My name is Jan Thomas, and I am a History 12 teacher in public school.
Life as a teacher when you look like me is filled with low grade annoyance. I stand about five seven, with long red hair, blue eyes behind dark rimmed glasses. It is the 48GG-40-46 curves that make teaching a mixed-race school in the city a trial.
Teenage boys long on hormones, short on self control, and a staff that was largely made of males who were unable to understand that when I said married it did not mean we have to be discrete, it meant not interested. There are some students that make it all worthwhile, Henry was one of them. One of the ones you will remember forever, a kid who with a little bit of help might one day change the world.
I had jumped at the chance to mentor him in the Directed Studies independent learning course, and now his application for the project was in, and I was shocked.
Spartacus II: Gladiator revolution through political prostitution as racial political activism
“Premise: The slave revolt of the gladiators under Spartacus against the late Roman Republic ended with a slave crucified on every mile post along the Appian way because the Gladiators accepted the slave owners premise that violence was the only legitimate form of struggle for political dominance. The Gladiators of Rome were the star athletes of their age, and the women of the highest classes paid handsomely for the chance to be possessed even once by one.
Had Spartacus embraced the power of sexuality and not violence, his revolution against the slave owning money class of Rome would have been fought with Patrician daughters selling their bodies as prostitutes in front of those same milestones for their Gladiator lovers; to force the redistribution of wealth through the surrender of the bodies of their daughters, rather than through pitting the might of the gladiators against the most formidable military power in the world.”
It is not often that I find myself shocked and horrified by the ideas in a student’s paper, but Henry Martin was an unusual boy. A large quiet boy, a defensive lineman on our high school football team, he had an intensity to his focus that was a little frightening. His academic record was above average, but strange in the sense that it was just slightly above average in most areas, but where he showed an interest in something, his focus and follow-through made his performance the stuff that teachers talked about among themselves.
When Henry chose to excel, he excelled. His passion made him a natural choice for Directed Studies, and when I was offered the chance to be his teacher for the Directed Study this year, I was more than happy to accept.
His proposal was one that I was interested to see. One of the topics offered for Directed Studies this year was “Practical steps toward social justice and harmony in America”. Normally this topic drew a whole lot of MLK/Gandhi/Dalai Lama dreamers with a lot of passion, but no real ideas beyond “if we all got along”, and I was interested to see where Henry would go with it.
Now I was horrified. I cannot see letting one of my students spend a semester exploring prostitution as a cure to class and racial tensions in contemporary America.
I emailed Henry to come see me after second block for a counseling session about his Directed Studies. The office for Directed Studies was one of the small tutoring rooms, little more than a small meeting room with a desk, table, two chairs, and a couch in the back corner for quiet time if someone required it.
It was an intimate location for those times when you required privacy to let students feel freer to express themselves without the major social cues that screamed “public speaking, freak out now”.
It allowed us to have more frank discussions on many matters across the power differential between student and teacher by establishing a between space, where we could collaborate as peers, rather than direct from above as instructors. I would need that for this discussion.
I did not want to kill the creativity, and the honest passion that drove Henry, he just needed to understand that prostitution was never an answer, the exploitation of women was never right.
If things got heated, and he became upset, he still had the remainder of third block and all of lunch to collect himself before the last two blocks of the day. I would try to be gentle.
Henry entered the room, his text books looking like paperbacks in those huge black hands of his, a warm smile on his face softening the lines of a face that was frequently either locked tight to show nothing at all, or focused like a laser on a target.
“Come in Henry, why don’t you sit here on the couch with me so we can discuss your proposal and talk over a couple of concerns I had as your Directed Studies guide,” I greeted him warmly.
My voice had a very real warmth and welcome in it, because somehow Henry always brought that out in me, making it an actual pleasure to teach him.
He casually closed and locked the door, I should have interrupted and told him to leave it open, as regulations required during one on one student/teacher conferences, but considering that I wanted to set a collaborative, not confrontational tone for the meeting, I decided to let it slide.
His smile lit his face, as he slid onto the couch in an untidy sprawl that took up two thirds of the couch, and left him pressed leg to leg with me, I guess because I forgot just how large he really was.
I saw the slow lazy smile he fixed on me, and realized he knew exactly what this was about, and had come not simply prepared, but eager to discuss his project with me.
“So, Miss T (my classes nickname for me, short for Miss Thomas, even though I am Mrs Thomas), are you excited as I am to explore how prostitution not revolution is the answer to this second Gladiator’s revolt?” He cut right to it, and casually, he asked me.
I began my prepared speech about the objectification of women, and how wrong it was, but I was stopped cold when Henry rose to his full height, overtopping my 5’7” by nearly a foot, and being almost twice as wide.
With a look of anger, he pulled his loose fitting jersey over his head, and stood clad only in loose shorts, socks and shoes. He reached down and pulled me to my feet as one hand casually captured both of mine. Turning that look of intensity on me, he froze me in my tracks like a rabbit before a hawk.
“Objectification? The black man is objectified more than any other. Look at me, look at my body. I am a gladiator in the pits every damned day for the white Patricians pleasure. Look at the bruises, but you have to look closely, because the bruises are easier to hide under black skin. Trace the lines of the breaks on my ribs, see the scar tissue on my forearm where my arm bone broke through the skin two seasons ago,” His rebuttal was angry, harsh.
He stood like a snorting bull in the center of the room, dominating it. Still but potent as an angry god, I found myself tracing the lines of his scars with my soft white hands, noting the long list of damages already incurred on his magnificent, but battered body.
He continued now, not in anger but in a terrible hopeless pain, “We sacrifice ourselves by the thousands to provide the top hundreds to play for leagues which bring in tens of billions. For every black man who makes it big, three hundred ended up crippled for life in lesser arenas long before the big stage. Most of those who make it, will eke out a living for a few years, and then be tossed aside like garbage when they break, or wear out. A few of the greats will make it big, and inspire thousands more to sacrifice again, so the patricians in their mansions can make their billions on the bodies of modern black gladiators!”
He paused and looked me in the eye, speaking with a passionate wounded pride, “We battle each other every week, while the children of the slave owners can trade us like commodities, sell us to each other like their ancestors bought and sold my own. That is what they think of us, property. Objects. Animals, good for only one thing, making the masters money!” he said with a snarl.
He shifted and winced, a look of pain crossing his face. He spoke now low and throbbing with passion.
“We know the cost. We play hurt, knowing we could be crippled for life, because there are scouts in the crowd, and for the chance to get out of here, for the slim chance to make it out, we will risk crippling ourselves our dying. Leave our blood on the grass, not the sand. Feel my knee Miss T, you feel what I put my body through to provide pleasure for the sons of the slave owners, and then you listen to me, perhaps then you will understand,” wordlessly he pushed down on my shoulders, and I knelt at his feet.
My trembling hands traced up the strong corded black muscles of his leg until I got to his knee. It was swollen, visibly thicker right knee than left, but the shock was the heat. It was hot to the touch, inflamed, clearly damaged. The skin above and below was indented, from wearing a knee brace. HE HAD PLAYED when he shouldn’t even be walking! He must be in agony.
I looked up at him, my wide blue eyes tearing up as I looked into the blazing hot anger in his; a modern gladiator, a slave who knows himself to be a slave, one who is forced to sell himself as a gladiator just for the chance to get out. A slave forced to accept his body as the only commodity he has to purchase even the slimmest chance of getting out and having a life.
I began to cry, and wordlessly I kissed his knee softly.
A low rumble built in his chest, like the purr of a three-hundred-pound lion. His strong black hand settled with such gentleness on my face. He caressed my hair, stroked along the line of my cheek, my chin. I found myself moaning and melting into his touch; so powerful and gentle.
Turning my face up to his, looking up from his thigh, I saw his other hand was stroking his shorts, and they were bulging around something the thickness of my wrist that stirred inside them.
He looked into my eyes, looked into me, and this time, this time I saw his rage, his pain, and his potency, the terrible power of his will, and it consumed me. His words now struck like whips as he scourged me.
“The white men objectify me as their gladiator, their trained animal to fight for their pleasure in the pits, the new coliseums. That is fine. They objectify you white women as well. Their prizes, their trophies, the symbols of success, whose ownership constitutes winning. Well if we have to battle our own, shed our blood each night in the pits for their pleasure, then we will rise up, we will rise up like Spartacus, and we will take control, we will have our revolution, and this time we will win!” he said stroking his cock through his shorts.
He looked down on me with such fury, such terrible rage that I was spellbound. I did not fear him, for he was gentle in his touch, but his rage was such that I felt such a need to placate it, to heal the wounds in him, make right the terrible wrongs of his abuse at the hands of a system that left him no route out but voluntary slavery as a gladiator.
“I will not be a fool, and take up the Roman’s sword, and let them use violence to put me down. No Miss T. I will take up the sword of God, the sword that God put in the hands of the black man, so that he could conquer the wives and daughters of the slave owners. Teach them to bow down to us, to make right the ancient wrongs. To redistribute the wealth and power from the hands of those who do nothing, but take everything, to those who do everything, and are left with nothing,” He said took my hands and moved them to his cock.
Moving of their own volition, my hands began to stroke his hardening cock through his loose shorts. The heat in his cock and its terrible heavy potency reminded me of the heat and pain coming from his knee, the trace-work of scars already marring his godlike young body.
I understood how much the system had already taken from him, and understood as well as he did how little chance he or any of the bright young black men in this school had of every “getting out” and entering the suburban dream of a prosperous middle class, much less the upper class for whose pleasure his body was being sacrificed.
“Draw my sword Miss T. Draw the sword of the black revolution if you are ready to be part of the change!” he said as flashed that smile of his at me.
He had his phone out, and he was filming me, openly, defiantly. As I moved to pull down his shorts, he stopped my hand, and made the Victory sign, the V with his fingers.
Henry spoke quietly, “Do you know what this symbol means? It isn’t V for Victory, it is the old Roman symbol for conquest. V for Vie Victus, woe to the fallen. It is the sign that the Roman’s made when they had conquered a city and prepared to take its people as their slaves. If you draw my sword, I am going to conquer you, I am going to enslave you, and I am going to use your white body, to sell your fine white trophy wife body to gain for myself the wealth your system will never let me have unless I am lucky enough to be one of the very rare gladiators who survives in the pits long enough to walk over the body of his last brother to freedom!” the passion and power was so evident in his voice.
I was wet, so wet. I felt his passion, his hunger, his rage, and my body was howling its own need to submit, to surrender, to serve. My nipples were so hard and swollen you could see them through my bra, blouse and sweater.
I reached up, and pulled down his pants, and released a cock at least half again as long as my husbands, well over twice as thick and heavy. It slapped me in the face.
Henry took one hand and grabbed my French braid to hold my hair and keep me just level with the end of his cock, mouth open, attempting like a starving baby bird to capture it with my mouth.
He rubbed his cock all over my face, slapped it against my tongue, smeared his pre cum all over my face, and the entire time he scolded me, instructed me, and warned me.
“Listen to me Miss T, this is the Black Sword of the Revolution, and by this I will conquer you. If you are taken by my sword, you will be mine. You will not be Miss T, my teacher, you will be Misty, my whore. You understand me bitch?” Henry’s voice was low, throbbing, and potent
Deep with pain, throbbing with passion, his voice soared strong and proud, “This is a revolution within the law. This is the acceptance of your need to pay reparations, your need to do community service, and your need to pay me, the exploited gladiator, a fine for the exploitation of my body, of my brothers and sisters, and of my race by your race, and all the fine Patricians of this New Rome we live in. If you fall under my sword, there is no going back, if you accept my sword, you accept my terms, and you will no longer be Miss T my teacher, but my slave, my prostitute, my property. You will be Misty, my fine piece of white ass, and you will see what revolutionary prostitution looks like first fucking hand!” I was desperate at that point, his words went through me.
His soft touch combined with his hard words were making my body react like nothing I had ever seen, nothing I had ever felt. I broke. I began begging, he snapped his fingers and drew my attention to the camera in his phone, so I faced it and repeated myself.
“Please Henry, please let me suck your beautiful black cock, please take me with it, own me, conquer me. Make my Misty, your little white whore. Please Henry, I am begging you!”
He fed me his cock. I had never been so eager to taste a cock in my life. Oh my god, I had forgotten how much harder young boys get than late middle-aged men like my husband. It was like a black bar of hot iron. He thrust into my mouth to establish his dominance, and work out his initial rage, and I was a drooling tearing mess when he calmed down, and let me start to love his cock as I wanted to show him he should be loved.
As I lapped down his cock to take his heavy black balls lovingly in my mouth, he stroked my cheek, and told me I was making a mess of myself, and looked quite unprofessional. I realized I had drooled all over my sweater, and soon my blouse would be ruined too with a mix of drool, makeup, tears, and precum.
He gestured for me to rise, and I did. I began to take off my clothes, but he cleared his throat, and reminded me of the camera.
“As Miss T, you were part of the system that made me an object, a gladiator, a modern black slave. As Misty, you are my property, and if the system objectified me, it is my job to properly objectify you. Now is that any way to display my property? Come on now, if being a gladiator comes naturally to black men, then being a whore comes naturally to white women. Show me you were born to be my whore, strip like you know you are beautiful. Strip like you are worth paying for,” His voice was now playful.
His eyes were not angry now, they were hot, lustful, and possessive. I was his property, and I wanted him to desire me, to want me, to see me as an object of worth, even of great worth to him.
I began to sway like I was dancing, I moved with the training of the ballet and jazz I had learned as a girl and young adult, as well as some of the belly dancing I took after childbirth to regain my figure. I danced for him, and his camera.
I stripped for him, displaying myself, teasing him. Touching my breasts, caressing them, playing my hands slowly down my body as I stripped my panties from my hips, and revealed my waxed pussy, bare save for a tiny red landing strip at the top. Showing my married pink pussy, so swollen and open like a budding flower in my need to serve my new owner.
I drew my finger down my fold, and then up to my mouth to lick off the sweet honey.
“Please sir, may I suck your cock again?” I asked Henry, in a little girl voice.
Taking me by my French braided hair, he conducted me back to my knees in front of him and smiled as he felt me take him back into my mouth.
Henry smirked, “Sir, I like that Misty. I like that you get the change in our status. I am sir to you, and you are slut, whore, or if I am particularly happy with you, Misty, to me. You are beginning to understand how being objectified reduces you to something less than you were, something less than you should be,” he paused before going on, “You are a beautiful, educated, and successful woman, but I am going to turn you into a brainless little whore, who exists only to earn me money, in the hope that she will be allowed to know the worship of the Black Sword that conquered her,” He began to thrust faster, my breasts where slapping against his thighs as he began to really face fuck me.
I admit, I was a little short of breath, as sometimes I couldn’t breathe as his thrusts became ragged. I felt his cock swell, I mean HUGE. I cupped his ass cheeks as a hunger I can’t explain exploded in me, and I sucked him so hard as he began to explode into my mouth.
He came and came, oh my god, I choked, swallowed simply to avoid drowning, then swallowed again, and again. I whimpered and crawled forward on my knees like a retarded penguin as Henry stepped back with his cock as the sensations became too much for him. Pulling my head off by my braid, Henry slapped my face with his semi hard cock and teased me.
“Ah ah ah, my desperate little whore. You have to give a brother some recovery time before you get the treat your fine white ass has earned. I am going to take you Misty. I am going to own that white ass, and you are going to always know that you are mine,” pulling me to my feet, he kissed my neck, cupped my breasts and tweaked the nipples in his strong hands.
His fingers were so knowing for a boy his age, and he was rough with my nipples, mixing pain and pleasure as he sucked my nipples then lightly bit them. Sucking on one, tweaking the other, his left hand alternated between cupping my ass, and spanking it. He alternated between pleasing and punishing until I was in a frenzy, lost in lust, reduced to nothing but a pile of urges below any trace of sentient thought. An animal for him to train.
Pushing me onto the desk, face down, he slid his fingers until they trapped my clit, and he began to rub me as he traced between my pussy and ass with his muscular tongue. He dipped into my pussy, and lapped at me like a treat, before coming up for air, slapping my ass hard enough to leave a bright handprint.
“Goddamn that is some sweet pussy, but I told you, I am going to own that fine white ass of yours today, and now I am going to teach you how” without another word, he dove in between my ass cheeks and began to French kiss my bum.
I was losing my mind. His tongue was deep inside me, dancing, probing, thrusting. I had never had anything in my ass, and the sensations were unfamiliar, and I felt a strange tension beginning to build behind my belly button.
Working my clit as he frenched my tight pink ass, Henry began to work in a finger, long, hard, and thick almost as my husbands cock, he began to thrust his finger into me as he fingered my clit. As he did he instructed me, taught me, trained me as his whore.
“I said I was going to own your white ass, and I meant it. You are going to beg me to fuck your ass, and you are going to swear that your ass belongs only to me, no other man will ever use it. I will rent out that over privileged white mouth, I will rent out those fine white titties, and I will sell that tight pink pussy to any damn man or woman with the cash to pay my bills, but your ass is my own personal property, and no man but me will ever touch it, do you get me bitch?” he barked at me.
He had three fingers in my ass at this point, and while my training in feminism, my Christian upbringing, and my own morality should have been raging against the idea of being reduced to an object for him to sell, that is not what I felt.
Love, devotion, gratitude. He cared for me! Under all the rage, under all the hurt, even if he was going to fight the system that turned him into nothing more than a piece of meat, a gladiator fit only to fight for the entertainment of powerful men who would use and discard him like garbage, even after all of that, he treasured me personally.
He would exploit my body, as his was exploited. He would profit from my objectified beauty, as they profited from his objectified strength. He would sell my mouth, my body, my pussy to any man or woman he wanted, and I would do it because he told me to. He would not sell my ass. My ass would be for him alone. I came.
I screamed as I came. Again and again I screamed, “Please fuck my ass, please own my ass, own my married white ass, make my ass yours. I am your slut, your whore, your slave!”
He was gentle, in his own brutal way. He pushed the head in with a shocking thrust. I felt like I was being split in half. I tensed up, I was going to tear like tissue paper!!
He stopped, pressed his body against me, kissed my neck gently, nibbled my earlobe, whispered to me.
“Shhhh, baby, shhh. Its my power, its too much for you to fight. If you fight, you will get hurt. Nature is telling you that you can’t win, you get punished for resisting, you need to surrender. Surrender to my cock, surrender to my ownership, surrender to my discipline. Give up the dream of being my teacher, being my superior or equal. Accept you are my property, my whore. Be my whore, be my slave. Let go all those things that you are not and take my black power into your white ass and accept me as your master,” his words struck me deeply.
He was still, stroking my hair, my flanks, like calming a skittish horse, and all the time his hard, black cock burned inside me like a branding iron. I calmed, I relaxed, and he began to rock into me. Each rock brought a little more in. He got maybe three inches into me as the pain and pleasure washed against each other, but once the flare behind the tip reached that point something gave inside me, and resistance collapsed. He began to stroke.
I felt something shockingly cold pour into my ass crack, as he poured lube onto the join between us. He began to thrust into me. I had trouble breathing, it was like each thrust shocked my insides, but there was a real power building up in me, a different kind of pleasure than vaginal sex, slower, deeper inside somehow.
I began to thrust back against him.
He pulled on my long French braid like the bridal on a horse and began to slap my ass, shouting “Yee haw, going to break in my new white pony, brand that fine white ass, and train it proper. Going to make first string in this stable if you keep being a sweet ride like this!”
I could see where he set his phone up would catch us in profile and he was playing to the camera, making my big tits bounce with every thrust, but he was fucking me like I had never been fucked before.
He used his spanking to keep me from cumming too soon, to distract me. When I was going to cum anyway, he reached out and grabbed both my nipples and pinched hard, the pain shocking me enough that between his stillness, and the nipple pain, he could hold off my orgasm no matter how much I tried to impale myself on him, until he was ready to thrust again.
He was teaching me, training me, breaking me. It worked. I was not his lover, I was not his equal. I was his slave, his property. My pleasure was his to give or withhold. My body was not my own, my body was his. My pleasure was not my own. It was his. I was not my own. I was his. I accepted the truth, and I shouted it.
“My ass is yours, my ass is yours. I am your Whore, I swear it, I swear I am your whore! Please god sir, please own my ass!”
With a roar he began to pound me, great brutal thrusts that drove all sense from me, all restraint from me. I came, but he did not stop fucking me. I felt the spasm start behind my belly button, but it was so strong that it bend my body like a long bow. My knees came off the floor, my head and shoulders drew down until my body formed a C shape. I could not breathe, I was so tight, I couldn’t move. His hard cock was clamped against the full strength of my body, but it forced its way in and out like a spear through helpless flesh, mastering me, owning me, breaking me.
I came, thrashing like an epileptic. I thought I peed myself, as hot honey shot from my pussy like a fine spray, pulse after pulse in time with the spasms rocking my body, one for each thrust as my owner filled my married white ass with the hot potent seed of the finest black gladiator.
He pressed against me, cupping my breasts as he kissed my neck and I felt our twin heartbeats as my little birdlike flutter matched against the triphammer potency of his own as we came slowly down together.
He allowed me to slip to the ground as he stepped back.
I looked him in the eye and crawled to his feet. Looking in the eye, I asked him truthfully;
“Sir, may I be your whore?” I waited, tears standing in my eyes, afraid now that the final humiliation would be that he was done with me, and wouldn’t even take me on as his whore. When he smiled, my heart almost exploded with joy. He nodded and glanced down at his cock, covered in lube, cum, and…well my ass.
Smiling, I cupped his balls in my left hand, his shaft in my right, and took him into my mouth to clean him like a good whore should. Beside my face he made the V sign for his watching camera phone. Vie Victus, woe to the fallen. Spartacus lives. And I am his.
Special thanks to Editor Tahrima Begum for helping this get into its final workable form.