Date: Sat, 21 Jan 2006 16:16:17 -0800 (PST)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master, Part 13 (authoritarian, interracial)

This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction!
If you are under the age of consent,
turn back!


THUG CASH MASTER,
by Skorpio.

Part Thirteen:  White Top


Brad was on his hands and knees in the pink-tiled
bathroom, mindlessly scouring the toilet bowl for the
fifth or sixth time, when his Master bellowed.

"Worm!!! Get yo' ass in here!!! NOW!!!"

He dropped the scrubbing pad, frantically pulled off
his rubber gloves, and scrambled to the small room
which was now his quarters.  There towered his Master
like the Colossus of Rhodes.

The young thug's bare upper body was a muscular
landscape, a Dark Continent of flesh.  Beltless jeans
drooped around his sculpted loins, an inch above his
pubic hair.

Barked Reese:  "Drop them drawers!  Get on yo' hands
and knees!  Do it now!"  The black leather belt was in
his large brown hands.

Quivering with trepidation, Brad pulled down his
slacks and briefs, and obediently assumed the
position. The chastity belt protected his soft tiny
penis, but bared his marshmallow cheeks.

He knew what was coming, if not the why or wherefore,
and there was nothing he could say or do to prevent
it.

Brad was a servile submissive, but he was not a
masochist.  He hated pain.  He still recalled the
flogging that he received for being twelve minutes
late.  Twenty brutal strokes of the belt left him
sobbing like a baby.  He never wanted to experience
that kind of raw pain ever again.

Since then, Brad tried hard to serve his Master
without messing up.  He did not want another beating,
not ever.  He anguished: What did I do wrong, what did
I do to deserve this?

It made Brad sick to think he disappointed his Black
God in any way, and the apprehension of another
beating scared him shitless.

"Hike up that fat ass and take it like a man or
whatever you are," said Reese.  "You want me to beat
yo' jelly ass, don't chu?"

"Y-yes, Sir."  Brad forced the words.

"Lissen hard," said Reese, flexing the belt.  "Try to
unnerstand.  Whenever you think you gots to choose
between tellin' me what you think I wanna hear and
givin' me the truth, I want chu be straight with me,
unnerstand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Aiiiight, so let me ax you again.  You want me to
beat yo' ass?  Tell the truth."

Brad gulped.  It took a moment before he could bring
himself to utter words he knew his Master did not want
to hear.  At length, he managed to stammer: "N-no,
Sir, I d-don't want you to beat me."

"That's better," Reese smirked.  "Now we unnerstand
each other. Big step!  Why don't chu want me to beat
yo' ass?"

"Because, it -- it hurts," Brad admitted.

"Supposed to hurt," shrugged Reese. "Do you know why I
beat chu?"

"Punishment, Sir?"

"Yah, that's one reason," said Reese. "Gimme another.
Think hard!"

The answer, of course, lay at the crux of their
relationship: Master and slave, God and votary, Owner
and possession.  Brad understood this.

"Because you want to, Sir."

"There ya go," said Reese.  "Say it again."

"Because you want to, Sir."

"Do you unnerstand what that means?"

"Yes, Sir," said Brad, tears welling in his eyes.
"You don't need a reason to beat me. You are my God
and Master!  I am a little white worm, Sir."

Brad was not play-acting.  He believed in what he
said.

"Sure you unnerstand that?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Good slave.  I give you permission to beg me not to
beat yo' ass.  Get with it!  Beg yo' God and Master to
spare you, bitch!  Put yo' heart in it!"

"Please, Master, please!" pleaded Brad, still on his
hands and knees with his face pressed to the floor and
bare buttocks raised.   "Please, please, please, Sir,
please don't beat me, Sir.  I'm begging you, Master
God Sir, please don't beat me."

"Beg hard!" demanded Reese, standing over his slave.

The whiteboy's ass was white as flour, dimples in each
soft, plump cheek.  Reese wanted to whip that booty
right then and there, but held off to toy with the
punk a little longer.

Brad begged: "Please, please, don't beat me, Sir,
please, oh god, please.  I'll do anything you say, but
please don't beat me."

"Like you mean it!"

"God, please, please, please don't hurt me.  I'll do
anything you say, you know that Master, I'm your
slave, your property!  I'm just a little white worm.
Oh, please, God, please, I'm begging for mercy, Sir.
Please, please show mercy on me, Master.  I don't want
to get whipped again because it hurts, it hurts bad,
oh God, please don't do this Master.  I'm begging you,
Master, please show me mercy.  I know I don't deserve
it, but please, Sir, I'm begging you -"

"That's enough," said Reese.  "I like how you beg for
mercy, boy.  But chu ain't gettin' none.  You gettin'
a beating.  Don't chu holler now!"

He delivered twenty-one strokes in relentless
succession.  In Reese's hands the leather belt sang
like a musical instrument as it sliced the air.
Twenty-one times the belt stung the slave's soft ass
and the back of his thighs. Twenty-one times...

Brad's ass and thighs were on fire, but he did not cry
out.  Reese swung with all his might, putting the full
weight of his body behind every stroke.  The fury of
Reese's blows mashed Brad's face into the floor.

"...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one!"


Reese restored the belt to the loops on his pants and
spat on the prostrate slave.  The plumpy cheeks glowed
pink and were striped with crimson welts.  Bruises
scored the backs of his thighs.

"Now that was an ass whoopin'!"  Reese spat again. His
copious expectorate trickled into the crack of Brad's
ass.  "Does that help cool yo' ass?"

Reese roared with laughter.  He really enjoyed seeing
his naked slave face-down, crumpled on the floor,
sobbing.  It was interesting how red a white ass could
get, as if white asses were made for beatings.

"I got a better idea how to cool down yo' ass," he
decided, unzipping his pants and pulling out his
heavy, brown cock.

The thug let loose a steady stream of piss, soaking
the whiteboy's ass, making him flinch and quiver in
stinging, burning, fiery pain.  Reese aimed his
enormous brown dick like a fire hose, drenching Brad
from head to toe.

Said Reese: "The first time I beat yo' ass you got
twenty strokes.  This time you got twenty-one.  Next
time, and there is gonna be a next time, you gettin'
twenty-two.  Unnerstand this, cracker!  You gonna be
my bitch til the day you die and you will get yo' ass
whipped whenever I feel like it, do you unnerstand
me?"

"Yes, Sir, I understand, Sir," blubbered Brad, still
face down, stinking of piss. His cheeks and thighs
were burning.  He had no strength left in him.

"Aiiight," said Reese.  "Now clean this mess up and
get some shut-eye.  You goin' to work tomorrow."

The alarm clock rang at six-thirty.

In his past life, Brad pounded the snooze button at
least once or twice before dragging his lazy butt out
of bed. That was then, this was now.

Brad sprang to his feet and went to work in the
kitchen.  Breakfast was well underway when Reese
appeared wearing black silk boxers.  The thug yawned
and stretched, flexing every thew and sinew in his
body.

Brad set the table and then repaired to his room,
because his Master did not like eating around white
people.  Kneeling at his altar, he lit the black
candles and bowed his head to the floor one hundred
times, reciting:  "I am a little white worm!"

Brad showered and dressed with alacrity, then washed
the breakfast dishes and made a few lunchmeat
sandwiches for his lunch.  When it was time to leave,
Reese dismissed Brad with a grunt.

It distressed Brad that he was not commanded to kiss
his Master's cock, something he looked forward to each
morning upon departure.  He left, feeling dejected.

Reese turned on some music and returned to the
computer to deal with the remaining tribute-payers.
He wanted to get that over with.  Two of the three
fags he needed to contact were online.

Reese went cam to cam and established phone contact.
Once they heard his voice, they were reeled in.  Both
ponied up $300 for his sweat-soiled socks and jocks.
It took less than an hour to deal with them, like
fishing from a barrel.

Reese shut down the computer and snapped the waistband
of his boxers.  If fags wanted to give c-notes for his
drawers, Reese was down with that.  His slave would
handle the mailing.

Meanwhile, thirteen blocks away in an air-conditioned
office, Reese's slave began his day routinely.

Brad spent a portion of his daily allowance on a cup
of coffee and a blueberry scone from the snack-bar in
the lobby, which he consumed in the relative privacy
of his cubicle on the sixth floor in the Centralized
Files department.

At precisely nine o'clock, Brad picked up the phone on
his desk.  "Hello, Sir, this is your slave, Sir,
reporting...."

He had to report to his Master at home every hour on
the hour.  What he did not know was that his immediate
supervisor, Aaron Levitz, was in his private office,
listening in on every word.

At ten o'clock, Brad retreated to the men's room to
use his cell phone.

"Hello, Master, this is your slave reporting, Sir.
Thank you for taking control of my life and making my
decisions for me.  I am worthless without you. I am a
little white worm."

What Brad did not know was that Aaron Levitz was
hiding in one of the adjoining stalls.

At eleven o'clock, Brad reported once more by phone
from his cubicle.

"Sir, this is your obedient slave.  I go to lunch in
an hour, Sir.  I think about you all the time, Sir!  I
am a little white worm and you are my God, Sir."

A few minutes past twelve, after making his noon
report, Brad headed for the lunchroom to eat the
sandwiches he brought from home.  He got no farther
than a few feet when someone tapped him on the
shoulder.

"Excuse me, Bradley, but may I see you for a moment?"
said Aaron Levitz.  "I realize it's your lunch hour,
however I need to see you in my office right now!
It's very important!"

Puzzled, Brad complied, following the younger man back
to his office.  Aaron Levitz instructed Marisol that
he was not to be disturbed. The heavy-set Latina
barely looked up from her bag of cheese doodles.

The door clicked shut.  Brad felt trapped.

"Have a seat, Bradley," said Levitz, drawing the
blinds.  He switched on a radio.  Mozart's "Eine
kleine Nachtmusik" poured out.

"What I want to talk about has nothing to do with your
work."

Aaron Levitz was good-looking in his own way, younger
than Brad by several years and two inches taller.  A
sardonic, asymmetrical smile tugged his lips.

Brad wanted to run away and hide, frightened by what
he saw in his boss's flinty eyes.

"Have a seat," said Levitz, remaining on his feet.

"May I ask what this is about, sir?" said Brad.

Time was when Brad resented addressing this twenty-six
year old as "Sir" or "Mr. Levitz," but things were
different now, Brad was different. "Sir" spilled from
his lips.

"Like I said, this has nothing to do with work," said
Aaron Levitz.  "I want to talk to you about something
personal."

"What is that, sir?"  Brad had no notion what was
coming next.

"You're a bottom, aren't you.  Look, don't get
uptight.  I'm gay too.  I'm a top."

Brad did not know what to say.  He hung his head,
looking down at his knees, nibbling his lower lip in
consternation.

"No use denying it, Bradley," said Aaron Levitz.
"I know you're a total bottom.  I've heard those
messages you leave for your master, whoever he is.  I
even have some of them recorded.  I'll bet you didn't
know I can record your phone calls, did you!"

"What did you hear?" Brad retorted, weakly.

"Everything," said Aaron Levitz.  "You've got a slave
fetish, if I'm not mistaken.  How long have you been
into BDSM?"

Brad held his tongue. His heart raced in panic.

Aaron went on, calmly, "I knew I was a top by the time
I was fourteen.  I liked guys, but I had to be the one
who called the shots!   I like guys who do what
they're told, Bradley.  Are you an obedient sub?  Do
you do what you're told?"

Again, Brad said nothing.  He hung his head, wishing
his beloved Master were present to extricate him from
this predicament.

"I asked you a question, boi!"  Aaron raised his
voice, but not loud enough to be heard outside his
door.

Brad mumbled, "Yes, Sir, I do what I am told."

"That's what I thought," said Aaron.  "You're such a
bottom bitch.  You have to serve real men like me,
don't you, slave!"

"But, but, Sir, I have a Master," mumbled Brad. "I
can't serve anyone else.  I can't!  He wouldn't like
it!"

"In this office you serve me and only me, do you
understand, boi?"

Aaron stood only a few inches away, lean and tall. The
banana bulge in his dress pants made Brad
uncomfortable.

"Don't forget I've taped your messages to your Master,
"Aaron reminded him.  "I don't think you want those
tapes getting around, do you?  Might mean your job and
we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"

"What do you want from me?" Brad asked in defeat.

"That's better," Aaron exulted.  "Much better! You can
start by dropping your pants.  I want to see what
you've got in the cock department."

"I can't," Brad protested.

"What do you mean?"  Aaron's voice was shrill with
impatience, like a spoiled child hearing No for the
first time.  "Do you want to get fired?  Because you
know I can make that happen!
I ordered you to drop your pants, slave!  Make it so!"

This was sexual harassment to the extreme, but there
was nothing Brad could do about it.  Slowly, he
unbelted, unbuttoned, unzipped, and lowered his dress
slacks down to his knobby knees.

"Now the briefs," said Aaron, licking his ruddy lips
with anticipation.

Reluctantly, Brad pulled down his underpants,
revealing his pitiful, small penis encased in its
transparent prison.

Aaron exclaimed:  "What the fuck? Is that one of those
chastity belts?  Your master makes you wear that
thing?  That's so fucking kewl!
Man, I knew you were a sub, but I had no idea how deep
you were into it!  So you can't jerk off at all, can
you!  That's wicked!  When was the last time you
jerked off?"

"I really shouldn't be talking about this," Brad
objected, weakly.

"I don't think you really have a choice, do you?"

"No, I guess not ... sir."

"So, when was the last time you jerked off?"

"It's been about a week."  Brad was humiliated.

"Can your prick get hard in that contraption?" Aaron
asked.  He had heard of such devices, but never saw
one until now.

"No," said Brad.  "The cage is too small...."

"So, your boyfriend has you under his control, doesn't
he," said Aaron, with admiration.

"Yes, sir," conceded Brad, ignoring the reference to
"boyfriend."  The less Aaron Levitz knew about Reese,
the better.

"I was actually going to suck your cock if you had a
decent unit.  But now that's out of the question,
isn't it?"  Aaron laughed, haughtily.  "Maybe you
should suck my cock!  What do you think of that?   Do
you want to suck my cock?"

"No, sir," said Brad.  "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't
think my Master would want me to."

"Fuck your master!" Aaron snapped.  "You're a slave. I
heard you say so yourself.  I don't care whose slave
you are at home, but in this office you're my slave.
What is there about that you don't understand???"

"I... understand," sighed Brad in surrender.

Aaron unzipped his slacks and pulled out a substantial
erection.  It was rubicund like the hue of his lips,
with a very thick urethral ridge and a large
circumcised helmet dripping with pearls of pre-cum.
Testicles the size of plums stretched his scrotum.

It was a handsome package, Brad had to acknowledge,
but it did not tempt him in the least.  If anything,
Brad was repulsed.  He did not want to do this, but
what choice did he have?  He closed his eyes, took a
deep breath, parted his lips, and went down.

"Mmmmmm, yeah... Suck it, slave," groaned Aaron,
enjoying the exquisite pleasure Brad's warm mouth
brought to the sensitive nerve-endings in the head of
his cock.

If there were an Olympic event for fellatio, Brad
would have won gold medals many times over.   He could
keep a stud at the brink of orgasm indefinitely or
extract his seed in minutes.

At the moment, he wanted to get this blow job over and
done with.  Brad picked up speed and sucked with
unrelenting determination.  Aaron began breathing
heavily.  Brad sucked like a milking machine.

A few minutes later, Aaron groaned in ecstasy. His
cock fired like a cannon and fireworks exploded in his
head.  Brad gulped down as much sticky, hot semen as
he could.

Aaron stepped back and readjusted his clothes
fastidiously, as Brad wiped a sticky gob of cum from
his chin.

"That was an awesome blowjob, Bradley. You really know
how to suck a cock, that's for sure!  You might be the
best cocksucker I've ever had, but don't let that go
to your head!  Ha-hah!  Whoever taught you to suck
like that deserves the credit.  Someone's been
training you, I can tell. How long have you two been
together?"

"I really can't answer that," mumbled Brad, wrinkling
his thick blond eyebrows.

"You know what?" Aaron shrugged, "I don't really give
a fuck what games you play with your boyfriend.  Just
tell me the truth, did you like sucking my cock?"

"Yes, sir," Brad acquiesced, not knowing what else to
say.

"I could tell," Aaron smirked.  "We're done for now.
Get back to your cubicle and do some work.  Don't
forget to call your master every hour."  He laughed
sadistically.

"Yes, sir," said Brad, rising.

"One more thing, Bradley," said Aaron Levitz.    "I
want you back here tomorrow at twelve, are we clear on
that?"

"Yes, Mr. Levitz.  We're clear."

"From now on, you're going to blow me every day on
your lunch hour."

"Yes, sir, if you say so."

"You're damn right I say so!  You should thank me for
feeding you cock when you can't be with your precious
master."

"Yes, sir, thank you, but -- "

"End of discussion!  I want your bottom boi ass back
here tomorrow.   We're both going to get what we want.
 It's a win-win situation!  Now, beat it!"

Brad returned to his cubicle.  Salty semen lingered on
his taste buds.  Passing the boss's secretary, he
wondered what she might have heard, but the vacant
expression on her face suggested otherwise.

At one, two, three, and four o'clock, Brad reported to
Reese, using his cell phone in the vast lobby where he
could not be overheard.  Each time, he glimpsed Aaron
Levitz watching from a distance with a smug look.

At five o'clock, dashing for the elevator, Brad bumped
into Leroy from the mailroom.

"Yo, watch where you goin'!" said the brother gruffly.


Brad apologized profusely and darted off.

Leroy muttered, "Fuckin' pussy."  It was not an
insult, but an observation.

On the crowded bus, beside a crone in a babushka, Brad
gazed out the window devoid of thought or feeling
until he reached his stop.  Sweat poured down his
back.

Trudging up the flight of stairs, Brad slowed his
pace, contemplating what he was going to tell his
Master. That he had been violated, that their
livelihood had been threatened?

He wanted to confess everything, yet feared his
Master's rage.  He did not want another whipping.  His
ass was still extremely sore.

Brad opened the door to Apartment 2-A.  The aroma of
reefer was in the air.  On the green sofa lounged
Malik, watching Jerry Springer with his bare feet on
the coffee table.

Malik was shirtless, sexy as hell, glistening in the
humidity, sporting black and crimson mesh basketball
trunks.  A thick gold chain hung from his neck.

"Your pimp ain't home," said Malik. His pupils were
black marbles.  "It's just you and me!"



TO BE CONTINUED....
IN PART FOURTEEN:  BLACKOUT