This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction! If you are under the age of consent, turn back!
THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio.
Part Thirteen: White Top
Brad was on his hands and knees in the pink-tiled bathroom, mindlessly scouring the toilet bowl for the fifth or sixth time, when his Master bellowed.
"Worm!!! Get yo' ass in here!!! NOW!!!"
He dropped the scrubbing pad, frantically pulled off his rubber gloves, and scrambled to the small room which was now his quarters. There towered his Master like the Colossus of Rhodes.
The young thug's bare upper body was a muscular landscape, a Dark Continent of flesh. Beltless jeans drooped around his sculpted loins, an inch above his pubic hair.
Barked Reese: "Drop them drawers! Get on yo' hands and knees! Do it now!" The black leather belt was in his large brown hands.
Quivering with trepidation, Brad pulled down his slacks and briefs, and obediently assumed the position. The chastity belt protected his soft tiny penis, but bared his marshmallow cheeks.
He knew what was coming, if not the why or wherefore, and there was nothing he could say or do to prevent it.
Brad was a servile submissive, but he was not a masochist. He hated pain. He still recalled the flogging that he received for being twelve minutes late. Twenty brutal strokes of the belt left him sobbing like a baby. He never wanted to experience that kind of raw pain ever again.
Since then, Brad tried hard to serve his Master without messing up. He did not want another beating, not ever. He anguished: What did I do wrong, what did I do to deserve this?
It made Brad sick to think he disappointed his Black God in any way, and the apprehension of another beating scared him shitless.
"Hike up that fat ass and take it like a man or whatever you are," said Reese. "You want me to beat yo' jelly ass, don't chu?"
"Y-yes, Sir." Brad forced the words.
"Lissen hard," said Reese, flexing the belt. "Try to unnerstand. Whenever you think you gots to choose between tellin' me what you think I wanna hear and givin' me the truth, I want chu be straight with me, unnerstand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Aiiiight, so let me ax you again. You want me to beat yo' ass? Tell the truth."
Brad gulped. It took a moment before he could bring himself to utter words he knew his Master did not want to hear. At length, he managed to stammer: "N-no, Sir, I d-don't want you to beat me."
"That's better," Reese smirked. "Now we unnerstand each other. Big step! Why don't chu want me to beat yo' ass?"
"Because, it -- it hurts," Brad admitted.
"Supposed to hurt," shrugged Reese. "Do you know why I beat chu?"
"Punishment, Sir?"
"Yah, that's one reason," said Reese. "Gimme another. Think hard!"
The answer, of course, lay at the crux of their relationship: Master and slave, God and votary, Owner and possession. Brad understood this.
"Because you want to, Sir."
"There ya go," said Reese. "Say it again."
"Because you want to, Sir."
"Do you unnerstand what that means?"
"Yes, Sir," said Brad, tears welling in his eyes. "You don't need a reason to beat me. You are my God and Master! I am a little white worm, Sir."
Brad was not play-acting. He believed in what he said.
"Sure you unnerstand that?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Good slave. I give you permission to beg me not to beat yo' ass. Get with it! Beg yo' God and Master to spare you, bitch! Put yo' heart in it!"
"Please, Master, please!" pleaded Brad, still on his hands and knees with his face pressed to the floor and bare buttocks raised. "Please, please, please, Sir, please don't beat me, Sir. I'm begging you, Master God Sir, please don't beat me."
"Beg hard!" demanded Reese, standing over his slave.
The whiteboy's ass was white as flour, dimples in each soft, plump cheek. Reese wanted to whip that booty right then and there, but held off to toy with the punk a little longer.
Brad begged: "Please, please, don't beat me, Sir, please, oh god, please. I'll do anything you say, but please don't beat me."
"Like you mean it!"
"God, please, please, please don't hurt me. I'll do anything you say, you know that Master, I'm your slave, your property! I'm just a little white worm. Oh, please, God, please, I'm begging for mercy, Sir. Please, please show mercy on me, Master. I don't want to get whipped again because it hurts, it hurts bad, oh God, please don't do this Master. I'm begging you, Master, please show me mercy. I know I don't deserve it, but please, Sir, I'm begging you -"
"That's enough," said Reese. "I like how you beg for mercy, boy. But chu ain't gettin' none. You gettin' a beating. Don't chu holler now!"
He delivered twenty-one strokes in relentless succession. In Reese's hands the leather belt sang like a musical instrument as it sliced the air. Twenty-one times the belt stung the slave's soft ass and the back of his thighs. Twenty-one times...
Brad's ass and thighs were on fire, but he did not cry out. Reese swung with all his might, putting the full weight of his body behind every stroke. The fury of Reese's blows mashed Brad's face into the floor.
"...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one!"
Reese restored the belt to the loops on his pants and spat on the prostrate slave. The plumpy cheeks glowed pink and were striped with crimson welts. Bruises scored the backs of his thighs.
"Now that was an ass whoopin'!" Reese spat again. His copious expectorate trickled into the crack of Brad's ass. "Does that help cool yo' ass?"
Reese roared with laughter. He really enjoyed seeing his naked slave face-down, crumpled on the floor, sobbing. It was interesting how red a white ass could get, as if white asses were made for beatings.
"I got a better idea how to cool down yo' ass," he decided, unzipping his pants and pulling out his heavy, brown cock.
The thug let loose a steady stream of piss, soaking the whiteboy's ass, making him flinch and quiver in stinging, burning, fiery pain. Reese aimed his enormous brown dick like a fire hose, drenching Brad from head to toe.
Said Reese: "The first time I beat yo' ass you got twenty strokes. This time you got twenty-one. Next time, and there is gonna be a next time, you gettin' twenty-two. Unnerstand this, cracker! You gonna be my bitch til the day you die and you will get yo' ass whipped whenever I feel like it, do you unnerstand me?"
"Yes, Sir, I understand, Sir," blubbered Brad, still face down, stinking of piss. His cheeks and thighs were burning. He had no strength left in him.
"Aiiight," said Reese. "Now clean this mess up and get some shut-eye. You goin' to work tomorrow."
The alarm clock rang at six-thirty.
In his past life, Brad pounded the snooze button at least once or twice before dragging his lazy butt out of bed. That was then, this was now.
Brad sprang to his feet and went to work in the kitchen. Breakfast was well underway when Reese appeared wearing black silk boxers. The thug yawned and stretched, flexing every thew and sinew in his body.
Brad set the table and then repaired to his room, because his Master did not like eating around white people. Kneeling at his altar, he lit the black candles and bowed his head to the floor one hundred times, reciting: "I am a little white worm!"
Brad showered and dressed with alacrity, then washed the breakfast dishes and made a few lunchmeat sandwiches for his lunch. When it was time to leave, Reese dismissed Brad with a grunt.
It distressed Brad that he was not commanded to kiss his Master's cock, something he looked forward to each morning upon departure. He left, feeling dejected.
Reese turned on some music and returned to the computer to deal with the remaining tribute-payers. He wanted to get that over with. Two of the three fags he needed to contact were online.
Reese went cam to cam and established phone contact. Once they heard his voice, they were reeled in. Both ponied up $300 for his sweat-soiled socks and jocks. It took less than an hour to deal with them, like fishing from a barrel.
Reese shut down the computer and snapped the waistband of his boxers. If fags wanted to give c-notes for his drawers, Reese was down with that. His slave would handle the mailing.
Meanwhile, thirteen blocks away in an air-conditioned office, Reese's slave began his day routinely.
Brad spent a portion of his daily allowance on a cup of coffee and a blueberry scone from the snack-bar in the lobby, which he consumed in the relative privacy of his cubicle on the sixth floor in the Centralized Files department.
At precisely nine o'clock, Brad picked up the phone on his desk. "Hello, Sir, this is your slave, Sir, reporting...."
He had to report to his Master at home every hour on the hour. What he did not know was that his immediate supervisor, Aaron Levitz, was in his private office, listening in on every word.
At ten o'clock, Brad retreated to the men's room to use his cell phone.
"Hello, Master, this is your slave reporting, Sir. Thank you for taking control of my life and making my decisions for me. I am worthless without you. I am a little white worm."
What Brad did not know was that Aaron Levitz was hiding in one of the adjoining stalls.
At eleven o'clock, Brad reported once more by phone from his cubicle.
"Sir, this is your obedient slave. I go to lunch in an hour, Sir. I think about you all the time, Sir! I am a little white worm and you are my God, Sir."
A few minutes past twelve, after making his noon report, Brad headed for the lunchroom to eat the sandwiches he brought from home. He got no farther than a few feet when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, Bradley, but may I see you for a moment?" said Aaron Levitz. "I realize it's your lunch hour, however I need to see you in my office right now! It's very important!"
Puzzled, Brad complied, following the younger man back to his office. Aaron Levitz instructed Marisol that he was not to be disturbed. The heavy-set Latina barely looked up from her bag of cheese doodles.
The door clicked shut. Brad felt trapped.
"Have a seat, Bradley," said Levitz, drawing the blinds. He switched on a radio. Mozart's "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" poured out.
"What I want to talk about has nothing to do with your work."
Aaron Levitz was good-looking in his own way, younger than Brad by several years and two inches taller. A sardonic, asymmetrical smile tugged his lips.
Brad wanted to run away and hide, frightened by what he saw in his boss's flinty eyes.
"Have a seat," said Levitz, remaining on his feet.
"May I ask what this is about, sir?" said Brad.
Time was when Brad resented addressing this twenty-six year old as "Sir" or "Mr. Levitz," but things were different now, Brad was different. "Sir" spilled from his lips.
"Like I said, this has nothing to do with work," said Aaron Levitz. "I want to talk to you about something personal."
"What is that, sir?" Brad had no notion what was coming next.
"You're a bottom, aren't you. Look, don't get uptight. I'm gay too. I'm a top."
Brad did not know what to say. He hung his head, looking down at his knees, nibbling his lower lip in consternation.
"No use denying it, Bradley," said Aaron Levitz. "I know you're a total bottom. I've heard those messages you leave for your master, whoever he is. I even have some of them recorded. I'll bet you didn't know I can record your phone calls, did you!"
"What did you hear?" Brad retorted, weakly.
"Everything," said Aaron Levitz. "You've got a slave fetish, if I'm not mistaken. How long have you been into BDSM?"
Brad held his tongue. His heart raced in panic.
Aaron went on, calmly, "I knew I was a top by the time I was fourteen. I liked guys, but I had to be the one who called the shots! I like guys who do what they're told, Bradley. Are you an obedient sub? Do you do what you're told?"
Again, Brad said nothing. He hung his head, wishing his beloved Master were present to extricate him from this predicament.
"I asked you a question, boi!" Aaron raised his voice, but not loud enough to be heard outside his door.
Brad mumbled, "Yes, Sir, I do what I am told."
"That's what I thought," said Aaron. "You're such a bottom bitch. You have to serve real men like me, don't you, slave!"
"But, but, Sir, I have a Master," mumbled Brad. "I can't serve anyone else. I can't! He wouldn't like it!"
"In this office you serve me and only me, do you understand, boi?"
Aaron stood only a few inches away, lean and tall. The banana bulge in his dress pants made Brad uncomfortable.
"Don't forget I've taped your messages to your Master, "Aaron reminded him. "I don't think you want those tapes getting around, do you? Might mean your job and we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"
"What do you want from me?" Brad asked in defeat.
"That's better," Aaron exulted. "Much better! You can start by dropping your pants. I want to see what you've got in the cock department."
"I can't," Brad protested.
"What do you mean?" Aaron's voice was shrill with impatience, like a spoiled child hearing No for the first time. "Do you want to get fired? Because you know I can make that happen! I ordered you to drop your pants, slave! Make it so!"
This was sexual harassment to the extreme, but there was nothing Brad could do about it. Slowly, he unbelted, unbuttoned, unzipped, and lowered his dress slacks down to his knobby knees.
"Now the briefs," said Aaron, licking his ruddy lips with anticipation.
Reluctantly, Brad pulled down his underpants, revealing his pitiful, small penis encased in its transparent prison.
Aaron exclaimed: "What the fuck? Is that one of those chastity belts? Your master makes you wear that thing? That's so fucking kewl! Man, I knew you were a sub, but I had no idea how deep you were into it! So you can't jerk off at all, can you! That's wicked! When was the last time you jerked off?"
"I really shouldn't be talking about this," Brad objected, weakly.
"I don't think you really have a choice, do you?"
"No, I guess not ... sir."
"So, when was the last time you jerked off?"
"It's been about a week." Brad was humiliated.
"Can your prick get hard in that contraption?" Aaron asked. He had heard of such devices, but never saw one until now.
"No," said Brad. "The cage is too small...."
"So, your boyfriend has you under his control, doesn't he," said Aaron, with admiration.
"Yes, sir," conceded Brad, ignoring the reference to "boyfriend." The less Aaron Levitz knew about Reese, the better.
"I was actually going to suck your cock if you had a decent unit. But now that's out of the question, isn't it?" Aaron laughed, haughtily. "Maybe you should suck my cock! What do you think of that? Do you want to suck my cock?"
"No, sir," said Brad. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think my Master would want me to."
"Fuck your master!" Aaron snapped. "You're a slave. I heard you say so yourself. I don't care whose slave you are at home, but in this office you're my slave. What is there about that you don't understand???"
"I... understand," sighed Brad in surrender.
Aaron unzipped his slacks and pulled out a substantial erection. It was rubicund like the hue of his lips, with a very thick urethral ridge and a large circumcised helmet dripping with pearls of pre-cum. Testicles the size of plums stretched his scrotum.
It was a handsome package, Brad had to acknowledge, but it did not tempt him in the least. If anything, Brad was repulsed. He did not want to do this, but what choice did he have? He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, parted his lips, and went down.
"Mmmmmm, yeah... Suck it, slave," groaned Aaron, enjoying the exquisite pleasure Brad's warm mouth brought to the sensitive nerve-endings in the head of his cock.
If there were an Olympic event for fellatio, Brad would have won gold medals many times over. He could keep a stud at the brink of orgasm indefinitely or extract his seed in minutes.
At the moment, he wanted to get this blow job over and done with. Brad picked up speed and sucked with unrelenting determination. Aaron began breathing heavily. Brad sucked like a milking machine.
A few minutes later, Aaron groaned in ecstasy. His cock fired like a cannon and fireworks exploded in his head. Brad gulped down as much sticky, hot semen as he could.
Aaron stepped back and readjusted his clothes fastidiously, as Brad wiped a sticky gob of cum from his chin.
"That was an awesome blowjob, Bradley. You really know how to suck a cock, that's for sure! You might be the best cocksucker I've ever had, but don't let that go to your head! Ha-hah! Whoever taught you to suck like that deserves the credit. Someone's been training you, I can tell. How long have you two been together?"
"I really can't answer that," mumbled Brad, wrinkling his thick blond eyebrows.
"You know what?" Aaron shrugged, "I don't really give a fuck what games you play with your boyfriend. Just tell me the truth, did you like sucking my cock?"
"Yes, sir," Brad acquiesced, not knowing what else to say.
"I could tell," Aaron smirked. "We're done for now. Get back to your cubicle and do some work. Don't forget to call your master every hour." He laughed sadistically.
"Yes, sir," said Brad, rising.
"One more thing, Bradley," said Aaron Levitz. "I want you back here tomorrow at twelve, are we clear on that?"
"Yes, Mr. Levitz. We're clear."
"From now on, you're going to blow me every day on your lunch hour."
"Yes, sir, if you say so."
"You're damn right I say so! You should thank me for feeding you cock when you can't be with your precious master."
"Yes, sir, thank you, but -- "
"End of discussion! I want your bottom boi ass back here tomorrow. We're both going to get what we want.
It's a win-win situation! Now, beat it!"
Brad returned to his cubicle. Salty semen lingered on his taste buds. Passing the boss's secretary, he wondered what she might have heard, but the vacant expression on her face suggested otherwise.
At one, two, three, and four o'clock, Brad reported to Reese, using his cell phone in the vast lobby where he could not be overheard. Each time, he glimpsed Aaron Levitz watching from a distance with a smug look.
At five o'clock, dashing for the elevator, Brad bumped into Leroy from the mailroom.
"Yo, watch where you goin'!" said the brother gruffly.
Brad apologized profusely and darted off.
Leroy muttered, "Fuckin' pussy." It was not an insult, but an observation.
On the crowded bus, beside a crone in a babushka, Brad gazed out the window devoid of thought or feeling until he reached his stop. Sweat poured down his back.
Trudging up the flight of stairs, Brad slowed his pace, contemplating what he was going to tell his Master. That he had been violated, that their livelihood had been threatened?
He wanted to confess everything, yet feared his Master's rage. He did not want another whipping. His ass was still extremely sore.
Brad opened the door to Apartment 2-A. The aroma of reefer was in the air. On the green sofa lounged Malik, watching Jerry Springer with his bare feet on the coffee table.
Malik was shirtless, sexy as hell, glistening in the humidity, sporting black and crimson mesh basketball trunks. A thick gold chain hung from his neck.
"Your pimp ain't home," said Malik. His pupils were black marbles. "It's just you and me!"
TO BE CONTINUED.... IN PART FOURTEEN: BLACKOUT