Date: Mon, 5 Sep 2005 10:30:49 -0700 (PDT)
From: jerome skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master, Part 1 (author, interr)

This story is porno-GRAPHIC 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 One: Black and White


Reese was chilling on a park bench, watching the sun
go down, considering spending his last $2 on a forty,
when he saw the faggot stroll into the park.

Yeah, gots to be a fag, the twenty-four year old
brother figured.   Why would a whiteboy come to this
part of town just as it was getting dark unless he was
looking for something?  If not for some dick, then it
had to be drugs.  Those are the only things whiteboys
come to the ghetto for.

It was a hot and sticky August night.  Reese carefully
observed the whiteboy loiter for a few minutes around
the perimeter of the park, then slowly make his way
toward the bench under the broken streetlight where
Reese was sitting.

Reese smirked.  One way or another, he was gonna get
paid tonight.

The young brother's white undershirt was slung over
his brawny left shoulder. His bulging cannonball
biceps were inked with black tribal bands like barbed
wire. Tats like Tupac's illustrated his chest and six
pack abs.

Reese was dark brown with panther eyes, full lips and
a fierce white smile when he chose to flash it.  He
sported a goatee and a Brooklyn fade, both badly in
need of a shape-up.

The whiteboy appeared to be in his mid thirties, but
shit, it's hard to tell.  White people always look
older than they are.

This one had a youthful face, but his hairline was
beginning to recede.  The cracker wasn't tall, maybe
five/ten, and the bare, untanned arms exposed by his
red and white tank top were not impressive.

He held a cigarette with one hand and with the other
clutched a brown grocery bag that obviously contained
a six-pack.

The whiteboy glanced at Reese furtively. Just as he
was about to pass, Reese said.  "Yo, wassup?  Can a
nigga get a square?"

"Sure," he said, surrendering a Newport 100.

Reese smelled alcohol, whiskey probably, on the
whiteboy's breath and recognized the unfocused look in
his eyes.  The whiteboy had been doing some serious
drinking.  Reese smiled.

Somewhere in Africa a panther was about to pounce on a
gazelle at a watering hole.

"Gimme me a light," demanded Reese, cigarette dangling
from his lip.

The whiteboy flicked a lighter.  Reese took a long
pull and exhaled the smoke into the whiteboy's face.
Just like when he was a kid, when Reese and his dawgs
Trace and Lil John used to blow smoke at white guys on
the bus, scrawny pink-faced businessmen in suits who
just sat there shitting their pants.

Much later, the whiteboy would reflect upon this
moment and remember it as his first command from the
man who was to own him.  Reese too would think about
it and recall the sudden surge of power he experienced
when the whiteboy lit his cigarette.

It was like the rush Reese felt when he was about to
get some pussy, that fire kindled deep in his nuts, or
what his brother-in-law Mohammad called "his African
soul."

"What's yo name, whiteboy?"

"Brad."

"Name's Reese, yo."

"M-m-mind if I sit down?" Brad stammered.  "I got some
beer."

The brown bag contained a six-pack of Steel Reserve
tallboys, which is some pretty strong shit.
Reese could feel the whiteboy's eyes prowling over his
bare upper body and he didn't like that.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" asked Brad.

"You mean ho's?  Yahhh, got plenty.  How about you,
you know any bitches?"

"Um, no," said Brad nervously. "N-not really."

"Dayumm, too bad!"  Reese shook his head. "Was hopin'
you did, man!  I feel like getting' some head tonight,
know what I mean?"

Brad chugged the last of his beer and fumbled
nervously for a cigarette.  He was about to place it
between his lips when Reese plucked it away.

"I want to hold your lighter," said Reese.

"Uh, sure, okay."  Brad passed it to him.

"Newports, too," said Reese.

Brad handed over the pack of cigarettes, somewhat
mesmerized.   Lust and drunkenness short-circuited his
common sense.

The whiteboy was getting over-excited.  He had to be
with this handsome, muscular thug.  He was dying to
know what Reese's dick looked like.  It had to be
huge, if the size of Reese's hands and feet were any
indication.

Brad couldn't take his eyes off Reese's ripped
physique.  The Black man exuded raw masculinity:
aggression, power, confidence.  He was everything Brad
thought a real man should be.  Everything that Brad
was not and could never, never be.

"You smoke herb?" Brad inquired.  "I've got some back
at my apartment, if you feel like getting high."

"Hell, yeah!"

Reese jumped up from the park bench.  He towered over
Brad by at least five inches.  As Reese slipped into
his wifebeaters, Brad glanced at the distinct outline
of Reese's cock under his gray sweats cut off at the
knee.  There was no concealing a cock that size.

Brad licked his lips in anticipation. He couldn't wait
to get this Nubian Adonis behind closed doors, drunk
and aroused by porn like so many other Black men
before him.  He long ago lost count of the many Black
men he had picked up in parks, train stations, and
dives over the years.

"Aiiiiight," said Reese.  "Let's roll."


TO BE CONTINUED...

IN PART TWO: WHITEBOY'S CRIB