It was getting dark and Ed was getting worried.  He knew he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere—goddam GPS piece of shit—but had ended up in a dead space for the last forty minutes, unable to determine exactly where he was.

Earlier that day, he’d ended his relationship with Jack’s Krew; it has been an epic argument that had only been restrained from devolving into physical violence because it had happened in the parking lot of a fast-food place on the access road of a major highway.  They all knew better than to get ugly in public; that drew cops and too much scrutiny.

Especially since they still hadn’t washed all the nigger blood off their clothes.

The Krew had been heading back north after leaving Rigler County when their caravan pulled over for food.  Frankie and Hank were riding in Jack’s truck—the Harleys he and Ed had ridden during the coon kill had been rentals arranged privately by Dan. Ed was alone because Mike had stayed behind—fuckin’ quitter.  He’d been offered a job as a deputy down there by the sheriff down there.  The others had been kinda jealous, but not Ed.  Last thing he wanted was someone bossing him around like that.

In fact, that was what had led to the final break.  For some time, Ed had been nursing a grudging resentment against Jack.  After all, as the eldest, Ed considered himself to be the most experienced and most capable member of the Krew.  Mere seniority should have dictated that he be leader.  He’d managed to keep his ill-will under control for a while, but when Jack rejected his suggestion for an off-highway shortcut, it proved to be the final straw.

The words had been hot and quick—so quick that Ed didn’t even remember them now—but the upshot still burned in his memory.  Jack had told him that if he walked away, he was done.  As far as the Krew was concerned, he was dead.

What was worse, the other ungrateful scumbags had backed Jack up.

Snarling vicious curses at them, Ed climbed back into his car—a 2010 Camaro he’d bought used.  The vehicle was smokin’ hot in appearance, but mechanically—well, it would be best just to say that Ed didn’t have the kind of income that allowed him to maintain an aging sports car.  Still, it worked well enough for him to lay some rubber to express his contempt as he roared out of the parking lot.  Making a left at the next intersection, he proceeded down a state highway out of town.

The highway, though it had been a well-lit four-lane road within the city limits, soon dwindled into a narrow, snaky country road with confusing turns and ill-defined crossings; it was at this point that the GPS gave out.  Certain that he was heading in the wrong direction, Ed made a right turn onto a county road.  From then on, he was hopelessly lost.

It was already getting dark when he reached the outskirts of a small town and his GPS sprang back to life.  He didn’t recognize the name of the burg he was in, but he could see he’d come miles out of his way.

Well, shit.  He’d lost hours and was running low on gas—and he didn’t have enough to fill his tank.  That was ok; he knew he could handle that if he just found a gas station.  And sure enough, there was one up ahead on the main drag, to the right.  He pulled in and up under the well-lit canopy, parking at the pump furthest from the mini-mart attached to the station. 

Shutting off his ignition, he headed for the cashier inside, his knee-high oxblood Doc Martens thumping on the pavement.  As he forced the door of the convenience store open with an abruptness that drew the attention of the sole cashier on duty, the arrogant young Aryan—he’d just turned twenty-eight last month—was steadfastly ignoring the subconscious realization that Jack had been right about his shortcut.

Still, fuck Jack anyway.  Ed knew he was right about one thing—he shoulda been leader of the Krew.  So, yeah, fuck Jack.  And fuck the rest of the Krew.

“Five bucks on pump eight,” the buzzcut skinhead snarled as he slammed an Abe down on the counter.  The clerk, a young black woman, scrutinized him carefully.  The muscular white dude in the khaki wifebeater and Diesel jeans triggered all kinda of red flags for her.

“Only five?” she asked dubiously.

Ed couldn’t contain his racist rage.  “Ya fuckin’ deaf, ya goddam nigger?” he barked, “I said five fuckin’ bucks!”

The clerk, her face now ashen gray, took the cash and rung up the change as Ed stormed out. 

Two minutes later, Officer Bubba come out of the bathroom.

He was just off his shift at the police department.  It was part of his routine to stop off here, get a cup of coffee, and chat with the clerk—who was a distant relation on his mother’s side and never charged him for the coffee.  He was always considerate enough to park his squad car off to the side of the building so as not to take up any of the customer parking spaces.  Seeing the girl was in tears at this point, he asked what was going on.

As she recounted her experience with Ed to the aggressive killer cop, the Aryan punk was outside filling his tank.  As he’d hoped, his verbal abuse had so rattled the cashier that she’d forgotten to cut off the pump.  After he topped it off, he jumped into his car and peeled out of the lot.

And hot on his heels was Bubba.  Already enraged by experience his cousin had gone though, his anger was only intensified by the knowledge that the scumbag white fucker had ripped the place off.  Ed had only just managed to reach the road out of town again when he saw the blue-and-reds flashing in the rearview mirror.

And just as he tried to accelerate and outrun the popo, his car gave a sudden lurch and stalled.  It drifted to a stop on the soft shoulder of the road.

Well, fuck.  There was no goddam fuckin’ way Ed was gonna let himself be brought in by some worthless pig to rot in some podunk little jail.  As long as he could act quick enough to prevent the cop from reaching his gun, the skinhead was sure he could take the local fuck.

It wasn’t the first of the many mistakes he’d made that day, but it would turn out to be the most fateful.  Despite his rage, Bubba was—so far—still inclined to treat it as a mere police matter.  What happened in the next eight minutes changed all that.

Ed leaped out of his car, his hands in the air and his 9 mm tucked into the waist of his skin-tight jeans at the rear; he could just barely feel the barrel against the crack of his ass.

He was blinded by the glare of the headlights of the car behind him, although he could still see the blue and red flashers overhead.  He was waiting to be ordered back into his car, which would give him a chance to smoothly whip out his pistol; he had no way of knowing that the town’s police budget didn’t run to such frills as a PA system for its patrol cars.

After all, violent crime just didn’t happen here.  There was the occasional disappearance of a disreputable youth, but that was only to be expected…

Then, a huge anthropoid form slowly took shape, becoming increasingly silhouetted as it grew nearer.  Ed still couldn’t make out any specific details of the man until he barked out, “Hold it right there, boy!”

It was another fuckin’ nigger; the town must be crawling with ‘em like cockroaches.  So, this one thought it was gonna get its black dick off on kicking around and trying to arrest a white man?  Aw, hell fuckin’ no.

Ed’s hard, handsome face curled into a faint sneer.  His own cock was swelling in anticipation.  “Sure thing, officer,” he drawled, trying—not very successfully—to keep the contemptuous sarcasm out of his voice, “I wasn’t doin’ nothin, I swear—”

“Shaddup, punk,” Bubba barked, so close enough that Ed could clearly make him out.  For a moment, the skinhead’s heart quailed; aside from standing a good seven inches taller, the cop was more than twice his weight and all of it was muscle.  The light was gleaming off his head, shaved even more smoothly than Ed’s own.

Then his Aryan cockiness sprang back with full force.  Deep in his heart, he knew that a straight white man was better than an overgrown ape any day of the week.  If he couldn’t take this bulked-out monkey then he deserved whatever he got.

Bubba recognized the smirk on the punk’s face; he’d seen it often enough.  Another racist douchebag who wanted to make some trouble.  The cop was tired; he needed to get home and take a bath—it had been a hot day and the cruiser’s AC had been acting up.  And now the piece of skinhead shit wanted trouble.

Well, it had found it.

Bubba knew what was coming even before Ed sprang at him; the white boy never had a chance.  Swinging out with his left hand, he whipped his right hand around behind and grabbed the gun.  Bubba easily avoided the clumsy attempt at a jab and clutched Ed’s wrist.  For a brief moment, the two men were locked together in a grunting embrace of arm-wrestling.  But Ed, of course, couldn’t hold up his end. The soles of his oxblood DMs began to slip backwards on the gravel of the soft roadside shoulder, even as Bubba’s Gore-Tex utility boots seemed to gain traction.

The white boy gave it a good try.  He desperately tried to blow the nigger cop’s head off, managing to fire two shots uselessly into the air when his right wrist fractured, rendering that hand useless.  His hand nervelessly dropped the weapon, at which point Bubba let go and allow him to sink to his knees, staring dumbly at his maimed arm.

The nigger broke his wrist.  The goddam nigger broke his FUCKIN’ WRIST!!!

Still on his knees in the gravel, Ed looked up at Bubba, his pale face a shifting, protean mass of emotion in which shock, anger, and pain predominated.  “You cocksucking nigger,” Ed said in a voice that bordered on amazement, “You can’t do that to me, you goddam jigaboo!”  He slowly managed to rise to his knees, his khaki wifebeater tightly glued to his broad pecs by the cold sweat forced out of him by sheer physical distress.  But Bubba had vanished into the glare of his own headlights again; all that could be heard of him was the crunching of his boots in the gravel.  “You can’t do this to ME, ya mothfuckin’ MONKEY!!!” he screamed.

And then the sound of Bubba’s boots became much louder and swifter. 

The impact of the tow-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of the cop’s body propelled in a flying kick didn’t just knock Ed off his feet.  He was literally thrown twenty-five back, emitting a loud, girlish ‘EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” as the air was violently expelled from his lungs.  He landed flat on his back in the middle of the blacktop road, striking his head on the asphalt.

He was still stunned as Bubba walked up and pointed something at him.  It didn’t look like a gun—Ed couldn’t focus well enough to make it out.  But it was yellow, so not a gun.  Was that a taser?

It was indeed a taser.  This was another item that the local budget wouldn’t cover, but Bubba had bought this one himself.

It had been a custom order.

Ed blinked blearily at the powerful cop standing over him.  He gaped and gasped for a couple of moments before his breathing was controlled enough to let him speak.  Where his earlier tone had been one of arrogant superiority, now there was more than a hint of fear as the Aryan cunt began to realize what could happen.

“Pl-please, bro,” he managed to stammer out, “Don’t tase me—urk!”

Bubba looked down with satisfaction.  The taser had worked perfectly.  The perp was down, its bootheels still drumming on the pavement.  The cop carefully reset the weapon and stowed it safely for further use, should the need arise.  Then he turned back to Ed, first gathering up the 9mm and spent casings before approaching the racist fucker.  The boy was still convulsing slightly but was very much alive.

That was good.  That was very good.  After all, they can’t learn their lesson if they’re already dead—right?

---

Light began to filter into the dark nothingness of Ed’s existence in such close conjunction with pain that the former seemed to be causing the latter.  For a moment or two the hardbodied young skinhead fought back against encroaching consciousness, but in the end was unable to stave off his return to himself.

It wouldn’t be right to say his return to awareness; Ed had little idea of where he was or what the hell was going on.  He knew he was laying on his back, he knew that his hands were bound behind him—cuffed, by the feel of it, he knew it was pitch black.  He also knew that he was nude except for his 20-eye oxblood boots.  And that over and above the thick, musty reek of mildew, he could detect the stronger scent of niggersweat.

What he didn’t know—yet—was that his dick was reacting to the subtler clouds of testosterone and adrenaline in the room.  The fact that his shaft was slowly but steadily growing more erect was minor compared to his other bodily aches–except maybe his wrist.

As he gradually recovered from the massive jolt of electricity he’d received, his eye became more accustomed to the darkness of the room.  He appeared to be lying on a bed in an old, abandoned house of some kind, but before he could take any more if it in, his attention was focused on the far end of the room, where the coon cop had one foot up on an old wood chair, lacing his boot.

Just like Ed, he was butt-fucking-naked, except for his boots.  His enormous ebony tackle dangled more than halfway to his knees.

What did that mean?  What the fuck was happening here?

Bubba knew the meat was awake.  He grinned; it had perfect timing.  Reaching down, he grabbed something else that had been on the chair, something that had escaped Ed’s observation.

It was his coiled belt.  He slowly approached the bed, his tightly laced tactical books creaking on the wood floor as he wrapped the belt around his fist, leaving the buckle to dangle free.  His grin widened into a leer as he reached the bedside and stood looming over Ed’s prostrate form.

The white boy hadn’t lost any of his arrogance.  What he felt most at this moment was anger at being treated like this by a worthless porch monkey, even one that was a cop.  He let that feeling flood him and stir him up into a righteous rage—partially to avoid thinking about what actual way he was being treated after being stripped and cuffed in a dark room by a nude nigger.

“You were resisting arrest, son,” Bubba murmured in a quiet, even tone, “You know what the punishment for that is?”

“Fuck you, jigaboo, I’m a victim of police brutality! I want a fuckin’ lawyer, NOW!” Ed snarled, “I dunno what kinda interrogation bullshit is going on, but I know my rights—speakin’ a’ which, you ain’t even Miranda’d me, motherfucker! I’m gonna sue yer monkey ass all the way back to Africa!!”

“Well, boy,” Bubba drawled, “You see, the Miranda only applies if you’re arrested.  But you resisted arrest.  In fact, you resisted so well that as far as anyone knows, you got away.”

“But I—” Ed began confusedly.  Suddenly he noticed the belt dangling from Bubba’s hand.  “Wait…I’m not under arrest?  Bu-but then what—?”

He never got the chance to ask his question before Bubba lashed out, the inch-and-a half thick strap of black leather flashing in the dim ambient light.  Its raw leather interior contacted Ed’s smooth flat belly with a loud smack, the buckle leaving a huge welt where it slammed against the young man’s skin.  Blood trickled down his side from where the skin had been torn.

His screech of pain was music to Bubba’s ears.

“Testify, brother,” he chuckled, “Let the world hear the death cries of a skinhead fuck!”  Then the belt flashed through the darkness again.

Bubba had struck in the other direction this time, with the buckle targeted directly on the solar plexus.  The cop was an expert marksman, and not just with a gun, at he proved to the Aryan punk.  The cherry-red welt that ran up his abs to the center of his chest was nothing compared to his inability to breathe.

But as he struggled for air against the spasms of his own chest muscles, the import of the cop’s words sank into Ed’s limited, hate-inflamed mind—or at least one word.  That word had been death.

That possibility simply hadn’t occurred to him.  And it still seemed highly unlikely.  After all, wasn’t he of the superior race?  Surely, he could outsmart this muscle-bound jungle bunny, if only he could get free.

“You goddam yard ape!” he yelled in pain-fueled anger the moment he had enough air to do so, “Ya know the only way a black fuck like you can take a white man is to tie him up!”

And with that, things changed.  Ed couldn’t believe it—the nigger was actually taking the bait! 

The Aryan thug smirked.  They really were that stupid.  At times, he’d had his doubts as to whether the whites were the master race in every case, but never again.  Clearly the coons were just as idiotic as he’d always heard.

And sure enough, Bubba had retreated to the back of the chair where his uniform was and retrieved the key to the cuffs.  He’d been waiting for this. Even with his right hand out of action–one hand tied behind his back, so to speak–he was still superior. 

What happened from now on would mindfuck the skinhead asshole so bad that its ultimate death would be a mercy that it certainly didn’t deserve but was gonna get anyway.  After all, Bubba had the ultimate advantage.  While Ed thought of himself as the better man of the two, Bubba knew that he was. 

And he knew how hard he’d get off by proving it to the white cunt.  Hell, the meat might like it.  All racist white boys secretly wanted a thick nigger cock rearranging their guts.

At least, all the ones he’d run across had experienced powerful orgasms as they died on his dick, which was evidence enough for him.

The musclebound cop leaned over the prone youth, grabbed him by his left bicep, and casually flipped him over onto his belly with the ease of an experienced cook flipping a burger.  But before Ed got the chance to mull over this display of preponderant strength, his hands were free.

It was time to teach this nigger who was boss.

Instantly, he rolled off the bed and planted his boots solidly as solidly on the floor as the creaking woodwork would allow.  And just as instantly, he showed his utter ineptness for hand-to-hand combat by taking his eye off his opponent and glancing around the room.  “What’d ya do with my clothes, spade?” he demanded.

“I cut ‘em off,” Bubba replied with a wide grin that gleamed almost phosphorescently against his dark skin, “After all, you ain’t gonna need ‘em anymore.  Whatsa matter, boy, you ashamed of yer tiny white cock?”

Ed snarled with rage.  His shaft might not have been as long or thick as the porch monkey cop’s, but it was still respectable at seven inches.  And at any rate, what mattered was that he was white.  It was with that firm, unshakeable conviction of his own racial supremacy that he launched himself forward, hisleft fist pistoning into the cop’s ripped abs with all the force of his strong young frame.

It was like punching the trunk of an oak tree and left just as much trace of the impact.

For a moment, it played out like a hackneyed movie scene: Ed staring down blankly at his fist, then up into Bubba’s malicious smirk.  What happened next was no movie scene, though.  It certainly wasn’t anything that Ed’s tiny mind could have conceived.

Bubba instantly returned Ed’s favor with a gutpunch of his own, one so strong and brutal that it lifted the Aryan punk off the ground.  The youth fell backwards, his ass hitting the floor first, his head smacking down immediately after.  As the boy stunned, blurred vision began to achingly clear, he slowly became aware that the hardbodied black man was standing over him—was, in fact, standing directly astride his face.

Then Bubba stepped on Ed’s biceps, the tread of his tactical boots digging painfully into the boy’s flesh.  Looking directly up, Ed’s line of vision was filled the pendulous dark orbs of Bubba’s hairy scrotum and the jutting ebon cock, thick as a turkey leg and entwined with veins. 

“You want it, dontcha?” the bulked-out cop jeered as his dick began to throb.  “You want that nigger lightning rod deep inside ya, yeah?”  A stinging drop of viscous precum splatted on the punk’s forehead.

No, Ed didn’t want that monkey dick anywhere near him.  In fact, he staunchly refused to recognize the tingling, clenching sensation rising from his groin as his own shaft began to stiffen.  It simply wasn’t happening.

It didn’t matter, though.  What mattered was that Bubba noticed it as soon as he stepped off of the pinned skinhead’s arms.  He knew it.  He fucking knew it.  Just another macho-acting racist faggot that secretly craved nigger dick.

Well, it was gonna get it.  Not in the way it wanted, but it damn sure was gonna get nigger dick.  But Bubba hadn’t forgotten his academy training.  First thing to do was make sure the suspect was properly subdued.

The first thing Bubba did to establish proper dominance was to stomp on the fucker’s dick, hard.

Ed screamed as his thick tube of manmeat was ground remorselessly into his flat belly.  It was a loud, anguished cry, but the cry that succeeded it when Bubba stomped him in the middle of his chest, snapping three ribs like dry twigs, a high-pitched shriek of horrified pain.  Even as the jagged end of one of the broken bones tore into the Aryan cunt’s left lung like a machete, a deep purple welt began to appear between its pecs that was an exact likeness of the cop’s boot print.

Ed’s mind was a whirlwind of pain, rage, and confusion.  There’s no way a nigger could be doing this to him.  Something was wrong, the coon had cheated somehow—but he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was better than this.  He was bigger than this.  He would rise up and if this fuckin’ ape was lucky, it might have time to beg for his forgiveness before he wasted it…

…but such was his cognitive dissonance that while this consideration was running through his mind, his badly bruised tackle was starting to drip onto his abs.  And he was still howling like a baboon himself.

But by now, Bubba was tired of hearing him scream.  White punkmeat always screamed.  Bubba disapproved of that; screaming was a form of relief.  And in his self-assumed roles of judge and executioner, he had already sentenced the racist piece of shit to death.  A hellish nightmare of a death, one that deserved—and would receive—no mercy or relief.

To that end, he shut the skinhead up.  By kicking it hard, twice, in the mouth.

One of Ed’s favorite movie scenes—one to which he’d jacked off many, many times—was the infamous curb stomp from “American History X”.  It wasn’t so much cognitive dissonance as sheer irony that he was unable to see the resemblance between the piece of cinematography and the immediate physical impact of Bubba’s steel-toed boots on his mouth. 

Not only were half his teeth instantly kicked down his throat, but his lower jaw also broke in two places simultaneously, like a wishbone pull ending in a tie.  The stunned, agonized fuckwad coughed up a gout of blood and teeth.

But to its horror, worse was coming.  Once again, the black cop was standing astride its head.  But this time, the nigger was squatting, its musky ass getting closer and closer to his face.

But nothing stopped the descent of the hairy, muscled globes.  Seconds later, the (literal) asswipe’s mindless, guttural gurgle of psychological and physical agony was muffled to a faint grunt as Bubba clamped his powerful asscheeks shut on the skinhead’s face.

The last thing to fill the meat’s nostrils before its air was cut off was the stench of the sweaty, simian muscleman.  Then everything went dark and the true terror began.

In that moment, all of Ed’s former arrogance fled, and all that was left was a young man suffering horrifically—and learning that nothing, nothing was worse than being suffocated to death by a nigger’s ass.

As in so much of his violent, worthless life, Ed was wrong about that, too.

All sound was muffled except for the rapidly increasing throb of his own pulse.  His good hand scrambled wildly, beating at Bubba’s rock-hard ass and clawing at his thighs.  His legs thrashed, his bootheels drumming on the wooden floor.

Even as his heaving chest burned with the stain of suffocation, the young Aryan could feel his cock pulse with the same increasing rate of his heart.  It couldn’t happen, no, it wouldn’t happen, he wouldn’t let it—

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t happening.  The nigger had stood up and Ed could breathe again.  Even the rank scent of coon sweat smelled sweet to the racist punk at this moment.

Then Bubba stomped his balls, hard, grinding the tread into the hairy, semen-filled sacs.  Ed jerked up from the floor, curling vertically into a fetal position.  With the high, inarticulate squeal of air being violently compressed through the tight confines of a trachea, the tenderized skinhead spout out a wad of blood from his ruined mouth.

As he rolled around on the dirty floor, wallowing in agony, it was easy enough for Bubba to cuff his hands again.

The cunt been given a chance to defend itself.  Now it was time to take what was coming to it like the bitch it was.

“Here ya go, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Bubba jeered as he knelt down, grabbed the fucker by its boots and roughly pried its legs apart, “I know how much you white bitches fuckin’ love a big black lightnin’ rod, yeah, motherfucker?”

And with that, he trust himself balls-deep into Ed, totally raw, his enormous ebony member ripping its way through the boy’s rectum after punching through its sphincter as easily as if it had been wet paper.

And that was when Ed realized that no matter how horrific being suffocated by a nigger’s ass was, being gutted by its gigantic gorilla cock was much, much worse.

His scream—more of a gurgling shriek at this point, thanks to his mangled mouth—was shill and ear-splittingly loud, and Bubba fucking loved it.  “Amen, fuckmeat!” he crowed jubilantly, “Tell the world how good that thick black dick is!”

The bound Aryan punk was utterly helpless under the weighty, hairy mass of the cop’s muscles.  He struggled fruitlessly to shift his lean, firm body away from the remorseless black jackhammer that was pulping his tender white fuckhole. 

The pain was worse than anything he’d imagined possible, both from the assault and the rape, but it was the psychological agony that the skinhead cunt found unendurable.  The hulking, sweaty coon filled his field of vision, its simian face a mask of feral hate and lust.  The only other thing he could see we his own oxblood Doc Martens as they kicked in the air above the killer cop’s shoulders.

Bubba was enjoying himself.  He loved dicking down stupid white fuckheads who thought they were superior. Nothing proved them wrong more than having his monster cock shoved up their tight fuckholes. 

But proving them wrong was one thing.  Proving it to himself was a different matter.

For that, the fuckmeat needed to die.  And it was time this one did.

“You want it, ya white bitch?  Ya want this thick nigger cum?” he snarled, pressing his muscled chest down onto Ed’s so that the latter’s hard cock was compressed between his own smooth belly and Bubba’s ripped abs, covered with wiry body fur.  It was like an afro scraping at his dick.

“’Course ya do,” Bubba continued, chuckling mercilessly.  “All you racist pieces of shit want to get some hot black nut.  Don’t worry, homo, you’re gonna get some.  All ya gotta do is milk my shaft like ya want it.”

Without another word, he wrapped his huge hands around the youth’s throat and stared him straight in the eyes.  “And if you can’t,” he growled, “I’ll fuckin’ make ya.”

Instantly, there was a crushing pressure on the Aryan’s throat.  It was as bad as suffocating under the jigaboo’s ass had been—but this time, he had to look it in the face as its horsedick reamed his intestines.

It was raping him and strangling him.  He, Ed, the strong, hard soldier on the frontlines of white pride, was going to die on a yard ape’s cock with its black seed filling his guts.

And that was what Bubba had been looking for.  That sudden realization where the white motherfucker realizes just how weak and useless it really is—when it realizes that its only real purpose is to drain off excess nigger semen and then be disposed of like trash.

Bubba squeezed harder, fondling the rubbery tube of the trachea under his strong fingers.  “I’m gonna crush your windpipe, fuckpig,” he sneered.  “Once that happens, you’re dead.  Not right away, of course.  You’re gonna kick a bit before you die and ass you do, your worthless white pussy is gonna make my cock feel ass you do, your worthless white pussy is gonna make my cock feel real good, bitch.  Ya’ feelin’ me, motherfucker?”

Ed was feeling Bubba in more ways than one.  His head seemed to be swelling, all the skin on his face was painfully taut.  His eyes were doing weird things, too—he couldn’t quite seem to close them, but he still had intermittent but increasing flashed of blackness in his sight.

Briefly, he’d managed to clench his hands–or at least clench his useless right hand with his left–and bring them down together, beating Bubba about the shoulders and back, but the latter had merely reached up and caught the boy’s cuffed wrists and pinned them to the bed with one hand while continuing to choke him to death with the other—all without missing a single stroke in the furious tempo of the assrape.

“You’re dying, faggot,” the hate-filled cop snarled, “I wish you could see your face, asswipe, it’s blacker than mine.  Drool, you fuckin’ racist pansy, lemme watch your drool run down your face as your worthless brain shuts down.”

The only sounds Ed could make in reply were faint forced grunts as his sweaty lithe torso heaved in panicked desperation.  His boots flailed wildly but stayed on—he’d laced them up tightly that morning, never dreaming that he’d die wearing them.  He could no longer see anything; the world had gone into a kind of white grayness.  The driving beat of his own pulse that had been clanging inside his skull was becoming feebler and irregular, and with it, the fiery pain of suffocation.

Within thirty more seconds, all Ed was aware of was the pain in his throat, his ass, and his cock.  Even as the central part of his soul surrendered to the inexorable icy oblivion to which the wrathful lust of the strong black man had consigned it, the writhing meat that had once been (semi)human was still able to feel that pain.

Unluckily for it.

At that moment, Bubba crushed its esophagus.

The gristly cracking sound, the satisfying sensation of faggot throat cartilage collapsing under the force of his hand, was all that was needed to trigger Bubba’s orgasm.  As the dying skinhead began to convulse in mortal agony, there was no one home to realize the prophetic nature of the cop’s words about death not coming immediately—there was only helpless thrashing boymeat, still capable of suffering and responding to pain.

The very last response that Ed’s hard young form was capable of producing came as a result of powerful muscle contractions as a reaction to the searing, potent, manseed flooding its innards.  As the vile racist punk crossed the line from living being to twitching corpse, it spewed its last load, its deathload, in a violent geyser of spunk between its belly and that of its killer, its death throes thoroughly matting the pearly ooze into Bubba’s fur.

For his part, as the buff cop spewed his thick wad with the added force of hatred. He raised his strong right hand, balled it into a fist, and began punching the dead boy in the face.  Over and over, with each ecstatic, agonizing jet that erupted from his raging member, Bubba beat the punk fucker into hamburger. 

By the time his enormous balls were finally drained dry and he let his hand fall limply by his side, his prey’s face was so utterly bashed in as to obscure the cause of death.

Finally pulling his gigantic tackle back out of the dead kid’s ass, Bubba got up and glanced about, finally picking of the meat’s t-shirt and using to wipe the sweat and cum off his body.  Within ten minutes, he’d gotten redressed, then gathered up the asshole’s clothes and headed out to his cruiser.

And ten minutes after that, he headed back into the cabin, a savage grin on his face.  He’d run the bitch’s ID and confirmed what he’d already suspected—no one was gonna miss the little fuckhead.  Assault, robbery, multiple hate crimes, suspected—but never convicted—of murder.  And best of all, no next of kin on file.

He grabbed the corpse by its ankles, feeling the smooth leather of its boots as he dragged it out of the cabin, its arms above its head.  When he got to the lip of the ravine behind the cabin, he took the cuffs off it.  For a moment, it lay on the forest floor, nude except for the Doc Martens.  Every few seconds some random limb would twitch; when it did, another tiny pearl of semen would tickle out of the limp dick.

With a contemptuous sneer, Bubba prodded it with his boot, then gave it a swift kick.  It vanished into the darkness, tumbling into the creek down at the bottom of the ravine in relative silence.

Bubba tossed its clothes in his trunk and drove back to its car, still on the side of the road where they’d had their original encounter.  As he’d expected, it was still there and evidently unnoticed.  He called it in as an abandoned car that’d he’d found on the way home.  When one of the on-duty cops finally responded, Bubba told him that he’d searched the woods nearby, but found nothing.

Not too far from his house, Bubba pulled over on a bridge spanning a small river and tossed the cunt’s clothes over, and that was that.

No one had cared.  Ed’s very existence was forgotten within a month.

Except by Bubba.

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.

“SHUT [WHAP] THE [WHAP] FUCK [WHAP] UP [WHAP, CRUNCH]!!”

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…    

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.