Black Switch Cures White Bitch

Black Switch Cures White Bitch

Copyright 2025 by Stormbringer

John Miller hunched over his whiskey at the sports bar, the chaos of Saturday night a dull roar in his ears. The neon signs--Budweiser, Coors--cast a crimson glow across his tense face, deepening the lines carved by years of outdoor work. The air hung heavy with the stench of stale beer, sweat, and the electric buzz of anticipation as the large wall-mounted plasma TV behind the bar blared pre-fight hype for the boxing match. Jack "The Hammer" Callahan, an Irish bruiser with a 22-0 record, flexed his chiseled frame, his pale freckled skin glistening under the ring lights. Titus Jackson, a massively muscled black newcomer, got a passing nod from the commentators, his hungry eyes ignored. John was looking forward to the fight. He could have watched it at home, but there was something about the atmosphere of a sport's bar that drew him out even if he was drinking alone. Truthfully, there were several tables of friends and coworkers he could have joined, but tonight he preferred to drink alone.

An hour ago, he'd popped an ED pill, its bitter aftertaste still clinging to the back of his tongue like a bad memory. Tonight was supposed to be special. Tomorrow was his and Sarah's seven-year anniversary and they'd finally decided they were financially secure enough to start a family. She was out with friends, hopefully home just after midnight. They'd start their anniversary right, no condom, just raw, primal sex like he'd always wanted. They were trying for a baby, a milestone that would start the next phase of their lives. Tonight was supposed to be special, but his anxiety was consuming him. He needed to prove he could still perform. He'd never felt his five inches were adequate. He'd never given Sarah and orgasm or either of his two previous girlfriends for that matter. His penis was never rock hard, but his real problem was stamina, sometimes cumming in the condom just as he was sliding the head inside his wife. He hoped the pill would help with that, just last long enough he could get it inside and plant his seed in her. Luckily, he was Sarah's only lover and she didn't know any better. She probably could have gone without sex entirely and when she was younger, she'd considered becoming a nun. A nun built like a stripper, but a nun nonetheless. That was part of the problem. He couldn't handle her body. It made his penis want to explode just looking at her. They had to have sex in the dark and even then, he was lucky to get five strokes in.

He glanced at his watch--10 p.m. Sarah was out with her girlfriends, probably sipping wine, her uptight shell cracking under the alcohol's spell. Booze always loosened her, made her less of the prim, church-going wife. Tonight, they'd make love without protection for the first time, and he'd show her he could be the man she needed. The thought sent a jolt through him, but it was tainted by fear--fear of failing her again. John secretly popped a second pill into his mouth, chasing it down with the whiskey.

The bar's door slammed open, Marcus and Tyrone swaggering in, their presence slicing through the crowd like a switchblade. Marcus, 6'4" and built like a goddamn tank, his dark black skin gleaming under the neon lights, radiated raw menace. His flat nose and broad lips framed an angry sneer that made John's stomach twist, a sneer that said he owned every room he walked into. Tyrone, 6'1" and leaner but no less imposing, his dark brown skin taut over rippling muscles, moved with the easy grace of a predator as he scanned the room for female prey. His lips curled up in a cocky grin, easier going than Marcus, but loud-mouthed and full of himself. Both reeked of pot and cheap beer, their clothes--a mix of faded tees and worn jeans--stretched tight over their frames. They were John's construction crew, insubordinate pricks who slacked on the job and mouthed off daily, but with the labor shortage strangling the warehouse, he couldn't fire them. He was stuck, their arrogance a constant thorn in his side. He looked away hoping they would leave him alone with his thoughts.

Marcus slid onto the stool beside John, his bulk pinning him against the bar, the wooden edge digging into his ribs. "S'up, Bossman," he boomed, smacking his shoulder hard enough to spill whiskey over the rim of the glass. "You here for the fight?" He sat on the stool backwards, facing the crowd.

John forced a tight grin, wiping the spill with his sleeve, the damp fabric sticking to his skin. "Just waitin' on Callahan to smash Jackson. Shouldn't take long."

"Bullshit. Ain't know white man can keep up with a black man," said Tyrone, sitting on the stool on John's right.

John stared at him. "Callahan's undefeated!"

"So what?" said Tyrone.

Marcus chuckled. "Always bet on black."

"Fifty bucks says Callahan wins," said John.

"You're on," said Tyrone.

John was feeling cocky. "And with the odds in my favor, I'll give each of you fifty if Jackson wins and you two only have to give me fifty if I win."

"It's a bet," said Marcus reaching out for a beer, his biceps rivaling the black boxer on TV.

John took another sip. "But if I win you two have to show up to work on time for the next two weeks."

"Keep it realistic, Bossman" said Tyrone laughing.

Marcus leaned with his back to the bar, his eyes scanning the bar--mostly white women in tight skirts and low-cut tops, giggling over margaritas with their husbands and boyfriends. Where John and Sarah came from, a small town where everyone looked like them, interracial hookups were unheard of, whispered about like scandals. But Marcus and Tyrone seemed to pull it off with ease, their charm--or maybe their audacity--drawing women like moths to a flame. John couldn't understand it, they were big men, but not particularly attractive and Marcus was downright ugly with broad lips and a nose that looked like it had been smashed with a hammer.

For the next fifteen minutes, John sat and listened to the two black men commenting on every woman in the bar. "The redhead with her man over there keeps checking you out, Marc," said Tyrone.

"Already fucked her. I was hoping for some fresh P, but if the place doesn't pick up, might have to go steal her from her white boy."

John rolled his eyes. He knew the redhead, her "white boy" was her husband, married ten years, went to church with Sarah, Marcus was full of shit about fucking her, but she was flashing eyes at Marcus.

Tyrone threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that turned heads. His eyes locked on a curvy blonde by the jukebox, her ass swaying to some twangy country tune, her skirt riding up her thighs. She danced her way back to a man wearing a cowboy hat. "O'Malley's ain't the best place for finding pussy," he complained. "Mostly a sausage party, but that blonde's got a fine ass. Speakin' of fine asses, where's that hot wife of yours?"

John's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding. "She's out with friends until midnight. We've got a romantic evening planned for later. It's our anniversary tomorrow."

"Bossman gonna get laid tonight," said Tyrone. "Happy anniversary."

"Good for you, bossman," added Marcus. He turned around as the boxers were entering the ring.

The TV flickered, static shredding the screen before cutting to black. All the TVs went out. The bar erupted in groans, glasses clinking in frustration. "Fuckin' cable," Marcus growled, slamming his beer bottle down, the glass wobbling on the sticky counter as foam poured out of the top.

"John, you been bragging about that big 50-inch at home, right?" Tyrone leaned in. "I heard about your super bowl party."

John's gut twisted, a cold knot forming. He deliberately hadn't invited them to his disaster of a super bowl party. Sarah did not care for black people and she especially didn't like Tyrone. She didn't know Marcus, but had freaked when John told her they'd hired an ex-con. "Sorry guys, Sarah'll lose her shit if you're there. Plus, I just told you, we got plans for later?"

Tyrone grinned, all teeth, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Relax, boss. The fight ain't gonna last that long. We won't cock block you."

"Yeah," added Marcus. "Just long enough to win the bet. I ain't given up getting some pussy tonight. I need to bust a nut something bad."

John's cheeks flamed, his pride bleeding out under their taunts. He'd never known men that talked like this. The whiskey and desire to win one over these two dulled his resolve. "Just until the fights over," he muttered, hoping it wouldn't go on too many rounds, but it never did with Callahan. Sarah was out until midnight anyway. "Then you two have to split."

**********

John's beat-up Ford pickup rattled through the quiet suburban streets, the white picket fence outside his house glowing faintly under the headlights--a fragile barrier guarding the life he'd built with Sarah. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his mind racing. If Sarah came home to find Marcus and Tyrone sprawled in their living room, she'd erupt, her bitchy streak a force of nature that could shred him to pieces. Her temper was legendary, her tongue sharp enough to draw blood when she was crossed. Only her looks made her attitude tolerable. He glanced in the rearview mirror, Marcus's black Charger tailing close, its bass thumping like a heartbeat through the night so loud it was rattling John's windows. "Black folk," he muttered shaking his head.

In the Charger, Marcus gripped the wheel, his thick fingers flexing, his mind on pussy--or the lack of it. "Bar was a fuckin' desert," he bitched, adjusting his bulge, the denim straining to contain his monster cock. "Five years in the pen, and I'm still huntin' tail that ain't there. Balls are achin', bro."

Tyrone sprawled in the passenger seat, his long legs stretched out, a lazy grin on his face. "How much pussy you need to make up for them five years?"

"All of it," Marcus shot back, his voice rough. "I'm gonna take as much of the white man's pussy as I can to make up for lost time." He blamed society for putting him away, white cops, white judge, white jury, didn't matter that he'd robbed a liquor store.

Tyrone opened the glove compartment and flashed a VHS tape--Black Cocks, White Sluts--its cover worn from use. "Here's that tape I told you about."

"Thanks. It's lookin more and more like me and my hand got a date tonight with that grainy old video tape."

Tyrone snorted, scratching his jaw. "Fight will be quick. Then we'll ditch and hunt real pussy." "Speakin' of," added Tyrone, squeezing his cock through his jeans, the outline clear even in the dim light, a thick tubular lump running down one leg, "John's wife--Sarah? Bitchy as hell, but stacked--tits like melons, ass you could bounce a quarter off, resting bitch face, but gorgeous when she smiles. Saw her at the company Christmas party last year. Bitch wouldn't kiss me under my mistletoe hat. Didn't even find it funny. Heard her givin' John shit about it later. She wanted him to fire me. Gorgeous fair skin, blue-eyed and blonde like you like them."

Marcus's eyes glinted, his interest piqued. "She that hot?"

"Yeah, but wound tight," Tyrone replied, his grin widening. "White boy ain't hittin' it right--little white dick don't cut it for a woman like that. She needs dark meat to loosen her up."

Marcus laughed, deep and throaty, the sound filling the car. "Bet she'd shit herself seein' my black meat."

Tyrone nodded, his mind already fantasizing about John's wife, his cock twitching at the thought of Sarah's curves under his hands, but knowing she was unattainable.

**********

John's house stood as a shrine to suburban wholesomeness--white siding gleaming under the moonlight, the lawn manicured to perfection, a cross-stitched "Home Sweet Home" pillow perched on the plush beige couch. The living room was a snapshot of Sarah's meticulous care: a polished oak coffee table held an old Bible, its cracked leather cover worn from generations of use. Inside, faded ink traced the genealogy of Sarah's family going back generations--births, marriages, deaths, her own entry scrawled thirty-two years ago in looping cursive. When they had children, their names would join the sacred list, a tradition Sarah clung to like a lifeline, her faith woven into every page. The air carried the faint scent of lavender from a candle she'd lit that morning.

"Beats our dump," said Tyrone, taking a seat on the couch while John got them three beers out of the fridge.

Marcus paused at the photos on the mantel, their wedding picture, Sarah lovely in a sleeveless white gown, smiling and radiant, a couples portrait, a bitchy annoyed expression on her face, An older picture showed two stern looking parents and a younger Sarah dressed for Easter church service where no one was smiling. His eyes locked on one in particular: Sarah in a red bikini on their honeymoon, standing on a sun-drenched beach. Her 5'4" frame was a masterpiece of curves and contrasts--EE-cup breasts strained the bikini top, their heavy, natural fullness spilling over the edges, the fabric barely containing their weight, her nipple indentations visible. Her narrow waist flared to wide, curvy hips, her round ass barely covered by the thong bottom, the cheeks firm and high. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the sunlight, framing a heart-shaped face with piercing blue eyes that smoldered despite a forced smile, unhappy having her picture taken in such a scandalous bikini. Her toned legs, smooth and shapely, stretched down to delicate feet, toes curled in the sand. Her flat stomach, sculpted from hours of yoga, glistened with a sheen of sweat, her creamy porcelain skin flushed pink under the tropical sun. Marcus's cock twitched in his jeans, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Goddamn, John," he said, his voice thick with lust, "you bagged a fuckin' porn star. Her ass is perfect. Titties like a strippers! Shit, man, she's built for fuckin'."

John squirmed, the whiskey making his tongue sluggish as he handed Marcus a beer can. "Knock it off, Marcus," he muttered, his voice tight, but the words lacked bite. His eyes flicked to the photo, a pang of jealousy mixing with the pill-fueled arousal stirring in his groin. Sarah was his, but Marcus's leer made him feel small, inadequate, like a boy playing at being a man. "She'd kill me if she knew you were staring at that picture."

"Doesn't like black men?" he asked, still staring, her bikini clad image reflecting in his dark pupils.

"Yeah, well no, I mean, men in general. Well, she doesn't like anyone in her home."

"You mean since your super bowl party?" chuckled Tyrone.

John blanched at the memory. He'd bought his new style Tv for super bowl XL to watch his beloved Steelers beat the Seahawks. Sarah had reluctantly agreed to allow a few of his coworkers over and it had been a disaster. She'd yanked the bikini picture off the wall when she caught the men staring at it, corrected the men every time she heard a curse word, and screamed at a man for placing his beer on the table without a coaster. She grabbed her beloved family bible off the table just in time when a beer was spilled, the liquid flowing towards it as if in slow motion. One by one, his coworkers had gotten up, heading to O'Malley's for the game and some peace and quiet until John was left alone with his still grumbling wife as his Steelers won the game. What should have been one of the happiest days of his life had become the most embarrassing. John was married to the hottest woman around and his coworkers felt sorry for him. He hadn't invited Tyrone, Sarah wouldn't have stood for a black man in her home and John couldn't stand Tyrone either, but apparently word had gotten back to him that he'd been left out. If it bothered Tyrone, he hadn't been invited, Tyrone didn't bring it up.

Tyrone flicked on the 50-inch TV, the screen flaring to life with ESPN reporting the fight's conclusion--Jackson's fist had smashed Callahan's jaw in round one, dropping him like a sack of bricks. Marcus and Tyrone whooped, their fists pounding the air, high-fiving, their laughter filling the room. "Black power, baby!" Tyrone grinned, his teeth flashing. "White boys don't measure up--on the mat or in the sack. Pay up, boss."

"Always bet on black," said Marcus, sitting on the couch and sipping his beer.

John bristled, staring at the TV in disbelief. Callahan was staring off into space swaying on his feet while a couple men were splashing water on his face and slapping his cheek. The fight was over twenty minutes ago and Callahan was still dazed. John fished a crumpled fifty from his wallet and tossed it onto the coffee table, the bill landing beside the Bible. He pictured Sarah screaming at him, "Dishonest money dwindles away, I don't want you gambling, John."

"Well damn, guess you two can get going then." He checked the twelve apostles wall clock. It was ticking on Simon the Zealot, 11:00pm. An hour to go until midnight, Judas Iscariot. John could be naked and in bed by the time Sarah got home for their first baby-making session.

Tyrone snatched up the fifty, his grin wicked.

"Where's mine?" asked Marcus, standing and looming over John.

Damn, Marcus was big, thought John feeling threatened as he looked up at the giant. "I'll bring it to work on Monday. Wasn't planning on losing a hundred bucks tonight." He stepped away from the hulking black brute and opened his door for the two men.

"Hold up, man, let us finish our beers," said Tyrone, slipping the bill into his pocket. I Got somethin' else we can watch." He bolted to the Charger.

John stepped outside, suddenly smelling dope. Marcus stepped beside him, lighting a joint. "Put that shit out, Sarah's got a nose like a bloodhound." The air was sucking the smoke through his open door.

Marcus just inhaled and stared at him like he was a gnat he could swat away.

Tyrone slipped the Black Cocks, White Sluts sleeve off the cassette. The title sticker was marked out when he'd hid it from his parent years ago. He returned with the tape in hand. "Lighten up, boss. Take a hit, you wear the pants in the family."

"Does he?" asked the brute, handing John the joint.

John felt goaded, but he took a hit just to show Marcus he was the man of the house and could make his own decisions. He coughed, holding it in. He hadn't smoked pot in fifteen years and it hit him hard. "What's that?"

Tyrone help up the cassette. "An action flick we can watch." He took the joint from John and took a hit.

"But Sarah?" said John.

"Just until we finish our beers, then we're gone," replied Tyrone. He passed the joint towards Marcus. The black man grinned, his teeth reflecting white in the streetlight. He passed, nodding towards John.

Tyrone grinned back, skipping Marcus and handing John the joint. The man of the house took a deep hit. "Finish it, boss." John hesitated, but took a drag--then another, deeper, at their insistence, the heat burning his fingers. The world tilted fast, his head swimming, limbs heavy as lead. His thoughts blurred. He stood silently, swaying slightly, as out of it as Callahan had been after getting knocked out.

They stumbled back inside, Tyrone slotting the tape into John's VCR/DVD combo machine. John collapsed in his recliner staring at the TV while the black men sat on the couch. He was with it enough to check the time. 11:20, forty minutes until Judas.

The screen flared to life, grainy and flickering--a blonde, Sarah's spitting image, stepped from a shower, water beading on her obviously fake EE tits. She dried her buxom figure off and slowly began rubbing oil into her breasts and belly. John's dick swelled, the ED meds kicking in. "What's this?" he slurred. "You said it was an action movie."

"Wait until you see the action, boss," replied Tyrone.