This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction! Should depictions of homosexual acts or interracial domination offend your sensibilities, read no further!! If you are under the age of consent, turn back at once!!!
THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio
Part Three: Cash Master
When Brad came to, he found himself hog-tied on his face and bare stomach wearing nothing but his white Calvin Klein briefs. His wrists were bound to his ankles behind his back by what felt like the silk ties which hung in his closet.
There was a gag in his mouth, one of Brad's own dirty white cotton socks stretched across his open mouth and knotted behind the back of his head, forcing him to breathe through his nose. The odor of his own foot sweat filled his nostrils.
Brad wriggled around on his belly, and managed to lift his head. He saw Reese sitting at his computer, wearing only sweats.
It all came back to Brad^Å picking up this thug in the park, licking his boots, sucking his cock. The last thing he remembered was Reese's big black fist coming toward him like a rocket.
Even under these dire circumstances, Brad found himself distracted by Reese's physique. It was a scene he could never have imagined: a shirtless black thug sitting at his computer.
"Good, you awake," said Reese, turning to the helpless whiteboy on the floor.
Brad tried to speak but the gag reduced his words to inarticulate sounds. His large blue eyes were filled with terror.
"I've been getting to know you, boy. Bradley Benjamin McMahon, that's yo name, right? Seems like you a real freak, ain't ya, Bradley?"
Brad fell silent. He felt totally helpless, totally vulnerable. In other words, scared shitless!
"Yeah, I been checkin out yo computer," Reese went on.
"Bet you didn't think a nigga would know to work this shit, huh? Still, I gots to thank you for makin' it so easy, makin' yo passwords plug in automatically like that. How dumb can you be, bitch?"
It dawned on Brad how much information Reese might have uncovered. Brad stared up at his captor helplessly.
Reese went on to share his newfound knowledge:
"Yeah, boy, seems like you one freaky caucasoid! Sup wit dat screen name: 'whiteboy4thugs?' Dayumm, that what you lookin' for? You want a thug in yo life? I guess this gots to be yo lucky day, punk! You think I'm a thug, bitch? Am I what you lookin for?"
Brad wasn't prepared for this. It wasn't going as he had planned at all. He was trapped. Ironically, his greatest sexual fantasy was about to be fulfilled and he was afraid to embrace it.
Reese wanted the whiteboy to know that all his deepest sexual secrets had been exposed:
"Seems like you've joined a bunch of clubs looking for somethin' called a cash master. You wanna explain this shit to me? Oh yahhhh, that's right, you can't talk with a sock in yo mouth, huh!!!"
Reese snickered cruelly. He couldn't help himself. This whiteboy was so fucking pathetic!
He leaned down and untied the sock that gagged Brad's mouth. Brad was still helpless on his belly with his wrists tied to his ankles behind his back.
"So, wassup with this 'cash master' shit? Start talkin'!"
Brad cleared his throat and explained that cash masters were men he encountered online who demanded money on a regular basis from their internet slaves. Reese listened very intently.
When Brad was done explaining, Reese laughed.
"There's somethin' I don't get about this shit. You tellin' me you send cash money to some motherfucker you never even met??? For what? What do you get out it, bitch?"
Brad lifted his head and looked up at Reese, catching a glimpse of the snake under the gray cotton of his sweats. Brad remembered sucking it, choking on it.
He wanted to suck that black cock again. It was like a drug he needed. He took a deep breath and confessed:
"I want to be owned and controlled by a Black Man. It's^Å it's what I need^Å."
How often had he typed those exact words in an Instant Message or recited them into the phone to one of his remote Masters! He never thought he would be saying them for real.
"Dayumm! You a little slave freak, ain't ya! Ya givin me ideas, bitch. So, you be given other brothers money and shit, huh? Yahh, we gonna change that. Word! Can you think of some other nigga you need to be givin' yo money?"
"You, Sir?"
Reese simply smiled, eyes squeezed narrow like a black cat studying his prey. He wanted to know everything.
"Who is this cat Nubian-king you be writing to?"
Brad felt he had no choice but to tell Reese everything:
"Nubian-king is a Black Guy from California. I send him $50 a month and he stays in touch with me."
"That it? Y'all just 'stay in touch'?"
"N-n-no," whimpered Brad, flushed with shame and humiliation at all his deepest secrets being ripped away before a Man who would eagerly use every bit of info for his own advantage. "He calls me names. .."
"What kind of names?" demanded Reese.
"He calls me a faggot and a pussy. He's straight like you. He has a club online for white guys like me to worship him."
"Aiiiight, so how do you worship this nigga?"
Brad: "Sending him money. And doing whatever he says."
"What do he tell ya to do, bitch? Tell me everything!"
"He makes me suck and fuck a black dildo on the webcam. Every week I have to write to 5 other whiteguys and tell them to join Nubian-king's group to be his cash slaves."
"Dayummm," exclaimed Reese. "How many slaves this nigga got?"
"I don't know for sure," said Brad. "About twenty or so, I guess."
"And y'all be sendin this nigga $50 a month? The brotha got game! So, you tellin' me this cat is pimpin' like a grand a month off you freaks? Dayumm!"
"What are you going to do to me?" Brad whimpered.
Reese sneered at the helpless, humiliated white boy on the floor. "That all depends on you," he replied. "Seems to me you been looking for a cash master. Looks like you found the real thang, yo!"
Reese reached over to the desk and withdrew from the whiteboy's wallet a handful of twenties and two credit cards.
"Tell you what, whiteboy," said Reese. "I'm not gonna hurt you. You cool wit me, see? You think it's yo place to worship brothas, so I'm gonna be the nigga you looking for, aiiiiight? Yahhhh, this is how it's gonna be. I'm movin' in. Yo crib belongs to me now, understand?. You can go to work everyday, but when you git yo ass home, you gonna fix my dinner without me havin' to tell you, and when you get paid, you're handin' over yo paycheck to me! Got that, bitch?"
For a moment, Brad didn't know what to say. This was actually what he had always wanted, deep in the heart of his perverted white fag fantasies, but now that it was becoming a reality, he realized how much he had to lose.
He was under the heel of a tough, clever, street-wise thug who wouldn't hesitate to take whatever he wanted.
It was a terrifying situation and Brad really didn't have a choice
Slowly, hesitantly, Brad surrendered. "Yes, Sir, I understand."
"I like how you call me SIR, bitch. That what you call that Nubian-king nigga?"
"Yes, SIR," said Brad.
"Cool, I like that," decided Reese. "From now on that's how you talk to me!"
"Yes, SIR."
"Aiiiight," grinned Reese. "That's what I wanna hear, bitch! Do you gots to work tomorrow?"
"Yes, SIR," said Brad.
"You got yo alarm set?"
"Yes, SIR."
"Aiiiight, I'm sleepin' in the bedroom! You can sleep right where you are. I'm leavin' yo ass tied the fuck up 'cause I don't want you playin' wit yo self."
Laughing to himself, Reese turned off the computer and retired to the bedroom, leaving Brad face down, hogtied, on the living room floor.
Brad rolled onto his side and was a little more comfortable. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He heard Reese rummaging through his bedroom, opening dresser drawers, going through the closet.
The TV in the bedroom came on. Reese watched "Pimp My Ride" and some basketball game. An hour later, the TV went off and the light went out. Not long after that, Brad heard Reese snoring lightly.
Brad wondered if Reese was still wearing those sweatpants or was he naked? He should have been concerned about his own precarious situation, but at the moment all Brad could think about was the thug sleeping in his bed.
That's the kind of faggot he was. Brad's little white cock was stiff, but hogtied as he was there was nothing he could do about it except grind against the floor.
TO BE CONTINUED. . . . IN PART FOUR: BLACK GOD