Kristen’s trip went well, she’d bought dozens of new outfits, spent a fortune on all kinds of indulgences, and enjoyed herself indulgence in the resort getaway. She felt satisfied and only wanted to get home to her husband to play the part of a loving wife. He’d be happy, she returned two days ahead of schedule, and she would satisfy his every whim, the old fart had always been an easy mark.

Passing over the exchange, she turned onto the highway to take her home. Glancing to her right, she saw the wretched part of the city. The ghetto, tenements where the worthless refuge of the community congregated in their despair and poverty.

“Niggers, spics, chinks, and trashy whites,” she spat the words into the air. She hoped her husband and his political allies could push this, disgusting element from their fair metropolis. Kristen had a vision of burning the scourge of inferior races from earth or regulate them back into slavery. Reduce their numbers, enslave them, and use them for the betterment of God’s people, the superior white race.

Her car coughed and sputtered, the warning bell clanged, check-engine light flashed on the dash, the vehicle lost power, slowing, threatening to stop. With no choice, she exited, into that part of town.

She drove for a block, then two, the car lurching, coughing, and shuddering all the while. She feared it would die, how could she get out of this part of town. She inched near the curb on a block devoid of parked cars. It crawled, slowing as she neared the middle of the block. With one last gasp, the car ... died.

Looking about, Kristen took in the depressing vista. Most of the buildings were vacant, empty stores, locked up tight, windows boarded over, the impression of a lost civilization falling into dysfunction. The August sun beat on the hard-concrete sidewalks as waves of heat rose from the ghetto jungle. One building had a sign above a door that said, “BAR,” and flashed the word, “OPEN.”

Locking her doors, she grabbed her cell, she swiped, “Randel.” “No Service,” emblazed on the face of the phone. In the distance, she saw scantily clad women walking the streets, and men hung about them on corners, rough-looking characters — pimps or drug dealers. The men were mostly niggers and spicks, the darker inferiors that infest this part of the city.

Kristen had to find help. She had nothing to fear, all they need do is see her, and they know she was their betters. These miserable’s could never hurt someone so superior to themselves, they’ll view her superiority, and any intent to do her harm will leave their weak minds like a fog burnt off in the morning sun.

Getting out, she locked the doors, returned the keys to her clutch, and with the phone in her other hand she moved toward the bar. A knot tied her stomach, her head throbbed from the hot August sun. She took steps toward the door, secure in the knowledge of her own supremacy. With that said, there was a fearfulness in her. She pushed it down; after all, she was rich, white, and better than these ... subhumans. They’d see it, and the nature of her superiority would protect her.

In the dim light of the bar, smoke hung in the air. So thick one could cut it with a knife. The door opened, and she walked into the room. A young white woman in this part of town was unusual in itself. Oh, there were cracker whores, wives, and live-ins of blacks and Latinos, but no wealthy white women. And not anyone as classy looking as this white woman. The woman wasn’t older than 26 or 27, and she looked hot and creamy.

She entered slow, not with caution. No, the woman moved forward, with a measured stride, strutting like a catwalk model. The shapely creature hesitated while letting her eyes adjust to the smoky haze of the soft light.

The men looked her over good. These hard men drank in the sight of the curvaceous girl. A few of the men, those near her, sniffed in the scent of her expensive perfume. Breathing in the aroma deep, like a tiger, testing the smell of its prey.

One of the men bit his lower lip, he imagined his cock busting her pussy wide open, as a smile spread over his face. It wasn’t every day a rich woman, a cracker, walked into a place so — inhospitable. Opening his eyes wide, he sized up the gift of the gods.

Five-feet-four or five-inches tall, she’d tip the scales at no more than 110 pounds, if you soaked her to the bone, that is. In her hand, she clutched a cellphone. While she moved forward, her long toned legs caught the men’s attention, the pale white shapely calves and thighs were encased in light-colored stockings or pantyhose. The men all wondered which it was.

“A rich, white woman in da ghetto, how stupid could dis cunt be?” one man said in a hushed voice, reaching inside his pants, he took ahold of and rubbed his hardening cock. “Dis gonna be fun,” he told his companion.

“Yeah,” the other man watched her, waiting for the entertainment to commence.

Her light, blonde hair fell below her shoulders in soft, shimmering waves. She had a pleasing frame, a large top without being too large, thin waist, and a small round ass. The kind of ass that would blister nicely with a few hard slaps of a callused hand. A shimmering, gold-satin blouse covered her upper body. Clinging to her curves, the shirt appeared not quite translucent. That notwithstanding, they could picture the tits underneath the sheer fabric. The woman’s tight skirt wrapped around her and tied at the waist. Golden flowers were pinned to her chest, just above her buoyant breast. The flowers’ color matched the color of her blouse. Black patent high heels with straps around her thin ankles completed the outfit.

Hushed, whispered grumblings came from the men scattered around the bar. Hateful glowers scowled at her. She didn’t notice the looks, didn’t see the men touching themselves, squeezing their cocks or balls. Kristen didn’t feel the angry lust that filled the men. Her baring didn’t change. Kristen held herself like a queen, who waited for her subjects to lay prostrate in front of her.

The grumbling talk softened, then the patrons quieted, and the room turned silent as death. Glaring at her, the impoverished, angry men desired her flesh while they hated her even being alive. This rich bitch just made a big mistake. She walked towards the bar, her hips swaying back and forth with each step. Kristen still held herself with a regalness that spoke to her perceived station.

Kristen fixed her eyes on the bartender, her expression still held a majesticness with a calm, confident appearance of self-assurance. The hateful scowl that bartender flashed her, niggled into her brain. In some primordial recess of Kristen’s mind, a tiny alarm sounded. Hairs on the back of neck prickled, sending a shiver down her spine. It was only at that moment, Kristen realized that the dozen or so patrons were all rough-looking blacks, as was the bartender.

As if on a cue, their leering stairs burned into her, and she sensed her helplessness. She wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t. The woman inched closer to the bar, with cautious, faltering steps. The bartender stared at her, his hard glower made her heart race. She worried he imagined her nude.

He licked his thick, dark lips as he dried a shot glass. The bartender moved a step closer to the woman. Sitting the glass down, he picked up another and continued with his work. His lustful glower made her body quiver.

“Excuse me,” she said, with a plaintive, nearly pleading tone. Kristen’s clam shattered as the hopelessness of her situation dawned on her. Still, she was superior, they had to recognize this. “My car broke down, and my cell is dead. Would you be a dear and show me where your payphone is?”

“So, you think you have some right to just walk in here? We can’t just walk in your fucking country club iffin we a mind to,” the man sitting at the barstool next to her said. His eyes were hateful. His face was contorted as swarthy skin became darker on his cheeks, anger flared to a boiling point.

“Yeah,” the bartender said, “This my fucking place, I didn’t invite you in here, you fuckin’, cracker, ho.”

“I — I — ju — just want to...” Kristen stammered.

“Nobody gives a shit, what you want, cracker. You got that?” the big man on the barstool interrupted her.

Kristen looked around, hoping that someone would stick up for her. It became evident that nobody, including the bartender, would side with her. Kristen’s fear screamed in her brain, RUN. She turned to start for the door, but a second man blocked her way. Grabbing her by the arms, he pulled her against him.

“Where the — FUCK — you think you goin’, whitey bitch?”

“Let go of me. Please, just let me go.” Kristen pleaded as she struggled in his arms. Her big blue eyes became teary as her heart pounded, threatening to rupture, and her body shuddered.

“Oh, we’ll let you go, alright. Just soon as we done with ya. Ya comes to our place; you got to pay the toll,” his big fingers clutched her tit tight. The other hand grabbed her crotch, clutching it, squeezing.

“You tell her, Nate,” she heard someone yell.

He released her tit and crotch, with his left arm the, bear of man, crushed Kristen to him, Nate grabbed her hair with his right hand, pulling her head back.

“No — Let go of me — Please MMMM...” she pleaded, as Nate’s mouth clamped over her lips, muffling her words out of existence. Her mind clutched to the thought, I’m superior, only she wasn’t, she was just a stupid girl in the wrong place.

His thick lips covered hers. Spittle exchanged between them as he forced his tongue way back in her mouth. Disgust rushed into her, revulsion with him, his filthy hands, and nasty tongue invading her mouth. She struggled against him, but he was too big, too powerful. Kristen felt other hands rip her from Nate’s grip.

“Quit hogging’ her, man.” The even larger man who first spoke took possession. He viewed the new white toy. Pushing the other man to the side, “Get in line,” he said, setting the pecking order with him at the top.

“Please don’t ... stop ... please leave me alone.”

He had her pinned against the bar. Pressing her, pushing her back, his big body dominating her smaller frame. Kissing her neck, he kneaded her breast with large hands. Squeezing her tits mercilessly with his mighty mitts, he roughly massaging the big C’s.

She hated his touch, his nasty shit-skin hands on her pure white flesh turned her stomach. Kristen squirmed, trying to slip his grip. But those strong hands controlled her, held her, hurt her. The woman knew he used her with a vile purpose. He grabbed the top of her blouse and pulled sharply, tearing all the buttons off, they made a dull sound as they hit the floor. He exposed her black lace bra.

“Somebody, help me, please. Please, someone ... Make him stop...” Kristen only heard laughter in response. They had to know, she was white, superior in every way, why didn’t they help her?

“Get her to the pool table,” she heard someone yell, as two, more men grabbed her arms, dragging her across the floor. She tried to dig her heels in, but they were too strong, Kristen knew to these men all her sole purpose was as a flesh-covered fuck doll. Her heart raced, a coldness passed over her body, and her temples pounded. Kristen’s breath became ragged and shallow, her body quivered, like a leaf. This thought infested her mind, these lustful, hate-filled men would fuck her to death.

She felt warm wet, thick, streaks of goo running down her face. Big tears gushed, carrying mascara and makeup with them. Her fear filled the room, the beasts sensed it, smelled its sweet, sexual aroma. Her trepidation created a heated, sexual tension in the angry mob that needed a release. A white woman pleading for mercy from these pitiless men ... mercy ... the one thing they had not for any white woman.

Looking around, she saw the men, their big Angus cocks hanging out of their pants. They stroked them, getting ready, ready to use those nasty baboon pricks on her. She’d be ruined, her pussy would be destroyed.

For her, these hard men, only held contempt, hating her privileged life, they’d show this bitch. All their rage would explode on her hot tight body. Hands roamed her body, poking, prodding, exploring her softness, her ripeness.

A callused thumb ran hard circles around her clit, while fat fingers clutched and dug into her lips and hole. The fabric of her panties pressed into her skin, only just covering the rough hand.

“Don’t. Please don’t. Oh, Lord God, please help me. Somebody, Please Help Me.”

“We gonna help you, bitch,” one man said.

The two men threw Kristen onto the pool table. Pinning her arms down, the men held her still. Her hips on the rail while her legs dangled off the edge of the table. The wrap-around skirt had fallen open, exposing her lower body to everyone to see. She felt the big man’s hand reach for her, felt him grab the crotch of the pantyhose, and rip them open. Then his thick fingers grabbed the silken, nylon panties.

“Sexy,” he said as he grabbed the material. The smile on his face looked evil. His teeth were big and yellow stained from coffee and smoke. He ran his tongue over his lips as if he licked some tasty residue from them.

“Oh, no ... Please leave me alone. Please don’t hurt me.” Kristen bawled.

Tears burned her cheeks, her blue mascara ran inside her tears. The big man couldn’t have cared less. Laughing, he yanked on the panties, a small tug, then a hard yank.

The delicate nylon panties were no match for the force used against them. Kristen heard a whisper of sound as the material ripped. The pitch of tear shifted, the ripping sounded harsher, the anger of tearing fabric split the air. The ripping of the cloth was the sound of her humiliation. The shame blistered her as the panties were snatched from her haunches, exposing her most private part for the world to view.

“Shit man,” he yelled out, holding her torn panties in the air, “this Aryan fuck-hole is a real blond — look at her white coochie-hair landing strip, just a pointing the way for my anaconda.”

Kristen tried to kick him, but her position was awkward, and she was to slow. Grabbing her leg, he pushed it to the side moving closer. The man forced her leg more to the side, giving him better access. The big man moved between Kristen’s legs, rubbing her nylon-sheathed thigh with one hand while he undid his pants with the other.

Four men’s hands held her motionless, she struggled against them, to no purpose. Their enormous talons clutched her, digging their claws deep into her soft ripe flesh. The man between her legs leered and moved back a step — his swarthy skin shown as if oiled. Darkness as black as his skin, disconsolate, sullen mood overtook Kristen.

‘I’m superior,’ she thought. Shutting her eyes tight, she wished herself from this place. One of the men squeezed her arm tighter, and the wish died.

“Bet you ain’t never had a black dick a-fore, have you, whore? You’re in fo a treat tonight.” Fishing the already stiff prick out, he pushed himself closer he yanked her back toward him. The padded bumper of the table hit her back as he moved her closer.

“Niggertize that bitch.”

Kristen felt the big head of his mushroom head pressing against her vagina. He smacked the big cock to her pussy several times. She tried squirming away from him, but there was no escape. The men held her arms firm. He looked at her, ready to rip her open. The evil leer on his thick lips disgusted her.

“Don’t ... Please don’t,” Kristen begged as she felt push inside her. Pain tore into her, it was too fucking big. The cockhead was more than twice the size of her husbands, it slashed inside her.

“Please, please, leave me alone, I don’t want to do this ... please, stop, please, please, oh God.” She screamed at the top of her lungs. Arching her back, trying to move away, he slammed the big fat cock in full force, splitting her dry vagina open hard. “Oh, God, please, stop ... Please STOP. It hurts,” she stammered out in broken words. “Oh ... God ... you’re ... hurting ... me.”

“Good,” the group of men jabbered, slightly out of sync.

A ripping sensation erupted into the throbbing of slashed muscles. The big prick cut its way through her canal, destroying tissue and the delicate flesh as he plunged deeper and deeper. The agony raced throughout her crotch.

The angry rapist grabbed Kristen’s legs. He placed his arms under her knees, lifting her legs. Now he could hammer into her deeper. Her blouse hung open. Pushing her legs up high on his shoulders. The abuser moved his hands under her bra and grabbed her tits with both hands.

“Look, boys, I’m milking this cow.” Yelling out as he squeezed her tits. He was vicious and violent on them. She feared they would burst. He pinched at the fat nipples, squeezing them like tits hanging off the udder of a cow. Kristen could see her high-heeled feet pointing towards the ceiling. She tried to concentrate on the old cracking paint. Kristen needed to run and hide, she thought of her childhood. She thought of boys playing doctor with her, then the pain brought Kristen back to NOW and HERE.

“This whore can throw her legs higher and wider than any black bitch,” a second man said as he rubbed his cock, standing behind the man fucking Kristen. He was ready to move in as soon as the first man finished.

Kristen felt as if her pussy ripped in half. The big man continued driving into her. Pumping his cock in and out of her, he rammed it home fast and hard. He wanted the cunt to pay for every insult he ever heard from a white person. Letting go of her tits, he wrapped his arms around her legs, lifting her up; he pummeled her even faster and harder. Kristen’s tits bounced all over from the force.

“Bro, you’re fucking her now. Look at them fat tits bouncing.”

With that encouragement, he fucked her harder. With each thrust, the man hoped agony greeted the bitch. Driving into her, like a lumberjack swinging an ax into a tree, he tried to cut her in two. The glaring hateful eyes viewed her. The men licking their lips as lustful deadly passion filled the room.

Kristen never knew such pain. ‘Nothing more than a fuck piece,’ she thought, ‘but I’m white.’ Her inability to stop it made it more unbearable. Kristen retreated from the room. A surreal calm overcame her, she detached from her body, separated from the pain. A passive, contented expression covered her face.

The black hand came from nowhere. A pink, callused, rough palm jarred Kristen’s cheek once, then the back of the hand smacked the other. Again, and again, the hand whacked her back to her experience.

“Hurry, bro, I want to split that bitch open too.”

She could hear her attacker beginning to groan, his breathing getting faster as he approached orgasm. A new terror, Kristen realized she could end up pregnant.

“NO,” she screamed as she cried hysterically, “Please, I beg of you don’t cum in me.” Laughter filled the air. “Oh, dear God, don’t let this happen. Please, God.”

Struggling, she tried to move away from the men. The strong fellows just held her in place. she jerked this way or that but couldn’t break free. “Please, don’t please, please don’t do this.”

Her cries fell on death ears as he pounded even harsher. The men had to know how much she hated it. That notwithstanding, they didn’t give a shit what she felt or thought.

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Kristen’s Big Mistake Redux

Millie Dynamite

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