Anonymous
ID: GUbaN+Wh
6/14/2025, 4:39:18 PM No.507344700
Evening poured golden over the farm, haze and heat thick enough to taste. That femme Black boy stepped out from the old farmhouse dressed like trouble, skirt barely clinging to his hips, thighs slick and brown, crop top tight across his chest. He was every bit the vision—gorgeous, femme, slutty as a dare, eyes wide and mouth glossy.
Three white men lounged at the fence, redneck to the core—sunburned, heavyset, bellies soft with beer, arms crossed, boots muddy, stares fixed. The kind of men who’d fought against the worst kind of hate, but never lost that swagger, never dropped that lazy, patronizing pride.
Black boy sauntered past them, hips rolling, face pure brat, every line of his body a taunt.
“Damn,” he called out, voice high and honey-sweet, “You boys look like the kind of colonizers they warn us about in history class. Still think you run the world?”
They hollered back, eyes shining with hunger, laughter thick with beer and that sharp old edge. One licked his lips, the oldest tipped his cap, all three drawn in like wolves to a flame.
“Dress like that, son, you’re just asking for a lesson,” said the biggest, beard tangled and belly straining against faded denim.
That doll-like boy flipped his hair, skirt lifting to flash black panties and a perfectly plump ass. He smirked, every inch a tease, every movement built to provoke.
“Boss of what?” he shot back, “The pigs or the porch swing, sir?”
They crowded closer, breath hot, hands greedy, all that white male arrogance softening to hunger and need. The men circled him, their voices lowering, dirty promises hanging in the air.
One grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet those blue eyes, and asked, “You ever been shown respect by a real man, boy?”
Black boy, suddenly all sweetness and obedience, dropped the brat, lips parting, voice soft as velvet.
“Yes, sir,” he said, eyes shining, “If that’s what you’re offering.”
Three white men lounged at the fence, redneck to the core—sunburned, heavyset, bellies soft with beer, arms crossed, boots muddy, stares fixed. The kind of men who’d fought against the worst kind of hate, but never lost that swagger, never dropped that lazy, patronizing pride.
Black boy sauntered past them, hips rolling, face pure brat, every line of his body a taunt.
“Damn,” he called out, voice high and honey-sweet, “You boys look like the kind of colonizers they warn us about in history class. Still think you run the world?”
They hollered back, eyes shining with hunger, laughter thick with beer and that sharp old edge. One licked his lips, the oldest tipped his cap, all three drawn in like wolves to a flame.
“Dress like that, son, you’re just asking for a lesson,” said the biggest, beard tangled and belly straining against faded denim.
That doll-like boy flipped his hair, skirt lifting to flash black panties and a perfectly plump ass. He smirked, every inch a tease, every movement built to provoke.
“Boss of what?” he shot back, “The pigs or the porch swing, sir?”
They crowded closer, breath hot, hands greedy, all that white male arrogance softening to hunger and need. The men circled him, their voices lowering, dirty promises hanging in the air.
One grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet those blue eyes, and asked, “You ever been shown respect by a real man, boy?”
Black boy, suddenly all sweetness and obedience, dropped the brat, lips parting, voice soft as velvet.
“Yes, sir,” he said, eyes shining, “If that’s what you’re offering.”
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