Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2006 20:01:26 -0700 (PDT)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master - Part 18   (author, interr)

This story is porno-GRAPHIC fiction for adults only.
It may NOT be copied in part or in whole without
written permission from the author.


THUG CASH MASTER,
by Skorpio.


Part 18:  Wild Thang



Shortly after three o'clock, Malik returned from his
mission.  Under his arm was a large black shoebox with
holes poked in its lid.  He tossed the keys to the
Mercedes onto the coffee table.

Dre slouched on the sofa, watching wrestling on TV.
He was shirtless and his leather pants were down
around his ankles.  Between Dre's bare, brown thighs
kneeled the little white toad, fully dressed, with his
face pressed motionless in the young thug's crotch.

For the last few hours Aaron had maintained this
position.  Not allowed to suck or lick, his mouth
served simply as a holster for Dre's dark dick.  This
was frustrating, as the hot aroma of Dre's crotch made
Aaron's head spin and the instinct to suckle this
instrument of pain and pleasure was almost too much to
resist.

Gingerly, Malik placed the shoebox on the coffee
table.  Something seemed to stir inside the box.  Dre
lightly slapped the whiteboy's face and knocked him
off his jock.  Aaron got out of the way.

"Is dat what I think it is?" said Dre, pulling up his
pants.  He reached for the box.

"Fo' shizzle ma nizzle!" cracked Malik, peeling off
his sleeveless undershirt.  "But, I wouldn't open
that, if I was you.  Not in front of the slave.  Reese
wants to keep this a surprise, know what I'm sayin'?"

Aaron crawled to a spot by the wall.  He had no idea
what was being discussed, yet it filled him with
apprehension.  He placed his hands on his thighs and
looked at the floor, trying to cancel his penis from
becoming erect, but to no avail. For the moment, very
little willpower resided in Aaron's conquered spirit.


Checking up on the worm, Malik found him working
diligently at the computer.

"What chu been up to?"  Malik put his large brown hand
on Brad's shoulder, pressing down with enough force to
make the worm wince.

Brad explained that he was posting invitations to a
cross-section of message boards, and processing
deposits to Master Thug's Paypal account as soon as
they came in.  So far, the response was overwhelming:
more than one hundred people had paid in advance to
watch Thug Theater.

"Show me what chu been posting," said Malik.

"Yes, Sir," said Brad.  He quickly accessed a file and
on the monitor appeared the same photo of Reese that
Brad kept in a frame on his altar.  Reese was
smirking, hands behind his head, shirtless, with his
jet-black pits exposed, inked pecs and abdominals
smoldering with power.  Below the pic ran these words:

"Tonight at 9:00, Master Thug presents THUG THEATER
for the FIRST TIME, a webcam extravaganza in three
parts:  White Fear Factor, Solo, and Gangland.  THUG
THEATER is guaranteed to entertain dominant brothers
and submissive whiteboys alike.  The Donation for
tonight's performance is only $50.  Once you make your
donation through Paypal (see link below), you will be
added to Master Thug's Messenger for the 9:00
transmission of THUG THEATER.  No payments accepted
after 8:00.  Adults only."

"Master Reese told me what to say," said Brad.

"Nice, very nice," Malik approved.  "This gonna be
interesting."

Malik left the worm to continue his chores.  Dre
hollered at the toad to bring them both a beer as
Malik joined him on the sofa. Ordering these faggots
around came very naturally to Malik and Dre, yet it
never ceased to amuse them that two whiteboys were
theirs to command.

Aaron scurried into the kitchen, hoping his erection
would go down or go unnoticed.  He was ashamed of the
hard-on that once inspired him with narcissistic
pride.  His cock counted as nothing compared to the
manhood of these young thugs.  They were real men,
superior men, blessed with bodies commensurate with
their masculinity.

Dre and Malik were watching Shelton Benjamin square
off against Chris Jericho in a repeat of the WWE
Intercontinental Championship, when a heavy knock
rattled the door.  A deep voice boomed:  "Special
Delivery for Maurice Williams."

Malik opened the door slowly.  Two brothers in shades,
wearing white wife-beaters and long gray pants, stood
aside a large crate, three feet wide by three feet
tall.

After Malik signed for the delivery, the cat with the
invoice said, "I got a message for you from the
purchaser.  Mr. Williams wants his workers to assemble
this item immediately."

"No problem," said Malik.  "Where did you say you're
from?"

"NHL Retail Distributors," replied the delivery man,
in a tone that brooked further questions.

Malik sensed an immediate accord with this cat and the
one beside him.  He had questions, but this was
obviously not the time.  Reese would explain
everything.

After the two delivery men departed, the worm and toad
were summoned to lug the crate to their room, where it
was opened.  By this time, Aaron's erection had gone
down and he was much relieved.

After surveying the contents, Malik read aloud from
the manual.  Working together, Brad and Aaron followed
the detailed instructions step by step, inserting Bolt
A into Panel F with Washer C, etcetera.  An hour later
the strange object was at last assembled.

"What is it, Sir?" croaked the toad.

"It's called a Horse," said Malik.

The unusual apparatus resembled a cross between a
sawhorse and a small picnic table with upholstered
surface and padded seats.  The wooden frame stood
approximately three feet high and three feet in
length.  It was black, drilled with holes, and
equipped with fixtures for constraints.

"What's it for?" Aaron inquired, naively.

"For you," snapped Malik, impatiently. "Got any more
questions?"

"No, Sir," gulped Aaron. "I'm sorry, Sir."

The worm resumed his duties at the computer and the
toad was ordered to clean the kitchen, just as Reese
returned, holding a number of department store
shopping bags.  Reese wore white hightop kicks,
oversized khaki shorts, and a long white tee-shirt.  A
thick gold chain hung around his neck.

The first words out of his mouth were, "Did it get
here?"

"You mean, the Horse?" chuckled Malik.  "The slaves
just got done puttin' it together.  What's the dealio
with NHL Retail Distributors?"

"Let a nigga spark a joint first," grunted Reese.  He
reached into a cigar box on the coffee table for a
joint.  One of the worm's chores was to keep the cigar
box filled with joints.

"I got what you wanted.  It's in there."  Malik nudged
the large black shoebox.

"That's good," said Reese, exhaling smoke as
he dropped into the armchair.  "We gonna have some
crazy fun tonight and make some scrilla while we at
it."

"You know that's right," said Malik.  "So, where did
you find this Horse?"

"I'm gonna tell you, but chu ain't gonna believe it,"
said Reese, passing the joint.  "Check this out.  I
was doin' some shoppin' downtown, right?   Had
everything I needed, `cept for one mo' thing, and I
wasn't even sho' what that was, know what I'm sayin'?"

"You talkin' `bout the Horse."

"That's right!  The Dee-lux Horse and Kneeler," said
Reese.   "This here the freaky part.  I was waitin' on
a cab when some nigga in a three piece suit tapped me
on the shoulder and gave me this."

Reese held up a business card which stated in bold,
black letters:  "NHL Retail Distributors.  420
Division Street.  What you need when you need it.
Always open."

"I axed this cat where Division Street was and he says
to me: right behind you.  I looked around and there it
was, an alley wit' a sign on a brick wall saying
Division Street.  Next thing I know, the brotha was
gone!  It was freaky-weird how he disappeared like
that.

"So, I checked out the joint.  A red, black, and green
flag was in the window, which, you know, is deep and
that made me curious, know what I'm sayin'?  I walked
in and started buggin' `cause it was like a porn shop
or somethin'.  There was all these movies and
magazines and toys like dildoes and handcuffs and
whips and shit like that there.  Lots of books too.

"Behind the counter was some old-school nigga wit' a
white beard and a mangy white `fro, lookin' like
Frederick Douglas, know what I'm sayin'?  He asked me
what I was lookin' for and, for some reason, I broke
it down to him.  I don't why, but it felt like I knew
the cat."

"Word is bond," said Malik.  "I got the same feeling
about the brothas who brought the box."

Reese shed his long white tee-shirt and tossed it
aside, knowing the worm would pick it up and fold it
as soon as he saw it on the floor.  It was good having
slaves.

"Yah, I met them too," Reese went on.  "Didn't say
much, did they.  The old cat runnin' the joint didn't
got much to say neither.  I told him that I needed
somethin' to restrain a bitch and it was like he knew
just what I was talkin' `bout.  He showed me the Horse
and told me it could be delivered right away.  I paid
wit' the toad's credit card, and the nigga didn't even
ask fo' no ID or shit."

"Strange vibe goin' down," said Malik.

"Damn skippy!" Reese agreed.  "But I don't got time to
figure this out.   We got a show to put on.  Got money
on my mind and my mind on my money."

Reese was satisfied everything was going as planned.
He was more than pleased with the assembled Horse,
which looked exactly like the floor model he saw at
420 Division Street.

"Good job," he approved.

The compliment drove a warm, molten feeling through
Brad's body like a current of pleasure running from
his pussy to his brain.

"Please, God, may I ask permission to take a break
from the computer?" Brad ventured.

"For what reason, worm?"

It humored Reese, who never tired being addressed as
God, to hear his slave make a request, knowing this
white faggot would never speak up unless it was
important.

"To worship you, Master," said Brad.

"Yah, you can do that," consented Reese, already
feeling the whiteboy's devotion rush through his veins
like adrenaline.  "Yah, you can worship yo' God.
That's what I'm talkin' about.  Show the toad how you
do yo' thang.  Then, tell toad to report back to me
and you get back to work. The show goes on at nine
o'clock.  Don't let me down!"

Aaron accompanied Brad at the altar.  It was a low
table draped with red velour, adorned with tall black
candles and Reese's picture.  After lighting the
candles and an incense stick of Egyptian musk, Brad
led Aaron in the mantra of submission.

"I'm a little white worm," intoned Brad on his knees,
bowing and kissing the floor.  "I'm a little white
worm."

"I'm a little white toad," said Aaron, kissing the
floor.  "I'm a little white toad."

"I'm a little white worm."

"I'm a little white toad."

A chill ran down Aaron's spine as he gazed into the
eyes of his Master in the photograph.

"It's like he's watching us," Aaron exclaimed.

"He is," murmured Brad.  "He's God."

Reciting their mantra one hundred times left the worm
and toad feeling like the contemptible creatures which
were their namesakes.  The little white worm and
little white toad kneeled with their brows against the
floor, feeling weak and light-headed as if they had
just donated blood.

Brad addressed the altar: "Master-God, thank you for
sparing us so we may serve you."

"Master-God, thank you for sparing us so we may serve
you," echoed Aaron with equal conviction, adding
obsequiously: "I am just a little white toad, Master.
Please use me, Sir, make me useful to you."

For both slaves, talking to the photograph was like
being in their Master's presence, forging yet another
link in the fetters that bound them bodily, mentally,
and spiritually, to their Master, King, and God.

In the living room, overhearing his votaries at their
devotions, Reese experienced another inrush of power,
like fire in his veins.  His limbs swelled with sudden
vigor and his senses were sharply enhanced.  Deep in
his nuts, he felt the churning of his soul as his
nature began to rise.

>From time to time, Reese had doubts about this entire
business, but now in a clarifying vision, he saw his
game plan come to fruition.  It was all good.
Everything was going to work out.  Everything was
everything.  He smiled with satisfaction.

While Brad resumed processing payments for Thug
Theater, Aaron was ordered to the living room where he
was made to execute pushups until told to stop.  Aaron
pumped out forty before faltering flat on his face,
then he forced out another twenty-five.  His arms
collapsed after the next dozen.  Aaron was not as
strong as he looked, or as Dre put it, "all show and
no go."

After half an hour, the weary, sweat-soaked toad was
sent to get some rest.  His chest and arms ached.
Exhausted, he fell asleep almost at once on the
bedroom floor only a few feet from Brad at the
computer.

Reese ordered dinner on his cell phone: triple orders
of barbecued spare ribs, the General's Chicken,
Lobster Cantonese, Moo Goo Gai Pan, and Hunan Shrimp.
Forty minutes later, he tipped the young Black
delivery boy twenty dollars.  The thugs threw down.

Reese presented Malik and Dre with a proposition.  He
needed two niggas to fuck the toad on camera for Thug
Theater.  If they were interested, Malik and Dre could
conceal their faces with ski masks and collect a third
of the profits.  If not, Reese had other options.
Malik and Dre went for the money.

At eight o'clock, Aaron was roused from his brief nap
and summoned to the living room, where a bowl of
left-overs was placed on the floor.  Famished, given
no utensils, and not permitted to use his fingers,
Aaron chowed down like a beast, pushing his face into
the bowl until every last scrap was gone.

Laughing at this spectacle, Malik handed the toad a
tallboy of Colt 45 to wash down his meal.

Brad dined alone in the kitchen, then washed the
dishes in the sink, wiped down the counter, and
returned to his quarters to set the webcam. Thug
Theater was less than an hour away.

After three cans of malt liquor and several hits from
the blunt, Aaron's woozy head began to wonder why
Reese, Malik, and Dre were being so nice to him.

"How you feelin'?" asked Reese.

"Pretty good," said Aaron, which was not at all true.
His upper body ached from the regimen of pushups, and
his stomach was knotted with anxiety.

"That's good," said Reese.  "Now, stand up and take
off yo' clothes."

Aaron rose and stripped, standing buck-naked in the
center of the room.  Under the eyes of these three
thugs whose hard-muscled bodies put his to shame, he
felt small and inadequate like a prepubescent boy.

"I bought chu somethin'," said Reese, reaching into a
shopping bag and pulling forth a lacy black bra and
low-cut black lace panties.  "This fo' you.  Chu
like?"

"Yes, Sir," he mumbled, although his face clouded with
shame.

"Put `em on," said Reese.

Aaron reluctantly but obediently put on the feminine
garments.  The black panties barely contained his
turgid member and the black bra looked ridiculous
stretched across his chest.

"There you go," Malik leered with mingled lust and
malice.  "You're starting to look like a real pussy."

Aaron had always despised gay men who wore women's
things.  Now he despised himself.

"Sucks bein' you, don't it," mocked Dre, as he passed
a reefer cigar to Aaron.  "Better smoke sum more!  You
need to get blunted."

Malik offered Aaron another tallboy of Colt 45, which
Aaron gratefully guzzled.

"Toad, listen up," said Reese, assessing the
submissive whiteboy from head to toe with a smirk.
"You `bout to be pimped, bitch.  This yo' chance to
make that money like you promised, unnerstand?"

"Yes, Master, I understand," slurred Aaron, feeling
the effects of the herb and malt liquor.

"Coo'," said Reese.  "Let's get bizzy, y'all!"

Malik attached Aaron to the apparatus in the small
bedroom.  Aaron was supine, looking up at the ceiling,
with his knees bent and his arms above his head.
Ropes bound his ankles and wrists to the wooden frame.
 As Dre gagged him with a black bandana and knotted it
tightly, Aaron's heart began to race.

The room was brightly lit, which Brad achieved by
unscrewing the glass globe from the ceiling fixture.
The internet video camera was perched on a tripod.
Malik and Dre stood to the side with grim faces, arms
folded across their bare chests.

Precisely at nine o'clock, with a gesture from Reese,
Brad activated the webcam and Thug Theater went
online.  Hundreds watched as Aaron appeared on their
screens, bound to the Horse, gagged and helpless,
wearing black lingerie.  The camera lingered on this
striking image for a full minute.

Then, wearing knee-length, black basketball shorts
slung low on his loins and a thick gold chain around
his neck, Reese strode onto the set.  His powerful
upper body was deliberately exposed to show off his
muscular brown chest, monster shoulders, and bulging
biceps.  From any brothers who might be watching Reese
wanted props, but from the fags he wanted
glorification.

Reese knew what he doing.  His pimp instincts made him
a natural impresario.  Looking directly into the
camera's eye, he confidently addressed his unseen
audience:

"Glad y'all could make it!  I'm Master Thug and
tonight, I'm springin' Thug Theater.  Y'all gettin'
yo' money's worth, word is bond!  We got three parts
comin' up, and believe me, yo, it's all good!  I know
y'all gonna like this shit.  Now, If yo' screen goes
black, don't go nowhere, aiiight?  That's just an
intermission.  We'll be right back after a minute or
two, so hang tight!

"First up is a li'l somethin' I call White Fear
Factor.  Check out the whiteboy behind me.  As y'all
can see, he ain't `bout to go nowhere.  We got his
white ass tied down pretty good, What we got here is a
li'l white toad that used to think he was hot shit.
That was until I got hold of him.  Now this bitch does
whatever I say, ain't that right, Toad?"

It was an effort for Aaron to nod his head.

Reese went on:  "Check this out, `cause White Fear
Factor means we `bout to scare the piss out this
bitch.  That's how I like to warm up whiteboys before
gettin' down to the nitty gritty, know what I'm
sayin'?  Why is whiteboys so damn fuckin' tense,
anyway?  You niggas know what I'm talkin' `bout.
Snap, crackers walk around like they got a stick up
their ass!  Sup wit' that?  Anyway, I say you gotta
tenderize `em first, know what I'm sayin'?  Soften `em
up!  That's what I'm talkin' `bout."

Reese chuckled and continued:  "Befo' we get this
party started, lemme tell y'all somethin' `bout me.
When I was just a small-ass nigga comin' up with four
brothers and three sisters, I wanted me a dog.  But my
folks, they couldn't afford no pets, so I captured
spiders and talked to them when we was alone like they
was my best friends.  I even studied up on spiders,
read some books and shit.  I was a spider expert, but
when I got older, I got interested in somethin' way
deeper and mo' better and y'all know I'm talkin' `bout
that pussy!  Oh, yahhh!"

Reese reached to the side and produced the black
cardboard box which Malik brought back from his
mission.  The thug removed the perforated lid to
reveal an enormous spider almost three inches long,
reddish-brown, with light-brown stripes and brown
hairy legs.

"What we got here is a South African baboon spider,"
Master Thug explained, stroking the large arachnid's
hirsute back.  "It might bite chu if you get it riled,
but it ain't poisonous.  What we gonna do now is bring
the spider to the toad and see what happens.  Like I
said, this is White Fear Factor!"

Without qualm, Reese grasped the enormous spider and
placed it on Aaron's scant panties.  Craning his head
as the hairy, six-legged thing scuttled across his
washboard stomach, the toad's face went white as a
sheet and sweat ran down his face, dripped from his
armpits, and moistened his inner thighs.

Aaron's pale, muscular body thrashed and palpitated,
but the eight-legged monster could not be shaken off.
It crept across the brassiere and advanced toward
Aaron's throat.

Suddenly, Aaron lost control of his bladder.
Terrified out of his mind, he began to piss.  He could
not help himself.  Urine soaked the lacy black
panties.

Reese stepped back into the picture, picking up the
spider just as it reached the whiteboy's quivering
throat.  He returned the creature to the cardboard
box, restored the lid, and faced the camera, arms
akimbo.

"Hope you enjoyed White Fear Factor as much as I did,"
said Reese, chuckling. "I want y'all to hang tight for
a moment or two, aiiight?  We takin' a real short
break, then back in a few wit' mo' Thug Theater!  You
gonna like what's comin' up next.  Word is money!
Don't go nowhere!"

Screens faded to black as hundreds of viewers waited
for the next segment.



TO BE CONTINUED...
IN PART NINETEEN:  MAD GUSTO