was flowing with enough force to instantly sweep it away to God-knows-where.  And that, Bubba realized, was all he needed.  The boys were his.  The Dodge would be halfway across the state before it was found, so anyone looking for them would presume they’d been washed away in the flooding.

The anticipatory ache in the black cop’s groin became almost unbearable.  “Get in the car, motherfucker,” he snarled.  From the ground, Willie peered up at him with a look of pure hatred, but slowly climbed to his feet.

“You ain’t gonna hold me long, jigaboo,” the racist punk sneered, with unconscious prescience.  Bubba only smirked. Nettled, Willie continued to try to get a rise out of the black cop.  “Whatsa matter, coon, didn’t they teach ya English when they let a token nigger into the Academy?  Or did they just all go ‘ooga-booga’, huh?”

Bubba’s smile hardened, but he didn’t react.  “Get in the car,” he said again, more calmly, but with an icy edge that hadn’t been present before.  Sullenly, the teen complied—he would never, even (or especially) in his own mind, use the word ‘obeyed’ in reference to the ordered of a black man.  But the cop had a gun.

That was the only reason he got in the car, Willie told himself.  The only reason.  If he could catch the fucking jungle bunny without his gat once, just once…

The big car shifted appreciably when Bubba dropped his heavily-muscled bulk into the driver’s seat.  In a matter of moments, it was gliding down the waterlogged road, and Willie was trying to calm Dylan, who by now was more upset about the ‘arrest’ than the wreck.

“Don’t worry, man,” the older teen muttered, “Second we’re back in town, I’ll call my dad’s partner.  He’ll come get us.”

“Whyncha call him now?” Dylan sniveled.

“Left my phone in the car, Wille grunted in annoyance.  “Just like you did.  Not that it’d matter; you know there ain’t no signal out here.  Hey, where are we, anyway?”                                

He craned his head at the car windows, trying to orient himself.  They weren’t heading back into town…

“Whatsamatter, ya dumb-ass nigger, ya get lost?” he screamed through the grille that separated the front and back seats of the cruiser, “You ain’t got no right to hold us, anyway!  We ain’t under arrest!  You didn’t charge me with nothin’!  I didn’t get my rights read!  Dylan, this coon read ya yer rights?”

The younger boy shook his head, the distress on his face swiftly replaced with a mean and crafty look,  “Naw, man—hey, that’s right!  Asshole cop’s gotta let us go, right?  Illegal as fuck to haul someone in without readin’ them their rights, ain’t it?”

“Hell yeah,” Willie grinned, “But that’s Plan B.  Now shaddup and lean closer.”

The stupid little shits thought they were being quietly subtle but by the time Bubba turned off the country road onto the nearly-invisible dirt track, he’d heard every detail of Willie’s plan to try to take his gun.  Well, so they thought they could take him if he wasn’t armed?  Maybe he’d give them the chance to try it.  Of course, he’d have to make a minor adjustment first…

The road was pitted and almost unnavigable due to the storm; the boys’ consternation grew as they realized that they weren’t headed to town—or anywhere else they recognized.  Their taunts grew shriller as an edge of fear crept into their voices.

“Fuckin’ yard ape thinks he’s drivin’ us back to his home in the jungle!  Ya gonna invite us up to yer treetop for bananas, nigger?” Dylan called out, his young face twisted with an impotent rage.

“My dad’s gonna have yer badge for this!” Willie yelled,  “Badge, hell; he’s gonna see you do time in the pen with the rest of yer monkey cousins!”

Gritting his teeth, Bubba slammed on the brakes so abruptly the boys were thrown forward into the grille.  He’d had enough of this shit—and anyway, they were close enough to the cabin.  The white cuntboys could walk from here.

He exited the car and opened the rear door, covering the punks with his service pistol.  “Awright, out,” he barked.

“Where the fuck are we?” Willie demanded, gazing around as he climbed out of the rear seat, followed—slowly and reluctantly—by Dylan.

“You’re at my own personal juvenile detention center,” Bubba jeered, his white teeth almost glowing in his dark face as he grinned malevolently.

“Yer gonna pay for this, coon,” Willie hissed, his voice seething with hatred.  Dylan was uneasy—the dark woods were still dripping with rain; a thousand vague menacing sounds issuing from the underbrush—but took comfort in his buddy’s bravado.  “Yeah, asshole, what’s the big idea?” he piped up.

“Don’t worry, white boy; you’ll see soon enough,” Bubba drawled, “Start moving. That way.”  He waved his gun in the direction of the cabin, just barely visible in the dank, murky clearing.  Grumbling, the teens headed towards it, full of anger and trepidation—but with no clue as to what nightmares were in store for them.

They entered the dilapidated structure ahead of the cop who had his gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.  “There,” he said, indicating the oblong rectangle of darkness of a doorway on the right, “In there.”

It was a bedroom.  Once inside, Bubba pulled out the handle of his flashlight, converting it to a lantern, and set it on a splintered dresser, above which hung the gaping frame of a mirror with some shards of glass remaining at the edges, adding a dim luster to wreck of a room.  Most of the small space was taken up by the rusted metal frame of a double bed with a worn, stained mattress still in place on the sagging springs.  The only other item of furniture in the room was a straight-backed wooden chair, dusty but sturdy, lying on its side.

Bubba turned to face the boys.  “So,” he jeered, “You little punks think you can take me, huh?  You wanna try it?”

Dylan bolted towards him but was restrained by Wille.  “Yeah, and give ya cause to pop a cap in our asses?  We ain’t that stupid, nigger.”

Bubba’s grin widened.  He withdrew his pistol from the holster and ostentatiously placed it on the dresser.  Then he unbuttoned his uniform shirt and shrugged it off, revealing his huge, muscled torso, his broad, hubcap pecs gleaming darkly in the dim light.

“Tell ya what, little boy.  If y’all can take me, you’re both free to go.  No guns involved.  Think you can do it?  C’mon, cracker.  Come at me, boy.”

This time there was no hesitation.  The young thugs launched themselves simultaneously at the black cop, determined to beat him into submission.  The fact that he was larger, stronger, and weighed more than both of them combined never crossed their puny minds; they knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that their racial superiority would be what mattered.

Their first hint that just being white wouldn’t be enough was when Willie’s fist made contact with Bubba’s hard, ripped abs.  The kid had thrown as hard a punch as he was able, but the only effect it had was on him—his hand ached as if he’d punched a brick wall.  Bubba merely smiled.

“My turn,” the huge black bull said, and drew back his arm.  Willie couldn’t believe the size of the deltoid and the bicep as they swelled; he was too amazed to even duck—which was unlucky for him.  Bubba’s blow hit him in the gut like a runaway train, sinking deeply into his smooth belly.  “OOG!!” he cried as all the air was driven from his lungs at once.

As Willie sank gasping to his knees, his arms tightly wrapped around his abdomen, Dylan waded in, fists swinging.  Bubba didn’t even bother to defend himself; he merely stood at ease, chuckling, as the room echoed with the meaty smacks of the boy’s useless futile blows.  “Lemme know when you’re ready to take me on, boy.  Gettin’ mighty tired of these gnat bites, haw!”

“His gun,” Willie managed to gurgle, “Get his gun!”

Dylan whirled and dove for the dresser, snatching the pistol and pointing it at the cop.  “You back off, ya fuckin’ coon!” he screamed, his face red and fear echoing in his voice.

“Kill ‘im!” Willie cried, “Waste his ape ass!”

Dylan pointed the gun point-blank at Bubba’s head and pulled the trigger repeatedly.

The gun clicked repeatedly.

Bubba broke out in a loud guffaw.  “You stupid sacks a’ shit really thought I’d leave a loaded weapon where one of you dipshits could get to it?”

Dylan dropped the gun, looking up in abject terror at the hugely-muscled black man who’d turned and was now looming over him.  Bubba approached, still laughing, until he was directly in front of the punk, about twenty inches away.  He held up his balled fist—in silhouette, it looked like nothing so much as the head of a sledgehammer—and kissed it, the smiled sweetly at the kid.

A dark spot spread in Dylan’s groin.  “P-please, o-of-officer,” he blurted in a high, girlish voice, “Do-don’t—”

“Know what they do to little boys like you in jail?  No?”  Bubba’s grin assumed shark-like proportions,  “Think it’s ‘bout time you found out, yeah?”

Again, as if in slow-motion, his arm drew back like a compressed spring full of potential energy.  “No…” Dylan had time to whisper before the blow slammed into him like a cannonball in his belly.

This punch wasn’t as hard as the one Willie had received, but it was sufficient to cause Dylan to sag to his knees.  He never made it to them, though—on the way down, his chin met Bubba’s knee, coming up.  The impact snapped the limp youth back upright just in time to get the cop’s fist again, this time in the face.

Dylan didn’t reel back; he literally flew through the air with a loud squeal, striking the real wall so hard the clapboard rattled.  The punk slumped to the floor, unconscious.  For a moment, his face darkened, then, involuntarily, he coughed up the two teeth he’d been choking on.

Willie, in the meantime, had just managed to regain his feet.  He looked up at Bubba; the bull cop could that see the fear in the boy’s was mitigated with a loathing that seethed visibly in his glare.  That made him dangerous, but Bubba could use the fucker’s rage against him.   All he needed to do was goad the white cunt into attacking—by choosing his own time, Bubba would be ready.

Well, goading him shouldn’t be too hard—although it was getting harder by the minute, he realized with a smirk.  As he faced the kid, he reached down, unzipped his fly, and extracted his enormous cock.

Bubba’s tool was nearly eleven inches long and more than three in diameter; it looked more like a special effect than a real dick—but it was very real and visibly stiffening.

Staring straight into Willie’s eyes, the black cop asked him, “Ever ridden a bolt of black lightin’, motherfucker?”

With an inarticulate cry of rage, Willie launched himself at Bubba.  He swung wildly, not with any plan of attack but in a desperate attempt to connect.  The cop jerked his head up to avoid the boy’s windmilling fists—not that the few blows the asshole managed to land did the slightest damage.

“Damn, boy, you sure got excited at the thought of this big black meat up your fuckhole!” Bubba chuckled.  “Don’t worry, fucker—I’mma give you your chance to be my little white bitch in a bit here.”  His arm shot out like a piston, his vice-like hand closing powerfully around the kid’s throat.  As Willie instinctively clutched the cop’s wrist, he suddenly found his Puma kicks dangling four inches off the floor and his ability to breathe completely shut off.  Bubba was dead-arming him, keeping him hanging as he reached back and retrieved his handcuffs from his utility belt. 

“First, though, you’re gonna watch,” Bubba said, expertly swinging the cuffs around and getting one around Willie’s right wrist.  Carrying his helpless prey across the room, the cop lifted a boot and deftly knocked the chair upright.  He plopped the struggling youth down into it, hard, and while Willie was momentarily stunned by the impact, he got the kid’s arms cuffed behind the back of the chair, effectively pinning him to it.

“Now, you pay attention, boy,” he told the groaning punk, unable to keep the malicious glee form his voice,  “I’m gonna do some…things…to your pretty little boyfriend over there and you’re gonna watch and learn how to work my shaft.  See, that way, you’ll know what to do when it’s your turn, yeah?  Hey, white boy, how many times you fuck him?  Is his white pussy already reamed out—or was he the one fucking you?  Haw!”

Willie had regained his breath, but not his voice.  His eyes and mouth all were perfect O’s as he gaped at Bubba, his expression one of utter bewilderment.  Emotions flickered across his face but none of them lasted long enough to take hold. 

Then Bubba drove the point home by dickslapping the white cunt.

The bull cop’s massive member smacked across Willie’s face like a baseball bat, driving his head sideways.  Thick, hot precum smeared over the boy’s smooth cheeks and lips, the salty taste making the racist fuck gag and retch.

It was a that at point that Willie realized none of this was happening.

He’d snapped.  Something—maybe a bad acid trip—had made him lose it.  He was crazy, this was a hallucination, not one bit of it was real.  Shit like this just didn’t happen.  It just didn’t.

Then Bubba’s monster hog stuck him again, rattling his skull and recalling him to reality.

“I said pay attention, motherfucker,” the hulking officer barked, then turned to Dylan, still lying prone on the floor, unconscious.  He bent down and with a swift but casual gesture, yanked the youth’s t-shirt off, tossing the shredded yellow fabric aside like the useless trash it now was.  Then he bent down and hoisted the limp form into the air by the waistband of its jeans.  His arm swelling with brute power, Bubba lifted the boy up until only his hands and feet touched the floor, his blond hair sweeping the dust as the cop turned and moved.

Bubba carried Dylan over to the bed and dumped him on it like a sack of potatoes.  He pulled the folding knife form his utility belt and used it to slit the punk’s jeans down the seat, then down the back of both legs, then jerked the sliced denim away, leaving the kid nude but for his Pumas and ankle socks.

The cop, standing at the foot of the bed, turned to Willie with a triumphant sneer.  “Boy ain’t got no drawers on, son.  Looks like he’s been expecting to take it up the ass, yeah?  You too, son?  You been hopin’ I’d catch up to you and ream your faggot white fuckhole?  Then it’s your lucky night.  Watch me plow your little fag boyfriend here and try not to blow your load, har!”

Then the huge black bull turned away and, unclasping his belt, let his tight chino pants drop to the tops of his boots.  His thickly-muscled torso was shaped live a V that pointed to the gleaming taut boulder-like globes of his ass, sitting atop legs as strong as tree trunks.  Then it was all in motion as he climbed up on the bed.

Willie, in a state of fascinated despair, watched the action on the bed with a near catatonic stare; he had a cinematically perfect view.  Still unaware, Dylan was on his back.  The cop had spread the boy’s legs and bent them back, up to his chest and was on top of him.

Confused images flashed through Willie’s fear-inflamed brain.  Bubba’s enormous tackle dangling above Dylan’s pink bud-like boycunt looked like a drill bit suspended from a derrick—no, that wasn’t right, the proportions weren’t right…

Then the huge shaft plunged like an express elevator.  Even from where Willie was sitting, he could see, aghast, the way Dylan’s virgin asshole was instantly stretched beyond its natural capacity.  The tender flesh split like it had been sliced with a knife and Wille watched in horror as blood trickled down his pal’s taint.

The injury was too traumatic for Dylan not to respond.  His long-lashed green eyes flew open—and so did his mouth.  His scream spiraled up an octave, then his voice cracked.  His lithe teen body went rigid with agony, clutching the bulked-out black man in an involuntary grip that sexual ecstasy couldn’t have made tighter.

“Fuck yeah, cunt!” Bubba roared, “Now you’re feeling real Black Power, bitch!  Fuckin’ love it, dontcha, white boy?”

Dylan’s frenetic whimpering, forced out of his young body in the same tempo as Bubba’s deep, powerful thrusts, certainly made it sound as if the punk was enjoying himself.  It was the agonized tautness of his face that showed how much pain and fear he was enduring—and his expression only spurred the cop on to fuck him harder.

The vicious, glassy pain in his asshole helped Dylan find his voice again—quickly and very loudly.  “THTOP!” he screeched, his missing front teeth making him lisp, “FUCK!  FUCK THTOP IT!!”

“Yeah, asshole!” the muscle-bound cop cheered, “Fuckin’ love bangin’ a screamer!  Hey, man,” Bubba said conversationally over his shoulder to Willie, “You ever make this cunt scream this loud when you fucked it?  Haw!”

But the black bull’s built-up rage wasn’t satisfied.  He’d ripped this one too far open; its sphincter was too torn to grasp his shaft.  His massive rod was plunging deep into the white boy’s innards, grinding ruthlessly over Dylan’s prostate—the cop could tell that from the little faggot’s erection despite the pain it was in—but Bubba’s cock wasn’t being pleasured.

And the racist fuck wasn’t suffering enough.  Luckily, though, Dylan made a fatal mistake—he tried to fight back.

His hands came up scrabbling at the cop’s face, clawing at him like an attacking bird.  Bubba expected it—he’d been trained to read the signals a struggling perp gives off—and jerked his head back in time to avoid any injury.  But it was exactly the trigger he needed to flip his brutality into overdrive. 

“Ok, motherfucker, you asked for it,” he snarled into the teen’s panic-stricken face, “Gonna give you a free sample of old-school Police Brutality, har!”

Pinning the youth’s lithe, lean torso to the bed by planting his left hand in the middle of Dylan’s chest, fingers splayed,  Bubba leaned forward and drew up his fist.  He smiled gently and said, “Time to get it on, bitch,” then dropped his arm with the power of a piledriver into the cunt’s face.

“GURK!” Dylan blurted, almost drowning out the loud squelching sound of his nose being crushed into wad of useless cartilage and two more teeth being pounded out.  Totally unheard was the faint cracking of his right orbit, but the hemorrhage in that eye was immediate.  The fight went out of the boy immediately—but that didn’t stop the beating.

From behind, Willie was unable to turn away.  He didn’t want to watch, but the way the muscles rippled on the powerful black man’s back was somehow hypnotic.  The ebbing and flowing visible under the skin, the large dimples that formed in the ebony globes of the cop’s rock-hard ass with each deep, searching thrust of his tackle, it was sick, perverted, horrifying—but his eyes were irresistibly glued to the spectacle.

The air of the room, already heavy with the overpowering scent of mold, cut with a sharp tang of rough mansex–sweat, testosterone, and adrenaline—was now heavy with the meaty thumps of Bubba’s fist repeatedly pounding Dylan’s face and torso.  Each excruciatingly violent impact elicited a moan out of the boy until even that hurt so much, the kid could only grunt.

Even better, the little punk went rigid, his smooth lean body going taut with every blow.  The reflexive action even worked his mangled asshole.  Bubba was able to use the kid’s rectum to jack off by beating him to hamburger.  “Fuck yeah!” he grunted as he plowed the punk’s ass, “Take it, bitch!  Your little homo cock is poking my belly—you’re fuckin’ loving this, aintcha?  Betcha your buddy back there didn’t fuck ya this good, haw!”

But Dylan barely heard the words.  The brutal beating and vicious rape were too much for his sheltered teen psyche.  He was letting go, losing the will to live.  His reactions became slower and weaker, the thick grunts forced from him began to become faint.

“Goddam it!” Bubba snarled, “Fuckin’ white boys can’t take a good long piece of black meat.  Worthless reamed-out bitch—here, let’s see if this motivates your faggot ass!”

And with that he drove his fist into Dylan’s throat.  The punk’s esophagus collapsed immediately, with loud crunching sound, his trachea and larynx instantly collapsing into a bloody mass that completely sealed his airway shut.

The racist youth came back to life—now that he only had about three minutes left to live.  The sudden cessation of air triggered a massive panic response, making him thrash and flail like a landed fish.  Bubba just held him down and rode his bucking body, enjoying the feel of the frenetic convulsions in the little fucker’s asshole.

“Yeah, boy, get it,” muscled black bull grunted, his powerful body hunched over, sweat trickling down his back between his firm asscheeks, “get my load, motherfucker!”

But Dylan wasn’t getting anything.  His face, already bashed to hamburger, was black and swelling, with foamy spittle drooling down his bruised cheeks.  His eyes, already blackened and puffy, had rolled back into his head.  He was past hearing Bubba’s voice, past caring—but not quite past feeling.

The next thing he felt—the last thing he felt—was the most intense, excruciating experience of his short, wasted life.

His lithe body arced back violently, his smooth belly pressed firmly against the cop’s ripped abs.  Massive convulsions rolled along the youth’s frame, then it suddenly went rigid and Bubba felt a hot spurt up along his chest.  It wasn’t a single shot; Dylan’s death wad was drawn-out and strenuous. 

The corpse was still ejaculating when Bubba pulled out with an oath climbing to his feet.  “Useless fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Couldn’t even make me cum!”

Willie had a perfect view of Dylan’s dead body, jerking and spewing, as Bubba turned to him with a maniacal grin.  “How about you, white boy?” he demanded, turning to the cowering punk as his monstrous ebony shaft jutted nearly a foot on front of him, “My balls are full and achin’—you ready to ride my pole down into your grave?”

Willie’s face went pale as the cop bent down and pulled his pants back up, fastening them at the waist for easier movement.  “C’mon, boy, time to stretch your homo fuckhole, har!”

The teenaged racist bleated inarticulately and pissed himself as the black bull towered over him.  The cop’s broad chest, glazed with the dead boy’s seed, filled Willie’s field of vision, the dark, jutting nipples at eye level as Bubba squatted, grinning, in front of him.

“Time to die, you piece of shit,” he hissed.  “This is gonna hurt, white boy.”

The cop drew back his arm, his bicep swelling with potential force.  Willie saw the impact coming but, bound to the chair as he was, had no way of avoiding the blow.  He turned his head away, but could do nothing to prevent Bubba’s fist plowing into his sternum with enough force to slam him, chair and all, into the wall.

Willie lay stunned on the floor in the wreckage of the chair; the collision with the wall had been intense enough to break it to splinters.  Chuckling, Bubba stood over him and raised his leg; the dazed youth found himself looking up at the sole of the cop’s black tactical boot.  He couldn’t help but notice inconsequentially that there was piece of gravel embedded in the deep tread…

Then the boot dropped like a guillotine, stomping Willie’s stomach.  “HOOG!” the boy yelled involuntarily as the air was forced from his lungs.  As he writhed, gasping, on the floor, the cop bent down and tore his t-shirt off.  A deep, boot-shaped bruise was already forming on the punk’s smooth, flat belly.

Through eyes filled with tears of pain, the boy looked up at the massive, muscled figure looming over him.  As he watched, the huge bull cop slowly withdrew the belt from around his waist.  Bubba dangles the inch-and-a half thick leather strap over the prone youth, an anticipatory smirk on his broad face.

“C’mon, boy, get up,” he chortled, “It’s time to get this party started.”

“I-I can’t,” Willie stuttered, “My hands…”

“I ain’t undoing the cuffs, white boy—think I’m stupid?  Roll over and get on your knees like a good little faggot.  That’s how you get up.”

Slowly and painfully, the teen punk did what he was told, rolling over, tucking his knees up underneath himself and unsteadily managed to first one foot, then the other, flat on the floor.  He rose shakily.

Even though his hands were still bound behind his back, the mere fact of being on his feet again seemed to inspire the racist fuck with a misplaced bravado.  “You better let me go, if you know what’s good for ya, nigger.  Once my daddy finds out about this—”

“I’m gonna leave your rotting body in the woods, and your daddy ain’t ever gonna find it,” the cop drawled.  “Now get over on that bed, motherfucker, and take what’s comin’ to ya.”

“FUCK YOU!!” Willie scream, terror etched in his taut, pale face.  Bubba’s arm jerked and the belt slashed across the boy’s face, fast as lightning.  As an angry red welt rose on his face, the kid cried out and staggered forward.  The huge black man thrust out a boot, tripping the boy, who fell face down on the bed, directly on top of his friend’s still-quivering corpse.

Willie’s scream of abject terror echoed through the derelict cabin.  His lean, smooth body bucked and jerked until he rolled off of Dylan, lying face up next to the dead boy.  His shrieking abraded Bubba’s nerves.

“Shut up, you stupid sack a’ shit, or I’ll shut you the fuck up!” the cop snarled angrily, but the close proximity of Dylan’s brutalized corpse meant that Willie ignored the words.  The screaming was involuntary, uncontrollable…

Then Bubba waded in, swinging the belt, lashing the teen cunt like a recalcitrant slave.  At first, the vicious slapping sounds of leather on smooth boyflesh equaled the intensity of Willie’s screams, but Bubba wasn’t holding the belt by the buckle end—the square chunk of metal tore into the kid’s flesh with every blow. 

Willie’s shrieking grew so loud the impact of the belt could no longer be heard, and Bubba only got more pissed.


The final blow struck Willie across the mouth shattering three teeth and fracturing his jaw.  The boy stopped screaming; he could only drool blood and gape in agony at his attacker, a faint keening sound emerging from his destroyed mouth. 

Bubba’s arm dropped to his side.  Tossing the belt onto the bed, he grinned down at the whimpering punk, opened his fly, and let his chinos fall to his ankles again.

“Time to ride this big ol’ black dick, asshole.  Your little friend there couldn’t handle it—useless little faggot couldn’t even work my load out.  Lessee if you can last longer, fuckhead; lessee if you can get my sperm while you’re still alive…”

Brandishing his huge horsecock like a billyclub, the musclebound cop climbed onto the bed, swatting the teen’s smooth, firm legs aside.

“…cause you damn sure ain’t gonna be alive by the time I’m done with you.  Ya hear me, cocksucker?  You ain’t gonna survive this.  Understand that, boy, and this’ll be easier for you.”

Willie’s eyes were wide with disbelief.  He tried to voice his denial but his broken jaw made the attempt agonizing.  “No…no…” he whispered, tears oozing from his large dark eyes.  Looming over him, Bubba smiled gently and held up the belt.

“I’m gonna wrap this around your throat, white boy, and pull it tight.  It’s gonna be slow, fuckwad; it’s gonna hurt—but not as much as this, har!”

And before Willie had the chance to react, Bubba had plunged his long, thick tackle balls-deep into the adolescent punk’s asshole.

The ache of the beating, the sharp pain of his fractured jaw, were nothing compared to this.  It was like having a baseball bat rammed up his ass.  As bad as his mouth was, nothing could hold back the shrill girlish scream that erupted from him as his colon was shredded.  Images flashed through his mind, trying to equate the pain—a cheese grater, a plumber’s snake—but nothing came close.  He was being torn apart from the inside out.

“FUCKIN’ GODDAM NIGGER!!” he screeched in mind-searing agony.  Bubba smiled sweetly and punched him in the face, neatly snapping a cheekbone.  “URK!” the kid choked out.

“Yeah, boy,” the bull cop grinned, “Get it.  Get this hot black sperm.  You know you want it.  All you little racists fags ever really want is a thick nigger shaft plowing your assholes, haw!”

Willie would have beat at Bubba if he could.  He wouldn’t have been able to make any noticeable impact, but he was denied even the mental outlet of self-defense.  His hands were still cuffed behind his back, excruciatingly pressed into the thin, worn mattress by both his and the cop’s weight.  His arms struggled involuntarily against the metal restraints but in his pain and fear, he was unaware of how they tore at the flesh of his wrists.

His senses weren’t dulled, though.  It wasn’t just the agony of the massive black rod embedded in his guts; he could hear the cop’s grunts of physical pleasure and the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.  He could smell Bubba’s sweat and testosterone, a thick, acrid scent that made him gag.  It was literal hell; Willie couldn’t imagine anything more nightmarish, more revolting to his soul, than being raped by a bull nigger.

And there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.  He could only lie there and be used like a fuck toy by the huge black man.  But he was wrong about there being nothing worse, and he was about to learn it.  

The buff, musclebound cop thrust and pumped his enormous rod into the teen’s colon without speaking for a few minutes, his grunting the only sound escaping form his powerful form.  But the grunting faded soon, and a terrifying expression of anger crossed Bubba’s face.

“Goddam white boys,” he snarled, his voice cold with contempt, “Ain’t none of ya can take real black dick. Your worthless faggot fuckhole’s already reamed out.”

He picked up the belt and held it in front of Willie’s face, his already malignant smile assuming a shark-like aspect.  “Looks like I’m gonna have to tighten your little boypussy so it’s worth fuckin’, huh?  And I know a great way to tighten it—by tightening this.”

And with that, he gabbed Willie’s hair yanked his head up off the bed, and looped the belt around the kid’s throat, slipping the end back through the buckle to make a simple but effective noose. 

Willie felt the leather strap against his skin and tried to beg but all that came from his bleeding mouth was an incoherent babble.  Bubba looked down into the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, his smile now almost gentle.  “This is gonna hurt, motherfucker,” he chuckled, “It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

He lowered his shaved head until his cheek brushed Willie’s.  “And it’s gonna be slow…” he hissed into the punk’s ear.

Willie tried to scream but Bubba cinched his airway off with a loud guffaw, drawing the belt so tight it sank into the kid’s skin.  The teenaged racist made a thick gagging sound as his face filled with horror.  He’d never had his air cut off so completely, so brutally and remorselessly before—and with his hands cuffed behind him, he was utterly helpless.

He was gonna choke to death with this coon’s massive tool buried in his ass and he had no way to protest it, much less defend himself.  The bucking and kicking of his lithe, sweat-slick teen body was completely useless; Willie could only suffer and die.

And suffer he did.  He wrapped his firm, smooth legs around the bull cop’s thick, thrusting waist, the heels of his Pumas drumming relentlessly on the powerful stud’s ass.  They did no damage to those flexing, granite-like globes of muscle—Bubba wasn’t even aware of the way they kicked futilely against him.

“That’s it, cunt,” the cop jeered, “Now you’re working my meat like a good faggot.  Keep it up, motherfucker; you might even get my wad before ya die—har!  Yeah, you’d love that shit, wouldn’t ya, you fuckin’ homo?  Nice thick creamy nigger load planted deep in your guts—fuck yeah!”

Ad he struggled and his face darkened and swelled, Willie could hear the cop’s words.  Terror and nightmarish pain had turned his stupid punk mind into a screaming vortex but the humiliating jabs of Bubba’s words still managed to pierce the fog of fear.

It was too much.  It wasn’t happening; it couldn’t be.  This was all a nightmare, a bad acid trip—something, anything but reality.  Dylan’s cooling corpse next to him—that was the proof.  That hadn’t happened; it couldn’t have, so this wasn’t happening either.

So why was he suffering so fucking bad?  Why were his chest and his head full of pounding pressurized flame?

And why, for fuck’s sake, why was his cock so hard it burned with a blazing agony?

Even Bubba noticed it.  “Ha!  Knew you were a little cocksucking fag!  Your little white boy dick is hard as fuck—all you scumbag white power fuckers really want black cock jammed up your asses; you all just jealous you can’t have it.  Now that you got some nigger meat, your pathetic little dipstick is about to spew, ain’t it?  It’s your luck day, you disgusting fairy; you gonna get to die happy!”

Willie could only kick harder; it was his only form of protest.  His young boyfeet pounded so hard against Bubba’s powerful ass that one sneaker came off, the black-and-white Puma flying end over end to land on top of the battered, scarred dresser.  Bubba didn’t notice—he just pulled the belt even tighter around the punk’s neck.

Willie’s smooth teen flesh was slick with the cold sweat forced from him be extreme bodily trauma.  He didn’t know he was dying; if he had, he would have agreed with Bubba—it hurt.  He couldn’t feel the foamy drool trickling past his protruding tongue, but he could feel how the swollen chunk of muscle overfilled his mouth and forced his jaws apart.  He couldn’t feel the hemorrhages that spattered the whites of his eyes, but he was vaguely aware of the dark areas blossoming in his field of vision.

The darkness was growing, faster and faster.  A tiny corner of the racist asshole’s mind that had somehow remained lucid was aware that the darkness was taking him, a darkness blacker than the skin of the nigger who was reaming his ass—and he wasn’t coming back.

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Bubba grunted, “Get it, boy.  Get this load.  C’mon, motherfucker, get my nut and I’ll put you outta your misery.  Put you down like the fuckin’ dog you are, cocksucker.  Yeah, boy, yeah!”

There was virtually nothing left of the arrogant little shit now.  All that remained was thrashing boymeat, toes curling in agony as the huge black cock probed the depths of its rectum and tore ruthlessly into its guts.  The belt had sunk well below the skin on its neck, compressing its airway past the point of recovery.  Its own pulsating shaft was oozing precum involuntarily, smearing it over Bubba’s rock-hard abs with every thrust of the cop’s tool.

Bubba was overwhelmed with the sense of his own power, the sheer brutal eroticism of murdering the teenaged racist purely for his own sexual pleasure.  As he looked down at the cunt’s black, choking face, he could feel his enormous balls draw up, ready to spew his hot potent nigger seed into the dying bitch.  He was almost there.  It only needed one thing more…

Rising up on his knees, he jerked Willie up by the belt, the boy’s head drooling and lolling limply.  “You want it?” he whispered, knowing the fucker was long past the point of answering, “You want this hot black nut?  Here ya go, motherfucker.”

The tiny spark that was left of Willie couldn’t focus, but it was able to see Bubba’s arm draw back, the profound power implicit in the bulging bicep—but that was all it saw.  The cop’s arm shot forward so viciously, so fast, that it was all over in a flash.  Willie’s head snapped back as Bubba jerked the belt around his neck forward.

The opposing forces amplified the effect; Willie’s neck shattered with a sound like popcorn.  The impact was so severe, it nearly ripped the teen’s spinal cord out of the base of his skull.  The last thing the punk experienced was an electrical shock more intense than a blast of lightning, and it triggered an orgasm so explosive that Willie would have screamed had he still been alive.

As it was, he was just meat, hot thrashing teen meat that was getting its guts hosed with quarts of creamy nigger cum.  Bubba unloaded so much seed into the dead boy it started leaking back out his ass while the cop was still spunking.

After a while, the bull cop shuddered; his balls were finally empty.  He extracted his massive tackle out of the dead kid’s fuckhole and stood over the quivering corpse.  Next to Willie, Dylan lay cold and still, a milky film already starting to form over dull glazed eyes.

Once again, a sense of power surge through the muscular cop’s body. He sneered at the teenaged white supremacist punks.  They thought they were the master race?  Fuck them, the little faggots!  For a moment he flexed his thick, powerful muscles over the dead bodies, his huge biceps and lats rippling under his smooth black skin, his strong ass bunching with every movement.  In a way, it was a shame they were dead—they no longer had the chance to be mesmerized by his sheer physical power…

But after a while, the cum had stopped dripping from his still-erect cock, and he knew he had a little cleaning to do.  Not much; it had been a long day, and he was tired.  And this kinda trash didn’t need to be worried about too much.  He grabbed the boys, a hank of hair in each hand, and pulled them off the bed.  They hit the floor with a thud and he dragged them out of the cabin like sacks of garbage.

There was still a rough patch of dirt in the clearing behind the cabin where Bennie was rotting in peace, but these fuckers didn’t deserve a burial.  Two hundred yards further into the wood was an overgrown ditch.  Bubba rolled the bodies into it, letting them tumble gracelessly to the bottom, where they were practically invisible.

Returning to the bedroom in the cabin, the cop collected the rest of his uniform and donned it.  He took one last glance around the room on his way out—and Willie’s sneaker caught his eye, lying on the dresser.

With a grin, he picked it up and pocketed it,  He didn’t know why; he couldn’t think of any possible use for it—but he liked knowing he had it.

As he carefully maneuvered his cruiser back out onto the county road, he could feel the sneaker in his pocket pressing against his thigh, and his dick got hard again…    

4 thoughts on “Office Bubba: White Power Meets Black Muscles

  1. JWC

    Bubba’s white boy body count grows! Will there be any white boys left in the town soon? I enjoy the descriptions of Bubba’s massive muscles, “the profound power implicit in the bulging bicep” that he uses to destroy his victims, leaving their faces ruined messes of meat. I wonder if he might have any black friends that he’d like to introduce to the pleasures of reparations through snuff? It is good when real men bond over the destruction of their inferiors.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. All week now I’ll be thinking about bubbas muscled ass thrusting forward, fucking that pansyass to death while not even jacking yet himself. That scene as viewed by the next vic – is a M3M classic.

    Bodycount Bubba. FUCKYAH

    Liked by 1 person

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