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Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
Chapter 5: Satyr-day Morning Aftermath, or A Good Cocksucker is Always in Demand
Mitchell woke up on the sofa with a pounding headache. The last thing he recalled was a scruffy guy named Leroy pouring shots of Grey Goose down his throat before chasing it with his brown, rubbery hose of a cock. He sat up and held his head, collecting his scattered, disjointed thoughts. His jaw ached, and his throat was sore.
Judging by the angle of light at the windows it was not yet nine o'clock. The house was quiet except for the ticking clock. The living room was in disarray. Empty glasses and bottles everywhere, ashtrays filled to overflowing, pictures askew, pillows on the floor. Stale stench of tobacco and cannabis. Porn was playing on the TV screen with the volume muted.
How many cocks did he suck? There was Drake, DeVaughn, and Rayshawn, of course. That was three. Leroy was the last man he remembered blowing: four. He would never forget Leroy, who was by no means good-looking, but had a really nice long cock and a nasty mouth. Leroy spoke to Mitchell like he was a whore slut, calling him "girl," threatening to go upside his head if he used his teeth.
That made four black cocks. All the rest, and there were at least a dozen more, were a fuzzy kaleidoscope blur. For the first hour as guests arrived, Mitchell was kept busy fixing cocktails, setting out hors-d'oeuvres, paying for pizza delivery. By midnight the party was in full swing. Mitchell could not remember how it started. One minute he was fetching crushed ice, and the next he was on his knees with a dick in his mouth. After that, another. And another.
All told, he must have blown at least sixteen men, and most of them more than once. Sixteen black cocks! Short, long, thick, thin, blunt, pointed, smooth, veined, cut, uncut, plump, juicy, throbbing, hard, black cocks. That was a lot of ejaculate to ingest. Each heavy load titillated his taste buds with distinct flavors: sweet, salty, sour, bitter, savory, nutty, fruity, spicy.
It was the best night of Mitchell's entire life. But he was physically exhausted. How much sleep could he have gotten? Not much. It was a wonder his stomach was not upset with all the semen he swallowed. He needed Tylenol and a few hours in his own bed. Cleaning up could wait.
At the top of the stairs, Mitchell heard the sound of light snoring coming from the master bedroom. Proceeding stealthily to avoid the creaky floorboards, he peeped in and saw Drake asleep. The muscular, tall, long-limbed black stud was on his side atop the sheets, naked except for camouflage print boxers. His deep chest rose and fell. The dark brown, sculpted head at rest, cat-eyes closed and full, sensuous lips barely parted, was simply awesome to behold. He was perfection.
It seemed only fitting Drake should have the most comfortable bed in the house. Mitchell was thrilled to find him there. Even if Drake did not want a blowjob, it was a pleasure just having him around, doing things for him, being useful. But it was good that Drake was sleeping so soundly. It would give Mitchell a few hours to crash in one of the guest rooms.
Having guest rooms at all was pretentious on Mitchell's part, since he never had guests. Even his own family never visited. The real reason was he simply could not let those rooms go unfurnished. An empty room was needed to be filled. Maybe he would have guests some day. It was a possibility. He thought about offering one of the guest rooms to Drake.
Mitchell made his next discovery. There were two other guest rooms on the second floor. Both doors, ordinarily closed, had been flung open. One room was unoccupied, the other was not. There slept DeVaughn. Supine, stripped to his boxers, elbows extended, hands behind his head, eyes shut. His upper lip was curled in a sneer even in slumber.
Mitchell's bleary eyes flitted over the youth's lean, tattooed torso, taking in the chiseled six-pack and taut chest until he came to an exposed armpit, and stopped. He gazed on that little patch of ink-black fur like it was the first time he ever saw hair under a man's arm. It seemed infinitely fascinating. He felt giddy like a twelve year old boy who happened to come across pictures of naked women. Or in this case, naked men with big cocks.
Maybe that was why Mitchell never appreciated armpits until now. He was too preoccupied with cock. He could not recollect the faces of all the jocks he had blown over the years, yet he could vividly remember their meat. This was not normal, he mused. Being sexually attracted to members of your own sex was not unnatural, but this obsession for cock was something else. Was that what Drake meant about his inferiority? Was that what made him a faggot? What else besides sexy underarms had he overlooked?
Mitchell stood in the doorway for a long time, wishing he dared get close enough for a whiff of DeVaughn's pits. All of the black men he had been with smelled wonderful. Their entire bodies were aromatic from the oils rubbed into their skin, the smell of coconut in their hair, cologne, and the powerful musk produced by their sweat glands. When a black man unzipped his pants, along with his large cock spilled out a hot jungle scent designed by nature to stimulate the erogenous senses and unleash one's inhibitions. It was an olfactory assault.
As Mitchell backed silently away, DeVaughn suddenly opened his eyes. The middle-aged white man became transfixed, rooted to the spot the way a bunny rabbit freezes when it's frightened. The youth arched his back and stared back at Mitchell with a sly, smug sort of smile.
"Were you checking out my pits, Mister Charlie?" said DeVaughn.
Mitchell cleared his throat, tongue-tied, embarrassed.
Said DeVaughn: "Speak up! I could feel your eyes creeping all over me."
"I'm sorry," Mitchell mumbled.
"You wanna smell my pits?"
It was uncanny how DeVaughn, like Drake, seemed able to look into Mitchell's mind and know what he was thinking. In his liberal youth, Mitchell would have claimed all men, all races, are equal, that only the skin-color sets us apart, but more and more he was not so sure. There was more to black men than met the eye. At least these two.
More than anything, Mitchell wanted to inhale those tantalizing underarms. It was a new, compelling desire, rivaling at the moment his appetite for cock. Unable to control himself, he blurted out: "Yes, sir, it would be an honor to smell your pits, sir."
DeVaughn laughed. "You're a freak, you know that, right?"
"I'm finding that out, sir," Mitchell admitted.
"Shouldn't you be on your knees?"
"I forgot! I'm sorry, sir!" Mitchell winced as his kneecaps hit the hardwood floor harder than intended.
"I know Drake told you about that, right?" said DeVaughn. "Where you belong? It's all about respect. Know your place."
"Yes, sir! I won't forget again, sir."
Servile talk came easily to the old faggot. He liked calling Drake and DeVaughn "sir." It felt appropriate. They did deserve respect, there was no question about that. He was in abject awe of them. If they deserved respect, what did he deserve? Not respect. He was their inferior.
"C'mon over and smell my pits, pervert," sneered DeVaughn.
Cautiously, Mitchell crept forward, trembling with desire until he was close enough to poke his pointy nose into the youth's nearest pit. The raw aroma made the faggot's senses spin. It was everything he hoped it would be.
"You really like that funk, don't you," said DeVaughn.
"It's like a drug," said Mitchell. "It's intense."
"Yeah, maybe I should bottle it and sell it to fags like you. Would you buy a little bottle of my sweat?"
"I would, sir."
"How much would you be willing to pay for a brother's sweat in a little perfume bottle?"
"Any price you set, sir."
"Good answer," DeVaughn smirked. "Drake got you trained all right. Yeah, I'm gonna sell you summa my sweat. You can smell it when I'm not here to remember me by."
Mitchell got another whiff of sweaty black armpit funk and sank ever deeper into submission. DeVaughn decided it was time for a blowjob. For most men there is nothing like a blowjob upon waking up, and young DeVaughn was no exception. It's the perfect way to get the day up and running. Like smoking your first joint before breakfast. That's why faggots come in handy.
Once again Mitchell proved when it came to sucking dick, he had no rival. DeVaughn could not think of anyone half as good. None of the females, that was for damn sure. They never seemed to understand that a good blowjob can't be hurried.
DeVaughn enjoyed having his huge testicles sucked, but that thick, coal-black shaft could not be long neglected. Firm lips clamped the large black head and squeezed all the way down to the root, and slowly back up again. Up and down, up and down, building speed, drooling, sucking, slurping. The tempo turned into a frenzy.
"Dayumm, you gonna make me cum like that," said DeVaughn. "Slow it down, I ain't goin' nowhere. Know what? Fetch me a cigarette, bitch. Then get back to suckin' my dick nice and slow."
"Are you about done with my cocksucker?" Drake's booming voice issued from the doorway, where he stood in his tent-poled boxers, muscular arms folded across his deep chest.
"Nah, we still in the middle of somethin'," said DeVaughn. "Little more to go, know what I'm saying?"
"Just send the bitch to my room when you're done," said Drake. Then he looked at Mitchell, adding: "Did you hear that, faggot? I said MY room. Not yours no more. You don't sleep there ever again, am I clear? There are gonna be a lot of changes around here."
Chapter 6: Going Through Changes, or Black Alpha Intrusion
Mitchell scrambled eggs and sizzled bacon for his men. There were hash browns, as well as French-pressed coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, whole wheat toast, and an assortment of jams, jellies, and marmalade.
He tidied up the kitchen while the men watched college basketball and smoked a joint. Drake hollered from the living room: "Get your ass out here soon as you're done. This place is a fucking mess!"
A short time later, Drake and DeVaughn got dressed and headed out. Mitchell was told: "Clean this mess up, and clear all your personal shit out of my room. That's right, MY fucking bedroom. I don't want to see none of your shit. You can sleep in the basement from now on."
"You're moving in?" Mitchell asked, eyelids fluttering. A feeble, far-away voice from the farthermost reaches of his mind protested: this might not be a good idea. It was drowned out by Drake's response.
"Is there a problem with that?"
"No, sir!"
"You ARE my bitch, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir!" Mitchell nearly swooned. The word BITCH always struck a blow, making his mind sink deeper into submission.
"This is the way it's gonna be," said Drake. "I'll be living here from now on. Thanks for the invite, by the way. Obviously, I deserve the master bedroom, and I don't want you sleeping on the same floor as me. Because we're not friends, we're not family, and you're definitely not a guest. You're my bitch, and that's why you're going make some spot in the basement nice and comfy because that's where you're gonna sleep. Other than that, you still go to work to make that skrill, and you come home to take care of me. I'm calling the shots. Do you understand?"
"I understand, but - "
"There is no `but,'" said Drake. "Don't even go there. I'm the King."
"Yes, sir." Whatever it was he was going to say, Mitchell had already forgotten.
Drake glared at the cocksucker for a stretch of silence before posing a simple question: "Answer me this: are you in love with my dick?"
"Yes, oh, yes, yes," Mitchell simpered, sounding for all the world like a schoolgirl infatuated with Justin Bieber.
"Then, put all your shit in the basement, and have dinner ready when we get back. We're gonna be hungry. Think you can manage without us for a while?"
Mitchell spent the next few hours saying good-bye to his bedroom, emptying it of clothes and every personal effect. He made the bed with fresh sheets and clean comforters. The floor needed to be vacuumed, blinds and lamps wiped. The room had to be perfect before Drake got back.
The partially finished basement contained the washer, dryer, and furnace. Storage boxes were stacked here and there. Odd pieces of furniture. Lots of clutter. There was a long sofa with ruined upholstery that could serve as a bed. An old armoire in which he could hang his clothes. It would have to do.
As drastic if not bizarre as these sleeping arrangements were, it nonetheless made perfect sense to Mitchell. In his current state of mind, at least. The obvious solution to keeping Drake in his life was for Drake to move in. If Drake thought his bitch should sleep in the basement, that's where he belonged. Mitchell wanted to be dominated."
The men returned around dinner time, carrying boxes full of shit from Drake's former crib. It did not make sense paying rent for a shabby spot on the other side of town. They were greeted by an aroma from the kitchen: pork simmering in wine and Worcester sauce. Tables in both the kitchen and dining room were set because Mitchell did not know where his men would be sitting. It did not matter, because they took their plates into the living room to watch TV.
"You got a lot of threads in them boxes you need to hang up before they get wrinkled," said DeVaughn.
"Listen to you, little cuz," Drake laughed. "Is threads on the rebound? But you're right. I'll tell the fag."
"There was something else you wanted to tell the fag," prompted DeVaughn.
"That's right," said Drake. "Yo, bitch, listen up! DeVaughn gonna be moving in with us. Fix up one of the guest rooms for him."
Mitchell was elated. He did not care what the neighbors thought. He would make up some excuse. He would tell them Drake and DeVaughn were students renting rooms. Fine, young, responsible, articulate men. It would work.
As the evening wore on, both Drake and DeVaughn decided they were fagged out. That's how men get when they spend too much using fags for relief. Just being around a fag even if you're not getting head can be draining. Sometimes a man needs to plug into the real thing to get his mojo back on track.
But there was a problem. Drake did not like the idea of leaving the faggot home alone.
"Someone needs to keep an eye on him. He's in a trance right now, still high from sucking dick all night. He'll agree to anything we want, do whatever we tell him, but some point he's gonna come down from that high. He'll snap outta it. They always do. We got us a nice set-up with our own personal cook, janitor, chauffeur, maid, and world-class cocksucker. I don't want him giving us any trouble, you feel me, bruh?"
"Do you really think that cracker is gonna pull some shit?" asked DeVaughn. "We got this wrapped up, blood. He wants us here."
"You don't like know these faggots like I do. They can be sneaky bitches. I guess they have to be. See, this submissive act is like a game to them at first. They pretend like they're giving up control, and that gets them super horned, making a nigga think he's got the power when he don't. It's another one of the white man's lies. They're scared. Afraid to give into the truth and be themselves. Once they do it takes over them completely. But you can't always count on them being drugged on submission like that there. Sometimes they come down."
DeVaughn scratched his head. "What do you do when that happens?"
Said Drake: "Stick a dick in their mouth."
"What if he gets tired of sucking dick?"
"Nigga, please!"
After further discussion it was decided Drake would go out since he had to be at work on Monday morning. DeVaughn, until he got a job, if he got a job, could go out any night he wanted. One or both of them would always be around to keep the faggot under their thumb.
While Drake was gone, DeVaughn figured the best way to keep the cocksucker busy was putting him to work doing what he did best.
At first, DeVaughn was not in the mood to bust a nut. He simply used the faggot's mouth like a holster for his weapon. No suction required. He found it soothing having a warm, wet mouth wrapped around his soft, plump dick.
Especially a mouth like this and the wonders it could perform. It was amazing what this cocksucker could achieve with his mouth. He should open a school to teach these skills to others, thought DeVaughn. If they could be taught, that is. What if Mitchell was a one-in-a-million prodigy? Just when you think white folks are totally useless, along comes a submissive little freak like Mister Charlie who actually has something positive to contribute to society.
Thinking like this got DeVaughn's dick hard. He hoped Drake was getting some pussy, because tomorrow night would be his turn. For the moment, he would settle for one more blowjob from their world class champion cocksucker. The faggot who made every blowjob better than the last.
"You wanna summa daddy's pimp juice?" said DeVaughn. "Go on, get busy. Suck my dick!"
Just then the front door burst open. Drake entered with two phyne bitches on either arm. Milk-chocolate shorties in pumps, short skirts, and tight blouses, with big tits and bouncing booties.
DeVaughn knocked the cocksucker away.
"Take your ass downstairs, faggot. Don't need you."
THE STORY CONTINUES....