This tale of interracial domination was originally posted many years ago under a different nom-de-plume. Numerous changes have been made to the original text.
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Adventures of a White Bastard,
by Skorpio
My name is Joseph Doyle. I'm a thirty-year-old gay, white man. Half Irish, half-unknown: that's what I put on my profiles. My mother never told me who my father was. It was not easy being a bastard, growing up without a father, never fitting in with those other boys.
I stand at five feet, ten inches tall, with reddish-brown hair, mustache and goatee; blue eyes under thick brows and very fair skin with freckles across my nose, prone to burning quickly in the sun. My ears stick out like jug handles, a zircon in one, and a silver hoop in the other.
I don't have a six-pack anymore, but my stomach is perfectly flat, and my waist is slim. I have a hairy chest and overgrown pits. A trail of hair runs from my navel to my untrimmed crotch, and my thighs are hairy.
I hesitate to describe my cock to you, because I'm ashamed of it, but you won't be able to picture me unless I do. It's only five inches hard and skinny with a small head and small, low-hanging, hairy balls. You can imagine its length when soft and shriveled.
The rest of my body is not a total waste. My arms and shoulder are well-rounded from daily pushups and lifting dumbbells. I've been doing that since I was fifteen. Compensating for my shortcomings, I suppose.
Fifteen seems so long ago. That was the same year I lost my virginity, which is a story in itself. Maybe a story for another time. I have fifteen years of sex stories. Adventures, I like to call them. Adventures in the raw, wild, untamed world of sex. This adventure is one of my favorites. I don't know where to start, so I'm just going to plunge in.
His name was Tunk, or at least that's what they called him on the street. Why, I don't know. He was several years younger than me, but loomed over me like a Nubian giant.
He had coal-black skin, wide eyes, flaring nostrils, thick lips, nappy hair, and stubble on his chin. His features reminded me of LeVar Burton, who fascinated me in "Roots," but his amazing body was something else.
Tunk was at least six-feet, two-inches tall, with a hard, lean, naturally muscular physique, literally reeking of masculinity.
The first time I met Tunk was on a hot August night. I was sitting on a bench overlooking the river. Beside me was a brown bag containing two six packs of Colt 45. It was safe to drink in this section of the park after dark. Cops never patrolled through here.
Malt liquor and a pack of Newports were all I needed to hook up with black and Hispanic men passing by at night. Many of these guys were straight or bisexual cruising for a blowjob. Often straight dudes came this way, staggering drunk, to take a piss against a tree or find some spot to sleep off their stupor. If I could get them horny, talking about sex, one thing would lead to another.
That's how I encountered Tunk. I was drinking a Colt 45 when he sauntered along, obviously inebriated. His shirt was off, affording my eager eyes with a good look at his hard, muscular, ebony chest and washboard abdominals. Baggy jeans drooped from narrow hips, leaving the waistband of his boxers on display.
"Can I get a square?" he asked, slurring his words.
I had a Newport already in my hand to give him. When he reached for my lighter as well, I made a point of lighting the cigarette for him.
"Damn, that beer looks good," he said, plopping down beside me. "You got another one of them cold ones?"
It was not like he was asking. There was free beer and he was having some. It was as simple as that.
"I'm Tunk," he said. "That's my name. Tunk! Like the card game!"
"Joseph," I replied.
I had never heard of the game. Much later, I learned it was a card game played for money by blues and jazz musicians in Louisiana.
"Joseph?" The black giant repeated my name. "Nah, that was my parole officer's name. I'm gonna call you Joey."
After three more beers, Tunk was the one who brought up the subject of sex.
It came at the conclusion of a rambling story about how his mom passed away and his dad kicked him out of the house when he turned eighteen. Today was Tunk's twenty-first birthday. That was why he got stinking drunk.
"It's my fucking birthday, and all I want is to get a nutt, but all the bitches I know are whores, and it's gonna be a cold day in hell before I pay a bitch for sex. Even if I had the bread, you feel me?" His voice began to race with anger. "Un-uh, I'm not the one. Fuck that! They should be paying me. Bitches go crazy over my shit! Dayumm, yo! This shit is whack! I can't even get a fucking blowjob for my birthday! All I want is to get my dick sucked and I can't even get that!"
Tunk jumped up from the bench and paced back and forth. With a sudden lunge, he pounded his angry fists into a tree trunk so hard that I thought he would rip the skin from his knuckles.
"Hey, be careful," I said. "You'll hurt yourself."
"What are you, a faggot?" he growled, looking at me sharply. He slammed a fist into the tree one more time.
I didn't know what to say, but apparently my silence spoke volumes.
"You ever suck dick, Joey?" he asked, palming his crotch. "Are you a faggot?"
I was scared for my life. I didn't know whether this was an invitation to suck Tunk's cock or get my skull bashed in.
"You wanna suck my dick?" he asked. "Am I gonna get my birthday present?"
I nodded weakly.
The young thug leaned against the sturdy tree under a canopy of foliage and casually unbuttoned his trousers. Down they went to his knees, while Tunk looked directly at me, daring me to look away.
That dark immobile face held me transfixed for what seemed an eternity before releasing me with a curled lip of satisfaction. I seemed to hear his voice in my head, giving permission, telling me it was okay to lower my gaze.
My eyes ran quickly down his smooth, sculpted chest and abdominal muscles, admiring the furrowed Adonis belt with a gulp of excitement, before descending to a patch of pubic hair like a velvet shadow. Then, I saw it, the forbidden fruit that haunts my fever dreams.
It was magnificent.
More beautiful than I could have imagined.
Like a dark brown, thickly veined banana, dipped in molasses. The silky skin of his scrotum encased heavy, low-hanging testicles the size of plums.
I dropped to my knees at once and took the head of his dangling member between my lips.
"Oh, yeah, just like that," Tunk moaned. "Take it all. Yeah, suck that dick. Make it get hard in yo' mouth."
My eyes watered as Tunk's cock expanded in my throat. If not for years of practice, I would have gagged. Luckily, I knew how to relax my throat to accommodate even the biggest phallus.
"Joey, you ever been with a brother before?"
With my mouth wrapped around his cock, slurping away, I tried to answer in the affirmative, but only managed to mumble incoherently.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Tunk laughed. "Just move your head."
I nodded, looking up at him. "Yes," I tried to communicate with my eyes, "Yes, I've been with black men before."
"Then you know what it's all about, Joey. Black dick ain't free. It's all about that cash, am I right? You know what I'm sayin'? You gotta help a brother out. How much you got on you?"
Tunk held my head down on his crotch with one hand, impaling my throat, his balls banging my chin, and with the other hand he reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a twenty dollar.
"You got any more?" he demanded.
I shook my head "no." My eyes must have been wide with fright.
"That's okay, it's all good. Keep suckin' that dick. You paid for it, baby. Enjoy it all you want. You like my dick, don't you. You ever had a dick this big?"
I shook my head "no" again.
"Then this is yo' lucky day, Joey. I'm gonna let you suck the juice right out of my dick. Yahhhhh, suck it like that. Dayummm, you a good cocksucker. Do all white boys suck cock like this?"
I shook my head "yes" only because I didn't want to make Tunk mad.
"Sheee-ittt, that's what I thought!" he roared. "Keep sucking! Don't stop sucking!"
Ten minutes later, Tunk ejaculated in my throat, coating my tongue, gushing over my lips like foam. I was in heaven.
After pulling up his trousers, Tunk snatched my pack of Newports from the bench along with another beer.
"We gonna do this again sometime," he smirked.
I watched him stumble off into the darkness.
The next time I encountered Tunk was several weeks later.
I was coming from the liquor store across from my apartment, when a tall, dark man approached me for some change. A soiled, sleeveless undershirt draped the statuesque perfection of his muscular physique. He didn't seem to recognize me.
Nervously, I reached into my pocket for a single, because I only had pennies for change, but I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill by mistake. He looked down at me warily like a started, feral tom-cat.
A sly grin spread across his face as our eyes met. He took the bill with one hand and slapped me on the shoulder with the other.
"Yo, is that you, Joey?" he cried. "Sup, man? What's good? Where you been? Ain't seen you in a minute! I've been wondering where you are. Kept going back to the park, looking for your ass. I was just telling one of my boys about that super head you gave me for my birthday!"
I winced. There were people in earshot, coming and going. Did he have to be so loud? Did he have to put our business in the street?
Tunk looked and smelled like he hadn't bathed or changed his clothes in days, and yet his sovereign youth, strength, and beauty set him on a rung so far above me, it bordered on the ridiculous. He was his own master. He did not care what strangers overheard.
"Where you headed?" he asked. "Let's hang out, man. I got nothin' to do."
That was not an idle suggestion. I knew Tunk was not going to take "no" for an answer. Could I have lied, put him off with some clever excuse? I didn't think he would believe me.
I wanted nothing more than to service Tunk's big, black cock again, but it was against good judgment letting him know where I lived. On the other hand, I argued with myself, Tunk had probably surmised by now that I lived nearby. It was only a matter of time before he figured out my address. It was a dilemma.
"Sounds good," I heard myself say. "Let's do it."
We walked half a block to my third-story flat in a brownstone up the street where I had been living for the last three months. I moved there from the suburbs to be closer to my job. That's what I told my mother. My real reason were the dives and parks where I could always find trade after dark.
The first thing Tunk said upon entering the apartment was, "You're sucking my dick, right? I'm gonna need some porn."
My heart raced not so much at the immediate prospect, but the way he spoke of it so casually, so matter-of-factly. Even now, as I write this testimony, the memory of his brash self-confidence gives me palpitations.
I put a sex tape into the VCR and brought out a short stack of never-opened Penthouses. Tunk flipped through one of the magazines at once. Air-brushed nudes held his attention as he slowly lowered his ass to the sofa and absently rested a large, sneaker-clad foot on the glass coffee table.
I set a cold can of beer on a coaster in front of him, and placed a pack of Newports where he could reach them. I pulled out a cigarette for myself and prepared to sit down, when Tunk looked up from a centerfold. His large eyes shone with an uncanny black flame.
"You gonna light that for me?" asked the Nubian beefcake.
He must have remembered I did that for him in the park. I did it then to give him a hint of what more I had to offer. Sometimes, I had discovered, the smallest gesture of courtesy from a white man can cause a man of color to look at him differently.
This time, it was Tunk's idea that I light a cigarette for him. Was that to asset his dominance? Or were our roles already an established fact? I knew what I wanted from him. I wanted to suck his cock. I wanted to bask in his brash masculine self-assurance.
Tunk downed the entire tallboy of malt liquor in several, deep, thirsty gulps. The aluminum can clinked as he set it down next to the coaster.
"You got anything stronger?" He flicked a long ash above the ashtray, missing it altogether. "How about some herb? You got any chronic? Let's make this a party, man!"
I fixed a triple-shot Bacardi and coke on the rocks in a highball glass for Tunk.
"Your cocktail, sir," I said, without thinking.
That was something I might have said playfully to any guest in my home, but it felt so different saying this to Tunk.
"Un-huh, okay, thanks," he muttered, not looking up from the magazine.
Next, I rolled the rest of my stash into three thick joints. Tunk snatched one up, waited for me to light it, and then proceeded to smoke it alone.
I sat wondering what to do next, thinking about Tunk's long, ebony cock, remembering how it tasted, studying his fascination with pictures of naked women.
I was jealous of his heterosexuality. I have always felt that way around men of color. Straight white dudes, not so much. Deep down inside, I know there's something wrong with me that I have no sexual interest in women.
I could have sat there looking across at this thug for hours. How stunning he would look, cleaned up, wearing a suit. If it were possible to look more stunning than he already was.
"Why aren't you drinking?" he demanded, snapping me out of my reverie. "I'm not drinking all by myself, boyeee! Pour yourself a drink like mine. I told you, this gonna be a party."
While I made myself a rum and coke, not quite as potent as the one I prepared for Tunk, he stripped down to his boxers and dirty white athletic socks. The stained wifebeater and raggedy trousers were tossed to the floor in a heap.
"That's more comfortable," he declared.
So much exposed brown skin almost made me swoon.
With Tunk calling the shots, we spent the next hour drinking rum and cokes, finishing off the joints, and chain-smoking Newports. Tunk kept one eye on a magazine in his lap and the other on the sex flick playing on the large, wall-mounted television.
I was getting wasted. Tunk, too. I could tell because he was becoming more talkative, providing a running commentary on the video, taking obvious delight in talking bluntly about women and sex as if he had forgotten, for the moment, that I didn't share his interest.
"That's what I call a jelly ass," he gushed, as if I were sure to appreciate it as much as he did. "I love a jelly ass like that, yahhh. Look at it bounce! Damn!"
On and on he went, raving about bodacious backsides, juicy cunts, and titties like balloons, titties like watermelons, titties that bounce, flop, and droop. Everything about the female anatomy intrigued and titillated him.
I wished that I had been born with a vagina, at least so men like Tunk would look at me in that way. Then, I would have three holes to offer instead of two. Maybe then, I would know what it's like to be desired, maybe loved?
No, no, no. If a man like Tunk gave me his heart it would be more than I could ever possibly deserve. No real man is ever going to love a faggot.
Tunk fell silent. The only sound came from a woman on the TV screen moaning like an animal in heat. My head was spinning from the rum.
My guest's thick, muscular thighs were spread apart. From the slit of his boxers stood his rigid member, pointing proudly to the ceiling. Just as magnificent and mouth-watering as I remembered. Dark as molasses, thickly veined, pulsing with power.
"You got some cash, Joey? I'm horny as fuck," announced Tunk.
He pointed to the TV screen were porn star Sean Michaels was getting his long black cock deep-throated by a voluptuous white girl with tears streaming down her cheeks.
"See how my boy is skull-fucking that bitch? That's how I'm gonna pump you. Like that there. Come up with presidents and we can get busy. I'm ready!"
Tunk already had the twenty I pulled from my pocket outside the liquor store. I didn't mind giving more, but how much did he want?
Hesitantly, I placed a crinkled twenty-dollar bill atop one of the magazines littering the coffee table.
"Naw, man, be for real," said Tunk with exquisite disdain. "This ain't no twenty-dollar dick. I gave you a first-time discount in the park. You know that."
I fished into my deep pocket for two more twenties. I never saw this coming, paying for cock. I always promised myself that I wouldn't be an old codger paying for cock, and here I was, doing just that, in the prime of my life.
"That'll work," snorted Tunk, snatching up the bills. "Now you can give me one of them cracker blowjobs."
He slouched against the sofa and put his hands behind his head. I got between those powerful, dark thighs and went to work. From time to time, I glanced up, with his cock in my mouth, to admire his sheer physical perfection.
Tunk's eyes were closed, his nostrils flared, and his lips were parted. So dark, so handsome, so sensual in every way. He was equally god and animal at once, a towering force of nature. Compared to Tunk, I was more boy than man.
With an unexpected thrust of his hips, Tunk gripped my head with both hands. He held me firmly in place, mercilessly drilling my throat. I could not move. I was helpless to stop him even if I wanted.
"Take it," he grunted.
It was brutal. My mouth was a cunt for his cock, nothing more. Drool spilled over my lips. Tears welled in my eyes.
Five minutes later, Tunk ejaculated so deep that I could not taste it, but I could feel the slimy gob of volcanic jism oozing down the battered walls of my throat like a giant slug.
He stood over me like a colossus, hands on his narrow hips, breathing hard.
"You liked that?" he asked, gruffly.
"I liked it," I simpered, sounding foolish and giddy.
"I bet you did," he said, with a derisive snort.
"Did you like it?"
I needed to know if I pleased him. I suppose that I wanted to feel appreciated. I felt something for Tunk that I could not explain.
"What do you think?" came the answer to my question.
Tunk dressed quickly and sat down for one more cigarette. He clicked off the video and straightened the pile of Penthouse magazines.
"Enough of this shit," he scowled, but whether he was referring to the porn or to me was unclear. "For now. You gonna be home later?"
After Tunk left, I sniffed the sofa cushion where he had been sitting, hoping for some trace element of his scent, and played with myself, reliving in my mind the scene which just played out, until my palm received a puddle of semen.
As the day wore on, I began to doubt that Tunk would return. Not with eighty dollars to spend. Maybe when the cash ran out. How long would that take?
Around two in the morning my doorbell rang insistently.
I woke with a start, tossed aside my sleeping mask, and jumped out of bed. Down three flights of stairs I flew to the vestibule door before realizing I was wearing only a pair of white briefs and a tee-shirt.
As soon as I unlocked the door, Tunk pushed it aside and walked past me with an air of urgency.
Behind him was a stocky black man, homely of face and shabbily dressed. He might have been in his mid-twenties, but I had the feeling he was older than me. His hair was in corn-rows.
What I remember most were his eyes, shiny like blackberries, as if he were silently laughing, and the smile flickering on his lips.
"I'm Shorty," he said, offering his hand with a viselike grip.
"I'm Joseph," I replied, trying not to wince.
Tunk was halfway up the stairs to the third floor by now.
By the time Shorty and I reached the apartment, Tunk was already inside, restored to his spot on the sofa.
"I'm gonna put some clothes on," I said. "There's beer in the fridge."
"Nah, you good," said Tunk. He turned to Shorty, "You want beer or rum?"
"That sounds right," he said, eyes glistening with secret amusement.
"Fetch both," said Tunk. "I told Shorty you was one of them cool whiteboys."
I didn't know what to say. Was all this a wet dream? One black man in my apartment was an overload for my senses. But two straight-up, hardcore thugs? And me in my underwear? This was turning into one of those little paperback smut stories I used to buy at the adult book store.
How much did Tunk tell Shorty about me, about what we did? What I did. That had me worried. I had no control over what was happening. These two strong men could do anything they wanted.
"It's warm as hell up in here," said Tunk. "Why don't you got AC?"
"It's kind of expensive," I said.
"You can afford it," shot back Tunk.
"Bruh, are we gonna smoke that shit or not?" interjected Shorty.
"We got some rock, Joey," said Tunk, taking a Colt 45 from me with one hand and a rum-and-coke with the other. "You gonna smoke this shit with us?"
When I hesitated, Tunk said, "Cool. But I gotta get comfortable first."
He proceeded to strip down to his boxers and socks. My senses reeled, drinking in that intimidating physique. I licked my lips at the banana outline bulging from his shorts, then glanced over at Shorty whose attention was focused on a tiny plastic vial filled with crack cocaine.
"I'll cut this up," said Tunk. "Get comfortable, man. Joey don't mind. Do you, Joey?"
"Um, no," I said.
"Told you he was cool." Tunk gave his cohort a fist bump.
This was new and totally unexpected. I was basically a brew-and-weed man. Maybe a line of coke every now and then to be sociable, but it wasn't my thing, and I never smoked crack before.
Tunk placed a small glass pipe, sepia-stained, wrapped around the middle with a thick rubber band on the glass coffee table. He then produced a razor blade to slice a white pebble from the vial into smaller pieces.
Meanwhile, Shorty nonchalantly peeled off his oversized shirt, revealing a barrel chest and thick torso matted with black fur. Next, he kicked off his work boots and stepped out of his wrinkled, brown pants.
There was a noticeable bulge in the front of Shorty's boxers, but I couldn't make out the shape of his tool.
I was dying to see it, but I really did not know if that was in the offing. Did Shorty know I gave Tunk a blowjob earlier today? Was that something one straight man would tell another? Or was it going to be Tunk's secret and mine?
As if in answer, Tunk told me to pop a video into the player. Ordered, I mean. It wasn't a request. Men like Tunk don't make requests.
Tunk took a hit off the pipe first, expelled a deep lungful of smoke through his nostrils, and handed the pipe to Shorty sitting to the left. Shorty held his lighter over one end of the glass tube and put the hole at the other end to his lips. He exhaled as Tunk did, a cloud of smoke, and passed the pipe to me.
"Hold it by the rubber band or you gonna burn your fingers," Tunk instructed, seeing my uncertainty. "Keep the flame going. Pull on it slowly."
The smoke had an unpleasant, metallic taste. It burned my lungs, making me cough and sputter. I felt a sudden rush of euphoria like my mind was leaving my body behind.
"You gonna love this shit," Shorty chuckled.
The brown glass pipe was passed around until the first sliver of crack was replaced with another. I welcomed the harsh, acrid assault to my esophagus and lungs. I could not get enough. Shorty was right.
"Pass me the Newports," said Tunk. "Don't be bogartin' the pipe."
I wondered why Tunk didn't tell me to light the cigarette for him. Was that because of Shorty? Was that ritual our secret? Was the blowjob?
With porn flashing on the TV screen, the three of us in our underwear, sitting around drunk and stoned in the middle of the night while decent folk slept soundly, surely that was a recipe for sex.
What did the furry-chested man with smiling, blackberry eyes think about being half-naked in a stranger's home? Was this an ordinary occurrence for him? Was this something men like Tunk and Shorty did?
Maybe it was a cultural thing, hanging out like this, no clothes, sharing drugs, sharing a high? I felt like an outsider embraced by a special fraternity, accepted as one of them. It was a sensation of uninhibited freedom.
Yes, I decided, sitting in skimpy briefs with two black men in boxers felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"It's hot," said Tunk. "Is it okay if I take a shower?"
"Sure," I said, pointing to the bathroom.
The door closed behind Tunk. Shorty took a puff from the pipe and passed it to me with a nod of encouragement.
"There you go, cool dude," he said, adding with a friendly chuckle: "Like my boy said. You cool like a breeze, man."
I hoped to hell Shorty didn't see how hard I was staring at his hairy upper body. He reminded me of a black bear. His large hands were practically paws. He looked very strong.
"Yo, Joey!" hollered Tunk from the bathroom. "How do you work this shower? Where the towels at?"
"I'll be right back," I told Shorty, who shrugged.
In the bathroom, I found Tunk leaning against the sink, naked, with his dark, veined cock jutting out, half-hard.
"Shut the door," he said, sotto voce. "Turn on the shower. Get it hot."
With water splashing and steam filling the room, Tunk pointed to his cock and said, "Fix it."
On my knees, I took the delectable member into my mouth and nursed it lovingly to rock-hard erection.
"That's cool, for now," he said, shoving me away. "I just had to feel that sweet mouth on my shit again. Rock makes a nigga horny. How you feeling? You good? Shit makes you wanna suck dick all night, don't it?"
I never felt so horny in my life. A cock never felt so delicious as right then. I was in cocksucker heaven.
"Aiiight, go back to what you were doing," said Tunk, cracking the door. "I don't need no faggot watching me take a shower. See what Shorty wants."
I returned to find Shorty puffing away, but his bright eyes were fixed on the TV screen where a light-skinned man of color, covered with tattoos, was perched on the edge of a swimming pool with a black girl in the water giving him a blowjob.
"Nice flick, man," he said, putting down the pipe. "Tunk said you knew how to take care of a brother. Think you can take care of this?"
Shorty lifted his haunches from the sofa and tugged down his boxers. His soft, brown sausage sprung from a tangle of jet-black fur and a hairy sack filled with two enormous eggs.
Without wasting another second, I went down on him. Almost at once, his cock hardened between my lips. I slurped hungrily all the way down until my nose pressed into the unkempt, sweaty pubic bush.
"That's what I'm talking about," groaned Shorty.
The more he groaned, the more frenzied I became, the more I salivated, the more I could feel the power of his cock inside me.
"Yeah, whiteboy, that's good, don't stop, don't fucking stop," he growled.
I heard the sound of Tunk's deep, sinister laughter. He stood a few feet away, toweling dry his naked body.
"What did I say?" he spoke to Shorty. "Don't this bitch know how to suck a dick?"
Tunk addressed me again: "Did you remember to thank the man? I told you this shit ain't free."
"Go on," said Shorty. "I'm waiting."
My heart sank. All I had left were two twenties and some singles.
"I'm sorry," I said. "That's all I have on me."
Tunk seized my remaining cash and gave twenty to his friend. He sat down next to Shorty and gestured for me to get between his legs.
"Do your job," he told me.
Tunk and Shorty took turns getting blown while they smoked cigarettes and sipped their drinks. Neither man seemed eager to orgasm. They carried on an easy-going conversation punctuated with coarse language and laughter, but it all went over my tousled head.
My lust for cock had never been so intense. It was overpowering. I like to think that I treat men of color as individuals, that I respect each man as a person worth more than his legendary sexual prowess, but all that mattered now was the black cock punching my tonsils.
The long, veined molasses cock and the thick, milk-chocolate cock were one and the same to me. In my delirium, black cock was black cock was black cock. It was the imperative voice from the burning bush proclaiming "I Am That I Am." It was all that I could think about.
Did Tunk grumble obscenities or was that Shorty? I could no longer tell. I no longer cared. I kneeled between them, stroking one cock in one hand, my mouth on the other, lost in a waking dream, hypnotized by black cock.
Tunk broke the spell with a light palm slap to my face. Almost affectionately, it seemed, unless I imagined that. This thug was not as tough as he let on. I could see that now. Inside that African warrior physique was a good-natured kid, practically an adolescent. An aggressively virile adolescent hung like a stallion.
"I think it's time to hit the pipe," he said. "You too. Get it sparked." While we passed the pipe, euphoric stars going nova in my brain, Shorty was grousing, "The mouth feels good as shit, I'm not gonna lie. But I can't bust in a cat's mouth. I need some pussy. You know what I'm talking about, right?
Tunk said to me: "You don't mind if Shorty fucks you in the ass, do you?"
My hole clenched in nervous anticipation. No one had penetrated me in several years. I always found the idea of getting fucked more enjoyable than the act itself.
Maybe my brain was addled by crack and liquor, or maybe they cleared my head, freeing me of my inhibitions, letting me think clearly for the first time in my life. My hole wanted to get fucked. My hole wanted to be a pussy with a black cock inside it.
Before I could give consent, Tunk said to Shorty: "He don't mind."
Timidly, I stripped off my flimsy briefs, and with them went my last shred of dignity.
I looked down at my naked body. My penis was not even hard. So limp and funny-looking. I was proud of my hairy chest, keeping myself in shape, but there was one shortcoming I could do nothing about.
Shorty positioned me on the sofa, face down in Tunk's lap, with my bare ass hiked, ready to be mounted.
I wondered what Shorty would use for lubricant. Before I could mention the Vaseline in the medicine cabinet, Tunk shoved his cock in my mouth.
I heard Shorty spit a few times into his hand. I felt his thick fingers applying the saliva to my hole. He spat again, and squeezed my milky-white cheeks with both hands, spreading them apart.
I felt the massive head of his cock press against my hole.
Slowly, he pushed, slowly, almost gently, and to my amazement my hungry hole stretched to accommodate that great-girthed instrument of punishment and pleasure.
He was inside me, filling me, possessing me. His powerful cock began to pick up speed. With each lunge, it seemed to grow, becoming larger, thicker, heavier.
"How's that pussy?" said Tunk.
"Pussy good," grunted Shorty, spanking my ass once, twice, three times. "You never tapped this?"
"Naw," said Tunk, lighting a cigarette. "I don't fuck faggots. I just like the way they give head."
I don't remember clearly what happened after that. I must have passed out, because when I woke, I was naked, and it was already noon. The bright sun pouring through the windows hurt my eyes. My throat and ass were sore. I had cock breath and my body smelled.
Tunk and Shorty were gone. So were the rest of my liquor, cigarettes, porn videos, and a bottle of cologne. Nothing else was missing, although it was obvious someone had rummaged through my dresser drawers and closet. The lid to my jewelry chest had been flung open, but all my valuables were still there.
I found my underwear soaking wet. I sniffed myself and realized I stunk like a urinal. Tunk and Shorty must have relieved themselves while I lay sleeping on the floor. I could picture them standing over me, holding their black cocks like fire hoses, pissing like race horses, marking me with their scent.
All I could do was play with my little white penis, thinking about big black cock, remembering everything that happened, and then it occurred to me that Tunk and Shorty knew where I lived.
They would come back. They would tell others about the good white faggot who knows how to treat a man right.
I could not wait for my next adventure.
THE END