Date: Wed, 2 Jan 2013 22:18:07 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Wickus" Chapter 2  (Gay Male Authoritarian and Gay Male Interracial

"WICKUS"

Chapter 2

A Tale of Black Masters and White Slaves

This is s a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): January, 2013
Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

The fictitious characters and ideas contained in this story are the
writer's and shouldn't be used without his permission. Please respect the
integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add
pictures."

This story is interracial and has the theme of white slaves serving Black
Masters. If you are affronted by this then you should read no further and
leave now.

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Part 2: Wickus tells his story

My young Master Thandiwe has commanded me to tell him how I came to be a
slave in his father's household.

The recounting of it is to be painful for I miss my free life and my
parents. As I slave, I no longer have either my freedom or my parents. Both
are denied me and they are irrevocably lost to me. I am now a slave owned
by Master Thandiwe's father and I no longer have any control over my
life. Legally, under the new laws of our Black Supremacy society, I now
have the status of a 'chattel'. Indeed, in the insurance policy that my
Master has to protect his homes, his cars and his possessions I am listed
with all his other slaves under 'goods and chattels.

As I begin my tale, my eyes mist with tears and the first words catch in my
throat. It is fortunate for me that Master Thandiwe is patient with me and
allows me to regain my composure.

Such would not be the case with his father who'd have slapped my face and
perhaps take me down to the basement for another season with his cane.

My ass still throbs with the awful pain of all the previous ones.

Master Thandiwe is silent and listens intently to my sad story.

			   >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The journey from the Municipal Courts to the processing station is a short
one if one is to measure it only in the distance between the two and the
time it takes to go from one place to the other.

But the emotional journey is longer and I am unable to come to terms with
all that has happened to me since last evening.

The transporter lumbers its way through the congested streets of the
teeming city and I have nothing better to do than peer out through the
solid steel mesh that imprisons me and my unfortunate companions. There are
seventeen of us. We are today's harvest from the Law Court's; the rich
pickings for our Black Superiors.

All of us have been tried by the Courts - whether fairly is open to
conjecture - and found guilty. And all of us have been sentenced to
lifelong slavery; a high price to pay for our minor misdemeanours and
foolish high spirits. None of us are criminal in the sense that our crimes
were violent or that we robbed from others. At the very worst we are guilty
of drunkenness, public disorder and the worst among us was charged with
defacing the private property of a Black Superior with graffiti. But the
Black Judges and Magistrates saw our offences as 'anti-social' behaviour
and decided we are best removed from decent law abiding society.

Years ago these would have been seen as delinquency or minor offences and
the magistrates would have publicly 'slapped' our wrists, fined us and sent
us on our way with the stern warning not to re- offend.

But that was back in the days of white, minority rule when we held all the
power and subjugated the numerically stronger Black Nation to our laws and
bent them to our rules. Callously we had mistreated them, ignored their
political aspirations and selfishly refused to allow them to share in the
great prosperity that is a hallmark of our once great country.  Now we pay
the price for our greedy self-interest.

Today, the Black Man rules supreme and it is we whites who are the inferior
minority and now we are made to stand aside as a Black Superior passes by
and to bow our heads in respect to them.

The biblical quote is so true; 'reap as ye shall sow'. We whites sowed a
bitter legacy for ourselves and we now reap a thousandfold what we had
sown.

I was born during the twilight years of white supremacy and I still have
wonderful, childhood memories of my charmed existence. My father was a
wealthy CEO of a major mining company which contributed immensely to the
vast wealth that was shared exclusively among the white minority and not
with the Black majority.

We whites lived a blissful existence in our gracious homes and spacious
gardens indifferent to the appalling poverty of our Black citizens who
lived at subsistence levels in their mean hovels in overcrowded shanty
towns on the fringes of our beautiful white cities. We entertained each
other as our BBQs groaned under the weight of too much food, we splashed
and swam in our luxurious pools and spas and we laughingly played tennis on
our private courts protected from 'outside pressures' by our high,
electrified fences and razor sharp barbed wire. And we slept soundly as
burly, white security guards patrolled our white enclaves protecting us
from 'undesirables'.

My life was laid out before me like some pre-ordained, God-given right. I
attended the one of the most prestigious private boys' school in the
country where my sense of white superiority was re enforced daily by the
prayers of our Reformed Church School Chaplain and the lessons of white
teachers whose job it was to turn out the next generation of young white
'supremacists'. And neither I nor my fellow students ever questioned these
assumptions.

My position in this white society was assured. On completion of my school
years, I would automatically attend university and upon graduation take up
a position among the white elite. Our universities too were bastions of
white elitism. True there were a few 'token' Black students who lived at
the fringes of academic life. They were never welcomed into the wider
activities of the universities and they were excluded from white
society. Rather they were left to fend for themselves and if they succeeded
in graduating then that was testament to their own abilities and
initiatives.

Their presence at university was tolerated rather than encouraged. Those
too few places allocated to Black students were less than a salve to our
white consciences. They were an unwilling response to pressures from other
governments that we do more for our Black citizens.

I never got to university. Indeed I never finished my schooling. The end
for white supremacy came not with a bloody revolution but with a
whimper. It sneaked up on us - fuelled by pressures from outside the
country - and we were totally unprepared.

One day we had a white supremacist government. Then overnight, all that
changed. Our white minority government resigned and we awoke to a new,
radical, Black Nationalist one.

Black majority government had arrived in our country.

The euphoria of the Blacks at this sudden turn of events was matched by the
shocked dismay and pessimism of the white inhabitants. For three days, the
jubilant Blacks swarmed out of their distant shanty towns and triumphantly
took over the streets of our cities; streets, which in our wisdom - and
perhaps fear -we whites abandoned to them. The Blacks sang and danced in
the streets and all that we could do was to watch in helpless disbelief.

At first, the ecstatic Blacks were well behaved. Inevitably, however, their
exuberance gave way to the practical reality that they still possessed
nothing whilst the white man held it all. Business and commerce was firmly
entrenched in white hands and it would take much effort to pry these free
from the firm grasp of the white man's fingers.

Their celebrations turned to violence and it was no longer safe for a white
person to be on the streets. All we could do was to bunker down in the
security of our fortress homes and wait. Surely things would return to
normality and we could all resume our former lives albeit under a new,
unwelcome Black regime. How wrong we were!

And things did quieten down and life appeared to continue as it had in the
past. For the first few weeks of the new regime, the new government seemed
paralysed by indecision and infighting among its members as they publicly
brawled over the spoils of victory.

Collectively, the leaders of the white community sagely nodded their heads
and offered the view that we shouldn't be surprised by this. After all,
hadn't we always known that the Black man is incapable of managing his own
affairs?  Weren't they better off under the benevolence of white rule?

The Black majority living in the townships would soon grow tired of their
leaders' indecent haste in enriching themselves whilst they languished in
poverty. They would soon resent seeing their parliamentary representatives
emulating their former white rulers. They would resent seeing them dressed
in expensive suits and travelling in chauffeur-driven cars while the vast
majority of Blacks still wore rags and travelled on foot.

In our executive offices and dining-rooms, we talked of these things and in
our arrogance; we decided it was just a matter of time before the Black
majority called upon us to restore order. All we needed to do was patiently
wait for their call to return them to the status quo.

In the meantime, we could tolerate the minor inconveniences like sharing
our footpaths with the Blacks. Where once they would have stood aside for
us as we passed, in their new self -awareness, they now stood their ground
and it was us who walked around them.  These things were very irksome but
we just gritted our teeth in the knowledge that things would soon revert
back to normal.

Again, how wrong we were!

Suddenly and unexpectedly, the new Government announced it had appointed
Black commissioners charged with the task of assessing every aspect of
business and commerce within the country. They had been given a specific
brief; a redistribution of power that favoured the Black man.

Black Rule had arrived!

My father was an early victim of the new regime. Because of his high
profile, his position was among the first to be taken over by a Black
bureaucrat. Stripped of all authority, he now works as a janitor, mopping
the floors and cleaning the washrooms of the company he once headed. He
returns to his old executive office twice a day when he takes refreshments
to the Black CEO.

Of course this had a flow on effect on my mother and me. No longer able to
afford the lifestyle we'd once taken for granted we had to leave our
spacious home in the affluent leafy suburb where we lived and move to a
small, rather mean house in a featureless , treeless suburb fast filling up
with the newly dispossessed whites. We weren't alone and soon we were
joined by families we knew from our previous life.

Even my schooldays were affected and they came to an abrupt end. The new
government shut down all private schools of white privilege as they were
evaluated. Some never re-opened. Others, like my old school did re-open
with new attitudes and new curricula that favoured the Black student. At
fourteen, my education was finished and I found myself working on an
assembly line in a factory where I was supervised by a Black foreman.

Our lives became a hand to mouth existence. Our past lives had left us
completely unprepared for our new poverty. We'd always had Black servants
who pandered to our every need and now my mother, who'd never cooked let
alone shopped for food, was forced to confront the new reality of living at
a subsistence level and to provide for her family.  In those early days my
heart ached for my parents.

My father, now a lowly paid janitor, fretted that his income was
insufficient to our needs.  I had to watch as the driving force of the once
proud business leader slowly died within him. Confronted with the new harsh
reality of our lives, he simply abandoned hope. Now, having abandoned all
hope, he drifts lifelessly from day to day.

Ours' was a day to day existence and even with my meagre wages - officially
I was classified as an unskilled, junior worker and I was paid accordingly
- we lived precariously. Our food was bought with an eye to cheapness
rather than nutritional value and still there were days when we were forced
to 'skip a meal' because our income was stretched to its limit.

Inevitably, my mother was forced to seek employment. She now works as a
waitress at the country club where once she had been a proud member. She
and other former 'society matrons' of our acquaintance now serve their
Black Superiors in the dining room and at poolside where once they had
reigned supreme.

The imposition of Black Rule was relentless and it was imposed upon us with
ruthless efficiency.  Soon the former rulers of our country had been
reduced to the status of 'poor white trash' and we had been stripped of all
power, privilege and rank. We were virtually wage slaves.

Once our new status had been established it was inevitable that real
slavery was introduced.

The country's economy is largely minerals based and in the past, the mines
had been worked by a seemingly endless supply of Black labour. Suddenly,
all that changed. The average Black man refused to work for a pittance and
demanded a greater share of the mineral wealth through higher wages.

The reality was that the mines' new Black administrators were reluctant to
meet their demands.  Higher wages meant higher costs and lower profits.
Their requests for a continuing supply of cheap labour became more strident
and the government acted swiftly to meet their demands.

A 'Ministry for White Affairs' was established and assumed responsibility
for the country's white minority. The ministry's first action was to set up
a separate legal code for whites. From now on all whites would be subject
to a new penal code that was draconian in its outlook and ruthless in its
application.  The sentences handed out by the new Black judges and
magistrates to white offenders saw them either serve as indentured
labourers for a given period of time or enslaved for life.

Slavery is confined to the white race and no Black man can ever be
sentenced to slavery. This is enshrined in the new Black Constitution and
it has to be said the policy won widespread popular approval. It is early
days and as yet, the majority of new, white slaves find themselves toiling
underground in the mines. Nevertheless, there is a growing trend for the
newly rich Black elite to buy white slaves to serve them as servants. And
to meet this growing market, more and more young whites are dragged before
the courts for sham trials. They are prejudged as guilty and there can only
be one sentence for them.

That happened to me today. I was hauled into court, found guilty and, at
age eighteen, I was sentenced to lifelong slavery. What was my offence?
What crime am I guilty of?

For some inexplicable reason, I had been overwhelmed with a sense of
nostalgia and I had returned to my old home and neighbourhood. It was
foolish of me - whites are discouraged from entering Black designated areas
-but my need to catch a glimpse of my former life consumed me and I had
thrown caution to the wind. The area hasn't changed. It still retains its
charm and air of affluence.  There is however one major change. No white
live here now. They have been supplanted by Black families and it is they
who now live behind the high security fences designed to keep the 'whiteys'
out.

I reach the electrified perimeter fence of my former home and I peer
wistfully though the stout iron bars into the lush gardens of which my
mother had been inordinately proud. Once she had three 'African boys' to
tend to them as well as three house servants. I wonder what has become of
them for they are nowhere to be seen and it would appear they have been
replaced by two young, white slaves.

I watch as the two slaves take a break from their labours and engage in a
good natured wrestling match. My attention is centred on them; they are as
naked as the day their mothers gave birth to them and the only articles to
adorn their nudity are the wide stainless steel collars permanently fasted
around their necks.

I watch their boisterous rough and tumble over the verdant green lawns and
I see the sun glinting on their lithe, young bodies. Their blue eyes and
blond hair - now closely cropped in the fashion of the slave - hint at
their Northern European ancestry. Both slaves are young - perhaps no older
than twenty - and I estimate they are comparatively new to slavery.  Why do
I think this? Both slaves have a swimmer's body, lean, taut and tightly
muscled and are deeply tanned. But their naked asses are a lighter shade of
brown to their upper torsos and legs and this tells me they are still
colouring up.

Noisily, they wrestle one another to the grass and in their exuberance they
don't see a Black man striding purposely across the lawn in their
direction. I recognise this man as my mother's former head gardener,
Moses. I'm sure that isn't really his name but, in their indifference, it
was the one my parents had used in all their dealings with him.

In fact, we used anglicised names for all our servants; it was so much
easier than trying to get our tongues around those unpronounceable native
names. And so we'd arrogantly robbed them of the individuality of their
proud, parent-given names and replaced them with the more demeaning and
subservient ones of "Molly" or "Jimmy".

Once Moses would have stood with his head bowed and shoulders slumped; he
now carries himself proudly erect. I wonder what position he now holds in
my former home.

Then I notice he carries a litupa whip which marks him as a person of
authority. The litupa is better known to me as the sjambok whip which was
once the symbol of white oppression over the Black man. Now renamed the
litupa it is the Black man's tool of control over his white slaves.

As a boy I had seen the sjambok used against Blacks by the white police to
break up their illegal gatherings. I knew the sjambok was effective in
dispersing any Black demonstrators.  One had only to watch the TV news as
the Black demonstrators took to their heels and fled once the white
constabulary withdrew the whip from their belts to know this was so.

My father had one but he'd never used it on any human - Black or
white. Rather it was a family heirloom passed down through his family and
was the original one used by a distant grandfather- I forget precisely how
many 'greats' go before the grandfather - on an overland trek sometime in
the far distant past of the nineteenth century. Its use then was to drive
oxen and not men and it was much longer than today's litupa.

Today's litupa is much shorter than the sjambok used by my
ancestor. Overall, it is about three feet in length and is made from a
strip of hide taken from an adult hippopotamus or rhinoceros. Somehow this
strip of hide is then rolled into a tight cylindrical shape tapering from
one inch in diameter at the handle end to about three-eighths of an inch at
its tip. It is very light and flexible and I am about to witness its
effectiveness when applied to the exposed body of a slave.

Both the slaves are so engrossed in their horseplay that they neither see
nor hear Moses as he approaches. Their first inkling of his presence is
when they hear the loud crack of his whip and the 'thwack' as it falls upon
their unprotected backs and asses.  Their yelps of surprise and cries of
outrage are testament to the pain they feel.

Moses continues to whip them as they break free from one another and try to
roll away from his anger. He berates them and orders them to their feet.

"Get back to work! Move your lazy white asses! NOW!"

The now thoroughly subdued slaves move quickly to obey. With their backs
turned toward me, I can see the crisscrossed pattern of these latest angry,
red welts superimposed over the older and less obvious bluish stripes of
earlier chastisements.

Moses turns and seeing me standing at the fence, he walks towards me.

He doesn't recognise me or if he does he chooses not to show it.

"What do doin' here white boy? This ain't no place for white trash like
you. Move on before I whip your thievin' white ass."

I beat a hasty retreat. But I have stayed too long.

As I walk away, I am stopped by a group of Black, teenaged schoolboys
wearing the new uniform of my old school of privilege. They surround me and
question me.

"What you doing here, white boy?"

Some grab hold of me and hold me prisoner as another boy uses his cell
phone to call for the neighbourhood security patrol. Within minutes they
arrive and they take me into custody. I have been charged with the crime of
'loitering with intent'. I protest my innocence but no one pays me any
heed.  I am a young, strapping, white boy eminently suitable for
enslavement. I can expect no mercy.

			     >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Master Thandiwe looks at his watch and stops me mid-story.

If I'd expected any sympathy from him then his questions doom me to
disappointment.

"Did you know it is forbidden for a white to enter into a 'Blacks' only'
designated area, boy?"

"Yes Master Thandiwe."

"And yet you did it? You defied the law? Why!"

"Master Thandiwe, I was homesick and wanted to see my old home."

"Then you have only yourself to blame for your predicament. You deserve
your fate, don't you, boy?"

"Yes Master Thandiwe."

"I want to hear more - about how you were processed into slavery and how
you were sold?" Were you sold at auction?"

"Yes Master Thandiwe! I was sold at auction and it was there that the
Master bought me."

"We'll continue with your story later - what is your name again?"

"Wickus, Master Thandiwe. I am called Wickus."

"Well Wickus, it is getting late. What time do your Master and Mistress
dine of an evening?"

"At 7.00 PM, Master Thandiwe. And the Master is insistent that it be
precisely at this time."

Wickus speaks the truth! I know my father expects - no he demands - strict
punctuality from both family and work associates. To keep him waiting is
inexcusable and is always reprimanded. His words can be biting and I
learned very early in my life never to keep him waiting. The verbal
onslaught can be quite intimidating. I suppose it must be worse for any
slave who does offend in this manner. I doubt that he'd escape with just a
tongue lashing.

I look at my watch and see it is just a bit before 6.15 PM. I decide I have
time for a shower and a fresh change of clothing before going down to the
dining-room.

"Wickus! I would like a shower to freshen up before going down stairs to
meet with your Master and Mistress. You may undress me."

I detect a look of concern in Wickus's eyes. Something is troubling him.

"What's the matter boy? You look concerned."

"Master Thandiwe, I have to report to Gerd before half past six with all
the other slaves scheduled for dining-room service for inspection and to
receive our instructions on what duties we are to perform.

I'd forgotten about Gerd. He'd not been present for my arrival and I'd not
missed him. Gerd - or more correctly Gerardus - is my father's personal
body slave and has oversight of the younger, household slaves. I estimate
he is aged somewhere around forty and in is previous free life he'd been my
father's manager in a large, mining conglomerate. Now however, he is my
father's slave.

This in itself is an interesting story. For years my father had been
subjected to workplace discrimination at the hands of his white employers
and Gerardus van Beek, as his immediate superior, was at the forefront in
keeping Dad in his 'proper place' as a black employee.

I know the constant deference to white authority had irked my father, and
unable to voice his concerns, that his deep-seated anger and frustration
had festered within him like some cancerous growth.

But all that changed with the new regime. My father's considerable talents
were recognised and rewarded; he now heads up the company where once he'd
been treated as a lowly minion.

I'm not aware of the reasons why Gerardus van Beek is now a slave. Dad had
said he'd been convicted of bribery and fraud and sentenced to lifelong
slavery. For some reason I've always suspected that he'd had a part to play
in Gerd's downfall. My father isn't one to suffer fools lightly or to
overlook a personal insult and it wouldn't surprise me to know that he'd
used his newfound influence to have his former boss enslaved.  I only know
that Dad had bought him at auction for considerably more than his true
market value.

And Gerd is now paying a high price for his former arrogance. Reduced to
serving as my father's personal body slave he never meets my father's
stringent requirements and is subject to frequent, harsh discipline.

But Dad did make one concession to Gerd's organisational skills; he
appointed him as the organiser of the household's slaves. Gerd takes
instruction from Mistress Mandisa who has supreme oversight of the home,
but it is Gerd who ensures that the slaves carry out her instructions.

Subsequently, I will discover that my brother Isivile has mischievously
corrupted Gerd's name to 'Turd'. This is in keeping with his derisive
nicknaming of Jacobus, his own body slave as 'Jack-off' and of Wickus as
'Prickus'.

However, I can understand Wickus's concern. Prior to dinner, Gerd would
inspect those slaves who are to serve at the dinner table ensuring that
they are clean and sweet-smelling, properly groomed and wearing the
loincloths chosen by my mother to compliment the theme of the dinner.

But Dad has allocated Wickus to serve as my body slave for the duration of
my stay and so his first duty is to me. Once more I order him.

"Undress me boy!"


To be continued...........