Jamal punched the boy’s balls, three sharp, deliberate jabs that made the flesh bounce and the boy’s breath hitch in a wet sob. “What’s your name, bitch?”
“H-Harry…” A broken whisper. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Jamal’s hand clamped around Harry’s throat. “Call me sir. We’re doing it because you’re a pathetic racist white boy. This postcode isn’t yours anymore, Harry. We’re making sure crackers like you crawl when they walk these streets.” He spat, thick and deliberate, the glob sliding down Harry’s cheek like a brand.
“They’re gonna love the video,” Marcus said, tapping the camera perched on a crate, red light blinking.
“Close-up time, pretty boy.” Darius stepped in, phone already recording. He slapped Harry’s swollen face, once, twice, the crack of skin on skin echoing, then hawked a wad of spit straight into Harry’s open, gasping mouth.
“Repeat after me,” Darius growled. “‘My name is Harry and I’m a pathetic racist white boy. It is my duty to serve black men.’”
Harry tried to turn away. Jamal’s fist crashed into his temple, stars bursting behind his eyes.
Before he could scream, Jamal yanked his joggers down and forced ten thick inches past Harry’s lips.
The boy gagged instantly, throat convulsing, snot and tears mixing with the saliva that drooled down his chin. Jamal held him there, hips rocking, until Harry’s face purpled. Only then did he pull out, the slick shaft slapping across Harry’s eyes, nose, mouth—leaving red welts and a sheen of spit.
“Say it.”
“My name is Harry and I’m a pathetic racist white boy… it is my duty to serve black men,” Harry rasped, voice shredded.
Jamal rammed back in.
Darius tracked the camera down the trembling torso, pecs twitching, abs clenched in pain, until it framed Harry’s battered genitals. His cock lay soft, foreskin half-retracted, balls already swollen to the size of plums and shading deep purple.
Marcus pinched the limp shaft, rolled the skin back to expose the raw pink head. “Biggest white clit I’ve seen—still pathetic.”
He measured it against his palm: barely three inches soft. “Let’s see the best it can do.” He started stroking, rough and clinical, while Darius kept filming. Blood flow came reluctantly; the shaft grew to a rigid 5.5 inches, veins standing out, head flaring an angry red.
“Five and a half,” Marcus announced, voice dripping scorn. “Call it generous. White boys measure from the taint.” Laughter ricocheted off the walls.
Jamal’s fist slammed into Harry’s nuts again, once, twice. The boy’s scream vibrated around the cock in his throat.
“Please stop hurting me!” Harry wailed when Jamal finally pulled free, strings of saliva connecting them.
“Stop?” Jamal climbed onto the pallets, raised one Nike, and brought it down full-weight on Harry’s swollen nuts and hard dick. Harry’s body jack-knifed, a guttural howl ripping loose. Jamal ground his heel, twisting. “Tell us we own you. Say we can do whatever the fuck we want.”
“Please—no—” Another stomp, harder. Harry’s voice cracked into a high-pitched scream.
Jamal dropped down, drew a flick-knife, pressed the flat of the blade against the root of Harry’s half-hard cock. “Want to keep this?”
“No—please, sir!”
“From now on, only ‘yes sir.’ Clear?”
“Yes sir,” Harry sobbed, nodding frantically.
Jamal dragged the dull edge along the shaft, slow, letting the cold steel bite just enough to raise gooseflesh. “Good bitch.”
Darius flopped his own thick meat onto Harry’s. Even soft, it dwarfed the white boy’s erection.
“Mine’s bigger soft than yours hard.” He slapped his shaft down—thwack—across Harry’s balls.
The boy jerked, a strangled cry escaping.
Darius shoved a dry finger into Harry’s hole.
Harry clenched instinctively, but the finger forced deeper, twisting. “Virgin tight. Might tear.”
Jamal joined, second finger stretching the ring until it burned white-hot. Harry screamed into the boxer gag, body rigid, tears carving clean tracks through the mess on his face.
Jamal spat once on his palm, slicked his cock, lined up. “Hold him.” Marcus and Darius pinned Harry’s shoulders. One brutal thrust breached him—halfway in, the head popping past the sphincter. Harry’s eyes rolled back, a silent scream stretching his jaw. Jamal didn’t pause; he drove the full length in, bottoming out with a wet slap. The boy’s insides clenched in panic, milking the invading shaft.
Jamal set a punishing rhythm—long, violent strokes that lifted Harry’s hips off the pallets. For grip he seized the boy’s cock and balls, yanking them downward like reins, stretching the sac until the skin shone. Each tug timed with a thrust, the head of his cock battering Harry’s prostate until the boy’s own shaft leaked pre-cum.
Darius rifled the wallet. “Harry Thompson, Canary Wharf flat, platinum AMEX, one sad condom.” He tossed the foil aside. “Optimistic.”
Marcus grabbed the Deep Heat, squirted a thick ribbon along Harry’s rigid 5.5 inches and swollen balls. The burn hit instantly, menthol fire racing through every nerve. Harry thrashed, muffled howls vibrating the gag. Marcus jerked him roughly, the lube now a torment, each stroke dragging burning skin over raw glans.
Jamal’s thrusts grew erratic. “Gonna flood this posh cunt.” With a roar he buried deep, cock pulsing as he unloaded—thick ropes painting Harry’s insides. He held there, grinding, until every drop was spent, then pulled out. A trickle of cum followed, pink-tinged.
Darius took his place, sliding into the slick, ruined hole with one shove. Harry’s body spasmed; the second cock felt even thicker, stretching the ring further. Marcus kept stroking, the Deep Heat now a searing agony. Harry’s hips jerked involuntarily; a thin spurt of watery cum dribbled over Marcus’s knuckles.
“Pathetic squirt,” Marcus sneered, smearing it across Harry’s lips. “Lick it clean.” He forced two fingers into Harry’s mouth, making him taste his own shame.
They rotated—Darius in the arse, Jamal face-fucking until Harry’s throat was raw, Marcus filming every angle. Each man came twice: once in the hole, once down the throat or across the face. Cum glazed Harry’s features, dripped from his chin, pooled in the hollow of his collarbone.
Finally spent, Jamal stood over him. “Open.” He aimed his stream—hot piss splashing Harry’s face, chest, cock, pooling in his navel. Marcus and Darius followed, drenching the boy until he glistened, the stench sharp. They aimed the last spurts into Harry’s open mouth, forcing him to swallow or choke.
Marcus finished off on Harry’s bag, MacBook and trainers removed. “These are ours now, snowflake. Payment for the lesson.”
Jamal retied the gag with Harry’s own piss-soaked boxers, knot tight. “We know where you live, Harry Thompson. Tomorrow night, same time. Bring that blonde from your photos, or we come find her. Bring a mate for safety, and we’ll leave him like we left you, or worse.”
They pocketed the AMEX, keys, phone, and left him trembling in the dark, camera still rolling, the basement reeking of cum, piss, and defeat.
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