Date: Mon, 2 Jan 2017 16:09:06 +0000 (UTC)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: What Fags Are For - Part 3  (author, interr)

Please support Nifty by making a generous donation now!


What Fags Are For is a series of short narratives by men of color
concerning their experiences with homosexuals. Next up, the story of a
college student obsessed by his roommate's mouth.



What Fags Are For,

by Skorpio



Part Three - My Roommate the Fag: the Story of Rodney Epps.



My name is Rodney, and this is a true account of something that went down
when I was at college. My freshman year, I had a cool roommate named
Deshawn Miller who hooked me up with our English professor, a cocksucker
who gave us both an A, and top-notch blowjobs on demand.

At the end of spring semester, Professor Hamilton quit his job and moved
away quite suddenly. I guess he couldn't handle the pressure of sucking
dick every night of the week. Or maybe his wife found out. I don't
know. Anyway, Deshawn found himself a crib off campus, and I got a new
roomie, a dude named Scott. As luck would have it, Scott turned out to be
another useful fag.

This lad had the prettiest, poutiest, bee-stung lips you ever saw, the
color of ripe, juicy strawberries. Shaggy blond locks hung in his big,
periwinkle eyes, and his complexion was like peaches and cream. As an Art
major, Scott spent a lot of time sketching in a big drawing pad. He was
pretty talented, actually. Chicks often stopped by our room to model for
him, although he was painfully awkward and shy around them.

At first, I figured Scott was getting a lot of trim, but after a few weeks
went by, it became pretty obvious he wouldn't know what to do with a naked
chick if he woke up beside one. With that old professor out of the picture,
I was in the market for another cocksucker, and Scott seemed like the
perfect candidate. So I decided to find out.

One morning as Scott was gathering up his dirty clothes to do some laundry,
I asked if he wouldn't mind washing a few of my things since I planned on
spending the day with my girlfriend. "Sure," he said, so sweetly like it
was no imposition. Into his laundry bag, I tossed my basketball shorts,
jerseys, sweat socks, and a couple jockstraps. "Make sure you use them
dryer sheets," I told him. "I like my stuff smelling nice." "Um, okay," he
mumbled.

Now, you know, if some cat asked me to wash his stinky gym clothes, I would
have told him to go fuck himself. But little Scott did not seem to mind at
all. What does that tell you? Yeah, I thought so too. When Scott got back
about two hours later, I was in bed blasting Jay-Z, and wolfing down some
leftover pizza. "I thought you were seeing your girlfriend," he said. "Nah,
she busy," I answered. "Um, okay," he shrugged. Scott emptied his laundry
bag of clean clothes, and started folding. Sorting out my gear, he placed
them in a pile by my feet. "Dude, can you fold them for me?" I asked. "I
don't want them to get wrinkled." Scott did not utter a word, but he folded
them neatly, anyway.

The next day before Scott left for class, I mentioned that I needed some
more of my shit washed, including my bed sheets. "Oh," he replied, looking
perplexed. "Look," I said, "I know you're headed out. You can do them when
you get back. No rush." "I don't know, man," he said, with a furrowed
brow. "What's the matter, you don't wanna help a nigga out?" "It's not
that," he said. "Why can't you do your own clothes?" I know it took a lot
of courage for him to say that.

"I'm gonna be real with you, cause I like you, see? I'm no good at washing
and folding clothes. My mom always did that shit for me. Tell you what. You
do my laundry and you can party with me tonight, aiiight? I'm gettin some
herb. We can chill and get to know each other more better. How does that
sound?"

Those pretty lips of his curved into an ambiguous smile that could have
been interpreted several ways. But what he said next gave the meaning loud
and clear. "You've got weed? Well, I guess that I can wash your clothes,"
he beamed. Scott was definitely a pot head, no doubt about it. "Think you
can iron my shirts for me? Oh, and my jeans too. Put a crease in them."

That night after Scott hung my shirts and pants in the closet, I told him
to put a towel under the door. He knew what that was about, and didn't have
to be told twice. I pulled out two dime bags of Jamaican gold from my
pocket, sliced open a cigarillo from butt to tip, emptied out the tobacco
onto Scott's desk, and tongued the entire blunt in a lascivious manner to
get it moist.

"While that's drying, let's drink a toast," I suggested, opening a fifth of
Jack Daniel's Old Number 7.

"I dunno," he hesitated. "I don't really drink."

"Sure you do," I countered. `It'll put hair on your chest." I splashed a
little into two Styrofoam cups and handed one to Scott. "Bottoms up!" I
swallowed mine in one gulp, while Scott took a cautious baby-sip. "Nah, not
like that. Pour it down the hatch like I did. Go on, dude. Don't be a
pussy."

"Here goes nothing," he said. His eyes got round as saucers as the smoky
bourbon warmed his throat.  "Wow!"

"How's that taste?"

"I think it's burning my stomach."

"You'll get used to it."

"I dunno."

"Is it hot in here, or is it just me?" I asked.

"It's a little warm," he agreed.

Scott watched as I pulled off my shirt and tossed it to the floor. His eyes
studied my muscular torso. It wasn't the first time I was bare-chested with
him around, but now he seemed a little curious about my body. Totally used
to other cats slyly checking me out, comparing my physique with theirs, but
I suspected Scott's interest went deeper than that, know what I'm saying?
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Scott wasn't a fag. Only one way to find out.

"You can take your shirt off too, you know."

"I'm good."

"Man, why you so shy? Get comfortable."

"Can we smoke that blunt now?"

"Take off your shirt, dude. You're making me feel self-conscious and
shit. Then we can smoke the blunt."

The little pot-head went along with that, fumbling with his buttons
clumsily, which told me the shot of Jack was hitting him already. He had a
smooth, hairless body with tiny pink nipples perky in their own
way. Obviously he did not play sports, never lifted a dumbbell in his life,
but at least he had the beginnings of a six pack. Me, on the other hand, my
stomach was a perfect washboard, and my arms and chest were swole.

"Oh fuck," I exclaimed. "We forgot to make a toast."

I poured more Jack Daniel's into our cups, doubling the amount, and lifted
mine. "To friendship!" "To friendship," he echoed, and gulped it down.

Before Scott knew what I was doing, I refilled his cup, splashed a little
more into mine, and said: "Now it's your turn to make a toast."

"Um, sh-shure, o-okay." Scott stammered, beginning to slur his words. I
never saw anyone feel the effects of liquor so fast. He raised his cup in a
jerky motion, almost spilling it. "Heresh to m-my new friend... Rodney... a
real good dude!"

"Yeah, I'll drink to that! To ME!"

Scott did not hear me snicker, but even if he did, I don't think it would
have bothered him at all. His glazed eyes glanced at the phat brown blunt
through that veil of long blond locks, then back to me.

"Can we... uh, shmoke that now?"

I picked up the blunt, and licked it again. "Nah, not yet. I wanna make
sure it's right. But you're really gonna like this shit." I was stalling
for time. Wanted to make my little roomie was shit-faced before I put the
next step of my plan into action. And in case you're wondering, that chump
was never gonna get none of my weed.

"Think you can handle one more drink, friend?"

"I gueshh show."

Yeah, he was really feeling it now. I poured him another full glass, and
only pretended to refill mine. I took out a pack of Newports, lit one for
myself, and offered him one. I'm not selfish. The weed was mine. But I
could spare a cig for my new best friend with the pretty mouth, considering
all the shit he was gonna do for me once he understood what I expect from
whiteboys who wanna be my buddy. You know what I'm talking about.

""I bet you get laid a lot," I said.

"Uh.. not really," he admitted.

"Are you shittin me? All those chicks who model for you? I thought for sure
you was fucking them."

"I wish."

"What's the matter?"

"It's nothing."

"Let's do another shot."

Eventually, I got the truth. Scott told me he lacked confidence with girls
because he was ashamed of his dick. Seems the first and only chick he was
laughed when he got naked.

"I'm n-not exactly what you would call well endowed."

"It can't be that bad," I consoled, trying to keep a straight face.

"I shouldn't be telling you thish."

"You can tell me anything. I'm here for you, buddy. Let's do another shot."

I poured another round.

"Thanksh, man. You're a true friend."

"So, tell me, Scott. Your dick can't be that small. Have you ever measured
yourself?"

"Yeah..."

"Well?"

"Five inches."

"Five inches? For real? You probably measured it wrong. Were you hard?"


"Yeah..."

"You must have measured wrong. I can't believe a good looking cat like you
got cheated downstairs. Want me to measure it for you?

"I don't know..."

"Relax, dude. This is just between us. We're friends now, right? Why don't
you show me what you're working with, and let me be the judge if it's small
or not. It's probably all in your imagination!"

With very little coaxing, I got Scott to expose himself. He opened his
jeans and pulled them down. There was practically no bulge at all in his
Fruit of the Looms. Then he went full monty.

His limp, thin dick looked like a white toadstool poking out from a thatch
of yellow moss. Nuts were like acorns.

"Get it hard," I insisted. "And I'll measure it."

"It ish hard," he slurred.

"Then, it's not your imagination."

Word is bond. That had to be tiniest little penis I ever saw. Not that I
check out other dude's chunk. But, you know, I shower with dudes, and I
watch a lot of porn. What Scott was working with was pitiful. No wonder
that chick laughed. No bitch was gonna waste her time on a little boy cock.

"Itsh not?"

"You was right. You do got a little dick."

"Told you," he said, pulling up his drawers, buttoning his jeans.

"I feel bad for you, buddy. Have you seen a doctor?"

"Man, it's not like there a cure."

"No, I guess not."

"Don't tell anyone, please," he pleaded.

"Who am I gonna tell? Your secret is safe with me. So your dick ain't all
that. It doesn't make you less of a man. Okay, maybe it does, but you
shouldn't let that get to you. Lots of guys with little dicks manage to get
plenty of pussy."

"I gotta lay down," he said, staggering to his feet. "My head ish
spinning..."

Scott stumbled to his bed and passed out. I shook my head with pity, smiled
with satisfaction, and sparked the blunt. Since Scott was out cold, I
stripped off his clothes and left him stretched out naked on top of the
covers. Then, I urinated on his pants and underwear, soaking them. Aimed my
dick at his groin before I was finished. All part of my plan. I am nothing
if not methodical.

Next morning when Scott woke up, I was sitting in a chair wearing just my
boxers, smoking a cigarette, looking right at him. It took Scott a minute
to realize he was stark naked. See, when you take away a guy's clothes,
exposing him exactly as he is, he gets embarrassed, humiliated. You know,
like after Adam and Eve ate the apple, the first thing they did was sew fig
leaves because they were ashamed. I read somewhere that was like a metaphor
for children who think nothing of running around bare-assed until they hit
puberty.

Personally, it's not like that for me. I don't mind being naked around
other people. But, then, I got something to be proud of. I don't care who
sees my junk. Scott, on the other hand, being naked definitely put him at a
serious disadvantage because he had something to hide. That little boy-dick
of his was nothing to be proud of.

He looked down at himself and immediately covered up with a wet,
piss-soaked blanket. "What happened?" he asked, groggily. "What happened to
my clothes."

"You got drunk, man. Pissed on yourself. I got you outta them wet clothes."

"Ohhhh." His cheeks blushed. "My head feels like it's gonna explode. I
guess this is what a hangover feels like."

"Noooo," he groaned. "I never drank much before. I tasted some champagne
once. I didn't like it."

"I thought maybe that blunt would take the edge of. Works for me."

"I don't even remember smoking it."

"What do you remember?"

"Not much."

`Looks like you pissed yourself while you was sleeping too. Damn, you
stink, man."

"I need a shower."

"Here," I tossed him a raggedy, old towel, which he wrapped around his
narrow waist before throwing off the wet blanket.

"Thanks."

"No problemo." I stood up and stretched. I was hungry, but before heading
down to the cafeteria, and letting Scott take a shower, I had a few more
things to establish. "It's my fault, bro. If I knew you weren't used to
getting your drink on, I would looked out for you. I just figured, you
being an artist and all that you must have been to a few parties."

"I've been to parties," he offered in his defense. "I just never drank."

"Well, we shared something personal last night. I feel real tight with you
now. I've ain't never been friends with a whiteboy. But you're a cool
cat. You're like the little brother I never had."

"Aren't we the same age?"

"I didn't mean it like that, little guy."

"Little guy? Oh God," Scott buried his face in his hands. Yeah, he
remembered what we talked about. I could see it was all coming back to him.

"Hey, don't get offended. I'm just trying to get you to lighten up. It's
not a big deal. Look, I'm not gonna call you that no more. But you need a
nickname. Niggas always got nicknames for each other. Tell you what. I'm
just gonna call you LG from now on. Just between us, aiiight? And you can
call me Boss Man. That's what they called me back in the hood."

"I guess," he sighed with hopeless resignation.

It was fun teasing Scott while pretending to be his best friend and
confidante. Cruel, maybe, but for real, I got a kick out of messing with
his head. It was all part of his psychological conditioning. I might have
been a Business Major, but I knew a few things. From that point on, I
called Scott by his new nickname all the time, and he called me Boss Man.

Soon, Scott was even leaving me notes signed LG. Like when he started doing
my laundry without being asked. He left me a note: "Boss Man -- at the
laundry. Be back in a while." Signed: LG. I had that chump eating out of my
hand. It was time to put the next phase of my plan into action.

I let a week go by, spending time with Scott, getting him to really trust
me, while planting ideas in his head. I made up some shit, told him stuff
that I could never tell anyone else but him because we had that special
bond, you know? Like the time I (never) got nabbed shop-lifting, or when my
mom (never) caught me jerking off. Or the chick I (never) got pregnant, and
I (never) had to borrow money from my dad for the abortion, and how I
(never) still felt guilty about that.

The more that I shared with Scott, the more he confided in me. He got
caught shop-lifting too. He was thirteen. Tried strolling out of a store
with a Penthouse magazine under his shirt. Folks grounded his ass for a
month.

I constantly praised his artwork, which wasn't a lie, because LG had mad
skills. He could draw chicks with a pencil or charcoal that looked real as
fuck. He kept a secret sketchpad filled with drawings of naked chicks. Big
tits, big asses, like the kind you see on Conan the Barbarian
paperbacks. Fantasy stuff. That's when I figured Scott probably wasn't
queer after all. But he was a nineteen year old virgin, and insecure about
his sexuality. That was all I needed to work with.

"Do you think you could draw a picture of me?" I asked. "There's this chick
I want to give it to for a birthday present. I've been trying to get into
her pants all semester."

"Sure," he said. "That's funny, because I've been wanting to draw you for
some time, but I didn't want to do it without your permission."

"Cool," I replied. "When did you want to do this?"

"Why not right now?"

"Sounds good to me!"

"Why don't you sit in the chair. That way I can catch the light from the
window on your contours."

"Is it okay if I take my shirt off? This chick digs muscles."

"Yeah, we can do that."

While Scott got his art supplies together, I stripped down to my boxers,
and waited until he was ready.

"How's this?" I asked, leaning back, fingers laced behind my head, showing
off my furry armpits. Hair under a man's arm are a secondary sex
characteristic brought on by increased male hormones at puberty. Most
females won't admit it, or they aren't consciously aware, but hairy pits
turn them on. I wanted Scott to think about how manly I was. His pits had
thin wisps of light hair barely noticeable.

"That's fine," he nodded. "You've got excellent definition. And your
Apollo's belt is like a Greek sculpture."

"My what?"

"Your loin muscles. They're really developed."

"Probably because I fuck a lot."

"Maybe," Scott blushed. "But it's probably due to genetics. Men of African
and hispanic descent generally have less subcutaneous fat than
caucasians. That's one reason why your body looks so chiseled compared to
mine."

"Is that why we got big dicks?"

"Um, I wouldn't know anything about that."

"That gives me an idea," I said, as if it just came to me. "But you might
not be down for it. If you're not, that's cool."

"What is it?"

"Can you just draw a picture of my dick?"

"You want me to draw your cock?"

"Yeah," I insisted. "Told you I wanna get with this girl. Something like
that will get her juices flowing, naw mean? Unless, of course, you don't
want to.

"It's not a problem," he said. "I've drawn nudes before."

"Cool."

I stepped out of my boxers and stood a few feet away with my hands on my
hips. My dick was dangling at four inches, pretty thick, but still
soft. "How's that?"

"It's good," he nodded, as he sharpened a pencil.

"Wait, let me get it hard."

"Hard?"

"Yeah, I want this chick to see what she's gonna be gettin. That won't make
you nervous, will it?"

"N-no. I g-guess not." He was stammering again.

All I had to do to get my nature rising was staring at Scott's pretty
mouth. Those sweet, plump, strawberry lips. I could picture my dick sliding
between them. Yup, that was all it took. My chocolate dick swelled up until
it was jutting straight out, eight inches long, parallel to the floor.

"Told you it was big," I boasted, studying his reaction. Raised brows, wide
eyes, lower lip quivering.

"I see," he gulped.

"When I drill a bitch, she feels it for days. It's the gift that keeps on
giving. Especially if I shove it up her sweet little ass."

Scott was steady examining my johnson with his sharp artist's eye, as he
sketched an outline of its shape on paper.


"Can I ask you a question, LG?"

"What' s that?"

"I heard most artists are bisexual. Has somethin to do with their
creativity, they say. That true?"

"Some artists are, I guess."

"Are you?"

"Am I?" He was flustered. "Not really. I don't think so."

"What do you mean, not really?"

"Rodney, if you're wondering if I'm gay, the answer is no."

"Dude, I know you're not gay. But if you're bi, that would be cool."

"Why would that be cool?"

"Well, if you were bi, maybe we could help each other out sometime."

"I'm not bi. Are you?"

"Me? Nah. But I got friends who are. I don't judge no one. It's all good,
you know. What would be cool is having a roomie with benefits, know what
I'm saying?"

"What are you saying?"

"I thought you might help me out sometime."

"Help you out? Like how?" He was definitely curious.

"Touch my dick, LG."

"What?" I could see the wheel turning in his head. Yeah, he had thought
about dick before.

"Go ahead, touch it with your fingertips. Feel how hot it is. You're an
artist. You should be open to new experiences. Don't be scared."

"Rodney, I mean, Boss... I don't want to touch your cock."

"I didn't ask what you wanted."

This was the moment of truth. Time to get real. If Scott resisted, I would
let him off the hook. I would try to respect him as a person. But if I was
right, if he was curious enough to give into temptation, there could be no
turning back.

"Grab -- my -- dick!" I dropped bass into my voice. Some dudes are
naturally submissive. They respond instinctively to the sound of authority,
and they're intimidated by black men.

You probably know the urban legend about the white guy who gets on an
elevator with a black man who has a dog on a leash. The brother commands,
"Sit!" and the white guy immediately plops down. "I was talking to my dog,"
the black guy laughs. Heh-heh. That's what I'm talking about.

Hesitantly, cautiously, Scott reached out, and clasped his right hand
around my turgid, swollen, ebony shaft. His skin was soft like a girl's.

"There you go," I said, approvingly. "That wasn't so difficult. Get a tight
grip. Tell me how it feels."

"It's really hard," he gushed, surprised, I think, by his own reaction.

"What else?"

"Smooth, warm..."  His fingers tightened involuntarily, making my dick
throb.

There's something about a hand not your own putting a grip on your tool. I
used to jerk off like crazy when I was kid, two or three times a day, until
I figured out how to talk chicks into giving me hand-jobs and head. Liked
that so much it was one short step to using faggots. Since then I maybe
masturbate once or twice a month, and that's just to get rid of a hard-on
when I wake up in the morning. Can't walk around all day with my dick
hard. Can't think straight with a permanent erection. Guess it's because
all that blood to the brain gets diverted, you know?

"Feels pretty good, doesn't it."

"I guess."

"Like how big it is?"

"Um, yeah, it's pretty big," he admitted.

"I know you're not gay, but if you were... hypothetically speaking, would
you like big hard dicks like mine, or small, soft cocks like... well, like
yours, for instance."

This time Scott did not give me an answer, but he did not have to because
his fingers refused to let go, and his big blue eyes were kind of
mesmerized. Yeah, I knew he was digging it.

"Stroke it."

Almost like a man in a trance, Scott began giving me a hand-job. Timidly,
at first. Sliding down the pole an inch or two.

"That feels really good," I remarked. You've done this before, haven't
you."

He nodded slightly, blushing.

"That's what I thought. Keep stroking while you tell me about it."

Scott revealed how at the age of twelve he and a classmate messed around
one night while camping out in a tent behind his house.

"We were playing strip poker. I lost. Eric wouldn't give back my clothes
unless I jerked him off. I was a kid. I didn't know what else to do. I was
scared my folks would catch us."

"Did Eric have a big dick?"

"Uh-huh."

"Not like yours, right, LG?"

"Unn-unhh."

"Did you blow him?"

"No!" said Scott, relaxing his grip for a second.  "Why not?"

"He wanted me to..."

"But you didn't want to take it that far, did you."

"I'm not gay."

"That's what you keep saying."

"By any chance, was Eric black?"

"His father was."

"Interesting. Did you ever regret not sucking him off?"

"Not really."

"Not really? I think you were just scared."

"I wasn't scared."

"What if I want a blowjob right now. Would you be willing to help a nigga
out?"

"I don't know..."

"Keep stroking my dick," I urged. "You don't have to blow me if you don't
want to."

"Thank you," he said, sounding very relieved.

"You know, LG," I proposed, "if you do blow me, no one is gonna know. This
is strictly between you and me. I really wanna get my dick sucked. I want
to experience this with you."

"I can't..."

"Sure you can. Just put your lips on the knob. Give it a little kiss."

"A kiss?"

"Yeah, kiss the head."

Scott took a deep breath.

"Kiss it!" I insisted. "No one's gonna know. You wanna be my friend,
right?"

"I'll try."

Scott leaned forward. I could feel the warmth of his breath on the tip of
my dick... the silky softness of his ample, sexy, fuckable lips on my
skin... smacking a kiss...

"That wasn't so bad, was it," I said, running my fingers through his long
blond hair like he was a chick. "Put your mouth back on it."

Scott tried lifting his head to speak, but I held him down.

"Use your tongue," I instructed.

Obediently, Scott's little pink tongue flickered at my dick head like he
was tasting a lollipop.

"Get it nice and wet," I added. "If you're gonna do this, do it right."

Whatever inhibitions Scott may have clung to were gone. Clearly, he was a
text book submissive, driven by feelings of guilt, shame, and inadequacy,
making him easy to manipulate. Nice traits in a white guy. Maybe I should
have been a psych major instead of business.

"Open your mouth as wide as you can and go for it! See how much you can get
in your mouth. Relax your throat and take it."

He could only manage about half before choking. I let him catch his breath,
then ordered him back to work.

"Suck my dick, little guy! Suck it good! I know you ain't a fag. That's not
what this is about! You're sucking my dick because I'm telling you to suck
it. Boys like you do what they're told!"

Scott's entire body quivered with excitement. He liked being bossed
around. That really turned him on. Maybe what Scott needed was a
dominatrix, some alpha bitch in leather and high heels, wielding a
whip. Assuming he was heterosexual to begin with, about which I always had
my doubts. In any case, what he got pulling the puppet strings of his need
for domination was me!

With that in mind, I pulled out every stop, laying on more verbal abuse,
feeding words into Scott's head while he sucked.

"You worthless piece of shit," I snarled. "Suck that dick right! I will
beat your ass if you don't suck it good! Hear me? I will beat you like a
dog!"

I was not bluffing, either. I meant what I said. I was ready to take a belt
to his ass if his technique did not improve. By any means necessary.

"Know what? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you ARE a fag. A little cocksucking
faggot who's only good for one thing: doing what he's told! Like a
slave. Is that what you are, LG? A slave? Shake your ass if that's true!"

Watching Scott struggle to deep throat and wiggle his little round butt at
the same time made me laugh out loud. Raw, nasty, verbal abuse was the key
to manipulating him. Such a fag!

"That's what I thought," I crowed with satisfaction. "You like it when I
take charge, don't you, little guy. You wanna be my slave, don't you!"

Again, Scott wiggled his ass. Again, I cackled. This was going better than
I ever expected.

"What are the odds, you and me being roomies?" I asked, while his tousled
head continued bobbing up and down, taking my big dick deeper with every
plunge. "It must be fate. You need a master, and I need a slave.  That's
how it's gonna be from now on, isn't it...

"You're a slave, LG. If I tell you to suck my dick, you're gonna do it,
right? Without question. If I snap my fingers any time we're alone, that's
your cue to drop to your knees and get busy. Go to work. Get the job
done. Understand me?" I was paraphrasing the lyrics from a rap by Big Daddy
Kane.

Another wiggle of agreement.

"Good fag!" I patted him on the head like I would a puppy. "You're gonna be
busy from now on. Two, three times a day. And that's when I'm getting pussy
on the side. You got such a pretty mouth. Your lips were made for sucking
dick, am I right? I asked you a question, boy!"

Wiggle, wiggle!

"Now, make me bust in your mouth! Do your job, slave boy! Suck this big
black motherfucking dick! Suck it good! Work for that nutt! Do your fucking
job! You got a horny nigger to take care of! Be a good little whiteboy fag
and get me off. Suck that dick! You know you can do more better! Put your
heart into it. Making me feel good is your number one job! Get it done!
Suck it! Use that perfect pussy mouth. Suck it, bitch! Choke on it! Fucking
fag! Suck my dick! Suck it with all your might. Suck it! Suck it good!!!"

That last spiel really got Scott going. What Scott lacked in skill, he
compensated with sheer determination.

Like a dedicated sex slave.

My own personal roommate cocksucker.

I could have watched my chunk slide in and out of Scott's plump lips for
hours. But he was doing such a fantastic fucking job that the hot rush of
adrenalin, the mad churning of my nuts, made me shut my eyes, and skeet
without warning.  Sperm shot down his throat like white-hot bullets,
filling Scott with my life force, making him gag on my spunk. It was one of
the best orgasms I ever had, word is bond!

After it was all over, I gave Scott the unfinished drawing he made of my
erection. "I want you to have this," I said.

"I thought you were giving to this a girlfriend."

"That hasn't changed."

The impact of my words slowly dawned on him.

"I'm your girlfriend?"

"Well, actually you're my bitch, but it's kind of the same thing. Bitch,
slave, fag, girlfriend, cocksucker, what's the difference, ya know? You are
what you are."

>From that point on, we had the perfect understanding. Scott not only
sucked my dick on demand, like I said, two or three times a day, he did
everything a bitch is supposed to do for her man. He kept our room clean,
did my laundry, and ran errands. Whatever I wanted, he was more than eager
to please.

Before I wrap this up, I gotta tell you, Scott had money. His folks sent
him a nice check every month. But I didn't want or need his fag cash. All I
cared about was that pretty cocksucking mouth. I didn't share him with no
other niggas, either. I am a man of my word.

I treated LG better than he deserved, and we stayed roommates until
graduation. After that, I never saw him again, however it would not
surprise me none if he went on to take good care of some other nigga's big
black dick. I suppose by now it goes without saying, but that's what fags
are for.



To be continued in Part Four -- My Best Friend the Fag: The Story of Dion
Miller.