Date: Sun, 15 Jan 2006 15:09:41 -0800 (PST)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master, Part  12 (authoritarian, interracial)

This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction!
If you are under the age of consent or
offended by depictions of lust, greed,
submission and domination, turn back!


THUG CASH MASTER,
by Skorpio.

Part Twelve:   Cyber Thuggin'



Wednesday morning, Brad called out sick and prepared
breakfast: scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, coffee,
surprised the aroma did not rouse the three sleeping
men.  Brad longed to to serve them, but he had his
orders.  The food would keep on the stove, and if not,
there was the microwave.

He tiptoed past the open door to the master bedroom
where Reese slept soundly on linen sheets. He felt
blessed having a handsome and well-built thug for a
Master.

Stretched out on the sofa was Malik in skull-cap,
shorts, and wifebeaters.  Dre was in the overstuffed
chair, arms folded across his smoldering bare chest.
Brad paused to marvel at the young men who ravaged his
throat only a few hours before.

He knew it was wrong to stand there, but he could not
help himself.  Their raw, virile beauty was magnetic.
How angelic they looked, yet Brad knew all too well
their physical needs.

Closing the door to his room behind him, Brad laid
down upon the floor with a dreamy smile of
contentment.  He was so happy with his new life that
he wanted to pray at his altar, recite his mantra, but
he was afraid of waking the others.

Eventually, Brad drifted back to sleep.  He dreamed
that he was fellating an enormous Black cock, but the
man's face was shrouded in shadow. This dream seemed
to go on forever.

Sometime later, Brad awakened to robust voices.

"Dat was some tight skull," exclaimed Dre.

Malik replied, "That cracker can suck a bone, fo'
sho!"

Dre:  "I wouldn't mind havin' a cocksucker on duty
24/7, fer real, yo!  But didn't chu wanna beat his
white ass after he sucked yo' shit?"

Malik:  "Word is bond!  I wanted to knock him the fuck
out!  Ain't dat a shame?"

Dre:  "I almost feel sorry fo' da cocksucka."

Malik:  "Same."

Dre:   "Not dat sorry, yo!"

Malik:  "Like you said, he can suck a dick!"

Dre:  "Oh, hell, yahhh!"

Reese:  "What's crackin', niggas!"

Malik:  "Sup, nigga."

Dre:  "Sup, cuz."

The crib erupted to boisterous life.  The stereo and
TV came on, the microwave hummed, dishes clattered,
and laughter boomed.   Forty minutes later, Brad heard
voices outside his door.

Malik:  "You `bout ready to bounce, yo?"

Dre:  "Gimme five. Gotta git somethin' fixed first,
naw' mean?  Then we can get outta here, if dat's
aiiight."

Reese:  "Git yo'self some, bruh!"

Dre thrust open the bedroom door and quickly shut it
behind him.  The small, unfurnished room was cluttered
with clothing and other items.  Reese's slave was on
the floor, swaddled in a wrinkled linen sheet, wearing
white briefs and a tee-shirt.

Brad's taut nerves quivered with a sharp frisson as
Dre unzipped his jeans and offered his thick, dark
cock in the palm of his hand.

"Do yo' job," said Dre, with half a leer.  "Put a rush
on it.  Just wanna get my mornin' nut. Hurry it up.
Got people waitin'."

Brad threw off the single sheet and got on his knees.
He could hardly believe he was getting another chance
at this sweet dick.

He licked Dre's dark succulent knob with his small but
earnest pink tongue.  As Brad kissed the head, the
exotic flavor of Nubian manhood tingled his taste buds
and its aroma pervaded his nostrils.

"Dat's right," growled Dre.  "Git bizzy!"

Brad stretched open his mouth as if yawning, engulfing
the thug's cock.

"Ohh, yahhh, dat's right, suck it!" Dre muttered,
grabbing Brad's head with both hands.  "Open wide!
Dat's right, stretch dem lips.  Take dis dick down yo'
throat, punk.  Make me nutt!  Fix it, right now,
bitch!!!"

Brad's mouth expanded wider than he thought possible.
Dre's strong hands gripped his head like a vice.
There was nothing Brad could do but relax his throat
and yield.

The long, brown cock pumped like a piston until sperm
like hot white gravy poured into Brad's mouth.

"Unnh!"  Dre grunted with animal satisfaction.
He wiped the glistening juices from his bozack on the
whiteboy's tee-shirt.

"You a freak, baby," sniggered Dre, stuffing his
sausage back into his pants.  "But chu liked'd dat,
di'n't chu!  Good nigga dick, dat's what chu like,
right?   Lissen up, freak!  When you get tired workin'
fo' Reese, cum step to me.  I can use a cocksucker
like you."

The bedroom door closed shut and Brad was alone in
once more, hot spooge dripping from his lips.

Dre:  "Told yo' bitch he can come work fo' me!"

Reese, laughing:   "Yah, we heard, nigga!  But that's
MY property, yo!  Lissen up, both of ya.  I'm gonna
cut y'all in on this once I get it off the ground,
just be cool, aiiight?  Y'all gonna get paid if this
works out!"

Malik:  "That's what I was sayin'!"

Dre:  "Let's swayze, gee!"

Malik:  "Yah, nigga, you ready now you got yo' dick
shizzled?"

Dre:  "It beez dat way, yo!  Dayumm, y'all act like
some old timers.  Don't cha'll remember needin' dat
fix?  I just make too much sperm, yo!  Can't let it
build up like dat, know what I'm sayin'?"

Laughter exploded.  After Malik and Dre left, Reese
summoned his slave to the living room.

Reese wore black silk boxers, showing off his slender
waist and powerful thighs.  Reese was twenty-four
years old and stood six feet, three inches tall, with
a thirty-four inch waist and tattooed abs.

Brad was seven years older and stood five inches
shorter.  His startling pallid body was not
ill-formed, merely unimpressive, and his hairline had
begun to recede, making him look a few years older
than he was.

"I like what chu done so far on the project, but it
needs mo' work," stated Reese.  "Reel in that money,
yo.  Anything you need, you just let me know, aiiight?
 Talk to me.  Anything you got to say, say it.  Just
give respect, bitch!"

"Yes, Sir," said Brad.  "There are some things I need
to talk to you, about, Sir."

"Go on," said Reese, with a wave of his hand.

"Sir, the site needs some pictures of you. Not a lot,
Sir. Just a few so --"

"Ain't no problem," Reese interrupted.  "Fetch my
camera."

Anything but camera shy, the handsome thug posed for
two dozen digital snapshots, facial and body pics
taken from every angle.  Reese flashed his killer
smile and flexed his muscles.  The camera loved him.
Light and shadow met in a flattering chiaroscuro.

Reese wanted his dick photographed.

"Get it hard with your mouth first," he insisted.
"Don't take no pictures when it ain't hard. Not havin'
that.  So, suck it!"

Brad nursed Reese's cock until it became fully erect
at ten stunning inches. Only a few shots of that
magnificent pole of flesh were needed.  These were
reserved for the most consistently generous
tribute-payers.

Around noon, Reese announced, "I'm steppin' out for a
few.  Work on that website while I'm gone. Time is
money, worm!  One more thing: move that computer and
the altar into yo' room!"

Brad relocated computer and altar to his room.  The
altar was a low end-table on four short legs.  Draped
with red velour and set with tall black candles, a
brass censer, and a black-framed photo of his Master,
it was every bit a shrine.

In the photo, Reese was bare-chested with arms behind
his head, ebony armpits.  His smile was ambiguous, a
sneer of contempt and a flicker of mysterious mirth.
His feral eyes burned like those of a jungle cat.
Many times Brad found himself staring at that
photograph.

Over the next few hours, Brad applied himself to
constructing the Thug Cash Master website.  Uploading
text and pics was a simple matter of following
directions, a skill Brad only recently acquired.
Displayed on the home page was the photo from the
altar and these words ran beneath:

"Thug Cash Master for obedient white pussy boys.  Only
tribute-paying white slaves will be accepted.  What
can you do for me?  Straight Brother accepting tribute
from whiteboys who know your place.  If you are not
100% ready to become my slave, don't bother to contact
me.  Get my attention by honoring my Amazon.com wish
list or send generous tribute by Paypal.  See links
below.  When I receive a tribute of $100, you will be
contacted.  Be prepared to serve!  Know your place!!!"

By six o'clock, the site received thirteen inquiries.
Of these thirteen, three deposited $100 to the Paypal
account.  Brad e-mailed ten applicants that any
response from the Thug Cash Master requires tribute.
Out of these ten, three followed up in compliance,
making for another $300.  In only a few hours, Thug
Cash Master had six whiteboys on the hook.

Brad wondered where his Master was.

In a cheap hotel room several blocks away, Reese was
with two whores named Luz and Julia.  They were
identical twins.  Reese had them on the bed, side by
side on their hands and knees, while he doggy-styled
their identical hairy twats.

He long-dicked one pussy, then long-dicked the other,
driving both whores into a frenzy.  Reese filled four
Trojan Magnums and left the twins too
fucked-the-hell-out to return to the streets.

Around eight-thirty, Reese returned to the crib,
finding his obedient slave at the computer.

"How's the project goin'?" Reese demanded.

"I've made progress, Sir," announced Brad, proudly,
holding a printout listing six customers who paid $100
up front.  "You've made $600 already!  These six need
to be contacted, Sir.  I've been in touch with them by
e-mail. They all want to serve you."

"Good work, slave," said Reese with genuine
approbation as he lifted his shirt and absently
scratched his stomach. His sharp eyes studied the list
of names.

"Can I show you anything else, Sir?"

"I got this covered.  Watch some TV `til I get done.
Nah, second thought, bring me a double gin an' tonic
with a twist of lime, and then make yo'self useful.
Scrub the bathroom."

"I cleaned the bathroom earlier today, Sir," said
Brad, without thinking.

"I know," Reese replied with annoyance.  "Now I'm
tellin' you to do it again!  Get to work.  I'm in a
good mood, bitch, but if I ever got to tell you twice
to do somethin', you won't be sittin' down fo' a
month!  Do you or do you not unnerstand me, boy?"

"Yes, yes, Sir," Brad whimpered.  "I'm sorry, Sir.  I
understand, Sir."

"Aiiight, then," said Reese.  "You never stop workin'
fo' me, unnerstand?  That's yo' full-time job, bitch!
That's what you do! That's what you are!  That's how
it is. You don't get no day off, you don't get no
vacation!  All you gonna ever be in life is my slave
so you might as well get good at it."

"Yes, Sir.  I understand, Sir."

"Tell me what chu unnerstand, bitch!"

"Sir, I work for you, and that's what I do, that's
what I am, Sir.

"Then, do what I told you, worm."

Brad served the gin and tonic as specified and lit his
Master's Black and Mild cigarillo, before proceeding
to the bathroom.

Reese doffed his jersey and sat down to the computer.
It was a warm, muggy August night.  Outside the window
alley cats caterwauled in heat.  Heat lightning scored
the sky.  He sipped the refreshing cocktail.

The first name on the printout, subwhitey2000,
happened to be online.  Reese made contact by instant
messenger.

Thug Cash Master:  "u wanna serve me bitch?"

Subwhitey2000 replied at once:  "Yes, Sir.  I'm a
submissive whiteboy, Sir... I want you to use me, Sir...."

Thug Cash Master:   "Dont worry bout that.  LOL.  Turn
yo camera on."

Subwhitey2000 appeared in a small window on Reese's
monitor, an average-looking white guy in his late
twenties with short brown hair, brown eyes, and a
small mouth.  He was shirtless with a smooth,
undeveloped chest, a flabby belly, and spindly arms.

Reese adjusted the webcam to capture himself from the
waist up.

Subwhitey2000 messaged back: "You look like a god,
Sir."

Thug Cash Master:  "that's what I am, cracker, your
god...  don't forget it... u got a dildo?"

Subwhitey2000:  "Yes, Sir."

Thug Cash Master:  "Get it!  wanna see u fuck that
pussy!"

Subwhitey2000:  "What should I call u Sir?"

Thug Cash Master:  "Call me Master Thug for now."

Reese studied the screen as subwhitey2000 brought his
plump, dimpled ass into view and proceeded to
penetrate his pussy with a large, black dildo.  Wet
with lubricant, the tool slid into his hungry hole,
inch by inch by inch.

Thug Cash Master messaged:  "Harder, bitch!  Jam that
ass like I was fuckin'!  Fuck harrrrrd!!!"

After thrusting the black dildo in and out for fifteen
minutes, subwhitey2000 ejaculated in his own hand with
a sigh like air hissing from a punctured balloon.  His
pink penis deflated.

Subwhitey2000:  "thank u Sir!  i wish it was u fucking
me."

Reese typed:  "it WAS me fuckin u!"

Subwhitey2000:  "thank u, Sir."

Thug Cash Master:  "u my bitch?"

Subwhitey2000:  "yes Master Thug"

TCM:  "make me a video of yo self fuckin that pussy...
loud... entertain me...."

Subwhitey2000:  "Yesss, Sir!"

TCM:  "u got 24 hrs to send me that video.  Do you
wanna send me something from my wish list?

Subwhitey2000:  "yes Sir!"

TCM:  "then do it!  Show me luv or we don't talk
again... dismissed 4 now."

Subwhitey2000:  "Yes, Sir...thank you, Sir!"

Reese concluded the video transmission and reclined in
the swivel chair, taking a breather to absorb the
freakiness of this all.

He didn't like being some prop in a whiteboy's
fantasy, even if was cool seeing that punk take a
black dildo in his Pillsbury Doughboy ass.  Reese had
to admit that as much as he loved pussy, there was
something hot about a white guy getting fucked, by
Black dildo or the real thang.

Reese contacted the next tribute-payer by instant
messenger, and then switched to phone. This one's name
was whitebottomboi.

"Sup, faggot?"  Reese's voice was deep and
intimidating.  In three syllables he projected the
raw, roughneck power of the street.

"Is this Th-thug C-cash M-master?"  The voice on the
other end was thin and tremulous.

"That's right," said Reese.  "I got the tribute you
sent.  I was real glad you did that, know why? `Cause
I like takin' money from whiteboys.  It's like
reparations.  You know what that means?

"Y-yes, Sir," said whitebottomboi.  "I think so, Sir...."

"You like givin' niggas money, ain't that right?
Don't be scurred.  Talk to me.  Tell me what's ever on
yo' mind.  I gonna get to know you first before I
decide if I want you as a slave."

"Y-yes, Sir," said whitebottomboi.  "Permission to
tell you my fantasy, Sir?"

"Yo' fantasy?  Sho', break it down!  You got
permission to speak."

Whitebottomboi's fantasy was getting robbed by one or
more Black men while withdrawing cash from an ATM and
then forced to suck their cocks.  He babbled on how
this scenario excited him.  He was married and only
this fantasy got him hard enough to make love to his
wife.

Reese said, "You might got potential to be one of my
slaves.  But you still ain't given me shit.  What chu
gonna do fo' me?  Where's my loochie, bitch?  If I was
there right now, we'd be takin' a walk to the nearest
ATM.  Slide that card fo' me, whiteboy!  What's the
max you can take out?"

"$300, Sir," gasped whitebottomboi, breathing hard.

"You playin' wit' yo'self, cracker?"  Reese demanded.


"Uh, no Sir, I mean, yes Sir...."

"Stop, bitch!  You don't touch yo'self less I tell you
to, unnerstand me?"

"Yes, Sir," said whitebottomboi.

By the time Reese got done, the money fag begged to
make tribute equal to the maximum amount withdrawable
on his ATM card.

Whitebottomboi sent another hundred dollar tribute by
Paypal and purchased two hundred dollars' worth of
items from the Thug Cash Master's Amazon.com wish list
of CDs and DVDs.

Satisfied, Reese said, "That's what's I'm talkin'
about, bitch.  That's how to get my attention.  You
still wanna jerk off?  This shit turn you on, bitch?"

"Yes, it does, Sir.  Thank you, Sir!"

"Write me an e-mail tellin' me how it made you feel
buyin' me that shit.  After you do that, you can play
wit' yo'self all night if you want!"

"Yes, Sir."

"One mo' thing!  Send pics of yo' wife.  Some nekkid
pics!  Think you can handle that?"

"Um, yes, Sir... I think I can."

"Send them pics and I'll let chu buy me some mo' shit.
 Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I would, Master Thug."

"You know what chu gotta do. Get busy!"

Reese ended the call.  He relit the Black and Mild.
The conversation with whitebottomboi took up less than
half an hour. Not bad for $300, not counting the
faggot's initial tribute.  Maybe there was bank to
this, after all.

In composing the Amazon.com wish list, the worm had
done an adequate job estimating Reese's taste in music
and movies.  Reese made a mental note: order the worm
to add Mobb Deep and Pussycat Dolls.

The next chump online went by slut4blax.  Less than
half a minute passed before he responded to Reese's:
"sup?"

Slut4blax:  "hello Sir... i wasn't expecting to hear
from you so soon Sir... how may i serve u Master?"

Thug Cash Master:  "cam 2 cam."

A few moments later Thug Cash Master and slut4blax
came face to face through the magic of modern
technology.

The white guy was in his fifties with dingy gray hair
gathered in a ponytail, oversized ears and a long face
with a dull, hangdog expression.  A spark of
concupiscence lit his blue eyes when Reese appeared on
his screen.

Thug Cash Master:  "whats yo fone number?"

Reese punched the digits into his cell phone.

"Hello, suh," said slut4blax, picking up.  He had a
mild southern accent.

"Sup, boy," said Reese.  He repeated the spiel that he
used with whitebottomboi, thanking him for the tribute
and getting him to talk about his fantasies.

"I was wondering," said slut4blax, "if I could buy
your used clothes, Sir?"

"Such as?" said Reese.

"Um, like your dirty socks, Sir?"

"What else?"

"Maybe your underwear, Sir?  I would love to own a
jockstrap that you wore, Sir!"

Although this was not something Reese had anticipated,
it did not surprise him. He knew a brother who
collected used panties, so it made sense some fag
wanted to smell his drawers.

Reese replied, "$100 for my sox.  $100 for my boxers.
$200 for my jock.  Take it or leave it."

Slut4blax wanted one of each, a total of $400's for
soiled garments from Master Thug.

Reese instructed slut4blax to send payment
immediately. "My slave will contact you tomorrow.
When you get my gear in the mail, rub yo' face in it
and send me an e-mail."

Reese hung up the phone and shut down the computer.
In addition to $100 from each fag, he made $700.  A
total of $1,000 for two hours of bullshit.  Three
tribute-payers remained, but they were not online.
They could wait.

For the moment, his patience was exhausted.  Fags had
their uses, of course, but they were an affront to his
masculinity, disgusting him in ways he could not
explain.  These freakazoids deserved whatever happened
to them.

Reese tugged off his leather belt and called to his
slave.  He needed to express himself with violence.



TO BE CONTINUED. . . .
IN PART THIRTEEN:   WHITE TOP