The men don’t waste time. Black boy barely has a chance to play coy before those thick, sunburned arms have him spun around, bent over the low split-rail fence. Three rough hands—big, calloused, strong from years of farm work—press him down, pinning him by the small of his back, fingers digging into the meat of his hips.

He’s bratty at first, wriggling, tossing a last little smirk over his shoulder, but the first spank lands and all the attitude flees his face. It’s loud, hard, echoing off the barn wall. His skirt rides up, panties stretched tight across his bubble butt, dark skin gleaming under the setting sun. The next slap is even rougher—open-palmed, greedy, claiming.

The men take turns, each one landing blow after blow, sometimes two hands at once, their laughter low and dirty. They grunt, mutter, praise and taunt him in the same breath:
“Look at that ass, boy. Made for this, ain’t it?”
“You dress like a slut, you get treated like one.”
“Moan for us, pretty. Let the whole county know who’s got you.”

The melanin-rich boy moans, loud and shameless, every sound rolling out of him without a shred of self-control. He bucks with every smack, legs shaking, skirt hiked so high it’s nothing but bare brown cheeks and needy, trembling muscle. Every blow sends shockwaves up his spine, stings fading into electric heat, making his cock throb and his head swim.

They keep going, the rhythm of the spanking getting rougher, more possessive, their voices filthier as they push him to the edge—
“You like that, nigger boy? Take it. Louder. Make us proud.”

The men don’t waste time. Black boy barely has a chance to play coy before those thick, sunburned arms have him spun around, bent over the low split-rail fence. Three rough hands—big, calloused, strong from years of farm work—press him down, pinning him by the small of his back, fingers digging into the meat of his hips.

He’s bratty at first, wriggling, tossing a last little smirk over his shoulder, but the first spank lands and all the attitude flees his face. It’s loud, hard, echoing off the barn wall. His skirt rides up, panties stretched tight across his bubble butt, dark skin gleaming under the setting sun. The next slap is even rougher—open-palmed, greedy, claiming.

The men take turns, each one landing blow after blow, sometimes two hands at once, their laughter low and dirty. They grunt, mutter, praise and taunt him in the same breath:
“Look at that ass, boy. Made for this, ain’t it?”
“You dress like a slut, you get treated like one.”
“Moan for us, pretty. Let the whole county know who’s got you.”

The melanin-rich boy moans, loud and shameless, every sound rolling out of him without a shred of self-control. He bucks with every smack, legs shaking, skirt hiked so high it’s nothing but bare brown cheeks and needy, trembling muscle. Every blow sends shockwaves up his spine, stings fading into electric heat, making his cock throb and his head swim.

They keep going, the rhythm of the spanking getting rougher, more possessive, their voices filthier as they push him to the edge—
“You like that, nigger boy? Take it. Louder. Make us proud.”

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.”

Was Tariq Nasheed, director of films such as Buck Breaking and Hidden Colors, correct in his assertion that there is a concerted effort to demonize black men and impose homosexuality upon them?

They put something in the water to make the ghetto gay