Date: Tue, 28 Nov 2006 16:34:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master - Part 19 (author, interr)

This story is porno-GRAPHIC fiction for adults.
It may NOT be copied without written consent from the
author.


THUG CASH MASTER,
by Skorpio.


Part 19:  Mad Gusto


Dre unknotted and removed the bandanna gagging Aaron's
mouth.  Malik undid the ropes and barked, "Get down
from there!"

Lathered in sweat, Aaron clambered down from the
horse.  Remembering the large, hairy spider which
crawled across his belly and chest, he shivered
uncontrollably.  His brawny, hairless body was covered
with goose bumps.

"Worm, get off yo' shirt and clean up the piss wit'
it!" hollered Reese, sternly.  "Toad, listen up!  Lose
the girly shit. I want chu bare-ass nekkid.  NOW!!!
Both y'all, be quick about it!"

Without a second thought, Brad peeled off his cotton
tee to swab down the horse and soak up a puddle of
urine from the floor. The docile slave lived to carry
out his master's orders.

With equal alacrity, Aaron tossed away the humiliating
bra and panties, glad to be free of them.  He stood
naked with a shriveled cock and shrunken balls,
uncertain what to do next.

Reese took Dre and Malik aside for a private colloquy.
Their grim, brown faces glanced back at Aaron, making
the whiteboy shudder.

"Worm, put yo' shirt on and get back to the controls,"
said Reese.  "Let's roll.  Intermission is over!"

Less than three minutes had passed since Thug Theater
faded to black.  Hundreds of viewers were waiting
patiently online as Brad activated the webcam and
Reese, with bulging arms akimbo, reappeared upon their
screens.  Master Thug was back!

Master Thug shared the sly panther eyes of Tyrese
Gibson and the sculpted physique of Terrell Owens,
with tats like Tupac's inked across his rippling
six-pack.  Behind him quivered Aaron, hanging his head
in shame, knock-kneed, covering his privates.

"Welcome back!" Reese announced to the camera.  "What
did cha'll think about that spider?  I don't know
`bout chu, but I fell out over that shit!  Only a
stone pussy would piss his self like that, but that's
what Thug Theater is all about.  We separate the men
from the pussies, know what I'm sayin'?  Now we got
the fag loosened up, I want y'all to check him out
playin' wit' himself.

"Let me tell y'all somethin' `bout this obedient white
toad," said Reese, glancing over his shoulder.  "He
does whatever I tell him.  That's what happens to
whiteboys when I get hold of them.  They learn real
fast, ain't that right?"

"Yes, Master," said Aaron.

"See what I'm sayin'?" Reese smirked.  "The whiteboy
is gonna entertain y'all by jerking off.  He's gonna
do it because I tell him.  This is what I'm talkin'
about.  Open yo' mouth, Toad."

Aaron opened his mouth.

"Wider," said Reese.

Aaron stretched his jaws as Reese snatched the
piss-soaked panties and stuffed them into the
whiteboy's gaping mouth.

"Now stroke your shit," growled Reese.  "Get it hard.
Jack off for the camera, or I'll jam that fuckin'
spider down yo' throat instead!"

Aaron clutched his flaccid penis. At first he worried
he would not get erect, but with three thugs watching
from the sidelines and knowing he was on display for
an audience, Aaron's exhibitionist tendencies won out.
 He shut his eyes and breathed through his nose,
tugging his ruddy, pointed phallus until it swelled to
seven inches.

As Aaron stroked with increasing speed, a succession
of erotic images from the last twenty-four hours
played like a long movie trailer in his mind:
memories of being trapped, threatened, brutalized,
shaved, whipped, terrorized, and broken.

Aaron gagged on the odious panties, inhaling through
his nostrils, furiously stroking his cock.  He grunted
like an animal.  Every sinew in his body tensed.
Bitch!  Cunt!  Fag!  Cracker! Punk!  Pussy!  These
harsh epithets echoed inside Aaron's cranium with the
volume turned up full force. Homo! Punk! Slave!  The
slurs ripped into him like a lash, triggering a sudden
orgasm.

Aaron's ruddy toadstool erupted in his hand.  He fell
to his knees, choking on the panties, taking short
quick breaths through his nose.

"You can spit out the panties, slave," said Reese,
stepping back into the camera's eye.
"Hope y'all enjoyed that, seein' the whiteboy gettin'
his shit off. I bring the real deal.  On Thug Theater,
whiteboys do what they're told.  Word is bond!  If
y'all wanna see what happens to whiteboys when they
come to the wrong side of town, stay tuned.  We got
one more short intermission, so don't go away, ya
hear?  Next up: Gangland!  You gonna dig this action!
We be right back!"

Screens everywhere faded to black as Brad concluded
the webcast.

"Y'all down fo' this?"  Reese turned to his two
lieutenants.  "Ain't too late to change yo' mind.  I
know this some freaky shit, but we makin' paper,
y'all!"

"Show me the money, nigga." said Malik. "You know I'm
down."

"Let's do it," said Dre, thumping his chest.

"Knew I could count on my niggas," Reese replied,
dapping both.

Aaron was directed to the Deluxe Horse and Kneeler.
This time he was mounted on his stomach with his
thighs straddling the narrow trestle and his knees and
elbows resting on support pads.  Once again his wrists
and ankles were tightly roped.  Aaron's head hung at
one end of the apparatus and his ass was hiked at the
other, holes waiting to be ravished.

Malik and Dre stripped naked, but kept their faces
concealed with black woolen ski masks. Trussed up like
a Thanksgiving turkey, Aaron's drumsticks were spread
apart, rendering his rosebud anus exposed and
helpless.  His slack jaw left his ruddy lips agape.
Ripe for fucking at both ends.  Malik applied a gob of
Vaseline to Aaron's ass.

The two thugs stood at either end of the horse as
Reese signaled the Worm.  With a nod from Reese, Part
Three of Thug Theater resumed transmission.

"Yo, yo, yo!"  Reese enthusiastically greeted the
camera.  "Welcome back to our third and final joint!
I call this last part: Gangland.  I'm gonna show you
what happens to whiteboys who come into my world.
Check it out."

Reese stepped aside to reveal Malik and Dre standing
at either end of the horse.

Malik, with his face concealed by the ski mask,
pressed the mahogany knob of his long dick against the
whiteboy's exposed tender hole.  With a sudden,
violent thrust, Malik ploughed the little pink
starfish and took control.

"Unnh, mmmmm, yahh," he grunted, driving his long dick
deep into the whiteboy's ass without mercy.

"Mmmm, yahhh, mmmm, dat's right," moaned Dre behind
his mask, raping the whiteboy's mouth and throat with
his large molasses rod.

Dre was accustomed to laying back and being serviced
because fucking was too much work. But for the sake of
the gusto, he was willing to make the effort. Instead
of receiving pleasure, he took it. He snatched the
slave by his ears.

Pain and pleasure became synonymous for Aaron.  The
relentless, rhythmic pounding in his ass and throat
was all he knew.  Impaled at both ends, Aaron did not
know how much more he could take.  Not that he had a
choice.  He was totally helpless, a fact that thrilled
and frightened him.  The room tilted and swayed before
his eyes.

For Malik, there was nothing remotely sexual about
fucking this white guy up the ass. It was an act of
righteous retribution.  Malik's dick swelled hard as
steel because the high-octane testosterone in his nuts
burned with rage, lust without desire, pleasure driven
by cruelty.

"Take what's coming to you!" Malik growled.

"Keep it wet, bee-yitch," Dre demanded. "Yah, like
that!  Slobber on it!"

"She likes it," said Malik.

"Gimme more, gimme more!"  Dre thrust again and again.
 "Choke on that dick!!!"

"Ahhhh, yahhh, that's it, like that..." said Malik,
thrusting again and again.  "Take it, bitch!"

"Unh, unnh, unh, unnh, uhhhhhh..." said Dre.

Malik could not hold back.  He felt his testicles
contract.  He was deep inside the whiteboy's ravaged
pussy when he shot his load, filling the whiteboy with
white-hot bullets of venom.

A moment later, Dre let out a guttural moan of
satisfaction as his nuts busted like fireworks,
filling Aaron's gullet with hot, creamy semen.

Both thugs groaned as they withdrew their weapons of
destruction.  Aaron's pussy hole released Malik's dick
with a popping sound, like a cork sprung from a bottle
of champagne.  Cum drooled from Aaron's lips.  All
three were panting, glistening with sweat.

Reese stood before the camera and addressed the
audience:  "Hope y'all enjoyed that. That's how we
fuck around here!  If you got a hole, we gonna fuck
it!   Don't come between a horny nigga and a hole.  I
want all you whiteboys out there to know!  This is
what happens when y'all step into my world.  I'm
Master Thug and if you wanna see some mo' nasty shit
like this, let a brotha know.  I'll be back next week
wit' mo' of the same and somethin' fresh!  Peace,
out!"

At a gesture from Reese, Brad brought down the curtain
on Thug Theater with a click of the mouse and a few
swift keystrokes.  The show was over.  Brad swiveled
in his chair, hoping for a smile of approval on his
Master's face.

Malik and Dre peeled off their woolen masks.

"Money in the bank," said Malik.

"In da bank," echoed Dre.  They dapped.

At a command from Reese, Brad released his slave
brother's bonds.  Dazed and disoriented, with a sore
throat and sore ass, Aaron climbed down from the horse
and fell to his knees from physical exhaustion.

"You bitches did aiiight," said Reese.  "We made some
money tonight.  Now, both y'all, get some rest."

Reese turned off the light and closed the door behind
him, leaving the two slaves alone in the dark.

"We should get some rest," suggested Brad, lying down
on the floor. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," mumbled Aaron, weakly.  He laid beside
Brad, curled up in a fetal position.

"Are you sure you're alright?" asked Brad.

"Do you think I really made money for the Master?"
Aaron's voice was cracked and raspy.

"Yes, you did it," Brad acknowledged.  "I think he was
pleased.  You did good, Aaron. We both did."

"That's not my name."

"You did good, Toad.".

"Thanks, Worm," said Aaron.

In the darkness neither the Worm nor the Toad could
see the contented smile on one another's face.  But as
exhaustion overcame them with sleep, they shared in a
feeling of togetherness.  The Toad put his arm around
the Worm.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Reese announced that
almost $15,000 was made that night.  Nearly three
hundred viewers paid $50 for an hour of Thug Theater.
Split three ways this sum was practically five
thousand for each thug.  Malik wanted his share of the
gusto transferred electronically to his account.  Dre
wanted cash.

"Dis shit is off da hook, cuz!" said Dre.  "Five
fuckin' grand just by getting my dick sucked.  When we
doin' this again?"

"Next Saturday, if y'all still down," said Reese.

Raising half-quart tallboys of Steel Reserve, the
three thugs toasted their prosperity. They guzzled
sixteen ounces of malt liquor with a single swallow,
then threw the cans against the wall.

"The faggots can clean that up tomorrow," chuckled
Reese.  "Right now, I think we should go out and
celebrate.  Don't know `bout y'all, but I need me some
pussy!  This fag shit don't cut it fo' me!"

"Oh, hell, yeah!"  Malik agreed.  "I'm down with that,
but who gonna watch the crackers?"

"They aiiight," said Reese, confidently. "They ain't
goin' nowhere."

"You sure about the toad?"

"I own his ass."

"I still don't trust him," Malik snarled.

"Let me worry `bout that," said Reese.  "So, what chu
say to gettin' outta here?"

The thugs showered, dressed, and went out on the town,
leaving the slaves home alone.

Several hours passed.

At four-thirty in the morning, after getting his dick
sucked for twenty dollars in the cab by a white
skeezer, Reese returned alone to the crib.  Malik and
Dre were on their own.

Reese snapped on the kitchen light and saw a message
on the refrigerator door which read: "Thank you,
Master-God," signed, "worm and toad."

Reese grinned, as he stripped off his shirt. He looked
in on the slaves and found them curled up on the floor
of their room, sleeping contentedly.  Reese repaired
to his room, where he placed his gold watch and gold
chains on the nightstand, and climbed into bed.

As he slipped between the soft Egyptian linen, Reese
thought back to that fateful night two weeks ago when
this all began.  He was chilling on a bench in the
park, watching the sun go down, with a couple dollars
in his pocket, when he caught sight of the whiteboy
strolling into the park.  Reese decided he was gonna
get paid that night, one way or another.

Returning to the whiteboy's crib, Reese let the faggot
suck his dick and then knocked him unconscious with a
single blow.  After hogtying the whiteboy's wrists and
ankles and gagging him with a sock, Reese hunted for
valuables, turning up some petty cash and two credit
cards.

On a hunch, Reese decided to check out the faggot's
computer.  He had been interested in computers ever
since attending a workshop at the county workhouse.
Accessing his captive's e-mail, bookmarks, and
documents was easy enough, since they were not
password protected.  It turned out that this cracker
had a mad fetish for thugs.  He got off giving money
to brothers called cash masters on the internet.

The faggot's fantasy struck a chord. This was more
than just a golden opportunity. Taking money from a
white fag was like taking candy from a baby.  But
there was something else, something Reese first felt
that night in the park when the whiteboy lit his
cigarette.  His Nubian soul was aroused and the
warrior within would not be appeased by anything less
than victory and domination.

Letting a white faggot pay him to be treated like a
bitch was more than satisfying.  It seemed as natural
as eating, breathing, and shitting.  How could he say
no to a pussified whiteboy who wanted to give him cash
money?  It was like a dream come true.

Reese turned on his side and drifted off to sleep.
Soon, he found himself dreaming of an ebon-skinned
sovereign upon a golden throne draped with leopard and
zebra skins.  A dark regal woman stood to the side.
Both were arrayed in colorful robes of silk and linen.


In this dream, the king's shaved brown head was
crowned with a golden circlet from which projected a
stylized cobra of gold and turquoise.  A long, wooly,
black beard jutted from his chin.  Across his knees
rested a flail and crook.  Reese did not know the
names for these ancient symbols of office, but they
seemed vaguely familiar.

About pillared aisles collected many tall,
dark-skinned men and women, all richly attired.  Many
of their faces seemed familiar.  Was that Malik with
an exquisite Nubian princess on his arm, speaking with
a brother who looked like Dre?  Was that his
brother-in-law Mohammad among the royalty?

Naked servants, male and female, bore brass trays
laden with fruit, cheese, and flagons of fermented
honey.  These servants were petite and slender with
mustard-colored skin, straight black hair, and dark,
almond-shaped eyes.  It was hard to discern one gender
from the other at a glance, as the naked females'
breasts and the naked males' genitalia were
exceptionally small.

An unseen gong reverberated, accompanied by the
pounding of drums, signaling the entrance of twelve
white naked slaves.  Six white males and six white
females lined before the golden throne with their
heads bowed.

The dream turned dramatically erotic as the white
males began to rut with the females, breeding them
like animals until their seed was spent.  Somehow
Reese knew these bulls would be gelded and consigned
to hard labor for the rest of their lives, while the
cows would beget another generation of drones.

The dream shifted scenes.  Now, the king was in a
sumptuous bed atop his queen, taking her with long,
deep, measured thrusts.  Her supple, brown body arched
and moved in rhythmic accord.  As he picked up speed,
she made cooing noises like a dove.  Their passion was
in perfect unison.

For Reese, the dream was like looking through the
king's own eyes.  It was like Reese himself was
fucking this Nubian beauty.  He nibbled at her breasts
and throat.  He felt the power between his legs thrust
inside her body like a scepter.  Reese heard his own
voice whisper, "Tonight, my Queen, our son, my heir,
is planted in your womb!"

The King roared like a jungle cat in the night as his
royal seed fecundated her with fire and life. His cry
echoed against the walls of stone.

A few moments later, a scrawny, white eunuch rushed
into the bedchamber, naked except for a rag covering
his nether parts and a thick iron collar around his
neck.

"Please forgive it for intruding, Divine Lord,"
pleaded the slave, bowing and scraping.  "It heard you
cry out."

"It may attend me," said the king.  "My work is done
tonight.  The land will prosper and my line will
continue."

The king sat naked at the edge of his bed.  Draped in
fur, his exquisite queen quit the chamber, passing the
cringing white slave as if he did not exist.

"Fill the basin and bring it to me, slave," said the
king.  "There is something familiar about you, slave.
How long has it served me?"

"All of its life, my Lord."

The king had momentarily forgotten that this slave had
belonged to him since childhood, but this was
understandable.  These creatures resembled human
beings in a debased way. They did what they were told
because obedience was bred into them.  If they labored
hard, they were well-treated, and provided with food,
shelter, and purpose. Laziness and disobedience were
swiftly punished.

The pale-skinned drone poured water from a pitcher
into a large basin and presented it on his knees.
Through the window of the king's eyes, Reese looked
upon the slave's uncomely features and recognized the
Worm.

Splashing water on his face, the king caught his own
reflection in the bowl.  At that moment, Reese bolted
awake in his own bed.  His smooth, brown, muscular
chest glistened with a patina of sweat and there was a
puddle of sperm on his stomach.

"So fuckin' real," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Did you need me, Master?"

The worm trembled in the doorway.  His pale features
stood out in the semi-darkness.

"I heard you call, Sir, but I couldn't make out what
you were saying," murmured the worm.

"Did you?" said Reese, warily. His feral cat eyes
flashed suspicion, before the tension in his face
relaxed into a generous smile.  "Come here, worm...  On
yo' knees.  I got a treat fo' you."

The servile whiteboy kneeled between the thug's
powerful thighs.

"Lick it up," directed Reese, pointing to the cum
congealing on his muscular, tattooed stomach.

"Thank you, Sir!" gushed Brad.  His small, pink tongue
lapped the salty mixture of sperm and sweat as if it
were the elixir of life.  His meager nostrils were
glutted with an aroma arousing his deepest instinct to
submit.

"There ya go," Reese chuckled.  "That's yo' reward fo'
doin' a good job tonight.  Does IT want to kiss my
dick now?"

"Yes, it does, Master," replied the worm.

"Let me hear IT ax permission."

"Please, Master, may it kiss your dick?

"Do it!"

The thug's cock was flaccid, but still very
intimidating.  Joy, love, lust, awe, worship,
reverence, and fear rippled through the worm's body
like one emotion, one powerful current, making him
shiver from head to toe.  A warm, tingling sensation
tickled the hole between his legs like a feather.  He
loved being an "it."

"Fetch my smokes and some Kool-Aid," said Reese.  He
loved being worshipped.

The obedient white worm scampered to do his Master's
bidding.


TO BE CONCLUDED...
IN PART TWENTY: GANGSTA'S PARADISE