MY THONG BRINGS A THRONG BY MOORE
CHAPTER ONE
As a queer kid I used to wear an old jock strap under my jeans when I went out to make some money in the men's bathroom at Penn Station. The pouch was already stained when I found the smelly old jock in the trash and I've added a few cum and piss stains of my own. The jock strap was like a magnet, commuters came running when I dropped my jeans to piss and lined up for five dollar blow jobs when I set up shop in a stall. On a good day, in addition to the great dicks I got to suck and the multiple loads of creamy cum I love to eat, I could pocket an easy hundred bucks.
Now that I've grown to six feet tall and weigh almost two hundred pounds, the message isn't always clear when I drop my jeans at the urinal. I haven't changed inside; still a submissive faggot, still love to suck dick and eat cum, which I now do for free. I'm still an eager and willing cocksucker, a pussy boy too for any man who wants to use me for his pleasure. Trouble is, as a big, sixteen year old fag, I don't look like a submissive kid anymore.
Wearing a jock doesn't do it anymore, men think I'm a tough guy and leave me alone. Wearing nothing at all under my jeans is uncomfortable and gets me nothing but a lot of laughs, my dick stopped growing at four inches, but not many men who will follow me into a stall for a blow job or a fucking. So I'm wearing something else these days, Y-back thong underwear that's new to the men's market. If the salesman I went down on in the store where I bought it is any indication, I'll be sending the right message to the men in the men's room.
"You don't want that," the salesman said when I asked how much it cost. "Nobody but a woman or a fag would wear a thong."
Perfect, I thought, just the message I wanted to send. His eyes lit up in disbelief when I said I'd take two of them.
"You're a fag? A big fellow like you? I don't believe it."
Ten minutes with me on my knees, his dick in my mouth in the dressing room made a believer out of him. He was so pleased with the blow job that in addition to the big load of tasty cum, he gave me a third thong for free.
CHAPTER TWO
Men are staring at me, at my naked ass with the thin strip of fabric between my cheeks. I won't make the first move though, too dangerous. Undercover cops patrol the men's room just waiting to haul in a queer who offers his services. They can't arrest me for being queer, a cock-loving, cum-eating queer or for simply wearing faggy thong underwear. The buzz all around me says the message is getting out. I won't have to wait long for a guy to approach me.
"Last stall, faggot," the black man on my left whispers. "Lose the pants and shirt, cocksucker...leave on the thong. A queer should look like a queer."
A steady throng of men follow the black guy into the stall. White men in pinstripe suits mostly and a few construction workers with hot, sweaty balls that demand to be licked. The thong got it started, word of mouth about my queer mouth kept the throng of hard cocks cumming and the hot sperm flowing during the afternoon rush hour. Quincy, the black guy that started it all was waiting when I crawled out of the stall after servicing one final commuter.
"Got any plans for tonight, cocksucker?"
"No, sir."
"You do now, faggot. Get dressed and follow me."
"Can I wash my face?" I ask, glancing in the mirror. The last guy I blew was in such a big rush to make his train that he completely missed my mouth. My face is splattered with cum.
"Forget it, cocksucker, your face looks fine the way it is. Like the inside of a used scum bag."
We don't go far, to a building that only seems deserted because of the blacked out windows. Once the heavy door swings open in response to Quincy's knock, we're met by a guard in a rent-a-cop uniform who looks at me from behind his desk and bursts out laughing.
"Big faggot, ain't he? Aside from the cum on his face he don't hardly look like a queer boy."
"Look again, Bubba," Quincy replies as he pulls out a knife and cuts away my pants and shirt. "Queer as a three dollar bill."
"So I see," Bubba says, coming around the desk for a closer look. "Fags and thongs is made for each other. You want a collar set and clamps for your queer?"
Quincy leads me down a long hallway, jerking on the short leash that's attached to my collar when I ask him to loosen the clamps on my nipples. "Pain's good for you, faggot," he says. "Keep you sharp and focused on all the dicks you're going to be sucking at tonight's party."
Dicks and sucking, Quincy has said the magic words. I can still taste the cum, feel the pubic hairs stuck in my teeth from the Penn Station blow jobs, but a cocksucker can't suck too many cocks or eat too much cum. He's got to hold me back now as I hurry towards the sound of music and the promised cocks.
The men throng around me laughing at my thong. "How we gonna fuck the faggot, Quincy?" One fellow asks as he unzips his pants and hauls out his big dick.
"Like a bitch dog in heat," Quincy responds, using his knife to cut away my thong.