This is a work of erotic fiction. The events in this story and all of the characters in it are purely fictional. This story is not to be read by minors. It may include sexual acts between teenagers, and between teenager and adults. It may also contain racially offensive language. If this type of erotic fiction disturbs you, or if you find that you may be unduly influenced by it, please search for something else to read for your personal erotic fictional entertainment.
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From Part Two: Jamar confronts his homeboy Rashad about seeing the teenager in the locker room sucking a white teen's cock. It turns out the white teen, whose cock Rashad was sucking, is the son of a scout for division one universities. Rashad was trying to get an inside track on being recruited. Now Jamar finds that he must confront the question of what he would be willing to do to get noticed for a division one scholarship too.
Jamar spent the night tossing and turning, agonizing over his decision to approach Timothy the next day to try to get a shot at a scholarship. The noise in the apartment building was so loud that the people in the other apartments might as well have been in Jamar's bedroom.
People were arguing, shouting, fighting, partying and playing music so loud that the bass and the drums made Jamar's bed vibrate.
But worst of all was the fucking.
People in the neighboring apartment always seemed to be fucking -- and they were doing it loud. It was noisy, crude black ghetto-style fucking, the kind that must have evolved from the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa. Someone who didn't know the neighborhood well could have easily confused their fucking for fighting.
For a horny black teenager who was trying to get some sleep in a stuffy apartment at night the sounds of neighbors fucking on the other side of the wall left him with nothing to do but stroke his hard dark cock until he wore himself out after several orgasms. Only then could he finally get some sleep in warm pool of hot negro cum.
And that's just what he did, except usually when Jamar stroked his cock he fantasized about fucking naked black women -- big and buxom with fat black asses -- but tonight all he could think about was the image of Rashad on his knees sucking that blond white boy's cock. This image aroused him beyond any of his previous fantasies. His nostrils flared as he stroked his hard black cock.
The image of the white teen shooting his cum all over Rashad's black face drove Jamar over the top. He shot a load of jism and it splattered on his bedsheets as he quietly, shamefully gasped, "Fuck that nigga's face. Fuck him."
By the time Jamar was through he was a black sweaty teenaged cum-soaked mess. He knew he would have to go ahead with his plan to approach Timothy the next day, but the very thought of it made him nervous.
Amid the noise, his anxiety about approaching Timothy, and the pungent smell of fresh cum on his bed sheets, the black teenager drifted off to sleep.
The following morning, on his way to school, Jamar found two black boys in the stairwell of his apartment building fighting. The darker one was sitting on top of a lighter-skinned one, shaking his fist menacingly in the other boy's face.
The lighter-skinned boy, who as flat on his back was nearly in tears, "Go ahead, hit me muthafucka, hit me -- I know you enjoy that shit, that's why I can feel yo' dick get hard every time you climb on top of me."
The darker-skinned boy froze; he seemed stunned for a moment. His face registered surprise and embarrassment, as if to say, "How the fuck did this little nigga know that?"
Jamar left the two boys in the stairwell, with the darker one still sitting on top of the lighter one, but no longer hitting the other boy -- uncertain about what to do next. Jamar noticed an incriminating bulge in the darker boy's pants.
Everywhere around him, in the hood, people were arguing, fighting, fucking, grabbing their crotch or scratching their balls.
Then there were the con men, always on the hustle, always trying to sell something or beg for money -- or rip someone off.
Everything was just another hustle; it was just another scheme to get paid. Everyone was out to get something for nothing. Even prostitutes would take your money without "putting out" if they thought they could get away with it. The key to survival was not to trust anyone and to never let your guard down.
It was all one big con game -- one cheap giant elaborate hustle. Jamar wanted to get out of it. He couldn't trust anyone. He wanted to free himself from all of the fighters, hustlers, con-men, pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, junkies and misfits he saw every day on his way to school.
When he reached the school grounds he could still hear the lighter-skinned boy's pathetic cry from the stairwell, "Go ahead, hit me -- I can feel yo' dick get hard every time you jump on top of me."
That about summed up the hood. It was violence mixed with sexuality -- fighting as foreplay for fucking. He'd overheard gang members loudly re-living a beat-down they had participated in the night before -- they always described the action, to those who missed it, in the most orgasmic terms. It always sounded as though they had been fucking the nigga as much as fighting him.
Jamar was shaken out of his daydream when he saw a small lean, long-haired blond teenager strolling confidently down the hall toward him.
It was Timothy.
His stride was purposeful and graceful. The white teen's golden hair seemed to bounce as he walked. He looked every bit like a brave young squire on his way to replace a fallen knight in battle. Jamar was overwhelmed with the thought that only this handsome white boy could save him from the crudeness and cruelty of the ghetto.
Jamar felt a wave of anxiety as the white teen approached. What would he say to him? What if Timothy laughed at Jamar's offer and told all the other boys about it? Could Jamar go through with his plan even if he agreed to keep it secret?
The white boy approached. Jamar swallowed hard and held his breath. He knew this would be his moment of truth.
(To be continued ...)