Snuff Festival

IV

Toby scooped the water from the shower off his body with the web of his hand and walked back to his room in the compound. His skin had a natural luster to it which made it shimmer as if it were constantly wet, so the water only enhanced Toby's deep, natural radiance. The tall black man retrieved the single possession he had in the room--a silver-plated photo case.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fondling the worn case as if it were his cock, noting the areas where the silver was so thin that is was almost worn away to the cheap metal underneath. This was all too familiar to him. He had been doing the same thing over and over so much in the past thirteen years that it was almost a ritual, so that when he snapped open the latch and looked fondly at the black and white photo on the right side his dark index finger lovingly and automatically traced over it--from the gnarled tree trunk, down the rope, across the wound of the man's neck, to the awkwardly dangling head, across the limp torso with its hands tied behind its back, down over the mutilated groin and straight legs, and finally stopping at the downwardly pointing, drooping toes.

He sighed and brought the finger up to the face. It was, for all intents and purposes, his face. In reality, it had been his grand-uncle's face, but he could see all of his own distinctive features in it, even through the bulging eyes and opened mouth. The body was a bit different, though. Toby's grand-uncle was slim and lanky with a flatter chest whereas Toby had deliberately avoided that by working out. His own chest had nicely developed pectoral humps and moderately muscular arms and shoulders. Where the figure in the picture looked like it had a nearly flat ass ("Unlike the rest of us niggers in 'dis family," his grandfather had said), Toby's was round and hard, jutting out behind him almost as if his body had been separated at the waist and later rejoined him with the bottom half slightly off-center and raised.

Toby was almost in a trance, looking at the picture. He had seen the picture the first time when he was only seven. His grandfather had been drunk--not an unusual state for him--when Toby blundered into the room, believing his grandfather was out.

"Hey, Cuntman!" the older man had bellowed, teasing him about his name. His mother had tried to name him after the 'Roots' character, but she was functionally illiterate and had put on his birth certificate "Cunta Quintay" instead. She had done this out of racial pride, but that had worn off, so instead of "Kunta," the family started calling him Toby--the name the white master had insisted Kunta have. His abusive grandfather, however, had always busted his gut laughing at his daughter-in-law's spelling error and still called Toby "Cuntman."

"Cuntman! Get that little black ass of yours over here. Ah got somethin' to show ya."

He remembered his grandfather's heavy movements that day, no doubt a result of the inebriated state he was in, and, as a boy, he feared the older, well-built man would slap him upside the head and have him run down to the liquor store. But the man was almost friendly. He put his arm around the boy's shoulder and pulled him in--even though the boy tried to escape the stinky breath so close to his perfect, wide nostrils.

"Now listen here, boy. I'm gonna show ya what those fucking white folk are like. Now, look here," he had said reverently, grabbing the silver photo case. "This here is what those rednecks did to my brother--your grand-uncle. He had raped a coupla' white women--oh yeah. didn't I ever tell you how horny that bastard was? Fucked anything that moved, women, men, cows even! Heh, heh. He had one nice pecker, he did--just like all of da men in this family. Ha! Har!"

He slapped the boy on the back as hard as he would a full-grown man's. Then he took another swig of whiskey and pulled down his zipper, but that was all.

"I wasn't home at the time dey come fo' him," he said quietly. "Life in our house was always loud and frantic and my older brother here was always in trouble, so's I stayed away 'lot. Anyway, those fuckin' rednecks burst down my mama's front door and dragged my brotha' outta his bed. They dragged him along the floor, down the steps and across the ground, which was tearing his boxers offa him while he frantically tried to escape and pull them back up. They threw him into a truck and drove off. That was the las' my mamma saw a' him--alive, that is."

Toby's grandfather stopped and sighed.

"The next time I saw him, he was like this--still swinging. No dick. No balls. An' his head ... it was so twisted ... jus' like dat--he had a skinny neck, like yours. Fact, you looks like him a bit. I gots other pictures of him when he was your age ... lessee. Yeah. Here day be." His grandfather closed the silver case and dragged out more pictures, but the seven-year-old wasn't really interested in those pictures. He had become morbidly fascinated with the picture in the case. It called his name.

Toby had had fitful dreams for several weeks. Dreams of white men shouting obscene things while a terrified young black was dragged out and a rope squeezed his long, narrow neck. Oddly, he looked forward to these dreams. They weren't nightmares to him--and he often imagined that HE was the one in the dream. HE felt the hot, pale hands roughly grab him and force him to stand while they looked on and crudely remarked about HIS appearance or his race. HE saw the little white boy in the picture grinning at him.

And then there was the lynching itself. HE could feel the texture of the rope weighing on his shoulders and snug against his narrow throat. In the dreams, it was TOBY, the gaping boy, who nervously looked about and waited for--no, wanted--the hanging to happen. But the dreams always stopped when the powerful pair of hairy hands pulled on the rope or when the truck, with the rope tied to its bumper, inched forward--lifting him to stand on his toes, and then ...

When the dreams stopped or became less intense, Toby knew he had to see the picture again--and again. He didn't dare ask his grandfather, but whenever Toby got a chance to be over at his grandfather's house when the man wasn't home or was passed out, Toby would sneak around looking for that case. It wasn't kept in the box in the closet with the other photos he had seen, though.

It had taken him six months of diligent detective work, but he found it under the phone books in a small cabinet. He was happier now and sought all kinds of excuses to visit his grandfather's house, even when the older man was there. He would even make the dangerous trip to the liquor store for the man--just so he could look at the photo when the older man was passed out. He always put it back exactly where it was in exactly the same position.

He was twelve when he was discovered. He was so absorbed in looking at the details of the photo that he didn't hear his grandfather grunt as he got up from his usual passed-out position sprawled half-naked all over the couch. Toby had been getting erections for some time over looking at men, but he got the biggest ones while looking at this photo of his grand-uncle and at all of the smiling white men's faces--even the prepubescent boy's.

"Yeah, boy!" His grandfather's voice startled him and he quiltily snapped the case shut, nervously trying to put it back into the cabinet. Fortunately, he had had a telephone book on his lap which was covering his gigantic erection. Grandpa's prediction about genital size had been true.

"Ya'll better watch out for those white folks. We ain't had a lynching here since my brother got his damn neck stretched, but some of those folks is still around. An' you is getting to look more and more like my brother ev'ry day. Now open up dat phone book and get me a pizza."

His grandfather was shot to death in a bar over a gambling dispute when Toby was thirteen. The lad immediately went into the old house and confiscated the picture.

In college, he had had copies made of the original and two poster-size enlargements. One of the posters he put on the door to his dorm room and the other was taped above his bed. His roommate/lover--a white football player (which would have made his grandfather roll over in his grave and shout: "Didn't I tell ya ta watch out for white folks, boy?")--at first thought Toby was making some kind of racial political statement. The black had become fascinated with lynchings and had drawings, newspaper photos and articles all over the dorm. He even had a cartoon drawing from a newspaper of a lynching laminated and placed on the other side of the silver picture case.

Jack had a classic football player's body, and a sex drive that was almost insatiable. It matched Toby's. Jack would take out Toby's glistening member and lick it upwards with his rough tongue as if it were some kind of black candy cane.

The tongue action would drive Toby wild and he would grab the football player's head and, when Jack's lips spread over the top of Toby's marble-hard obelisk, he would throw the head down over his rod and keep Jack's head pumping on his cock faster than Jack could've done it unassisted. Toby liked it when Jack wore his football helmet since he could grab it and force it down well, and he liked the feel of the face-guard as it rammed his nuts.

Jack stayed with him for three years until Toby began to ask his muscled lover to start choking him with his belt. At first, Jack thought this was a passing kinkiness, but once or twice, Toby turned ashen--just as he shot wads of cum--and passed out. This scared the poor athlete and he switched rooms the following year since Toby kept insisting they play "strangle the colored guy," as Toby called it.

When he graduated, Toby spent a significant amount of time researching those other men who also were in the picture. Most of the older men were dead, but he discovered who the twelve-year-old in the picture was and that he was currrently only 55--and was still living in the community.

Toby made himself look as different from his grand-uncle as he could so as not to tip the man off. He also discovered that the man was as gay as they cum and this opened up an avenue for him to continue his "research." The older man was quite nice and was really hot in bed, too. Toby had had sex with him at least a dozen times before Johnny asked him to move in with him.

Toby's fascination with the people who had been at his grand-uncle's lynchings may have started his relationship with Johnny, but Toby actually came to like the man--even love him. He didn't start to ask about the picture until several months after they had moved in together.

"Have I ever seen a lynching? Well, ... I don't know as I want to say. Why do you ask?"

Toby showed Johnny the picture.

"Holy shit!" Johnny was angry, but not at Toby--at his own father. He settled back onto the couch and sighed. "Yeah, I remember it like it was yesterday. My dad was the sheriff in these parts. He was a real 'upstanding member of the community,'" Johnny spat bitterly.

"That night, he pulled me out of bed with this eager look on his face and hurried me to get dressed, pulling my shirt over my head so hard and fast it hurt. 'Hurry up, boy! Daddy's got a job ta do tonight and I wants ya there ta see it. Ah'm gonna take ya ta a nice ol' fashioned LYNCHIN'! It's about time ya gits to see how one should be done so's it's done up right!'

"My pappy was real proud of being the sheriff and felt that it was important that he be at the lynching to lend it some aura of the law. The lynchers, he kept telling me on the way, were law abiding citizens and they needed to have the sanction of the law there."

"Tell me about what you saw when you got there. What did this man look like? What did he say? What did they do to him?" Toby had laid his head onto Johnny's lap and the older white man was stroking his hair as Toby stroked the older man's thigh.

"Well, I was still half asleep when we pulled up and I wasn't really expectin' much--until the truck pulled in. A rowdy bunch of the worst riff raff from town were hootin' and hollerin' and drinkin' up a storm on the truck, whistlin' out to the others by the tree--that tree there in the picture (we eventually cut it down).

"The truck screeched to a stop and these hooligans jumped out slapping ev'rybody's shoulders and shakin' hands. My dad tried to look all official like, but I could tell he was bustin' at the seams to get into the camaraderie of the party-like mood and try to be important. Besides, the other men brushed him aside when he said they were going to have to do this law-like. 'Law-like!' one of the men laughed. 'The law don't gots nuttin' to do wit dis. We's just hanging us a nigger!'

"Oh. I'm sorry Toby. I usually don't say that word."

"That's okay, Johnny. That's how those rednecks talked in those days. Blacks use it all the time, now, and I kind of like it. Go on."

Johnny sighed and shrugged. It was obvious that Toby wouldn't let up until he had finished the story, and with the younger man rubbing his thigh and him remembering the details, his white prick was stirring in his pants. He knew he'd have to fuck Toby as soon as he was done with his tale.

"Okay, then. I was tired and my eyes were startin' to droop a bit. Well, after the men went around bragging and carousing, I looked over at the truck and saw a pair of frightened eyes looking over the top. Did my eyes pop open! One of the men, a big, thick-necked brute, opened the truck and pulled this young buck out. The Negro was bruised, and when he was pulled to the ground, several men kept kicking him. I tried to get a better look because one of the men kept kicking him in the balls.

"He writhed and screamed and begged them to stop or to kill him. 'Oh yeah! Don't worry. We'll kill you all right. We just don't want to rush it!' the big one, Sam, had said. The Negro just let his mouth drop as it sunk in. He had just been making talk to stop the kickin'. Now the buck just turned ashen 'cause he knew he was really gonna die, and he didn't say a thing from then on, almost 'til the end. He just gave up.

"They tied his hands behind his back and my dad said they should tie his legs together. 'Naw! Then he won't dance as much!' Slim said. That'd be Gene 'Slim' Jackson."

"Oh yeah. I know him," Toby raised his head. "He owned the newspaper, didn't he? I didn't see him in the picture, though."

"That's 'cause he was the one takin' the picture. Anyways, my paw came behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. He pushed me up in front telling ev'rybody that 'The boy should see this up close so's he knows what to do when he gets older.' I think it was just an excuse for him to get as close to the action as he dared.

"I was fascinated by the naked black man in front of me. He was looking straight at me as if I could help him. His eyes weren't pleading with me though. He knew he was beyond help. Anyways, they pulled him up by the armpits and drug him to the tree. He tried to skitter away, but they kept kicking his feet out from under him and drug him over.

"He was a handsome man--well, hung, too. 'Smatter of fact, he looked a lot like you, although you gots a better build 'cause you works out. Sam drug the rope out of the back seat of the truck. It was a brand new rope. I had seen it at the hardware store only a week afore and had wanted my paw to by it for my club house. He had smiled and said it was a special rope that only the coloreds used, and then he smiled and chuckled at the clerk.

"They made the poor man stand on a milk crate and they roughly slipped the noose over his head. Sam yanked on it and brought the black man's face close to his and hissed, 'So ya like to do the dirty dance with white wimmen, eh? Now yuhll do it for the white men--one ... last ... time!' And he kept jerking on the rope, tightening it with each word.

"Somebody made a speech about how the colored folks was getting out of line, lately, and how they was pushing for civil rights and all. I wasn't listening, though. I was just watching this scared, handsome buck standing up on his pedestal. I looked up and saw his dark, dangling balls and his long, thick dick. It was sticking right out in front of him, real hard, ya know?

"Yeah. I know," Toby grinned as he showed his own long, thick lack rod. Johnny reached over to stroke it, but Toby wanted to know more.

"Well, there isn't much more. A few people threw rocks, but Sam stopped that with a glare. I later found out it was his sister that the colored boy had fucked--they called it rape, but even I knew she was a slut. The black guy spit in Sam's face and snarled, 'Yo' know she was begging me for it, so I stuck dis big ol' cock a' mine to her like SHE wanted. She's a slut!' Sam kicked the milk crate out from under the poh' black man ... ya can see it over there by the tree trunk. See? Well, this set the boy swinging--and kicking, and gasping."

Johnny closed his eyes to gather in the details.

"His legs arched out and this got me a great view of his cock and balls. His balls kept scrunching up like they does when a man is fuckin' or masterbatin'. The poh' man's struggles only tightened the rope and his toes almost touched the ground. If I were only older and if my paw wasn't digging his fingers inta my shoulders, I would've lifted those legs up, cut him down, taken him to the truck, drove off to another county and had that huge dick for my own. But I didn't. An' I never did get to see a dick like that agin--'til you come along, that is."

He smiled down at the hot black whose dick was in his white fist. He stroked it. Toby's eyes were glazed, imagining the details as if he were there.

"Thuh poor boy almost made it to the ground, but his neck was all stretched like ya see it in the picture and his face was all bloated and puffy-like. His toes was all spread out from each other and they arched upwards as he did it.'

Johnny paused.

"Did what?" Toby pressed him.

"Well, maybe I shouldn't say this, but the buck shot a load of white cream outta that black cannon like it was fit ta beat the band. Huge bullets of white jism were shooting everywhere, hitting all of us in the front row like he was going to get back at us and kill us with his cum-bullets in revenge. I got some on my face--and my paw slapped down hard on my shoulder saying, 'Happens ev'ry time! Just like clockwork. When a nigger gets lynched he just has to get rid of his cum. Maybe he's dreamin' 'bout Sam's sister!' He taunted Sam.

"'Oh, yeah?' Sam was red with anger. I don't know if he heard my paw or not--I doubt it, but he had gotten shot in the face, too, with the man's last juice."

Toby was sliding his pink tongue over his dark, thick lips and was licking Johnny's very hard prick, picking up speed as the story progressed.

"Oh, God! Toby! Keep that up! Where was I? Oh, yeah. Sam grabbed the poor nigger's stiff cock in his left hand and his hunting knife in his right and swiped through the base of that enormous prick like he was trimming a tree branch or something. There wasn't much blood. The buck was daid as a doornail, but jism jes' kept oozing out of the wound. Someone else cut off his tits and balls like ya see missing there, and Sam dropped the cock--right into my twelve-year-old hand. That was when the picture was took."

Toby's cock exploded and drooled over Johnny's hand and a short time later, Johnny's cock erupted into Toby's eager mouth.

Johnny's face clouded and he turned away from Toby.

"Ah've been ashamed of that day for all these years," tears dripped down his cheeks.

Toby was stunned. "Why?"

"'Cause it was wrong. What my paw and those men did to that poh' black man was wrong. And yes, ya kin tell me I didn't have nuthin' to do with it and that ah couldn't stop it--ah've told that to myself for decades, ... but I liked it! Ah'm ashamed acuz it turned me on then, even at the tender age of twelve and still does to this day. Hardly a day goes by when I don't see that handsome body dangling there, his life drained outta him, and remember the feel of that dismembered cock in my little hand."

"I'm glad you told me, Johnny. I've always wanted to know what my grand-uncle's last moments were like. Maybe that's why you were there. It might have been some Divine plan that somebody should have witnessed it so that he could tell me about it later."

"Bullshit!"

The two men didn't speak about the story again until several months later when Johnny was diagnosed with that terminal illness. That was when Toby made his big decision. Oh, he had always wanted to be hung like in the picture, but he figured he'd wait until he was forty or so. But with Johnny being sick, he knew he wanted to get lynched so Johnny could see it.

When he told Johnny about his plans, the white man was horrified. He blanched, then turned red and screamed at Toby not to do it.

"But I WANT to do it, and I would have done it whether I ever met you or not. This way, you get to watch a man who wants to be hung--no guilt this time. This time, I want you to be turned on--I'd be crushed if you weren't!"

Both men had watched the videotapes of the past few Quadrennial festivals and were always at their hottest after the hangings were played. Johnny still tried to talk Toby out of it because he selfishly wanted Toby to be there for him until he died of his illness.

The Quadrennial Council, in weeding out the merely curious from the serious participants, had also tried to dissuade Toby by playing on his somewhat young age. He wasn't even thirty yet, why not wait? But Toby was adamant, saying he'd hang himself in Johnny's backyard or in his living room without any other audience or any cameras. The Council decided that it would be a waste not to let Toby participate if he was THAT determined.

So here he was, on HIS day.

Johnny was there--right by the tree that the Director had managed to get installed. It looked almost like the tree in the picture, with one sturdy branch stretching way out from the trunk.

Toby was pulled from the back of a truck. Yes, his stomach was kicked and his balls, too, and there was the milk crate, of course--only it was bigger than the one used for his grand-uncle since Toby didn't want to be accidentally touching the ground and stopping the hanging.

A guy looking just like Sam had been hired, but he wasn't the one who kicked the crate away this time. Johnny grabbed the noose and roughly yanked it so Toby's face was in front of his.

"Ya shur ya ready to go through with this ... nigger?" he spoke roughly, although the last word was difficult for him because he loved Toby so. It had been Toby's script, through.

The young buck grinned and Johnny showed him a silver case.

"This was were I put yer grand-uncle's parts and kept them for these years," he opened it and it was empty. Johnny looked fondly at Toby's equipment. "Now ah guess ah'll just have to use it to store yourn."

Toby grinned and stood up as Johnny gave a vicious kick to the milk crate. Since he had often practiced being strangled and hung, the familiar pain in his neck and the gasping sensations were nothing new to Toby. He could actually feel his neck get longer and his throat more narrow as he danced his macabre jig. His thick lips parted to let his tongue hang out and his wide nostrils flared spasmically for air.

However, he was far more excited this time than ever before, concentrating on all of his heightened sensations, his kicks were wider and he spread his legs out more. Was it instinct, or had he remembered what Johnny had said about his grand-uncle doing the same and how Johnny had looked up at his grand-uncle's balls that time too?

It didn't matter, of course. The buzzing in his ears became louder, but he did hear the shouts of the crowd as he felt his groin erupt into the best damn orgasm he had ever experienced. His cock was a cannon shooting white cannonballs across the field and onto Johnny's face. Cannonballs, not bullets like his grand-uncle had done, Toby thought, proud that he had beat his own relative's record.

Circles and dots clouded his vision. Red and black ones. But he thought he heard Johnny's voice say his scripted lines.

"Yep. Happens ev'ry time! Just like clockwork. When a nigger gets lynched he just has to get rid of his cum."

The rope's squeaking on the branch became quieter. The sunlight bounced off the gleaming black skin as the limp body twisted. Johnny and "Sam" took their souvenirs as the crowd cheered and pumped their own pricks to orgasm. Johnny got them all, though, this time.

Johnny died two days later. He hung himself, too. Shot a good load, too, I might add, but there hadn't been a crowd to cheer HIM on.

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