The porch is thick with sweat and laughter, the sunburned, brutish white men closing in around him—three beer-bellied, broad-shouldered, rough-knuckled colonizers, eyes gleaming with a hunger that’s as old as history and twice as shameless.

They circle the black boy in the middle of it all, his cocoa skin glowing in the heat, every curve and line soft and sinful, skirt barely clinging to the perfect swell of his ass, thighs shining, lips glossy and full. He arches his back, teasing, rolling his hips, watching them lose themselves with every sassy move.

Their hands are everywhere—big, pale, claiming—contrasting starkly against his dark, sweet-smelling body. One grabs his jaw, turning his face up to meet blue eyes gone wild with want.
“Damn, look at this Black boy, struttin’ around here like he owns the place. You know what we do to boys like you, out here in the country?”

He grins, bratty, eyes defiant, hips pushing back into their hands as he taunts, “Ohh, you colonizers can’t help yourself, can you? Can’t stay away from a sweet black boy, not when I look this good.”

They groan, hungry, greedy. One slaps his ass, the sound ringing out over the farm, then cups his cheek, squeezing tight.
“You’re damn right we can’t. This body’s a sin, baby. You make us forget how to behave. Been a long time since a Black boy had us like this.”

The second man leans in, beard scratching, voice thick: “Look at this skin, boys. Dark as midnight, soft as butter, and smelling like chocolate. Don’t care how wrong it is—he’s ours tonight.”
They squeeze, spank, and knead his flesh, rough hands pale and claiming, and the boy laughs, wriggling, arching, letting them see just how much he loves being their forbidden treat.

“Oh, you want a taste, colonizer?” he purrs, lips parting, voice a velvet dare. “Come and get it. Show me what all that white man talk really means.”

The porch is thick with sweat and laughter, the sunburned, brutish white men closing in around him—three beer-bellied, broad-shouldered, rough-knuckled colonizers, eyes gleaming with a hunger that’s as old as history and twice as shameless.

They circle the black boy in the middle of it all, his cocoa skin glowing in the heat, every curve and line soft and sinful, skirt barely clinging to the perfect swell of his ass, thighs shining, lips glossy and full. He arches his back, teasing, rolling his hips, watching them lose themselves with every sassy move.

Their hands are everywhere—big, pale, claiming—contrasting starkly against his dark, sweet-smelling body. One grabs his jaw, turning his face up to meet blue eyes gone wild with want.
“Damn, look at this Black boy, struttin’ around here like he owns the place. You know what we do to boys like you, out here in the country?”

He grins, bratty, eyes defiant, hips pushing back into their hands as he taunts, “Ohh, you colonizers can’t help yourself, can you? Can’t stay away from a sweet black boy, not when I look this good.”

They groan, hungry, greedy. One slaps his ass, the sound ringing out over the farm, then cups his cheek, squeezing tight.
“You’re damn right we can’t. This body’s a sin, baby. You make us forget how to behave. Been a long time since a Black boy had us like this.”

The second man leans in, beard scratching, voice thick: “Look at this skin, boys. Dark as midnight, soft as butter, and smelling like chocolate. Don’t care how wrong it is—he’s ours tonight.”
They squeeze, spank, and knead his flesh, rough hands pale and claiming, and the boy laughs, wriggling, arching, letting them see just how much he loves being their forbidden treat.

“Oh, you want a taste, colonizer?” he purrs, lips parting, voice a velvet dare. “Come and get it. Show me what all that white man talk really means.”

>>211728902
>>211728905
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.”