Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2005 15:46:54 -0700 (PDT)
From: jerome skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master, Part 5 (author, interr)

This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction!
Should depictions of homosexual acts
or interracial domination offend your
sensibilities, read no further!!  If you're
under the age of consent, turn back at
once!!!  Otherwise, read on...


THUG CASH MASTER,
by Skorpio


Part Five:  White Worm


Toweling off after his shower, it occurred to Reese
that this was a chore the whiteboy could perform in
the future.  He chuckled, picturing Brad scrubbing his
back and drying him off.  It would probably give the
little faggot a hard-on, he figured.

Reese emerged from the bathroom with a white towel
wrapped around his slender waist.    Breakfast was
waiting for him at the kitchen table: coffee,
scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, toast.  Brad
stood with downcast eyes and trembling lower lip,
still wearing white briefs and nothing else.  He felt
puny and insignificant.

"Take yo' plate to the other room," said Reese in a
low, dangerous voice.  "I don't wanna look at you
while I'm eating.  Might make me lose my appetite."

Reese was deadly serious.  He didn't care much for
white people.

"Yes, God."

Reese suppressed a smile, amused that the whiteboy
remembered what to call him.  He liked having a
cracker call him God.  It gave him ideas.

Brad took his plate to the living room and ate in
silence while Reese threw down with gusto at the
kitchen table.  The thug decided he could get used to
being served breakfast every morning, although the
scrambled eggs were a little dry and the bitch would
have to add grits and cornbread to the menu.  Scrapple
too.  And grape Kool-Aid.

When Reese was finished, he leaned back in his chair
and told Brad to fetch a cigarette.  Brad placed a
Newport between Reese's lips and lit it.  Then, he
collected their plates and utensils and placed them in
the sink.  He was about to walk away when Reese
ordered him to wash the dishes.

"From now on, do the dishes after every meal.
Understand?  I don't wanna see no dirty dishes in the
sink.  Not even a glass.  This is my crib now and it's
yo' job to keep it cleaned up."

"Yes, God."

"Do you know what happens to lil bitches like you who
don't do what they're told?"

"No, God."

"They get punished."

"Yes, God."

After Brad completed washing, drying, and putting away
the breakfast dishes, Reese ordered him to phone in
sick to work.  For the moment, Reese wasn't curious
what Brad did for a living or even how much he earned.


Brad made the phone call as Reese tore off the towel
and tossed it to him.  The damp towel struck Brad in
the face because he was too busy gazing at Reese's
private parts.

"You're fuckin' pitiful, you know that?" said Reese.
"Get dressed, bitch. We goin' shoppin'"

Reese stepped into the gray sweatpants he wore the
night before when they met, tucking Brad's wallet in
the waistband.  One of Brad's black tee-shirts
stretched across his chest and around his monster
arms.

In a dazed state brought on by exhaustion, fear, and
sheer horniness, Brad put on a pair of blue jeans, a
green Izod pull-over, and black sneakers.

He had always fantasized about being brutally used by
a Black man.  It was a scenario he had played out time
and again online.  Now that fantasy had become a
reality.

As they made their way down the stairs, Reese
instructed Brad to remain a few paces behind him.

"Walk behind me and pay attention.  And don't even
think about taking off, `cause I'll hunt you down like
a dog.  I own you, bitch!  You work for me now!
You're MY slave, ain't that right!"

"I won't run away, Sir," said Brad, meekly.

"Good slave."

It was raining heavily with frequent peals of thunder
and sudden flashes of lightning.  Reese deployed
Brad's only umbrella while the whiteboy stumbled
behind in the drenching downpour.  Brad was reminded
of prostitutes he'd seen strolling behind their pimps.
It was an apt comparison.  Pimps own their bitches
just as Reese owned Brad.

Seven hours later, a yellow cab returned Reese and
Brad to the apartment.  The rain had stopped.  Brad
struggled with numerous large shopping bags.

Reese looked like a new man in his new Jordans, black
nylon shorts, and shiny black see-through jersey, with
a thick gold chain around his throat and a flashy gold
Rolex on his wrist.  He sported a sharp new fade and
his goatee had been neatly trimmed.  In his left
earlobe a small diamond glittered.

He swiftly bounded up the stairs two steps at a time
and unlocked the door to Brad's crib with Brad's key,
now attached to his own key ring.  In the bedroom,
Reese emptied the dresser and closet, tossing Brad's
clothes to the floor.

Brad set the shopping bags on the floor and stood
silently while Reese spread out his gear across the
bed:  half a dozen expensive shirts and slacks,
leather belts, underwear, short sets, over-sized
jerseys, three pairs of Italian shoes and two pairs of
Jordans.

Also, a cell phone, two dozen CDs, and an ounce of
weed, not to mention an Allen Iverson poster, various
colognes and precious oils with names like Egyptian
Musk and Somali Rose, plus do-rags, shaving powder,
and other sundries that Brad never heard of before.

Reese peeled off the black jersey and posed before a
full-length mirror admiring the14 karat gold Figaro
chain around his neck.  He flexed his huge biceps and
expanded his chest. The chain, earring and watch
glittered handsomely against his dark brown flesh.

Wait `til my niggas see me know, he grinned.  Yah,
this situation was gonna work out fine.

"Roll me a joint," he told Brad, feeling very pleased
with acquisitions.  "After you do that, go take a cold
shower.  You heard me!  No sense wasting hot water on
you.  You smell like a wet dawg, bitch!  Wash off that
stink and get yo' ass back here in ten minutes."


Reese turned on the radio.  Nelly was rapping:

"Think that's cool? 40 acres and a mule?
Fuck that!  Nellyville!  40 acres and a pool!"

During his 3-year prison stint for possession of a
controlled substance, Reese had gotten head from more
than a few white inmates.  He never actually owned a
bitch, but he had witnessed other niggas turning
whiteboys into maytags.

The important thing now was keeping this faggot in
line.  Maybe this cracker wasn't the richest white cat
in the world, but he had a job and credit cards.  As
far as Reese was concerned, he hit the jackpot.

Having read all of the whiteboy's e-mails and seen all
his favorite internet sites, Reese knew exactly what
strings to pull.  It was like taking candy from a
baby.

Brad felt invigorated by the shower, even if the water
was cold.  It cleared his head.  But he only had ten
minutes, so that didn't give any time to reflect on
his situation.  He wasn't sure what to put on after
his shower.  Did Reese want him naked or in his briefs
again?  Brad wasn't sure and he was afraid to think
for himself.  There was security in being told what to
do.

Finally, unable to make a decision, Brad called out to
Reese from the bathroom:  "Sir, what should I wear?"

"Dumb bitch, put on some drawers and get out here!
Yo' time is up!"  Reese sounded pissed, but he was
actually pleased that the whiteboy needed to be told
what to do.  From now on, Reese decided, he would make
all the decisions.

"Yo, slave, you wanted to give yo' money to a nigga.
Was today good for you?"   Reese finished pulling on
the joint and put the roach out in the ashtray.

"Yes, Sir, said Brad, wearing clean white briefs,
kneeling before Reese.  Brad had a hard-on, not that
it was particularly noticeable,

"Who's yo' God?"

"You, Sir, you're my God."

"Good slave.  Now listen up, I got some ideas on how
you can worship me."

Reese instructed Brad to take his photo with a digital
camera.  Posing for the shot, Reese leaned back
against the sofa, bare-chested, monster arms behind
his head, ink-black armpits exposed, pecs tensed, and
his thick upper lip twisted in a sneer of contempt.

Brad printed out the pic and, in accordance with
Reese's instructions, assembled an altar.

"Make it right," Reese directed.  "I'm yo' God, so you
need to worship me, understand?  From now I control
you.  You ain't nothin' but a lil white slave bitch,
understand?"

Reese loved being worshipped.  Why shouldn't a
whiteboy get on his hands and knees and do whatever he
was told?  Yah, this felt right.
Reese felt a churning in his nuts, in his African
soul.

"Get me a beer," said Reese.

Brad fetched a beer from the fridge, then returned to
making the altar.   In a corner of the living room,
Brad covered a low table with a red velour cloth and
set it with tall black candles and a brass incense
burner.  Reese's picture was in a simple black frame.

"Nice," Reese approved.  "I like dis shit.  What I'm
talkin' about!  I wanna see my bitch worship her
nigga.  Do it now!  Worship yo' God, slave!"

Brad obediently kneeled before the makeshift altar and
lit the black candles.

"You are God," he intoned solemnly, palms pressed
together in prayer, eyes fixed on Reese's hot photo.
Reese looked hot in that pic.  He was truly a God.

Brad's little penis was rigid.  He knew it would take
forever to pay these bills, but that's how sick this
bitch was.  It made him hard thinking about the
merchandise his credit cards had provided.

Brad wished he could touch himself, but didn't dare
without his Master's permission.

"What are you?" Reese asked.

"I'm a little white worm," said Brad at the altar.

"Say it again."

"I'm a little white worm," Brad repeated, obediently,
not to mention honestly because that was exactly what
he felt like in Reese's presence.

"Yah, you my lil white worm, ain't you, bitch!  You
wanna suck this dick?

"Yes, God, please God!" Brad pleaded.

"You wanna jerk off, bitch?"

"Yes, Sir!  Please, Sir!"

"Good whiteboy!" said Reese.  "But you don't get to
play wit' yo'self yet.  I might even let you taste
this dick.  But not right now.  I wanna see you
worship some more, understand?  I control yo' azz!  So
I wanna see my lil white bitch on his hands and knees
worshipping dis nigga, aiiight?  I want to see you
praying to me at yo' altar every morning and every
night, do you understand?"

"Yes, God."

"Good lil worm," said Reese, satisfied.  But this was
only the beginning.


TO BE CONTINUED. . . .
IN PART SIX:   CHASTITY BELT