A White Woman's Place

Dante Davis stepped out of his chair and stretched his legs. The athletic shorts he was wearing exposed the deep, dark brown color of his skin and the taut muscles just underneath, having been strained and fatigued by a rigorous workout regimen just a short time ago. His sleeveless muscle shirt bestowed similar compliments; his toned, thick arms revealed the hard-worked muscles contained within and pronounced veins running gently across his limbs.

It was a good day to be an African-American. Today was the three-year anniversary of the end of the war against the Nordic Vanguard. At least, that was the white supremacists referred to themselves as, seeing as they had about as much Scandinavian heritage on average as a hot dog (and a similar constitution to boot). Claiming to represent the achievements and innate strength of the white race across all continents, the faction had finally kicked off the long-awaited "race war" between blacks and whites across the continental United States, ripping the country apart along deep-seated lines in the process.

Ultimately, it would lead to their destruction, as was so proclaimed and enforced by the surrender terms dictated by the Ebony Reclamation Front. Dante was a decorated and experienced veteran, reaching the rank of Junior Commander in the organization before discharge at the end of the war. The ERF soundly defeated the NV and established a government of black rule in response to the white-dominated origins of the country. On the day of the surrender and term dictation between the leaders of the warring factions, a new era had arrived for Dante and his people, for which they had fought long and hard.

He removed his sweat-stained workout shirt, exposing his hard, cut and built torso, forged through both battle and peacetime training. The perspiration on his muscles caused the light to bend and reflect across his abs and the curves of his pecs, a sight anyone could appreciate. He was a proud man, and he was proud of his body and what he had created for himself. Proud and strong, he had carried his brothers to victory in the conflict that created his new world.

Dante stepped outside the front door of his house, basking fully in the rays of the sunlight unabated by cloud cover. He felt the warmth caress his smooth, bald head, always kept completely shaved to honor his African ancestors who ruled the plains of his motherland. While he was an American, he had not forgotten his heritage. His was one of empire and of dominion, long ago in ancient times before the whites had raped and enslaved his continent, as well as the rest of the world.

The war, albeit bloody and cruel, had brought his black brothers and sisters into a new age. Taking their rightful place in their new country, they had assumed all seats of government and ruled the United States with a firm, yet gentle ebony fist. Their reign was fair, just and promised security and prosperity. At least for all blacks. Blacks, and those of the white persuasion who offered submission willingly and without the threat of re-education.

While the Nordic Front held the support of most of the States' white population, especially in the beginning of the war, there were many of them who debated whether the color of their skin or their hearts (mostly women, and in some cases, thinking with their loins) decided their allegiance. Throughout the war's progress, defector after defector depleted the ranks of the NV to emerge on the side of the ERF. The re-education program the black government instated upon the whites to fully assimilate the previously-divided population, as it turned out, overestimated the amount of subjects necessary to convert.

Still half-naked, Dante strode to his mailbox to check the day's latest news reports. His hands pulled the newsprint from its container and the slight callouses on his fingertips slipped past and through the pages. A storied lifestyle of warfighting and physical training had left his hands with a hint of roughness, yet his toils brought strength flowing through them.

He had been following a few local stories for a week or so, namely the renovation of one of the town's brothels. The

Snow Bunny

was one of his favorite establishments, specializing in the sale of women belonging to his former enemies. Former being the operative word, as they could no longer be truly depicted as such considering their newly-achieved lower status. Well, mostly the men. It wouldn't exactly be fair to assign the term "enemy" to their members of the fairer sex. They can't control the color of their skin, only who they would get on their knees for and their level of enthusiasm.

He was pleased to read that progress had been going well, and that they would be accepting customers again before the end of next week. Even so, there were more such halls of hedonism around him and Dante had frequented all of them at some point or another. If the

Snow Bunny

couldn't get up and running, well, there was no shortage of pussy available to him.

He reached his hand down his pants to adjust his balls. Dante couldn't lie to himself, there were additional reasons on top of such noble virtues of fighting oppression and avenging the treatment of his people that spurred his decision to join the cause. He had long desired the smooth, pale skin of the women belonging to the white race. His dreams were filled with constant views of their slender legs, blond, brown and red hair reaching to just above their taut asses of all sizes and perky breasts with pink, soft nipples.

From the perspective of his bigger head, he knew that his African sisters were the superior specimens with fuller lips, rounder hips and voluptuous, heavy racks, he couldn't help but feel the draw that all men feel, that towards the exotic, the different and the unfamiliar. Many of the men he led felt the same way, and thankfully those now in charge felt so fit as to indulge their base desires.

Carnal relations between both black men and women with white women were not only legalized, but encouraged, with tax breaks levied towards whorehouses and establishments that employed a quota of Caucasian girls. While Dante's penis moved not an inch for those of his own sex, he knew that others did, and while relations between black men and white men were normally reserved for re-education and disciplinary purposes, there were a few select brothels that catered to that specific kink. Regarding what specific dynamics occurred behind their closed doors, he had no idea.

He gazed across the pages at the lewd advertisements for call girls and prostitutes contained within his mail. His new society completely discarded the repressive sexual mores of the old world; it was nothing but yet another means of control and subjugation.

Thick, round hips framing beautiful, firm asses filled the pages. Most of the women were black, their deep ebony skin standing at a stark contrast to the white paper. Turning the page, Dante saw the section for whites. One stood out to him in particular as he thumbed through: a redhead with the moniker Sylvia. She was tall, with a proud, assertive stance. Her hair hung straight down to her shoulders, her locks ending just above a full, round chest with light pink nipples, their shade very similar to that of her lips. The rest of Sylvia's body was equally exposed, with a slim figure gracing the page, her hips decorated with just a tuft of orange hair above her pussy.

Dante's eyes drifted further down her figure until he saw a phone number and a disclaimer so commonly affiliated with those of her kind: BLACKS ONLY.

As a term of the surrender, white men were mostly forbidden with mating with their own kind. It was decreed that while they were to be spared the same fate of genocide that which many of Dante's ancestors were subject, their culture was too oppressive and incompatible with the new order to survive.

A certain breeding stock of white men and women would be maintained to ensure a constant supply of girls, although these were tightly regulated by a system of permits. The aim of these measures were simple; the men would be forced to witness their culture and genetic bloodline slowly diluted and eventually eliminated, as their women willingly and eagerly assimilated into their new home. One final, long insult on top of their defeat. It was, at least as far as Dante could think, the definite way to weaken and destroy a society with as little bloodshed as possible.

Dante took a closer look at the text. Sylvia was local, and an unexpected closure of his workplace gave him the rest of the day off. His hand reached down his pants to grip his slowly-swelling cock; it had been some time since he had taken a white woman. It wasn't quite like the early days following victory anymore, where whites were publicly stripped naked, chained and displayed for all (blacks, of course) who felt the need to exercise their right to the spoils of war. While it was mostly as one would expect: black men slamming their trouser snakes into feminine white ass, black women would have their fill as well, oftentimes at the same time. Sometimes it was for pleasure, sometimes just to exercise dominion. Of course, what better way for a white woman to truly know their place in the social strata unless they were given the opportunity to experience, pleasure and serve their counterparts personally? Usually they were willing (not all whites were stupid), but others had to be forcefully brought to heel. These were often more fun, both for the audience and for the one holding the leash.

Dante gave the line a ring for an out-call. He didn't feel like going anywhere today.

'Commander Dante Davis, asking for Sylvia.' His voice was deep; his Adam's apple lay prominent in his throat. He was entitled to retain his former rank in civilian use as an honorary title as a reward and emblem of recognition for his achievements during the war, although his days of leading troops were behind him.

'Oooh,

Commander.

' Sylvia's tone was sincere with admiration as it shone through the half-sultry, half-subordinate timbre she spoke with for customers. It wasn't often she received calls from men of such status. Sarcasm was, at best, unbecoming of a woman of her stature, although allowances were made in the heat of the moment, seasoned to taste. Kinks and turn-ons were wide, varied, and accommodated, even in this new world. 'I would be more than happy to be at your service, sir.'

'Excellent.' Dante rattled off his address and disconnected the phone. He estimated a ten to fifteen minute arrival time. She was close and the public transit system was speedy. For men of his position, services were often free of charge. His government was different than that of the whites; his service was legitimately rewarded by his countrymen. As far as any limitations in the bedroom go, well, there are certain stipulations, as one might say, to being a white woman in the current day regardless of their sexual value. They existed to serve. It could always be worse. She could be a white man instead.

Dante went back inside to await Sylvia. His home reflected his heritage; his décor was fueled by deep greens, reds and yellows. Memorabilia from various African tribes adorned his walls; one side of the room housed a tattered NV flag personally taken as a war trophy.

He moved to his bedroom to shower off and freshen up. Dante stepped inside, removing what little of his clothing remained and threw it on the floor. Rotating the faucet handle, he felt the cool, crisp water hit his bald scalp and cascade down his back. The water followed the stiff, toned curves of his lats and delts; his body narrated a tale of his exploits and toils to all who beheld it. It was a story Sylvia would have the pleasure to experience firsthand.

The water followed down his body and poured over his ass. Already accentuated by his African ethnicity, his rear end was further strengthened and made firm by his dedicated workout routine. It was a posterior most women would be proud to possess, let alone men. Dante worked for what he had, and his labor had paid off. His hands covered in soap, he lathered himself from head to toe and scrubbed the remains of the sweat from his athletic figure.

He heard the doorbell ring when he stepped out of the shower. Sylvia had arrived. Foregoing the option of clothes, Dante strode towards his front door. After a few minutes, he opened it to see his escort in her full, unbridled glory standing before him.

Sylvia was just as alluring and enticing as her advertisement alluded. Dante was pleased to see her representation was exactly as portrayed. Every one of her curves, every gentle line and expression of femininity matched her likeness. Her orange hair was vibrant and healthy, framing her face like a picture frame made from a morning sunrise. Dante's pupils widened and his cock twitched when he felt a slight whiff of her perfume hit his nostrils. It was no ordinary whore's scent; this was a high-end fragrance.

His response was not solely from his nose however; she was as naked as her posting depicted. While they were no longer exhibited in stockades, white women were required to travel in public with minimal clothing, depending on weather and requirements for baggage. Nude, preferably. As a side effect of their position as global oppressors for many millennia, whites also set the standard for beauty across the world. The lighter the skin, the more desirable.

While they lost the ultimate test for racial supremacy, sexual hunger is not quite as mutable as politics within the souls of humanity. Thousands of years of suggestion and promotion have left their mark upon the peoples of the world, for better or for worse. Men had their desires, and as a result of the dominion of the white race, it was all the more accessible. It proved to be an easier endeavor than estimated however; as women are usually quite adept at choosing superior mates without any outside encouragement.

Dante placed his hands on the small of her bare hips, his thumbs in line with her bellybutton. Sylvia's eyes enlarged as they met his; her lips opened ever so slightly as she drew in a quick breath. Her irises were a brilliant blue, as light as the sky with the piercing quality as an icicle. The simple print could not do her justice.

Ironic, Dante thought. A stereotypical hallmark of the faction that fought for her skin color, sitting here at his front door summoned with nothing but a short phone call, to commit an act that her champions would forever disown her for. That is, if they had the power to. She was a beautiful woman in every respect, which not even the most fervent black-power adherents could deny. And here she was in front of him; the only thing missing was a gift bow in her hair.

'Sylvia Winter, at your service,

Commander.'

Dante was struck by her face as he heard the words escape her mouth with a similar tone as she said over the phone, albeit with as much intensity as beholding the man in front of her could allow. Sylvia had never seen a man of his status in person. She had heard of the exploits of such, yet that was a far cry from standing in front of one. As the slight bite of her lip conveyed to him; it was evident that her appreciation was shared by both sets.

'You got here in pretty good time.' Dante moved his hands up her body to her head, his palms tracing her flanks and his fingers brushing against the edge of her scalp. "You live right down the way or something?"

'Or something.' Her eyes followed his as he studied the roots of her hair and traced the curves of her face. His thumb ever so lightly brushed against her bottom lip, full and pink. Sylvia's breath turned slow, and deep. 'I don't mean to presume, Commander, but shall we go indoors or...you want to stay here?'

Her breathing turned to a slight stutter. Not only did being in the presence of such a venerated (and personally extremely sexually attractive) figure make her feel as small and as weak as a baby bird, but there were legitimate consequences for offending not only a black man, but one of Dante's standing. Despite the services she provided to the black race (more than once her head had seen the insides between the legs of a black woman; her offerings in that regard being the epitome of servitude towards her betters), she was still white regardless of her beauty. Lower, lesser and beneath. Sylvia dropped to her knees immediately, her weight resting on her thighs to avoid the impact of the concrete on her joints. It was equal parts reflex and desire.

Whenever an African-American felt the urge, they were permitted to use white women's bodies for their own gratification, without any fear of resistance or reprisal. Whether it be in public or semi-private places or, sex with the newly-conquered, formerly-dominant race was commonplace and was shared openly. Sylvia certainly had her share of mates who were eager to display their spoils of war to the world, and as she stood in front of one of her conquerors, she could only imagine he wished the same. The blacks were the kings and queens, and the whites were their cattle; befitting of their new place.

"Good girl." Dante felt her hair through his fingers as his eyes captured a glimpse of her ripe, supple tits. He genuinely felt pleased. While he brought a swift end to many of her compatriots, Dante was not innately a cruel man. He was joyed to see someone so readily accept their rung on the latter in society, even when the rational part of her brain would consider it significantly lower. From the way she was looking at him, however, the area that was currently in control had no problems with the arrangement. "Get to work."

She immediately kissed the head of his now fully erect, thick black cock. Sylvia's initial attempt to slowly tease him barely lasted a few seconds before she plunged it down her throat. She had to. She needed it. She was filled with the compulsion to please her master, to have the embodiment of manhood inside her mouth and to be used, little better than a common whore, for his pleasure. It brought her more satisfaction and release than anything she had ever felt with a white man.

As Sylvia reached the base, Dante noticed something that wasn't present on her advertisement. On her left shoulder, near her back, was a tattoo of a war eagle clutching a star and a cross. He recognized it for what it was: the emblem of the Nordic Vanguard. The woman giving his penis a thorough oral inspection was a former soldier of the NV, driven with enough zealotry to warrant her faction's permanent brand on her body.

Dante inhaled, and his member engorged even further, much to Sylvia's delight. The luck, to have a former warrior of the white race who took up arms against him and his people to bring their demise, now on her knees with no command or direction needed, worshiping him and his brethren in the most primal way possible. He could think of no better fate for her, and something told him the notion was mutual. Normally display of the symbols of that defeated culture was highly illegal outside of sanctioned use, and he wondered how she was able to avoid prosecution. The things she was doing to his dick probably contributed.

Her tongue ran all around his shaft slowly, as if Dante's manhood was the best thing she had ever tasted. As Sylvia stared at him, her eyes seemed to glaze over, their owner lost in pure bliss of the basest form. Even Dante's breath changed as her soft, wet mouth slid on the underside of his cock to his balls and took one inside. This bitch was a greedy one. He truly was the pride of the neighborhood at the moment, having a beautiful, sexy, conquered white woman on her knees in full view of anyone who cared to see. While others around him certainly had their own whites to play with, none were like the one presently with his cock in her mouth.