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Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker,
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
SYNOPSIS
In the foregoing chapters, we met Mitchell Montague, a fifty-eight-year-old academic with a world-class talent for delivering blowjobs. We learned that Mitchell answered a classified ad on Craig's List from one Drake McKeefer seeking a regular cocksucker. It was actually the picture of Drake's black cock that compelled Mitchell to respond. Before now, he had never been interested in men of color, but something about this forbidden fruit seemed to call to him. It may have been love at first sight.
According to Drake, his impressive phallus was under a witch's spell making it the most desirable cock in the entire world. Whether or not this was true, Mitchell found himself hopelessly addicted. Every Friday night for three months, Drake would stop by the cocksucker's home to fill his greedy mouth with copious quantities of Nubian DNA. It was the perfect arrangement until Drake stopped coming without giving any notice or explanation.
The following weeks were challenging for Mitchell. Going without Drake's delectable cock was like undergoing withdrawal. He blamed himself for Drake's disappearance. Maybe he could have done a better job, maybe he did not do enough. Mitchell vowed if he ever got a chance to service that perfect cock again, he would do whatever was necessary.
Just when Mitchell stopped believing he would ever feel Drake's heavy, savory cock upon his lips again, he received a text. Drake was coming, and he wanted Mitchell to buy him a pair of very expensive sneakers. The cocksucker and the black perfect cock he loved were reunited, but for a price. Drake expected one thousand dollars every week in exchange for his valuable time. Thrilled by the thought of being the black stud's bitch, the horny faggot eagerly agreed to the going rate.
It was told how Drake McKeefer decided to take over Mitchell's place of residence, consigning the old white man to the basement. Two more black men were invited to move in. That was when we met DeVaughn, a sneering, tattooed, young thug, and tall, light-skinned Rayshawn who slang weed around the way. So much available black meat threw the cocksucker into a delirium of submission.
After sucking dozens of black cock at an impromptu Fag Party, the cocksucker found himself in a state of helpless compliance. He had no will of his own. It was an entirely new experience for him. In the past, he had taken advantage of drunken young jocks, sexually deprived whiteboys with a built-in excuse why they let a faggot go down on them. But he never felt submissive toward them. If anything, he was the predator, and they were the prey. It was different with black men, Mitchell found. He felt inferior to them. Intimidated. Vulnerable. Helpless.
During Drake's frequent, unexplained absences, Mitchell was at the mercy of DeVaughn and Rayshawn, who, it turned out, had none to dispense. Instead, they took sadistic relish in punishing the white faggot, mentally and physically. There seemed to be no end to their inventive cruelty, nor the satisfaction they derived from his suffering. Throughout this ordeal, Mitchell prayed for Drake to intervene, but in the end, it was too much. Mitchell's spirit was shattered, and all his hopes disintegrated into despair.
We left Rayshawn and DeVaughn gloating, Mitchell crumpled on the living room floor, and Drake waiting in the kitchen......
......AND NOW THE THRILLING CONCLUSION TO WORD CLASS COCKSUCKER.
Chapter 12: Simple as Black and White, or How Everyone (Who Matters) Lived Happily Ever After
"What do you think Drake wants to see the slave about?" shouted DeVaughn over the sound of the steaming shower in the upstairs bathroom. His voice echoed off the tiles.
"I got no idea," mumbled Rayshawn, on the toilet, taking a shit.
"Do you think he's gonna tell Drake what we did?"
"Probably."
"I don't think Drake is gonna care," said DeVaughn, as brushed aside the shower curtain to reach for a luxurious towel of soft Egyptian cotton. "This faggot sure has a lot of nice shit."
"You mean, we the ones got nice shit," snickered Rayshawn.
"Yahhhh," DeVaughn grinned.
"Leave the water on," said Rayshawn. "I'm next. Gotta wash off this wet-dog cracker stench, know what I'm saying?"
He did not bother flushing, since that was the faggot's job. It was not only convenient having the old white guy cleaning up behind him, it felt natural.
"Did Drake ever tell you about the magic spell some witch put on his dick?" asked DeVaughn, pissing into the porcelain bowl, mixing his own waste with Rayshawn's.
It crossed the young thug's mind that it might be dope shoving the white man's face into the bowl. That is, if Drake agreed to let them go on having fun with the old faggot. DeVaughn was not so confident as Rayshawn what Drake would decide once the piggy squealed.
"Some witch did what?" said Rayshawn. "Dayumm, this hot water feels good!"
"Yeah, he said this babe he used to fuck had magic powers and before they split, she turned his shit into the best dick in the world. That's why he has a hard time keeping females down. He says once they get summa his dick, they start stalking his black ass."
"Naw, he never told me that shit," say Rayshawn. "Anyway, we've both seen his junk, and there ain't nothing special about it."
"Maybe the magic spell only works on faggots and females," said DeVaughn, brushing his teeth, spitting into the sink. "You have to admit, Drake has some kind of power over the cocksucker that we don't. I bet if Drake whipped his ass, that cracker would fucking love it."
"I don't want him to love it," said Rayshawn. "I want him to suffer."
DeVaughn giggled like a boy. He was halfway out the door, towel wrapped around his loins when Rayshawn called him back.
"I'm not saying there's no such thing as magic," said Rayshawn, parting the shower curtain. There was a serious look on his face. Water splashed his back, fragrant bubbles clung to his chest, and soapy water dripped from his low-slinging nuts and the pointed tip of his long, soft, brown member. "I've seen some spooky shit I can't explain. I've heard rumors. Granny said she put a spell on my daddy to marry my mom. He didn't stick around much, but he put a ring on her finger, and folks tell me that was a God-damn miracle. Maybe Drake does have a magic johnson. Sounds more like a curse to me. I'm happy with the dick I got."
After DeVaughn and Rayshawn walked away, it took Mitchell several minutes to sit up. His wrists were bruised from the rope which bound them. His enlarged, pink nipples and shriveled scrotum tingled, and his aching rectum felt like it had taken a baseball bat. He knew Drake was waiting, but before Mitchell could face his master in the kitchen, he had to come back to his senses.
Slowly and carefully, Mitchell got dressed. Every movement caused him to wince. He was resigned to his fate. There was no sense telling Drake. Drake saw the way DeVaughn and Rayshawn were using him and did not seem to care.
Unless, it suddenly came to him, all Drake knew about was the ass fucking. Mitchell could accept getting fucked in the ass if the belt and Icy Hot and other torments were off the table. In fact, getting fucked was really not that unpleasant. Maybe Drake would listen.
Suddenly, Mitchell remembered something he had entirely forgotten. It popped into his head like an hallucinatory flashback: speaking with a strange-looking fellow in the men's room on the third floor of the English department building. That was the day he got a text from Drake after craving him for a month.
The stranger was an albino man of color. He had the broad nose, large lips, and jaw-line of an African, but his skin appeared to have been bleached. Even his conservative Afro was white as snow. He wore a dark, conservative business suit accented with a red bowtie.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, with a friendly smile.
You do?" said Mitchell, taken aback.
"Something is missing from your life." Mitchell had the sensation of having heard this deep, melodious voice many times before in his life, but he could not place when or where. A chill ran down his spine as the stranger continued: "And you would do anything to get it back."
"That's true," Mitchell admitted. "Who are you?"
"The question is, who are you? Are you willing to give anything for your heart's desire?"
"If that were possible, then, yes," sighed the forlorn cocksucker.
"So be it," declared the stranger, only now his baritone rang inside Mitchell's head like an echo in an empty shell, for he had vanished into thin air. One second he was there, and in the next instant, he was gone.
"That was the damnedest thing," thought Mitchell, as the memory of that extraordinary encounter came back. Who was that peculiar man? How could Mitchell have forgotten him and their even more peculiar conversation? Why recall it now?
Maybe it was only a dream, Mitchell consoled himself. His mind was scrambled, and his willpower utterly depleted. He could not be sure of anything anymore. All he knew was that he could not put off facing Drake any longer.
His heart pounded as he entered the kitchen. Drake was at the round oak table, scrolling through his phone. He had a glass of red wine. Spotting the libation Drake poured for himself gave Mitchell a pang of regret, wishing he had been there to serve his Master. That was how deeply he felt about being of service. He would have been there for Drake if DeVaughn and Rayshawn were not raping and torturing him. Why did Master Drake not see that? Or did he?
Kowtowing was no longer a conscious act. Pressure from above and gravity below seemed to exert their will, as he dropped to his knees. Mind and body were rudderless. His balls and nipples blazed when caressed by the fabric of his shirt and underpants. Feet were bare.
Drake looked up from his phone and studied Mitchell with a steady, penetrating gaze. He chuckled softly and took a sip of wine.
"Strip," said Drake. "I want to examine my property."
The clothes came off. Another act not of Mitchell's volition. Not one thought as he robotically unbuttoned his shirt. A voice said strip, and the white faggot's body obeyed, but his mind or will or spirit, whatever defines that spark of individuality in man, was somewhere else.
He was conscious of Drake leaving the table to take a much closer look at the bruises and welts on his body. He heard Drake snort when he got a whiff of the mentholated sports cream. He felt Drake hands on his buttocks, parting his cheeks.
"I assume DeVaughn and Rayshawn did this?" Drake quietly observed. "Answer me!"
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell, gradually coming back to himself. It was like the scattered pieces of his mind were being held together by the glue of Drake's voice.
"Tell me everything," said Drake. "In detail. Don't leave anything out."
Mitchell managed to tell Drake the whole story without blubbering, although that was not an easy feat. When he got to the part about the belt, he was forced to choke back tears. It was pitiful. His pallid brow furrowed remembering the pain. Drake urged him to continue.
"DeVaughn says he likes hurting me," Mitchell reported, encouraged by and dependent upon the strength he felt radiating from his black sovereign. "Rayshawn says I'm his slave, not yours. That's the truth, sir. I just want to be YOUR slave, sir. Forever. I will give you the house, and be your bitch for the rest of my life. I want you to have anything you need. I want to worship your cock. I love your cock, sir! You know that I do! Why do they have to hurt me? I don't mind being fucked, but I wish it was you inside me, not them. I don't trust them. They scare me."
Drake held up his hand, signaling Mitchell to stop. "Don't I scare you?" he asked. "The truth."
"Y-yes, sir," the naked white man stammered. "Your power scares me sometimes, but with you, I know you will protect me. With them, it's different. They're different. They're out of control."
"That's enough," said Drake, sitting back down, taking a sip of wine. He shook his head as with dismay.
Long minutes passed in silence, and for Mitchell, suspended between hope and despair, it was a kind of limbo. There had to be a special bond between him and Drake, an intimacy known only to a Master and his loyal, obedient slave. Surely the loyalty which he gave Drake without question would be returned in some fashion.
Mitchell thought about what he was taught in school: how Negro slaves on plantations in the Old South were actually treated well by their owners because they came at high prices and were considered valuable property. He did not doubt there were some sadistic slave-masters, but surely their number was overblown, and surely decent people who would never let unjust acts of inhumanity persist unchecked.
What kind of Master was Drake? What would he decide? From that first, fateful moment when Mitchell laid eyes on the photo of Drake's cock in the Craig's List classified, he felt a connection. It was Drake who taught Mitchell to be subservient, that giving blowjobs to real men was only a small part of his responsibility as a faggot. Or was being subservient to Drake and his friends, Mitchell's responsibility as a man of caucasian heritage? It was confusing the way Drake and the others sometimes conflated the two.
Thinking clearly had become challenging for the forty-eight-year-old college administrator. He really did not want to think at all, not any more. Thinking independently and making decisions was too stressful. All he wanted was to taste the savor of his master's cock, and to make his master happy. That was his place. That was where he belonged. That was his destiny. Worshipping Drake's big, black, succulent cock.
Maybe it was a magic cock, after all. Without a doubt, it was the finest phallus Mitchell had ever encountered, and since it had no competition, he was convinced no other cock could ever surpass it. DeVaughn and Rayshawn had delectable cocks. So, too, did every man who attended the Fag Party. There were many qualities about black cock which made it superior to the white peckers Mitchell was used to. Yet, Drake's dark chocolate was in a league all its own.
"Before I make my decision," announced Drake at long last, jolting the faggot from his reverie in limbo, "I want to speak with DeVaughn and Rayshawn. Fetch them for me." Mitchell started to hastily get dressed, but Drake said not to bother.
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell. "Thank you, sir." He was no longer self-conscious about his nudity. If he thought of it at all, it was with a sense of liberation. Maybe that was what it meant to be a slave, having the freedom to be himself. Free to serve, free to obey, free to surrender.
It was a few minutes before DeVaughn and Rayshawn sauntered into the kitchen. Mitchell dropped to his knees. Drake produced a small stone pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl with herb, and took a deep inhalation before passing it to DeVaughn. Soon the air was redolent with clouds of sweet smoke.
"Slave, pour these men some wine," said Drake.
Mitchell scrambled to his feet. Nothing else was said until the pipe was finished, refilled and passed around once more, and all three were on their second glass of wine. Cigarettes were lit.
Drake spoke: ""I understand you've been whipping and raping my bitch, is that right?"
"Something like that," shrugged DeVaughn, indifferently.
"Except we didn't rape his ass," said Rayshawn. "He wanted to get fucked."
"That's right," DeVaughn chimed in. "And he asked for the belt. That was his idea."
"That's not what he told me," said Drake.
"Who are you gonna believe, us or some faggot?" challenged Rayshawn.
In vain, Mitchell looked to Drake's inscrutable face for his reaction. He wanted to shout out. He was telling the truth! The bruises on his body were proof enough. Even a wretched slave deserved some rights.
"I've heard both sides," said Drake, solemnly. "There's only one fair way to settle this. Are you prepared to abide by my verdict?"
DeVaughn and Rayshawn grunted assent, although their masklike expressions were also impossible to read. Mitchell held his breath as he straightened his spine and squared his narrow shoulders, bracing himself. Drake looked down at the cocksucker on his knees with a faint smile, and then addressed the men sitting across from him.
"DeVaughn and Rayshawn," said Drake, "you have done nothing wrong. You can do whatever you want to this cracker. I don't really give a fuck. He's a fucking slave. I don't care whose idea it was to fuck and beat him. He's a faggot. He probably does like it rough. I was gonna get around to whipping his ass my damn self, but something came up."
Mitchell felt like he was going to pass out. He could not believe what he was hearing. He meant nothing to Master Drake. Nada. In that moment, whatever tiny ember of hope yet flickered in Mitchell's heart was permanently extinguished. He was a worthless thing. Now he truly understood what it meant to be a slave. .
"I got some more news," Drake went on. "This is gonna be my last night here. Tomorrow, I'm moving out. I got something better waiting for me. So, I'm turning the faggot over to you. This white bitch is your problem now."
"I think we can handle this cunt," gloated Rayshawn, rubbing his hands together with anticipation.
"Where you going" asked DeVaughn. "Sup with that?"
"I found me another faggot," Drake replied. "Can't suck dick worth shit, but he's got a lot more money, and a wife he wants to watch me screw when we go cruising on his yacht next week."
"I'm coming with you!" said DeVaughn.
"I don't think so, little brother," Drake smiled. "You got yourself a faggot now. He might not be rich like my new bitch, but he ain't poor neither. Get this place put in your names. He's been giving me a thousand every week because I wasn't trying to be greedy. But he can spring for whatever you need. He's a good faggot, you know that. No one can suck a dick like this bitch. Do whatever you want with him. Just remember, I'm giving you the goose that lays the golden eggs."
"I've got an idea," said Rayshawn. "It's almost dinner time so why doesn't the faggot fix us something special to celebrate, and we can have some fun with him tonight. Since you're not leaving until tomorrow, you oughta tap that ass. You won't believe how tight it is."
"It wasn't that tight when I got done," DeVaughn guffawed.
"I'll let you know," Drake chuckled. "What I wanna check out is all that shit you bought. I saw some paddles, right? I might have to give the faggot a spanking before I bounce.
"You might wanna put a ball gag in his mouth so he can't holler," offered Rayshawn.
"I know something else we can put in his mouth," said Drake. "In fact, I feel like getting some head right now. Dinner can wait, aiiight? I want one of those world-class super jobs."
Resigned to his fate, Mitchell resolved to deliver the best blowjob of his career. He knew there was no stopping Drake from leaving, but at least he could drink up one last ejaculation from the world's most perfect cock. As he opened Drake's slacks, releasing the black dragon which stole his heart, he heard his former master speak, words that would be forever etched in memoriam:
"Don't worry, cracker. I'm gonna remember you. You're the best cocksucker I'm ever gonna meet, that's for damn sure. You got a gift. Yeah, I know you're gonna miss this sweet meat. It's gonna haunt you in your dreams. But you'll survive. Now you have two masters to serve. They might be a little shot out, but they're a lot better than a nasty subhuman like you deserves. Heh, you wanted black dick so bad you invited it into your home. A faggot can always find a brother who will let you suck his dick, but getting rid of him is a whole other story, and now you know that."
THIS CONCLUDES *** DRAKE MCKEEFER AND THE WORLD CLASS COCKSUCKER OR BLACK MAGICK DICK ***
SUPPLEMENT TO WORLD CLASS COCKSUCKER
In Chapter 11, Rayshawn chanted a few lines from a poem inspired by his recent experiences at 420 Woodpecker Lane. For those that are interested, the entirety of those lyrics follows. Let us not judge Rayshawn's talent (or lack thereof), but rather attend to the spirit of his theme. If you read his incantatory verse aloud, allowing the words to take shape like seeds inside your fecund mind, do not be surprised by thoughts and deeds that might arise. Repeat as necessary.
TAKE MY SKEET,
by Rayshawn Smith
I see you drool when you're checking out my chunk, On your knobby knees looking like a punk.
I just might let you if you ask me nice, Grovel like a prison bitch, pay my price,
Bark like a dog for me, moo like a cow, Bray like a jackass, I know you know how.
Clamp those sugar lips around the head, Slobber the shaft and swallow what you're fed,
Open up your throat, take it like a thoroughbred, Cocksucker, that is. Yeah, faggot, that's what I said,
You cunt-faced pain-pig, born for sucking dick, Fairy, freak, batty-boy, perverted and sick,
Good for one thing only is the way you blow Because you're a pro at fellatio.
That's the reason I keep your mouth around, Why queers like you and Men like me get down.
You are the hole, and I got what it takes To dig like a drill until your throat aches,
Making you gag, choke, gasp, grunt, and sputter, Punching your tonsils to get my nutter,
That foaming sperm you crackers like to eat, Guzzle it up, cocksucker, take my skeet.
Gobble that jizm, drink the pimp juice, Along with a dose of verbal abuse,
Maybe bitch slap your face or pinch your nose, Whatever it takes to show you who's Boss,
Or just for kicks to see you writhe and squirm, Wriggling like the pathetic little worm
Between your legs that you call a pecker, While you get high on Nubian Nectar.
Cower when you see me, down on your knees, Convince me it's your solemn wish to please,
Make yourself useful, work harder, faster, Be a productive slave for your Master.
When I must piss you will be my toilet, My spittoon for spitting. I'm not done yet.
You can be my footstool, bartender, Boot-licker , lickspittle, just surrender
To your inevitable destiny: Total obedience will set you free.
Take my skeet, taste African DNA, Seed of warriors, when you learn to obey.
You exist in my light and my shadow, A satellite in orbit, round you go,
Like a fluttering moth drawn to my flare, A white-fleeced lamb with a black panther.
That's right, sweet pea, I know you want this meat, Ain't nothing you won't do to take my skeet.
Now you're sprung for my dick, head over heels, At last you realize how true love feels.
This most magnificent pillar of flesh Will haunt your lonely days and nights unless
You swear lifelong allegiance to your lord In exchange for nothing, not one reward,
Unless at times my deep nature rises, And I summon you to fix the crisis,
Then, little fag, you loathsome cocksucker, Devious, disgusting motherfucker,
Get at that mission whiteboys do so well, Worship Black Dick like a harlot from hell,
Service the phallus plainly superior. No teeth, go deep, you faggot inferior!
Bobble your head up and down on my jock, Slobber, suckle, and suffer while I talk,
Filling your head with a foul litany Of crude contempt and bile, so you can see
Yourself as I see you where you belong, Busy at your job polishing my prong
With your pussy lips working for a treat, Pleasing my Black Dick and taking my skeet.
THE END