This story is a work of erotic fiction. It is intended for entertainment purposes only. It may contain racial slurs and sexual acts which some readers may find offensive. This story is not intended to be read by minors or by anyone who might be unduly influenced by its contents, or where community standards prohibit this type of literature. If any of these prohibitions apply to you, please find something else to read for your entertainment.
When I was in high school I lived in a working class neighborhood with a lot of black and Hispanic boys. During gym class I snuck peeks at the boys as they did their sit-ups, push-ups and pull-ups. Those bulbous black and brown asses under their tight gym trunks tightened and flexed with each push-up. I tried not to imagine what it would be like to watch those boys pumping their seed between their girlfriends' thighs on a steamy Saturday night.
Sex was never far from my mind as the boy next to me, wearing a cut-off t-shirt, grunted under the strain of his push-ups. His funky underarms whiffed my way, filling my nostrils with boyish masculine dark skinned teenage sex smells. I was surrounded with inner-city teen boy arm pits; it was all I could do to repress the impulse to stick out my tongue lick one of them -- tasting the fragrant hair of ghetto puberty in my mouth.
After gym class we were all herded onto the locker room. The walls echoed with boisterous laughter, shouts, joking, running, screaming and wet towels snapping against nude skin. These black and brown skinned boys tugged at their t-shirts to pull them off of their sweaty bodies. Boys lifted their arms to remove their shirts. The sweet smell of their deodorant mingled with the funky manly smell of their sweat. All I could see was a sea of smooth dark bodies of all shades; everywhere I turned there were cinnamon brown boyish biceps and dark chocolate forearms, muscular caramel thighs and calves, and ashy coal black knees.
Boys pulled down their boxer shorts exposing rich plumes of dark pubic hair against dark skinned masculine boyish bodies. All of them seemed to have thick long cocks dangling between their legs; jungle meat to impregnate their girl friends.
I tried to turn away to avoid getting a hard-on; afraid that if any of these black or Hispanic boys noticed I was aroused I would be the subject of ridicule and physical abuse.
I desperately tried to cover myself up with my towel, to conceal my raging erection. It was too late. One of the boys noticed me. A boy named Tavis, the color of dark gold, beamed devilishly at me but didn't say a word. How long could I trust him to keep my secret and spare me from abuse? What would he want from me in return for his silence?
He tilted his head and motioned me to fallow him into the next aisle of lockers. Clutching my rumpled up towel to my crotch I followed the boy. When we were just out of ear shot of the other boys, who were noisily arguing over who was the baddest, Spider man or The Hulk; Tupoc or Biggie; Freddie Kruger or Jason -- Tavis leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I see yur fuckin' soldier down dere standin' at attention, ya damn queer. I want you to suck my cock n' I'll keep quiet."
I blushed and swallowed hard, trying to look away. His brown chest and shoulders pressed up against my body, emitting a teenage manly smell that made my cock throb even harder underneath the towel that was bunched up in my hands.
"If you don't want me to tell nobody you best follow me into da janitor's room," he tilted his head toward a small door I hadn't noticed before.
It turned out that the "janitor's room" was a small space with mops, a sink and hose in it -- and shelves were cluttered with cleaning agents. The door was unlocked, but could be locked from the inside.
Once we were inside Tavis locked the door and grinned devilishly at me again.
He slid his boxers down below his knees and sat on the edge of the sink. "Get down dere and gimme some head you faggot -- an you better do a good job, too. I ain't playin'."
I slid down to my knees and stuck my face between the boy's smooth brown thighs. I was almost overcome by the pungent smell of his pubic hair that enveloped my face. His manly teenage sex smell gave me goose bumps as I lifted this thick brown cock and held in just inches from my lips.
"First suck on my balls."
The boy lifted his nutt sack and let his pendulous testicles fall over my face. I licked under his nuts and licked up and down the boy's ass crack, tasting the hairs in his ass. I felt his hands press on the back of my head, gently guiding it toward his cock shaft. I slurped up and down that thick piece of nigger meat. I filled my mouth with it. His cock throbbed and jerked under the gentle massage from my tongue.
I licked his balls and his cock, tasting the warmth of his manhood and sexual potency. Tavis grabbed the base of his cock and stuffed his dick into my mouth. He pushed his thickening rod to the back of my throat, cutting off my air and making me gag. I sucked on his warm, throbbing member. He grabbed my head and forced it up and down his thick shaft.
"Yeah, suck dat dick, bytch."
The taste of the black boy's manhood filled my mouth.
All of this reminded me of a conversation I had several days earlier.
Anthony, a good friend of mine was telling me about the recording industry. His father owns a recording studio where hopeful prospective artists arrive by the dozens, dreaming of one day landing a record contract and to become rich and famous.
Lots of aspiring boys from the street, mostly black and Hispanic boys, participate in the search for stardom. They tried to impress their homeboys and shawties, even before they cut their first CD. They made videos of themselves and posted them on the internet to try to create a buzz. Girls flocked to them, spreading their legs and giving them head, treating them like the stars they wanted to become.
But back stage, with the owners of the recording studio, it was another story. The old, fat, hairy Italian office managers weren't impressed with black tough wanna-be rapper thug boys from the streets. These business owners knew who held all the cards in this game, and they never missed an opportunity to drive this point home to the "talent."
One aspiring "artist" went by the name of "Jakiris". The boy had a bright smile of milky white teeth that contrasted with his mocha chocolate face; it made young girls' knees wobbly.
Jakiris wore a diamond stud on his earlobe that seemed to accent the coolness of his personality and his soul. He was pure ice. For guys he rarely cracked a smile and was quick to beat down anyone he thought he could bully and get away with it.
But once Jakiris was in the back room with the studio owners, trying to negotiate payments, he became the epitome of deference and respect -- not that it was reciprocated.
Jakiris rolled into the back office with his posse of niggas. Anthony's father's name was Mr. Alfonso.
Mr. Alfonso, sneered, "Jakiris, or whatever the fuck your name is -- I see you brought a pack of your monkeys with you."
The black teens shifted nervously on their feet, partially embarrassed for Jakiris, partially offended by the comment -- in either case, not really knowing what to do.
Mr. Alfonso turned to two other Italian men in the room. "You see this dark-skinned monkey? His name is Jakiris -- what the fuck kinda name is that? Jakiris."
The men laughed. Jakiris's face flushed with anger.
One of the men offered, "His Mama musta been on crack when she gave him that name."
Another round of humiliating laughter. Jakiris's posse of black boys were now looking at the ceiling, their feet, the exit door -- anything to avoid eye contact with each other or with these powerful white executives who held their dreams in their hands.
Jakiris tried to put on a game face. He stared defiantly at Mr. Alfonso, as if he were ready to fight. Mr. Alfonso returned the stare.
"Naw, his mama wasn't on crack -- she was too busy suckin' on the stiff white pipe between my legs to be bothered with a glass pipe."
The three men laughed loudly once again. Jakiris' buddies seemed to be looking for a way to get out of the place.
Mr. Alfonso was not letting up. "Jakiris, show these other monkeys how your mama takes care of her boss' cock meat."
Mr. Alfonso lifted his hefty belly slightly off of his chair and unfastened his belt, allowing his pants to drop. He pulled out his stubby white cock and motioned for the black boy to position himself at his feet.
Jakiris, weighing the situation, and wanting desperately to get a good deal on the recording studio did what hundreds of street-hardened young black thugs with dollar signs in their eyes and "bitches" on their brains do every day -- he sank to his knees allowed the man to stuff his hairy Italian sausage between his thick black lips.
The other men howled with laughter.
Mr. Alfonso pointed down at the black boy slurping on his cock, "You see -- no matter how tough or `street hardened' they think they are, they are never too good to take the time to give a man a good ol' fashioned blow job when he needs it."
Mr. Alfonso looked at Jakiris' buddies who were standing around like awkward goony birds, not knowing what to do with themselves. "You boys, don't just stand there -- make yourselves useful. Pull those baggy pants down and show my friends here some of that nigger ass that makes you boys so popular in prison."
Silently, respectfully, the black boys let their baggy pants drop and they bent over. Mr. Alfonso's buddies didn't waste time. They yanked the boys' boxer shorts down, exposing their naked dark brown asses.
The men lined that teenagers up and took turns, one-by-one, humping inside of each boy's ass, while the boy dreamt of stardom. The boys whimpered with pain. Thick Italian cocks ripped through their black bodies and massaged their prostates.
The boys ground their teeth in agony.
Mr. Alfonso's body grew stiff at the sight. He let out a loud sigh.
Jakiris sensed what was coming. He yanked his head away from the older fat man's crotch, but Mr. Alfonso shot several thick loads all over the black boy's face. By the time the fat was through, Jakiris' face was dripping with the older white man's cum.
Mr. Alfonso sat back and laughed at his artistic creation, "Yeah, that's the way to get a black boy to work for you."
The other men laughed as they each pumped their seed inside a skinny black teenager's body.
Meanwhile, back in the janitor's room -- the taste of Tavis' brown sweaty cock filled my mouth as if he allowed the potency of his man-smell to accumulate by not washing his crotch for several days.
He worked his cock in and out of my mouth without mercy, as if giving me a good pummeling in a school yard fight.
"Fuck my face," I managed to gasp between thrusts of his cock. My pleas for more abuse seemed to make his thrusts even more aggressive.
He looked down at me and sneered, "Yeah -- youse a nasty bytch, aint ya?"
I found myself mindlessly nodding in agreement. The more contempt he had for me the more I was aroused by his manly power.
He sneered again and spat in my face as his frenzied face-fucking became more and more intense.
He violently fucked my face. I couldn't help but think that I was receiving the abuse of initiation in the strange and secret rites of passage into ghetto manhood. Maybe this was what these black and brown boys did to each other before they could become one another's "niggas."
In the locker room how badly they needed to burn off energy. They needed something to relieve the pressure of all of that teenage testosterone and those thick, long dark cocks dangling between their legs.
Suddenly I sensed that Tavis' body was stiffening. He dug his fingers into my skull and mumbled one word: "Swallow."
His cock twitched in my mouth. Wave upon wave of thick, hot cum landed on my tongue and slid down my throat. I savored the taste of his man-juices in my mouth and swallowed all of it.
He stood up and looked down at me, sneering once again. "Youse a nasty bytch."
He tucked his cock back in his boxer shorts and walked away.
From that day on I looked forward to gym class. Hard dark bodies slammed against each other during a spirited game of hoops. Sweaty, funky ghetto smells fill the air, gave me an irrepressible hard-on. Every once in awhile a particularly horny dark-skinned boy cornered me in the locker room or the john -- pulled me off to the side, and made me get down on my knees to give him head. After they were finished with their business they acted as though they didn't even know me -- until the next time.
This was my urban education.