Date: Sun, 2 Oct 2005 13:45:25 -0700 (PDT)
From: jerome skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Thug Cash Master - Part 9 (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 Nine:   Making That Money



Sunday night, Brad lay upon his side on the living
room floor, staring into darkness long after Reese
turned out the lights.  Brad could not sleep a wink
despite extreme physical and emotional fatigue.  His
ass was painfully sore both inside and out.

What tormented Brad with insomnia was not the
lingering soreness of his rectum and ass cheeks.
Neither was it the discomfort of his ankles bound by
ropes or wrists cuffed behind his back.  Nor was fear
or anxiety over being held captive in his own home,
fucked in the mouth, ass and wallet.

The source of Brad's torment was the mere thought of a
sexy Black thug sleeping in the nude between his own
soft Egyptian bed linens.  Brad never slept with his
tricks and now here he was consigned to the living
room floor in restraints while the most perfect man
imaginable usurped his luxurious bed.

Brad could envision the tall thug's muscular brown
physique in his mind's eye as if it were a snapshot.
Those powerful broad shoulders, huge biceps and pecs
like slabs of beef inked with tats, rock-hard abs,
narrow waist, thick strong thighs, and awesome cock.

Practically smelling and tasting that succulent Black
cock, Brad longed to relieve his sexual tension, but
even if his wrists were unshackled, jacking off was
not an option as his meager, restless penis was held
in check by a chastity belt.  Achieving an erection
proved painfully impossible and his testicles felt
like they would explode.  Brad's penis gave up trying
to get hard.

Sometime during the wee hours exhaustion took its toll
and Brad drifted off, dreaming feverishly of Reese's
cock.  It dangled before him like a Tantalus fruit,
thick and long, swollen but not hard, throbbing with
power, and out of reach.

Over and over ran his personal mantra of
self-deprecation: "I am a little white worm..." like a
recording that never stopped playing, not even in his
dreams.

Early next morning, Brad was awakened by Reese's large
strong hands unlocking his cuffs and unknotting the
ropes.  It took a moment for Brad to come to his full
senses.  Opening his drowsy eyes, the first thing he
beheld was Reese's naked, muscular body looming over
him.

"Wake the fuck up, yo!  Get my breakfast ready," Reese
demanded.  "Double up on them eggs and home fries,
`cause I'm hungry like a mutha-fucka!   After that,
say yo' prayers and take a shower. You goin' to work
today, bitch!  Now get busy!  Don't make me beat yo'
ass again, `cause you know I'm `bout that!"

Brad stumbled barefoot to the kitchen and set to work.
 He was not entirely useless at a stove and in fact,
was coming to find that he enjoyed cooking for a man.


While Reese, still naked, chowed down at the kitchen
table, Brad scarfed some scrambled eggs and cold toast
in the living room before proceeding to the altar in
the corner.

Brad's heart raced as he lit both candles and kissed
the hardwood floor one hundred times, repeating: "I am
a little white worm."  It was the inescapable truth.
Compared to a real man like Reese, what was Brad but a
little worm on a hook, a pathetic loser?

Reese chuckled softly as he devoured a slice of whole
wheat toast laden with margarine and grape jelly.  He
wished his niggas could see this whiteboy worship him.
 It felt natural seeing a whiteboy down on his knees,
praying to him, working for him, servicing him.  Fuck
yeah!  This was how it should be!

Not permitted hot water for bathing, Brad took a
quick, cold shower.  Taking care not to get his
chastity belt wet, he realized he would have to ask
for permission to wash his genitals: one more act of
humiliation.  Submitting to the cruel whims of
anonymous Blacks on the internet was nothing like
being at the mercy of the real thing!

As soon as Brad turned off the shower, Reese summoned
him:  `Front and center!'

Brad hastily dried and found Reese sprawled naked on
the sofa, smoking a blunt, watching TV.  The sweet
stench of reefer made Brad long to get high.  This was
one more thing he would have to ask permission for.
Would his Master even allow it?

It seemed unthinkable that he would never smoke pot or
get drunk again, yet if that turned out to be the
case, should Reese forbid it, there was nothing Brad
could do about it.  Nothing whatsoever.  He was a
victim of his own insatiable lust for Blackness.

Feeling small and insignificant, Brad stood before
Reese half-bowed, hanging his head, unsure what to do
or say, afraid to make a mistake or fail to hear a
command.  Reese's nakedness was overwhelming.
Sometimes Brad could not bear to look at Reese because
he was too handsome, too perfect.  It was like looking
directly into the sun.

"Yahhh, that's right," Reese growled with utter
contempt.  `Hang yo' head, bitch!  Keep lookin' at the
floor.  Don't be lookin' at me `less I tell you,
understand?"

Brad nodded without lifting his eyes.  His knees
trembled.  Four long nights and three full days had
passed since this thug seized control of his life.

"You been doin' good, bitch," Reese went on.
`Breakfast was decent and I like how you be prayin' so
don't slack up.  Every morning, every night!   Who
owns you, bitch?"

"You do, Sir," said Brad.

`That's right, dontchu forget it!  Now, get dressed.
You takin' yo' ass to work today, peckerhead!  I
wantchu bringin' home that paper to daddy!  You got
bills to pay!  My bills!  You hear me, bitch???"

Reese balled his fist as if to strike.  His nostrils
flared.

"Yes, yes...God," Brad cringed, but the blow never came.


"One mo' thing!" Reese chuckled.  "I wantchu back here
by six and pick up some KFC on yo' way home.  Extra
crispy.  An' don't forget the biscuits and `tata
salad!"

"Yes, Sir," said Brad.  `KFC, extra crispy, biscuits
and potato salad."

Brad's obsequiousness assured Reese that the whiteboy
could be counted on to do as he was told.   After all,
it was the fag's sick fantasy to serve a Black Cash
Master and now he had his wish come true.  Or was
there more to this than a cracker's sick fantasy?

Any time Reese ordered the faggot to do his bidding,
the brother experienced a definite surge of power in
his nuts, his African soul, like testosterone flooding
his bloodstream.  As the subservient whiteboy slipped
deeper into mindless submission, Reese found himself
feeling stronger and more aggressive.

Whenever the whiteboy recited `I am a little white
worm" at the altar, Reese felt like he had ingested
super vitamins or worked out at the gym.  When the
whiteboy sucked his dick, it felt like being on
steroids.

Brad's wardrobe and most of his personal effects lay
in disordered piles on the floor of the unfurnished
spare bedroom.  He selected a pair of dark brown dress
pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, both of which
had to be ironed, as well as a tie that had previously
bound his wrists.

By 7:45, Brad was dressed and ready to depart for
work.  He stood once again before Reese, still in all
his naked glory on the sofa.  Despite his nudity, or
perhaps because of it, the bruh reclined with an air
of dignity, thighs apart, his long cock and heavy
nut-sack hanging over the edge.

Although Reese generally liked to wear as little as
possible, this morning he remained naked for another
reason.  As if instinctively, Reese knew that the way
to control this freak was by reward and punishment,
just like training a dog.

"On yo' knees!"  Reese barked.  "You gonna miss me
today?"  He had this ofay freak figured out.

`Yes, Sir," said Brad, dropping without a second
thought.

"I've decided to let you kiss my dick before you go,
bitch.  Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes, Sir!"

"Do it!"

Brad planted a resounding smooch on the huge mahogany
head of Reese's cock.  Drops of pearly pre-cum leaked
from the meatus.  He yearned to lap it up with his
tongue, wrap his thin lips around it, take the
throbbing shaft into his throat, but he wisely
resisted temptation.

Brad was learning to do precisely as he was told.  The
alternative was punishment and he did not care to risk
another ass-whooping.  His buttocks were still sore
from the last thrashing. Getting flogged with a belt
was a hot fantasy, but the reality was simply too
painful to repeat if it could be avoided.

Reese lifted three ten dollar bills from Brad's
leather wallet.  Actually, it was Reese's wallet now.
He folded the bills and tucked them into Brad's shirt
pocket.

"Buy yourself some lunch, aiiight?  After today you
gonna brown-bag it!  Fetch me some KFC on yo' way home
and bring me the change, understand?"

"I understand," Brad nodded, obediently.

`You understand what, bitch???"

`I understand, SIR...GOD, SIR!!!!"

"That's a good bitch!  Now get yo' ass to work.  I
want you to call my cell every hour.  Leave a message
if I don't pick up telling me how much you miss me!"

Brad held a clerical position in an insurance company
downtown.  Ordinarily he caught a bus, but today he
decided to walk the thirteen blocks to save money.  It
felt strange making a decision on his own.  He almost
turned back to ask for permission, but resolved to do
this on his own.

At the office, Brad remained in his cubicle to avoid
interacting with others.  He was very self-conscious,
distressed that someone might glimpse the imprint of
the chastity belt he wore beneath his slacks, but in
fact the device was unnoticeable.

Dealing with meaningless tasks was not easy, as he was
distracted by thoughts of his new life.  How could
filing invoices in alphabetical order matter compare
to picking up dinner and getting home by six o'clock!
 Brad wished he was home and wondered what Reese was
doing while he worked to pay the bills.

That day in the men's room, Brad happened to pass
several African-Americans who worked for the agency.
First, Leroy and Charles from the mailroom, both in
their twenties, and later forty-something Mike Simpson
from Human Resources.  Something in the way they
looked at him made Brad feel his secret was laid bare.
 He wondered what they would say if they knew he was a
Black man's slave.

In the past when Brad pissed alongside Black men at
the row of urinals, he snuck a peek at their genitals.
 Today, Brad entered a stall to urinate so no one
would see his chastity belt.  What he didn't know was
that Leroy, Charles, and Mike, not to mention every
other brother who worked there, were hip to Brad
checking out their equipment.

It also seemed like Brad's supervisor, a well-built
and good-looking Jewish guy in his mid-twenties, saw
right through him.  Brad often wondered if his boss
was gay.  There were no obvious signs and yet he
pinged on Brad's gaydar.

As the day wore on, Brad craved his Master the way an
addict craves his next fix.  Every hour on the hour,
as ordered, Brad phoned home and left a message.

9:00 -  "I miss you, Sir, I want to serve you, Sir!
Thank you for letting me be your slave!"

10:00 - "I wish I was home to look after you, Sir!  I
miss you.  You own me, Sir!"

11:00 - "I am a little white worm!  You are my God!  I
worship you, Sir!"

At 12:00, Reese picked up.  "You workin' hard, bitch?"
 "Yes, Sir,' said Brad.  Reese replied:  "Good bitch!"
  It was a thrill hearing his Master's voice.

The other messages were more of the same.  At five
o'clock, Brad left the office and brought home
Kentucky Fried Chicken as commanded.  When Brad walked
into the apartment, Reese was doing pushups in the
living room.

". . . fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight,
fifty-nine, sixty!"  Reese grunted.  He wore gray
sweats but was shirtless and barefoot. The muscles in
his back rippled and glistened.

After devouring his extra crispy chicken, biscuits,
and potato salad in front of the TV (while Brad sat
alone in the kitchen eating), Reese summoned the
whiteboy.

"Get them clothes off," said Reese.

Brad didn't know what to expect when Reese unlocked
the chastity belt.

"Take it off, bitch."

Brad's penis was shriveled, poking out like a small
toadstool from his blond bush of pubic hair.

"Get it hard, bitch," Reese demanded.

"Sir?"  Brad was not sure what to make of this
command.

"Get it hard or I'm gonna beat the living shit out
you, bitch!"

Brad fumbled with his penis, but he couldn't achieve
an erection.  Reese snickered with contempt.

"Hurry up!" he barked.  "You got one minute!"

Brad stroked his penis and conjured all the different
fantasies that usually aroused him, but nothing
helped.  His pallid little penis lay limp between his
fingers.

"I can't, I can't," he whimpered like a little girl.
"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm trying, but it won't get hard."

`Don't worry about it," said Reese.  "I'm not gonna
punish you.  You just a lil white worm, aintcha?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Sir," Brad sobbed, hot tears of abject
humiliation streaming down his face.  He was totally
broken.   `I am a little white worm, Sir.  I am a
little white worm!"

"Yah, you are," Reese muttered with matter of fact
disdain.  `Now, put yo' belt back on."

Brad stepped back into the steel and plastic chastity
belt, feeling very ashamed.  Reese turned the key in
the small padlock and then ordered Brad to his knees.
Reese rose and pulled down his sweatpants, releasing
his semi-hard dick and sweaty balls.

"Suck it," Reese demanded.

Brad opened his mouth at once and leaned forward,
driven by instinct.  Reese's thick, meaty phallus
passed Brad's lips and drove deep into his throat.
His heavy nuts banged against the whiteboy's chin as a
musky tang invaded Brad's nostrils, making his head
spin, making him swallow that Black cock until he
choked.

"Yeah, that's right," said Reese.  "Choke on it,
bitch!  Get it all the way down yo' throat.  Suck it
good!  Pull on it like it's a fuckin' crack pipe,
bitch.  This is yo crack.  Get yo' fix, bitch!  Suck
it!  Suck it right!  Don't make me have to beat yo'
ass!"

For the next twenty minutes, Brad sucked relentlessly,
bobbing his head up and down, tasting and smelling
thug dick, and just when he thought he would have to
take a break, or beg for one, Reese ejaculated.

"Awww, shitttt!' he moaned, as one spurt of hot sperm
shot followed another, filling the faggot's mouth.
Sperm like venom, white-hot with hate and contempt,
thick and salty.  Brad swallowed without gagging.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" said Reese,
looking down at his own personal cocksucker and
money-maker through narrowed cat eyes.

It was good to be a god!  Reese felt like he could
take on an army single-handed.  A cruel smile
flickered on his ample lips.

This was only the beginning.



TO BE CONTINUED. . .