This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction! Should depictions of homosexual acts or interracial domination offend your sensibilities, read no further!! If you're under the age of consent, turn back at once!!! Otherwise, read on...
THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio
Part Nine: Making That Money
Sunday night, Brad lay upon his side on the living room floor, staring into darkness long after Reese turned out the lights. Brad could not sleep a wink despite extreme physical and emotional fatigue. His ass was painfully sore both inside and out.
What tormented Brad with insomnia was not the lingering soreness of his rectum and ass cheeks. Neither was it the discomfort of his ankles bound by ropes or wrists cuffed behind his back. Nor was fear or anxiety over being held captive in his own home, fucked in the mouth, ass and wallet.
The source of Brad's torment was the mere thought of a sexy Black thug sleeping in the nude between his own soft Egyptian bed linens. Brad never slept with his tricks and now here he was consigned to the living room floor in restraints while the most perfect man imaginable usurped his luxurious bed.
Brad could envision the tall thug's muscular brown physique in his mind's eye as if it were a snapshot. Those powerful broad shoulders, huge biceps and pecs like slabs of beef inked with tats, rock-hard abs, narrow waist, thick strong thighs, and awesome cock.
Practically smelling and tasting that succulent Black cock, Brad longed to relieve his sexual tension, but even if his wrists were unshackled, jacking off was not an option as his meager, restless penis was held in check by a chastity belt. Achieving an erection proved painfully impossible and his testicles felt like they would explode. Brad's penis gave up trying to get hard.
Sometime during the wee hours exhaustion took its toll and Brad drifted off, dreaming feverishly of Reese's cock. It dangled before him like a Tantalus fruit, thick and long, swollen but not hard, throbbing with power, and out of reach.
Over and over ran his personal mantra of self-deprecation: "I am a little white worm..." like a recording that never stopped playing, not even in his dreams.
Early next morning, Brad was awakened by Reese's large strong hands unlocking his cuffs and unknotting the ropes. It took a moment for Brad to come to his full senses. Opening his drowsy eyes, the first thing he beheld was Reese's naked, muscular body looming over him.
"Wake the fuck up, yo! Get my breakfast ready," Reese demanded. "Double up on them eggs and home fries, cause I'm hungry like a mutha-fucka! After that, say yo' prayers and take a shower. You goin' to work today, bitch! Now get busy! Don't make me beat yo' ass again, cause you know I'm `bout that!"
Brad stumbled barefoot to the kitchen and set to work.
He was not entirely useless at a stove and in fact, was coming to find that he enjoyed cooking for a man.
While Reese, still naked, chowed down at the kitchen table, Brad scarfed some scrambled eggs and cold toast in the living room before proceeding to the altar in the corner.
Brad's heart raced as he lit both candles and kissed the hardwood floor one hundred times, repeating: "I am a little white worm." It was the inescapable truth. Compared to a real man like Reese, what was Brad but a little worm on a hook, a pathetic loser?
Reese chuckled softly as he devoured a slice of whole wheat toast laden with margarine and grape jelly. He wished his niggas could see this whiteboy worship him.
It felt natural seeing a whiteboy down on his knees, praying to him, working for him, servicing him. Fuck yeah! This was how it should be!
Not permitted hot water for bathing, Brad took a quick, cold shower. Taking care not to get his chastity belt wet, he realized he would have to ask for permission to wash his genitals: one more act of humiliation. Submitting to the cruel whims of anonymous Blacks on the internet was nothing like being at the mercy of the real thing!
As soon as Brad turned off the shower, Reese summoned him: `Front and center!'
Brad hastily dried and found Reese sprawled naked on the sofa, smoking a blunt, watching TV. The sweet stench of reefer made Brad long to get high. This was one more thing he would have to ask permission for. Would his Master even allow it?
It seemed unthinkable that he would never smoke pot or get drunk again, yet if that turned out to be the case, should Reese forbid it, there was nothing Brad could do about it. Nothing whatsoever. He was a victim of his own insatiable lust for Blackness.
Feeling small and insignificant, Brad stood before Reese half-bowed, hanging his head, unsure what to do or say, afraid to make a mistake or fail to hear a command. Reese's nakedness was overwhelming. Sometimes Brad could not bear to look at Reese because he was too handsome, too perfect. It was like looking directly into the sun.
"Yahhh, that's right," Reese growled with utter contempt. Hang yo' head, bitch! Keep lookin' at the floor. Don't be lookin' at me less I tell you, understand?"
Brad nodded without lifting his eyes. His knees trembled. Four long nights and three full days had passed since this thug seized control of his life.
"You been doin' good, bitch," Reese went on. `Breakfast was decent and I like how you be prayin' so don't slack up. Every morning, every night! Who owns you, bitch?"
"You do, Sir," said Brad.
`That's right, dontchu forget it! Now, get dressed. You takin' yo' ass to work today, peckerhead! I wantchu bringin' home that paper to daddy! You got bills to pay! My bills! You hear me, bitch???"
Reese balled his fist as if to strike. His nostrils flared.
"Yes, yes...God," Brad cringed, but the blow never came.
"One mo' thing!" Reese chuckled. "I wantchu back here by six and pick up some KFC on yo' way home. Extra crispy. An' don't forget the biscuits and `tata salad!"
"Yes, Sir," said Brad. `KFC, extra crispy, biscuits and potato salad."
Brad's obsequiousness assured Reese that the whiteboy could be counted on to do as he was told. After all, it was the fag's sick fantasy to serve a Black Cash Master and now he had his wish come true. Or was there more to this than a cracker's sick fantasy?
Any time Reese ordered the faggot to do his bidding, the brother experienced a definite surge of power in his nuts, his African soul, like testosterone flooding his bloodstream. As the subservient whiteboy slipped deeper into mindless submission, Reese found himself feeling stronger and more aggressive.
Whenever the whiteboy recited `I am a little white worm" at the altar, Reese felt like he had ingested super vitamins or worked out at the gym. When the whiteboy sucked his dick, it felt like being on steroids.
Brad's wardrobe and most of his personal effects lay in disordered piles on the floor of the unfurnished spare bedroom. He selected a pair of dark brown dress pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, both of which had to be ironed, as well as a tie that had previously bound his wrists.
By 7:45, Brad was dressed and ready to depart for work. He stood once again before Reese, still in all his naked glory on the sofa. Despite his nudity, or perhaps because of it, the bruh reclined with an air of dignity, thighs apart, his long cock and heavy nut-sack hanging over the edge.
Although Reese generally liked to wear as little as possible, this morning he remained naked for another reason. As if instinctively, Reese knew that the way to control this freak was by reward and punishment, just like training a dog.
"On yo' knees!" Reese barked. "You gonna miss me today?" He had this ofay freak figured out.
`Yes, Sir," said Brad, dropping without a second thought.
"I've decided to let you kiss my dick before you go, bitch. Would you like that?"
"Oh, yes, Sir!"
"Do it!"
Brad planted a resounding smooch on the huge mahogany head of Reese's cock. Drops of pearly pre-cum leaked from the meatus. He yearned to lap it up with his tongue, wrap his thin lips around it, take the throbbing shaft into his throat, but he wisely resisted temptation.
Brad was learning to do precisely as he was told. The alternative was punishment and he did not care to risk another ass-whooping. His buttocks were still sore from the last thrashing. Getting flogged with a belt was a hot fantasy, but the reality was simply too painful to repeat if it could be avoided.
Reese lifted three ten dollar bills from Brad's leather wallet. Actually, it was Reese's wallet now. He folded the bills and tucked them into Brad's shirt pocket.
"Buy yourself some lunch, aiiight? After today you gonna brown-bag it! Fetch me some KFC on yo' way home and bring me the change, understand?"
"I understand," Brad nodded, obediently.
`You understand what, bitch???"
`I understand, SIR...GOD, SIR!!!!"
"That's a good bitch! Now get yo' ass to work. I want you to call my cell every hour. Leave a message if I don't pick up telling me how much you miss me!"
Brad held a clerical position in an insurance company downtown. Ordinarily he caught a bus, but today he decided to walk the thirteen blocks to save money. It felt strange making a decision on his own. He almost turned back to ask for permission, but resolved to do this on his own.
At the office, Brad remained in his cubicle to avoid interacting with others. He was very self-conscious, distressed that someone might glimpse the imprint of the chastity belt he wore beneath his slacks, but in fact the device was unnoticeable.
Dealing with meaningless tasks was not easy, as he was distracted by thoughts of his new life. How could filing invoices in alphabetical order matter compare to picking up dinner and getting home by six o'clock!
Brad wished he was home and wondered what Reese was doing while he worked to pay the bills.
That day in the men's room, Brad happened to pass several African-Americans who worked for the agency. First, Leroy and Charles from the mailroom, both in their twenties, and later forty-something Mike Simpson from Human Resources. Something in the way they looked at him made Brad feel his secret was laid bare.
He wondered what they would say if they knew he was a Black man's slave.
In the past when Brad pissed alongside Black men at the row of urinals, he snuck a peek at their genitals.
Today, Brad entered a stall to urinate so no one would see his chastity belt. What he didn't know was that Leroy, Charles, and Mike, not to mention every other brother who worked there, were hip to Brad checking out their equipment.
It also seemed like Brad's supervisor, a well-built and good-looking Jewish guy in his mid-twenties, saw right through him. Brad often wondered if his boss was gay. There were no obvious signs and yet he pinged on Brad's gaydar.
As the day wore on, Brad craved his Master the way an addict craves his next fix. Every hour on the hour, as ordered, Brad phoned home and left a message.
9:00 - "I miss you, Sir, I want to serve you, Sir! Thank you for letting me be your slave!"
10:00 - "I wish I was home to look after you, Sir! I miss you. You own me, Sir!"
11:00 - "I am a little white worm! You are my God! I worship you, Sir!"
At 12:00, Reese picked up. "You workin' hard, bitch?"
"Yes, Sir,' said Brad. Reese replied: "Good bitch!"
It was a thrill hearing his Master's voice.
The other messages were more of the same. At five o'clock, Brad left the office and brought home Kentucky Fried Chicken as commanded. When Brad walked into the apartment, Reese was doing pushups in the living room.
". . . fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty!" Reese grunted. He wore gray sweats but was shirtless and barefoot. The muscles in his back rippled and glistened.
After devouring his extra crispy chicken, biscuits, and potato salad in front of the TV (while Brad sat alone in the kitchen eating), Reese summoned the whiteboy.
"Get them clothes off," said Reese.
Brad didn't know what to expect when Reese unlocked the chastity belt.
"Take it off, bitch."
Brad's penis was shriveled, poking out like a small toadstool from his blond bush of pubic hair.
"Get it hard, bitch," Reese demanded.
"Sir?" Brad was not sure what to make of this command.
"Get it hard or I'm gonna beat the living shit out you, bitch!"
Brad fumbled with his penis, but he couldn't achieve an erection. Reese snickered with contempt.
"Hurry up!" he barked. "You got one minute!"
Brad stroked his penis and conjured all the different fantasies that usually aroused him, but nothing helped. His pallid little penis lay limp between his fingers.
"I can't, I can't," he whimpered like a little girl. "I'm sorry, Sir, I'm trying, but it won't get hard."
`Don't worry about it," said Reese. "I'm not gonna punish you. You just a lil white worm, aintcha?"
"Yes, yes, yes, Sir," Brad sobbed, hot tears of abject humiliation streaming down his face. He was totally broken. `I am a little white worm, Sir. I am a little white worm!"
"Yah, you are," Reese muttered with matter of fact disdain. `Now, put yo' belt back on."
Brad stepped back into the steel and plastic chastity belt, feeling very ashamed. Reese turned the key in the small padlock and then ordered Brad to his knees. Reese rose and pulled down his sweatpants, releasing his semi-hard dick and sweaty balls.
"Suck it," Reese demanded.
Brad opened his mouth at once and leaned forward, driven by instinct. Reese's thick, meaty phallus passed Brad's lips and drove deep into his throat. His heavy nuts banged against the whiteboy's chin as a musky tang invaded Brad's nostrils, making his head spin, making him swallow that Black cock until he choked.
"Yeah, that's right," said Reese. "Choke on it, bitch! Get it all the way down yo' throat. Suck it good! Pull on it like it's a fuckin' crack pipe, bitch. This is yo crack. Get yo' fix, bitch! Suck it! Suck it right! Don't make me have to beat yo' ass!"
For the next twenty minutes, Brad sucked relentlessly, bobbing his head up and down, tasting and smelling thug dick, and just when he thought he would have to take a break, or beg for one, Reese ejaculated.
"Awww, shitttt!' he moaned, as one spurt of hot sperm shot followed another, filling the faggot's mouth. Sperm like venom, white-hot with hate and contempt, thick and salty. Brad swallowed without gagging.
"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" said Reese, looking down at his own personal cocksucker and money-maker through narrowed cat eyes.
It was good to be a god! Reese felt like he could take on an army single-handed. A cruel smile flickered on his ample lips.
This was only the beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .