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Auld Lang Syne,
by Skorpio
Part One
It was New Year's Eve, less than an hour before the stroke of midnight. The hawk was out, bringing with it snow and sleet. Downtown was desolate. Not even a taxi rolled by.
After three years at the county workhouse, Bishop was back on the street. Shivering, he turned up the frayed collar of his overcoat, shoved numb hands into pockets, and looked down at the sidewalk.
"Ain't dis a bitch," he muttered. "Hell, I was better off locked up. At least I'd be warm right now."
Not to mention getting head.
Incarceration definitely had its perks. Bishop could always count on his cellie for a BJ. Funny, he should think of that at a time like this.
That was then.
Now, Bishop was in town with nowhere to go, no place to stay. His own family had written him off long ago, not that he blamed them. And none of his old running buddies were anywhere to be found.
Freezing rain came down harder and thicker.
Looking up, Bishop spotted an old brownstone apartment building. Christmas lights twinkled around some of the windows. Long icicles hung from the eaves. Skeletal, snow-coated trees stood in front.
Bishop was certain he knew this place. He had been here before, more than once, he was sure of that. But when and why?
In his mind's eye, he saw a crib with a leather sofa, a large screen TV, tall windows hung with purple drapes, silly knickknacks on glass shelves, scented candles, framed pictures on the walls ...
Then, it all came rushing back...
Part Two
It was back in the day, a sweltering August afternoon just after Bishop's twenty first birthday. The young thug was walking aimlessly along the creek in the park when he saw a white guy on a bench.
Coors tallboy in one hand, cigarette in the other. Brown bag at his feet containing more beer, a twelve pack by the look of it. Like he was expecting company.
"Mind if I join you?" said Bishop.
"No problem. Wanna beer?"
"Sure. You got another square?"
The white guy looked about thirty. Not tall. He had close-cropped brown hair, squinty gray eyes, narrow nose, and a diamond stud in one ear. Cargo shorts and a green tank top revealed an average build, nothing impressive.
He had to be hanging out for drugs or dick. Those were the only reasons whiteboys came around to the park. Had to be one or the other, or both. Either way, Bishop was prepared to take advantage of the opportunity.
For maybe an hour they sat side by side on the bench, drinking and smoking without much conversation. Coors tasted like water compared to the malt liquor Bishop was used to, but it was better than nothing.
Bishop peeled off his sweat-soaked wifebeater and used it to mop his brow and pits.
"Dayumm, it's hot like a motherfucker!" he growled. "I don't know how much more of this I can take!"
In fact, Bishop loved the dog days of summer, the hotter and stickier the better. The melanin in his skin soaked up sunlight like a solar battery. Made him feel solar powered.
"We can go to my place," offered the whiteboy, looking withered. "I've got air conditioning."
"Hell, yeah!" Bishop exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so!"
The whiteboy lived on the second floor of a brownstone near the center of town, only a few blocks away.
The air conditioner was running when they walked in.
"Make yourself, comfortable," said the whiteboy, clicking on the TV before fetching cold beers from the fridge.
"Heh," Bishop chuckled, plopping down on the leather sofa, kicking off his sneakers. "I'm already there!"
After a few more beers, two shots of Jack Daniels, and a joint, came the inevitable proposition:
"Wanna watch some porn?"
"Sure," said Bishop, playing along. This was not the first time he let a white fag "seduce" him. He knew the deal. It was a game.
First they talk you into coming home with them to get high, because, yeah, that's something two cats who just met would ever do.
As soon they get you drunk, out comes the porn! Whiteboys love seeing niggas horned up. That's when one thing leads to another.
Getting a blowjob from a fag was not the point. What counted was getting paid. Black dick ain't cheap. Brothers like Bishop learned early on what fags are for.
The DVD was Ghetto Gangbang XIII. A dozen cats pulling a train on a white girl with tits like watermelons, holding her down, drilling every hole while calling her names like white whore and cracker bitch.
"Dayumm!" said Bishop. "Dis some rough shit!"
"Want me to put on something else?"
"Nah, this is good. I can watch this. What about you? All this nasty talk turn you on?"
"It's okay," the whiteboy equivocated.
"Be for real," Bishop insisted, toying with his prey. "You like it when niggas talk nasty, don't you."
"Um, I put it on for you... I thought it was something you would like."
"Why would you think that?"
"I don't know," the whiteboy squirmed.
"Don't give me that! If this turns you on, be up front. If you like it, you can tell me. We're watching this shit together. No holding out!"
"Okay, yes, it does. I like it."
"See? Was that so hard? Matter of fact, I love dis shit, my own self. I got a nasty mouth myself when I'm fucking a bitch! Just can't stop talking. How about you? Do you get like that?"
Freddie blushed.
"You do, don't do," Bishop went on. "Don't be shy!"
Bishop scratched his hard, chiseled abs, drawing the fag's attention. Mesmerizing queers was so easy . "One problem," he added, reaching inside the waistband of his drawers to adjust himself. "I'm horny as shit!"
"I know what you mean," said the whiteboy, beady eyes drawn to that big banana bulge.
"You know any bitches?"
"Uh, no. Not really."
"Dat's a shame! Dayumm!"
"Are you alright?"
"Hell, no!"
"Can I get you something?"
"You wanna know what you can get me?"
"Sure. Of course. Tell me."
"What you can get me is a fucking blowjob."
"Um, maybe I could... um, maybe..." Freddie stammered.
"Maybe what?"
"What would you say if a guy offered to blow you?"
"You mean you?"
The whiteboy nodded.
"What would I say?" Bishop stroked his chin as if mulling this over, as if the thought had never before occurred to him. "Ten bucks an inch, that's what I would tell him."
"Ten dollars per inch?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"You mean, pay you?"
"Black dick ain't free. Didn't you hear? Lincoln freed the slaves."
"It's just... I've never had to... you know, pay for it..."
"That's cuz you been blowin' other fags. Suckin' off little-dick whiteboys. You ain't never had no black dick, have you?"
"Uh, no..."
"I can tell. You don't even know how to talk right to a bruh. There's a way of gettin' our attention. If you had been with a nigga before, he would've schooled you."
"What is it?"
"You want dis dick or not?"
"How much?"
"You got a hundred bucks?"
"That's TEN inches!"
"I told you it was worth it!
"I'll pay."
"Say SIR when you talkin' to me!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"Dat's what I'm talkin' about. Dat's how a whiteboy like you gets a nigga's attention. You call any brotha SIR, and he's gonna know right off what's up. Say it again. Get used to saying it."
"SIR, yes SIR."
"See, when I met you in the park, what you should've said was: would you like a beer, SIR? Dat's all you had to say, and I would have known."
"I was afraid, SIR."
"Afraid of what?"
"That you might, you know... you might beat me up."
"Maybe I will."
"No, please... SIR."
"Get my money, bitch."
"Yes, SIR."
Long story short, Bishop got his dick sucked and walked away with a hundred bucks. That night, he met a hooker in a bar and fucked her in an alley.
Over the next few weeks whenever Bishop ran low on funds, he stopped by the fag's crib to get paid. Usually late at night after the bars had closed.
If for some reason the cocksucker was reluctant, it didn't take much to change his mind. Rough talk, filthy, brutal, that's what pulled this puppet's strings.
It was a good arrangement. It would have lasted for a long time, but Bishop got arrested selling weed to an undercover cop. Sent to the workhouse for three years, what felt like a lifetime ago.
Now he stood in front of the place where that faggot lived. Bishop remembered everything but the whiteboy's name. It was maddening.
What was that bitch's name?
Part Three
Climbing the icy steps, Bishop entered a vestibule, and looked over the names above each mailbox. One stood out: F. Perkins, Apt. C.
Freddie! Freddie the faggot! That was it! How could he have forgotten?
Bishop pressed the doorbell.
Almost at once, the intercom crackled in response.
"Hey, baby! I just got out of the shower. Come on up."
The door buzzed open.
Bishop trotted up a flight of carpeted stairs to a narrow hallway on the second floor. The wallpaper was old and faded. A small table held a vase of silk flowers.
He knocked at apartment C. Not too heavily, because he didn't want to scare the fag. He could hear the TV, and the sound of someone moving around inside.
A moment later, Freddie appeared in the doorway wearing a shocked expression and nothing else.
"Remember me?" Bishop grinned.
"Oh, crap!" Freddie gasped, covering his crotch with one hand like an embarrassed schoolgirl. "Bishop! What are doing here?"
"Ain't you gonna invite me in?"
"I would, I want to, but I'm expecting someone."
"I won't stay long," Bishop shrugged. "Gimme a BJ for old time's sake, and I'll be on my way."
"I don't know..."
"Yah, you do."
Bishop nudged Freddie aside and walked in like he owned the place. It looked just as he remembered. Not to mention it was warm and toasty.
"I didn't know if you would remember me."
"How could I forget?"
"True dat," Bishop chuckled. "We used to have some fun times together, didn't we."
"Okay," said Freddie, hastily "We can do this. But it has to be quick. Let me put something on first."
"Nawww, stay like you are," Bishop insisted, tossing his wet coat over a chair. "Got anything to drink?"
Bishop dropped onto the sofa as Freddie darted from the living room. On the TV screen Ryan Seacrest was in Times Square with Taio Cruz. Sleet pounded the window panes as the winter storm grew in its fury.
Freddy returned with a lavender towel wrapped around his waist, holding a bottle of Coors in his hand.
Seizing the beer with one hand, Bishop snatched away Freddie's towel with the other.
"What did I tell you, bitch! You got a problem bein' nekkid around me?"
"No."
"'Cause if you do, I can go..."
"I don't, really! I'm sorry, okay?"
"Aiiight," Bishop smirked. "Dat's good."
Freddie's eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Time was of the essence. Beads of sweat trickled from his brow.
"Can we do this?" he urged, impatiently. "I'm expecting someone."
"I heard you the first time. You got a boyfriend?"
"Something like that."
"Why ain't he here?"
"He will be. Any minute. He had to work late."
"Got any smokes?"
`Huh?"
"Cigarette?"
"Oh. Of course. Sorry!"
"You say that a lot."
"What?"
"That you're sorry."
"I didn't realize," Freddie rejoined. "I won't say it again."
"Nah," Bishop chortled. "I like when you say that. Say it again."
"I'm sorry."
"How sorry are you?"
"I'm very sorry."
"You better be. `Cause if you ain't, I can make you sorry!"
"I'm very, very sorry."
"You used to call me SIR," said Bishop. "Remember?"
"Yes, SIR."
"That's better. I was starting to think you forgot."
"I'm sorry... SIR."
The fag's thin little prick stiffened just as Bishop knew it would.
"I'm still waiting on that smoke."
"Oh, right. Sorry, SIR!"
Freddie dashed into the bedroom. Plump white cheeks jiggling as he moved.
A leer lit Bishop's face. He had never fucked a fag before, but there was always a first time.
Freddie returned with a pack of Newports, lit one, and offered it.
Bishop took a long, satisfying puff, before unzipping his pants and lowering his pants and boxers to his ankles. His black cock was slightly swollen, not yet hard.
Freddie licked his lips.
"Looks good, don't it," Bishop taunted. "It's all yours... just like old times. I know you remember the going rate.
"I haven't forgotten."
Freddie dashed back to the bedroom. When he returned with cash, Bishop's shirt was off.
"Aiiight," said Bishop, counting the bills. "Let's get the show on the road!"
Freddie fell to his knees between the thug's muscular thighs and opened his mouth.
"Oh yahhh," Bishop groaned as he felt the grip of warm, wet lips upon his flesh. "Ohhhhnnnhhhh..."
The cocksucker went to work. Drool trickled from the corners of his mouth as the black cock doubled in size.
"Suck daddy's dick, faggot! Suck it, bitch!"
Freddie took the entire length down his throat, ten hard inches. Heavy balls banged against his chin as pubic hair tickled his nostrils.
At that moment, a cell phone rang.
"It's my boyfriend," Freddie sputtered, pulling away.
"Tell him you're busy."
"I can't! He's supposed to be here!"
"Gimme dat!" Bishop seized the phone.
"Let me talk to him," Freddie pleaded.
"Nah, I got this! Keep yo' mouth on my dick!"
Heart pounding, the faggot closed his eyes and resumed sucking. He was at the mercy of the young black thug, and there was no getting out of it.
Why did I let him in, Freddie asked himself. Why does he have such power over me? It's not just his amazing body and monster cock. It's the way he carries himself, the way he talks.
Freddie's life was in shambles. After years of meaningless one night stands, hustlers, and glory holes, Freddie had finally met someone decent.
Joseph was a market analyst. They talked about getting hitched as soon as it became legal in their state. Joseph's brother, a rabbi, would officiate, followed by a honeymoon at Niagara Falls.
This was Freddie's only chance at real happiness. Something that doesn't come along very often for most gay men. Now that was never going to be.
"There's been a change of plans," Bishop told Joseph over the phone. "Yo' boy can't talk right now `cause his mouth is full, hah-hah! You got that right! For real! Listen up..."
"Make sum noise!" Bishop barked at Freddie, lowering the phone so that Joseph could hear the sound of wet, sloppy slurping.
"Hear dat?" Bishop taunted. "That's yo' boy gettin' down on some good black dick! Hah-hah! Best cocksucker in town. But you probably know that, right?"
Freddie kept sucking noisily, not daring to stop.
"Who am I?" Bishop asked. "I'll tell you who the fuck I am. Me and Freddie go way back! I used to be his pimp!"
Freddie's head bobbed up and down relentlessly. Saliva made the ebony shaft glisten like polished wood.
"What's dat?" said Bishop. "Aiiight. I'll tell him."
He clicked off the phone and set it down. Freddie looked up.
"What did he say?"
"Say what?"
"What did he say, SIR?"
"Said he never wants to see you again," Bishop smirked with triumph. "Looks like I did you a favor by getting rid of that loser. Now you and me, we got all the time in the world to get reacquainted. That's what you want, right?"
Freddie nodded, mesmerized by the throbbing erection an inch from his face. The funky scent rising from the thug's sweaty crotch worked the whiteboy's senses like an irresistible aphrodisiac.
"You fags shouldn't be messin' with each other," Bishop went on. "Dat ain't right. Waste of a good cocksucker, know what I'm sayin'?"
"I g-guess so, Sir," Freddie stammered.
"I wasn't kidding when I was said I was yo' pimp. You know dat, right? I own you! You belong to me and no one else! From now on you work for me, understand? When you get paid, I get paid!"
"Y-y-yes, Sir."
"Get back to work, bitch! Suck my dick!"
Freddie resumed sucking with such intensity his cheeks concaved. He became a fellatio robot programmed to give head.
Every now and then Bishop would say something nasty to drive the cocksucker into a frenzy:
"You can do more better than that! Suck it like you mean it, like your life depends on it! Do your job! All the way down your fucking throat!
"Maybe I should call up some niggas I know. Let them fuck you silly all night long! Have us an old fashioned cracker party! Would you like that? Huh? Dat sound good to you?
"Suck my dick, faggot! Make me bust dis nut!"
Part Four
At the stroke of midnight, just as the apple dropped in Times Square, Bishop felt it coming, felt the churning in his heavy balls.
With an upward thrust, he held the fag's face down against his groin, ejaculating one burst of pimp juice after another like white-hot bullets deep in Freddie's throat.
"Oh, shit! Fuck!!! Yahh! Fuck!!!!"
"I needed dat," exhaled Bishop with a sigh, feeling all the tension leave his body. His dark brown chest rose and fell.
He tucked his spent dick back inside his pants and zipped up. Then, plucking the payment from his pocket, Bishop counted again the crisp green bills.
It was never about a blowjob. Putting whitey on his knees, being called SIR, those were dividends making the transaction sweeter. But money was what mattered. It was all about that cash.
"I'm gonna need more than this," Bishop scowled. "This ain't gonna get me far."
"But, I already paid you," Freddie protested. "That's the going rate, you said."
Without warning, the ex-con balled his fist and struck the faggot on the jaw, sending him sprawling.
Swift, brutal kicks followed, reducing the homosexual to a fetal curl.
"Wrong answer!" Bishop barked. "Don't chu ever talk back to me!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Sir," Freddie whimpered.
"Get up, fetch me a belt! Don't dilly dally! We gonna take this shit to the next level, yo!"
Freddie had a good idea what Bishop had in mind, and it frightened him, but he did as he was told. He did not have a choice.
"Bend over and grab yo' ankles!"
Bishop swung the belt like a lash, smiting the whiteboy's bouncy cheeks over and over again with increasing fury, leaving bright red stripes.
Whack! Whack!! Whack!!!!
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" screamed the faggot.
"Who's yo' pimp, bitch?"
"You are! You are! You're my pimp!"
"Say what?" Bishop growled.
"You're my pimp, SIR!" Freddie cried out, getting it right.
"Did you just ask me to live here with you? Did I hear you right?"
Bishop cracked the belt again.
Whack!!!
"Yes, yes!" the whiteboy sobbed, streaming tears.
This faggot was going to be easy to train. The carrot and stick method was all it would take. Only in this case the carrot was Bishop's ten inch dick and the stick a leather belt.
"Make it official, bitch! Ask me! I'm not gonna stop until you do!"
Whack! Whack!! Whack!!!
"You can live with me!"
"You need me?"
The belt worked its magic on Freddie's pale, soft, quivering flesh.
"I need you!"
"Why do you need me?"
Whack, whack, whack!!!
"Because..."
"Go on..."
"Because I'm a bitch! I'm your bitch!"
"My WHITE bitch!" Bishop corrected, applying the belt one last time with the loudest, hardest WHACK of all.
"I'm your WHITE bitch! SIR!!!"
Freddie collapsed, face down on the floor, buttocks glowing like toasted marshmallows.
"I'myourwhitebitchsir, I'myourwhitebitchsir," he mumbled over and over again like a mantra. "I'myourwhitebitchsir, I'myourwhitebitchsir, I'myourwhitebitchsir..."
Towering above the crumpled, naked fag, Bishop ordered him back to his knees.
Groaning, Freddie obeyed. His whole body ached, not just his sore throat, tired jaw, swollen lips, and burning ass. Every muscle in his body felt pummeled. He did not know how much more of this punishment he could take.
Making matters worse, Freddie had a hard-on. His cock was thin and pale like a toadstool, maybe five inches long, if that, sticking straight up from a unkempt bush of pubic hair. His balls dangled, not much bigger than acorns.
"You liked that, didn't you," observed the hard-bodied ex-con. "Got yo' little prick all hard and shit. That's turned you on, didn't it. You liked-ed that! You like gettin' yo' ass beat! You want me to hurt you some more, don't you!"
"Yes, SIR," Freddie surrendered. "I'myourwhitebitchsir!"
"Dat chu are," Bishop chuckled. "And don't chu forget it! I'm gonna like staying here. It was nice of you to invite me, seeing as I got nowhere else to go.
"And I got a confession of my own. I liked beating yo' white ass! That shit got me hard all over again. I think you need to get your face back down on my dick!
"This time I want you to do it mo' better. In fact, any time you suck my dick, make it better than the last time, or I will beat the living shit outta you!"
Outside, the fury of the storm had intensified in its fury. The wind howled like a banshee. Freddie's fate was sealed.
EPILOGUE
There's an old saying: what you do on New Year's Eve, you will do in the year to come. For Freddie and Bishop, that's exactly how things turned out.
Since the king-sized bed was not big enough for both of them, Fred curled up naked on the floor without blanket or pillow. That way he was close by when Bishop called for his morning blowjob.
Every morning Freddie sucked dick before fixing breakfast and leaving for work. When Freddie got paid, Bishop got paid. Bishop enjoyed the comfort of a warm, cozy crib, a steady income, plus an obedient white cocksucker whose only purpose in life was to do what he was told.
From time to time Bishop took a belt to the whiteboy's ass. Hearing him howl in pain, making him grovel for mercy, that never got old.
THE END