Date: Wed, 7 Sep 2005 15:48:35 -0700 (PDT)
From: jerome skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master, Part 3

This story is pornoGRAPHIC 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 Three: Cash Master



When Brad came to, he found himself hog-tied on his
face and bare stomach wearing nothing but his white
Calvin Klein briefs.  His wrists were bound to his
ankles behind his back by what felt like the silk ties
which hung in his closet.

There was a gag in his mouth, one of Brad's own dirty
white cotton socks stretched across his open mouth and
knotted behind the back of his head, forcing him to
breathe through his nose.  The odor of his own foot
sweat filled his nostrils.

Brad wriggled around on his belly, and managed to lift
his head.  He saw Reese sitting at his computer,
wearing only sweats.

It all came back to Brad^Å picking up this thug in the
park, licking his boots, sucking his cock.  The last
thing he remembered was Reese's big black fist coming
toward him like a rocket.

Even under these dire circumstances, Brad found
himself distracted by Reese's physique.  It was a
scene he could never have imagined: a shirtless black
thug sitting at his computer.

"Good, you awake," said Reese, turning to the helpless
whiteboy on the floor.

Brad tried to speak but the gag reduced his words to
inarticulate sounds.  His large blue eyes were filled
with terror.

 "I've been getting to know you, boy. Bradley Benjamin
McMahon, that's yo name, right? Seems like you a real
freak, ain't ya, Bradley?"

Brad fell silent.  He felt totally helpless, totally
vulnerable.  In other words, scared shitless!

"Yeah, I been checkin out yo computer," Reese went on.
 "Bet you didn't think a nigga would know to work this
shit, huh?  Still, I gots to thank you for makin' it
so easy, makin' yo passwords plug in automatically
like that. How dumb can you be, bitch?"

It dawned on Brad how much information Reese might
have uncovered. Brad stared up at his captor
helplessly.

Reese went on to share his newfound knowledge:

"Yeah, boy, seems like you one freaky caucasoid!   Sup
wit dat screen name: 'whiteboy4thugs?'   Dayumm, that
what you lookin' for?  You want a thug in yo life?  I
guess this gots to be yo lucky day, punk!  You think
I'm a thug, bitch?  Am I what you lookin for?"

Brad wasn't prepared for this.  It wasn't going as he
had planned at all.  He was trapped. Ironically, his
greatest sexual fantasy was about to be fulfilled and
he was afraid to embrace it.

Reese wanted the whiteboy to know that all his deepest
sexual secrets had been exposed:

"Seems like you've joined a bunch of clubs looking for
somethin' called  a cash master. You wanna explain
this shit to me?  Oh yahhhh, that's right, you can't
talk with a sock in yo mouth, huh!!!"

Reese snickered cruelly. He couldn't help himself.
This whiteboy was so fucking pathetic!

He leaned down and untied the sock that gagged Brad's
mouth.  Brad was still helpless on his belly with his
wrists tied to his ankles behind his back.

"So, wassup with this 'cash master' shit?  Start
talkin'!"

Brad cleared his throat and explained that cash
masters were men he encountered online who demanded
money on a regular basis from their internet slaves.
Reese listened very intently.

When Brad was done explaining, Reese laughed.

"There's somethin' I don't get about this shit. You
tellin' me you send cash money to some motherfucker
you never even met???  For what?  What do you get out
it, bitch?"

Brad lifted his head and looked up at Reese, catching
a glimpse of the snake under the gray cotton of his
sweats.  Brad remembered sucking it, choking on it.

He wanted to suck that black cock again.  It was like
a drug he needed.  He took a deep breath and
confessed:

"I want to be owned and controlled by a Black Man.
It's^Å it's what I need^Å."

How often had he typed those exact words in an Instant
Message or recited them into the phone to one of his
remote Masters!  He never thought he would be saying
them for real.

"Dayumm! You a little slave freak, ain't ya! Ya givin
me ideas, bitch. So, you be given other brothers money
and shit, huh?  Yahh, we gonna change that.  Word!
Can you think of some other nigga you need to be
givin' yo money?"

"You, Sir?"

Reese simply smiled, eyes squeezed narrow like a black
cat studying his prey. He wanted to know everything.

"Who is this cat Nubian-king you be writing to?"

Brad felt he had no choice but to tell Reese
everything:

"Nubian-king is a Black Guy from California. I send
him $50 a month and he stays in touch with me."

"That it? Y'all just 'stay in touch'?"

"N-n-no," whimpered Brad, flushed with shame and
humiliation at all his deepest secrets being ripped
away before a Man who would eagerly use every bit of
info for his own advantage. "He calls me names. .."

"What kind of names?" demanded Reese.

"He calls me a faggot and a pussy. He's straight like
you. He has a club online for white guys like me to
worship him."

"Aiiiight, so how do you worship this nigga?"

Brad: "Sending him money. And doing whatever he says."

"What do he tell ya to do, bitch? Tell me everything!"

"He makes me suck and fuck a black dildo on the
webcam. Every week I have to write to 5 other
whiteguys and tell them to join Nubian-king's group to
be his cash slaves."

"Dayummm," exclaimed Reese. "How many slaves this
nigga got?"

"I don't know for sure," said Brad. "About twenty or
so, I guess."

"And y'all be sendin this nigga $50 a month? The
brotha got game!  So, you tellin' me this cat is
pimpin' like a grand a month off you freaks? Dayumm!"

"What are you going to do to me?" Brad whimpered.

Reese sneered at the helpless, humiliated white boy on
the floor.  "That all depends on you," he replied.
"Seems to me you been looking for a cash master.
Looks like you found the real thang, yo!"

Reese reached over to the desk and withdrew from the
whiteboy's wallet a handful of twenties and two credit
cards.

"Tell you what, whiteboy," said Reese. "I'm not gonna
hurt you. You cool wit me, see? You think it's yo
place to worship brothas, so I'm gonna be the nigga
you looking for, aiiiiight? Yahhhh, this is how it's
gonna be.  I'm movin' in.  Yo crib belongs to me now,
understand?.  You can go to work everyday, but when
you git yo ass home, you gonna fix my dinner without
me havin' to tell you, and when you get paid, you're
handin' over yo paycheck to me!  Got that, bitch?"

For a moment, Brad didn't know what to say. This was
actually what he had always wanted, deep in the heart
of his perverted white fag fantasies, but now that it
was becoming a reality, he realized how much he had to
lose.

He was under the heel of a tough, clever, street-wise
thug who wouldn't hesitate to take whatever he wanted.
 It was a terrifying situation and Brad really didn't
have a choice

Slowly, hesitantly, Brad surrendered. "Yes, Sir, I
understand."

"I like how you call me SIR, bitch. That what you call
that Nubian-king nigga?"

"Yes, SIR," said Brad.

"Cool, I like that," decided Reese. "From now on
that's how you talk to me!"

"Yes, SIR."

"Aiiiight," grinned Reese. "That's what I wanna hear,
bitch!  Do you gots to work tomorrow?"

"Yes, SIR," said Brad.

"You got yo alarm set?"

"Yes, SIR."

"Aiiiight, I'm sleepin' in the bedroom!  You can sleep
right where you are.  I'm leavin' yo ass tied the fuck
up 'cause I don't want you playin' wit yo self."

Laughing to himself, Reese turned off the computer and
retired to the bedroom, leaving Brad face down,
hogtied, on the living room floor.

Brad rolled onto his side and was a little more
comfortable. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He
heard Reese rummaging through his bedroom, opening
dresser drawers, going through the closet.

The TV in the bedroom came on.  Reese watched "Pimp My
Ride" and some basketball game.  An hour later, the TV
went off and the light went out. Not long after that,
Brad heard Reese snoring lightly.

Brad wondered if Reese was still wearing those
sweatpants or was he naked?  He should have been
concerned about his own precarious situation, but at
the moment all Brad could think about was the thug
sleeping in his bed.

That's the kind of faggot he was. Brad's little white
cock was stiff, but hogtied as he was there was
nothing he could do about it except grind against the
floor.



TO BE CONTINUED. . . .
IN  PART FOUR:  BLACK GOD