The Color Yellow

This joint is porno-GRAPHIC fiction for adults only. It may not be copied or reproduced without the consent of its author.

The Color Yellow, by Skorpio

It was Friday night and Alpha House was jumping. Lights were dimmed. House music blared from enormous speakers. Dime sisters and phyne cats were getting down.

This was an Alpha jam. Alpha Omega Alpha brothers wore black square-cut tank tops with the Greek letters A-O-A in gold across the chest. Pledges could be identified by black berets. Most of the ladies wore skin-tight jeans or short, tight skirts and skimpy tops. More than a few cock diesel cats went shirtless.

The dee-jay's station occupied an alcove off the main room. He had long dreadlocks and wore shades. On the wall hung a large banner emblazoned with the fraternity's emblem and motto: a sandaled brown foot crushing the head of a white serpent above the words: Ne conjugare nobiscum, "Don't fuck with us."

Alpha House was the last place on earth anyone would expect to find someone like Jonathan Lowe. With his gelled blond hair, peach complexion, and light blue eyes, the timid freshman presented an incongruent figure in a sea of brown faces. He did not belong, yet no one seemed to pay him any mind.

Hanging by the keg in the kitchen, gulping Colt 45 from a plastic cup, Jonathan looked around for his classmate, Jamal. The tall, rangy redbone with Bantu knots who invited him to the Alpha jam was nowhere to be seen. But Jamal was coming, Jonathan was sure of that. Jamal said he would be there. He had to come.

Jonathan flashed back to their pivotal conversation earlier that day after the mid-term exam in Sociology 101.

Academics came easy to Jonathan so it was somewhat of a surprise that his only competition was a Negro. He had never encountered a smart Negro before. Always first to raise their eager hands in class, always the most prepared to participate in discussions, Jonathan and Jamal were likewise first to turn in their test papers. They exited the classroom together a good twenty minutes before anyone else.

In the hallway, Jonathan inquired casually, "How do you think you did?"

"Aced it," replied Jamal, confidently. He was strikingly handsome and tall like a basketball player. "How `bout you?"

"I did okay, I think," said Jonathan, with false modesty.

"Don't down yo'self, my man!" Jamal clapped Jonathan on the back, knocking the wind out of him. "You know you aced that mutha-fucker. We're contenders!"

"Contenders?"

"Nah, not really... Not like we rivals, naw mean?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." Jonathan had a habit of scrunching his eyebrows when feeling intimidated.

"Say, you free tonight? There's a jam at Alpha House. If you wanna meet sum shorties, why don't chu stop by? I'll be there. I guarantee you'll have a good time."

"Are you sure? I mean, well, you know..."

"Ain't nothin' but a party," Jamal insisted. "Trust me! Everyone is welcome at an Alpha jam. White, Puerto Rican, Japanese, Martian, you name it, they gonna be there! You should really come. I can hook you up with sum fly honeys unless you got someone you wanna bring wit' chu. You got a girl?"

"Not really..."

"Aiiight!" Jamal licked his upper lip. "You gots to come! I know sum shorties would love a slice of Wonderbread like you. You do like girls, right?"

"G-girls?" Jonathan stammered. "Um, yes... I like girls."

"Aiiight! Let's hook up around ten! We wanna be there early before all the fly girls get taken."

"I'll see you there," decided Jonathan on the spot.

"Cool! You won't regret it!" Jamal offered a fist bump which went unacknowledged.

Jonathan was on cloud nine. Elated over making a friend, thrilled to be invited to a party, and dizzy with the prospect of maybe losing his virginity, the freshman hurried back to his room at the dorm.

More than anything Jonathan wanted to quell feeling like a eunuch. Wet dreams came almost every night, but during the day he could not even talk to a girl without stammering. The most action he ever got was an awkward kiss after ninth grade choir rehearsal from a chubby soprano named Eunice.

He imagined that Jamal had been with dozens of girls, picturing with disturbing vividness the tall, virile Negro thrusting into a sexy, naked woman like a porn star.

Before the full-length mirror on his closet door, Jonathan stripped down to his briefs and posed for self-inspection. He was not particularly tall, but had a decent physique with well-rounded arms and shoulders, a firm chest, and flat stomach. Spiked yellow hair, thick eyebrows, long-lashed periwinkle eyes, snub nose, small jaws, Colgate smile, and unblemished skin completed the reflection.

"I'm not bad looking," he assured himself, twisting to appraise his bubble butt in profile. It was round and firm like the kind girls talk about. "Why aren't they interested in me?" he frowned. "If I was a chick, I would find myself cute. I could be Ryan Seacrest's younger brother."

Jonathan spent the rest of the day in anxious anticipation, unable to study, skipping dinner, and taking cold showers. As the hour of departure drew near, he was all nerves. Settling on Abercrombie khakis and a light green polo shirt, he fussed with his hair for another fifteen minutes before heading out at 9:45 with the momentum of a man on a mission.

Alpha House was a three-story manse, one of several on a wide, oak-lined avenue known as Fraternity Row. Pennants striped black, green, and red fluttered from upstairs windows. Above the entrance were the Greek letters Aâ€" Oâ€" A. Black students mingled gregariously on the verandah, sipping from cups, chatting and laughing loudly. Some were practicing their steps and stomps.

At the sidewalk Jonathan entertained second thoughts. Maybe he did not belong here. Maybe he should return to his room and forget about getting laid. Then, a trio of shapely co-eds in heels passed him on their way into the house. He overheard one say, "I'm gonna get me sum sugar tonight. Girl got needs!"

Jonathan admired their large posteriors. Black girls seemed more womanly than white girls with their curvaceous hips, ample bottoms and bouncy bosoms. They were more vivacious than whitegirls, more sensual, less inhibited.

One of Jonathan's recurring masturbation fantasies was imagining himself the son of a plantation owner back in the old south with his pick of dusky females. Those were the days, thought Jonathan. He was not a racist, he believed in civil rights and slavery was heinous, yet he was turned on by the fantasy of having women of color at his mercy, hot-blooded negresses who could not reject or refuse him.

Taking a deep breath, Jonathan marshaled his courage and marched to the front door. I can do this, he told himself. Stepping inside was like crossing into another world. Funky polyrhythms pounded his tender ears.

Jostling through the wall-to-wall throng of dancers, Jonathan got a hard-on checking out a heavy-breasted sister with a glossy weave gyrating to the music. A thin pink halter top barely constrained her double-D titties. Nipples like Hershey Kisses poked through the fabric. It was all Jonathan could do not to stare.

If ever he stood a chance at losing his virginity, Jonathan was convinced it could happen tonight. Jamal would hook him up with one of these hot sisters. All he had to do was hang until his buddy arrived. This was going to be his night. Everything was going to be alright once Jamal showed up.

Jonathan's concern was eased by the fact that no one seemed to notice him at all. For all intents and purposes he was invisible, a non-entity. Another thing which alleviated his concerns was discovering kegs of Colt-45 in the kitchen. He filled a cup and stared at the golden, foaming beverage as if it were some magical elixir before taking a sip followed by a gulp. At first it burned his throat, but the more he swallowed the smoother it went down.

Many swallows later, quite drunk, the freshman felt an urgent need to take a leak. Wandering about the first floor, too intimidated to ask for directions, he eventually came upon a long line standing outside a bathroom. At least a dozen guys waited ahead of him.

"I don't believe it," he muttered. No way could his bladder hold out that long. In a minute he would be clutching his crotch, jumping up and down like an idiot.

"You gotta go too, huh?" said a built, dark-skinned Alpha brother in a black tank top and black do-rag. "This sum bullshit. You wanna come wit' us. We takin' a leak outside."

"Are you speaking to me?" Jonathan asked, uncertainly.

"We ain't handin' out no engraved invitations," said a second Alpha who could have been the first one's twin. "You gotta pee? C'mon, then. We headed out back."

"Lead the way," conceded the freshman. "By the way, my name's Jonathan."

"Cool. I'm Jimmy Jones. This my brother Jamey."

Jonathan winced as they squeezed his hand while making up his mind that he would never be able to tell these two apart. They looked too much alike. Trotting behind them, Jonathan's naïve hopes buoyed. If Jamal didn't come through, maybe these new friends could introduce him to some girls.

Loosened by malt liquor and sexed up by the beats, all Jonathan could think about was getting laid. That, and taking a wicked piss as soon as possible. He had to release the pressure on his bladder very soon or there would be an unfortunate and embarrassing accident.

A screen door off the pantry opened onto a yard of great-girthed, leafless trees illumined by a gibbous moon and twinkling stars. The crisp air was sobering. Under an old oak, Jimmy and Jamey flanked Jonathan on either side. Acorns and dry leaves crunched beneath their feet.

Jonathan unzipped his fly and fumbled inside his pants, tugging at his penis. He gripped it between his thumb and forefinger. Always self-conscious about the measure of his manhood, Jonathan stole furtive glances left and right. Checking out other guys had become an embarrassing habit, but he could not help himself. Jonathan always hoped to prove to himself that he was "average."

Unfortunately, what Jonathan observed did not contribute to his precarious self-esteem. It was impossible not to notice that neither Jimmy nor Jamey had to search inside their pants. The instant the Jones brothers lowered their zippers their members fell into their open palms like long, brown bananas.

Two fierce streams of urine watered the ground at their feet. Jonathan willed himself to urinate but to no avail. The need of physical relief, so intense a minute ago, was gone. He could not perform this simple physical function.

It was then he realized something else was amiss. Jimmy Jones was casually watering Jonathan's sneakers. Urine arced and splashed on the whiteboy's feet.

"What are you doing?" Jonathan's thick blond brows wrinkled in consternation like caterpillars.

"Sorry `bout that," snorted Jimmy.

"Me, too," added Jamey, pointing his brown cock at Jonathan's sneakers.

Petrified, Jonathan did not know what to do. The Jones brothers were both pissing on his feet and it was deliberate. He felt confused and frightened. An eternity passed as he stood there, helpless.

"On yo' knees, pissant!" barked Jimmy.

Jonathan's entire body tensed. What was happening? He felt trapped in a dream from which he could not awaken.

"Do what he says!" growled Jamey. "Get on yo' fuckin' knees!"

Jonathan dropped to his knees as the two Alpha brothers proceeded to drench him from head to toe. Hot piss dripped over his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. The acrid stench invaded his tiny, sensitive nostrils. His shirt and pants were soaked.

"Don't chu fuckin' move!" said Jamey in a tone not to be defied.

Trembling, Jonathan was bewildered and frightened as the Jones brothers unleashed their bladders. Like a stone pussy he knelt and took it. Urine spilled for an eternity until at last Jimmy and Jamey shook their long brown hoses dry.

"Get yo' azz out of here!" ordered Jimmy. "What made you think you could come to an Alpha party? You ain't welcome here!"

"Get to steppin' `fore we do mo' than piss on yo' sorry azz!" Jamey added. "Fuckin white pissant!"

"Yah, we piss on crackers like you, bitch!" hollered Jimmy. "Get the fuck out of here and don't come back, yo!"

Jonathan staggered to his feet and darted away. He tripped over an upturned wheelbarrow in the dark, lost a sneaker, sprang up, and sprinted to the sidewalk. His mind went dark. All he knew was that he had to escape.

He ran until he reached the campus where he ran into Jamal crossing the quad with a tipsy blonde on his arm. Jonathan could not bring himself to admit what just happened, but at the same time the charismatic youth with Bantu knots was a sight for sore eyes.

"Is that you, Jonnie?" said Jamal. "What happened?"

"I went to the Alpha party, but I didn't see you there," sputtered Jonathan, too humiliated to elaborate.

"You did, huh?" smirked Jamal. "Wish I could have seen that, but I been busy. Dayumm, boyeee, you smell rank! Get yo'self cleaned up. I'll catch up wit' chu later! Got somethin' to take care of, naw mean?"

"Sure," said Jonathan. "Okay."

Meanwhile back at Alpha House, the Jones brothers had everyone in stitches.

"You should've seen the look on his face!" cracked Jamey. "He was scurred like that!!"

"That's sum wild shit," an Alpha brother remarked. "You taught that white punk a lesson. He won't be crashin' no mo' Alpha parties no time soon."

"Yah, that shit was tight," dapped another. "Niggas got to stick togetha! Ne conjugare nobiscum!"

"Ne conjugare nobiscum!" rose the chant.

"We ain't done yet," said Jimmy. "Jamal wants this punk put down for good."

"What you gonna do?"

"Wanna know?" said Jamey. "Listen up! This the plan!"

A few hours later, Jonathan Lowe was sound asleep in bed when he was suddenly roused by relentless pounding. Rubbing sleepies from his eyes, he stumbled barefoot to the door in nothing but his white cotton briefs. He could not imagine who could be at his door at this hour.

Opening the door, Jonathan was thrown back by the Jones brothers bursting into his room.

"We wasn't done partyin' wit' chu," declared Jimmy, flexing his arms.

"Yahh, we feel real bad about pissin' on you like that," said Jamey.

Jonathan backed away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in his briefs. He covered his chest as if his nipples were something precious.

"True dat," said Jamey. "We didn't mean to piss on you."

"Y-you didn't?" stammered Jonathan. Maybe this was all just a misunderstanding, he hoped.

"Nah!" chortled Jimmy. "What we really wanted was to piss on yo' crib instead!"

Jimmy whipped out his cock and started pissing like a race horse, drenching the sheets and pillows, sullying the headboard. At the same time Jamey anointed the walls and floor like a dog marking its territory. Jonathan trembled, too afraid to do move.

Piss dripped everywhere.

Eventually, Jimmy stated, "We done here!"

"Yah, time for you to go to bed," snickered Jamey.

"Go on now, get in bed!" demanded Jimmy. "We wanna make sure you tucked in before we leave."

"Do it NOW," Jamey boomed.

Reluctantly, Jonathan lifted the soiled sheet and crawled into bed. The pillows were soaked like sponges. The stench of piss was overpowering.

"You ain't nothin' but a pissant, is you!" said Jimmy.

"One mo' thing," said Jamey. His thick, brown cock rested in the palm of his hand. "Got a few drops left. Open yo' mouth."

When Jonathan balked, Jamey bellowed, "I said open yo' mouth, bitch! What don't chu understand? Open that fuckin' mouth! We ain't done wit' chu, yet!"

Seeing Jonathan wince and sputter as his gaping mouth filled with urine, Jimmy and Jamey howled with laughter.

As far as Jimmy was concerned, in that moment Jonathan Lowe represented every white man who ever disrespected him: the 8th grade gym teacher who drooled while watching him shower, the manager at Burger King who called him a jigaboo, cops who pulled him over for driving while Black, his racist history professor.

In Jamey's eyes the hapless whiteboy symbolized every southern slave-owner, every red-necked officer of the law, every white-hooded member of the KKK, and every Mister Charlie slumlord.

Urine whizzed into Jonathan's throat. He gulped and swallowed again and again. It tasted foul. The last few squirts went wild, spraying Jonathan's face, adding to the tears of humiliation streaming down his cheeks.

"Sleep tight, pissant!" said Jimmy.

"Yah, get sum sleep," said Jamey.

The door slammed shut. Trembling with trepidation, Jonathan lay awake in his piss-soaked bed, afraid to move, dreading their return. Every little sound outside the door gave him the jitters. The wet sheets turned cold and sticky against his bare skin. The smell was unbearable.

Just when Jonathan thought he could not be more miserable, he realized that he had to pee but was too frightened to leave his room. For a long while he lay supine with his hands covering his privates, fighting the necessity until he could not hold back. He did not want to do it but he could not help himself.

What does it matter, he rationalized as his bladder yielded like a dam in a deluge. The warm rivulet running along his thighs felt strangely pleasurable, stirring memories of wetting the bed at the late age of fifteen. He remembered how good it felt peeing in his sleep like an infant before waking in shame to soiled sheets.

An hour before the sun came up and the alarm clocks of early risers, Jonathan scurried to the men's bathroom. Before darting from his room he made sure the coast was clear. He wanted the facilities to himself.

The steaming shower felt exquisite but no matter how vigorously he scrubbed with soap, Jonathan could not rid himself of the stench. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the stink seemed to cling to his pores and follicles.

Wrapping a towel around his slender waist, he returned to his room to find the door had been vandalized. It stood ajar dripping with piss. A yellow puddle formed at his bare feet and trickled between his toes while he just stood there, frigid with fear.

Jonathan looked around to see if anyone was watching, but the floor was deserted. At that same moment the heavy door to the stairwell slammed and someone or some ones clambered down the steps. His heart pounded.

Timidly entering his room, Jonathan exhaled a sigh of relief. Nothing else seemed amiss. There were no signs of an intruder. He put the soiled sheets in a laundry bag, sprayed the mattress with Lysol, and scrubbed the door with Clorox disinfecting wipes. It was not until Jonathan went to put on his sneakers that he found them full of foul, amber liquid. He choked back a sob.

The next day passed without incident. By slow degrees Jonathan began to believe his ordeal was over. He had learned his lesson: he would never go to another Alpha party not even if Oprah herself invited him. Jonathan was going to avoid Black people from now on.

It was hard for him to relate to Blacks as a group. They seemed above his likes or dislikes somehow. The only one who was ever nice to him was Jamal, whom he could never tell what happened. Jamal was a good guy.

That evening Jonathan ran into Jamal at the library while combing the Readers' Guide to Periodical Literature for articles corroborating his term paper exculpating slavery as a lamentable, but common economy practiced by every nation in every era. Jamal was doing research for a thesis which maintained exactly the opposite, namely that the peculiar institution of slavery in America differed in kind from its antecedents.

Although Jonathan was glad to see Jamal, the tall, light-skinned brother with Bantu knots was more reserved. While Jonathan jabbered away, Jamal's face remained a mask of indifference, his large eyes enigmatically opaque.

"See you in class," said Jonathan.

"Yah, aiiight," said Jamal, dismissively.

Strolling back to the dormitory, Jonathan found the door to his room inexplicably open. Entering cautiously, it was immediately apparent someone had been there. The odor was vile. The carpet squished beneath his feet. Urine stained the walls. There was a swarm of flies.

Demoralized, Jonathan curled under a blanket in a dry corner of his room and tried not to think about his situation. In his dreams the two Jones brothers towered over him leering and jeering. They called him vicious names. He woke several times throughout the night in a cold sweat.

Jonathan lost the will to fight. He started cutting classes. Other students snickered and pinched their noses when they passed him. His grades plummeted.

At the end of the semester Jonathan received a C in Sociology and barely passed his other courses. This was a severe comeuppance for one to whom academics always came easy. Life for Jonathan had taken a catastrophic U-turn. He felt overwhelmed.

What had the Jones brothers called him? The dictionary defined "pissant" as a person of no value or consequence. Jonathan made up his mind to drop out of college. He could not take this treatment any more. Maybe he could transfer to another school or get a job flipping burgers, but he could not endure this.

On the very last day of the semester, Jamal surprised him with a visit. Jonathan was sitting on his bed.

"Sup?" said the tall redbone, entering without knocking. "Heard you got a C. That sucks."

"What'd you get?" asked Jonathan.

"A-all-the-way!" crowed Jamal. "What's goin' on? It stinks like a fuckin' toilet in here! Is it true what I been hearin'? Word is you're some kind of piss freak. Sup with that?"

"I don't know what's true, anymore," groaned Jonathan, hanging his head. "Someone has it out for me. I give up. I don't care anymore!"

"Is that right?" said Jamal. "Are you're sayin' you like gettin' pissed on? That's some nasty shit. You a nerd, but I didn't clock you for no freak."

Jonathan lifted his head with a look of total helplessness. Tears welled in his big blue eyes. "I didn't ask for it!" he whimpered.

"So you just take it?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You're so pathetic, I feel like pissin' on you, my own self," said Jamal. "You must bring that out in a nigga."

"Sure, go on, piss all over me," sobbed Jonathan, breaking down. "Piss on my clothes, piss on my books, piss on everything I own. You might as well. Everyone else has! I can't stop you!"

"That's right, you can't. But a man always got a choice."

"What do you mean?" Jonathan whimpered. "What choice do I have? Someone's out to get me and I don't even know why. It's not fair!""

"That must suck. Can't imagine what that feels like."

"I don't care anymore. I don't care what happens."

"You always got a choice," said Jamal. "If you wanna get through college without stinkin' like a fuckin' urinal, there's a way you can do that."

"What's that?"

"It's real simple," Jamal grinned. "When I tell you how simple it is, you gonna wish you thought of it!"

"What is it?" Jonathan dared hope for a glimmer of light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. "Tell me what it is! I'll do it!"

"Simple," said Jamal. "All you gotta do is suck my dick, right here and now."

"Huh? What?"

"You deaf as well as stupid? I said, all you gotta do is give me some head. Get down on your knees and show me respect, man to man! Do it like you mean it and I guarantee, the pissing will stop. It's yo' choice. What you gonna do?"

"But I'm not gay...."

"You sayin' I am?" hollered Jamal, snatching Jonathan by his shirt and effortlessly tossing him to the floor. "Is that what chu sayin'? I'm mo' man than you will ever be. I got plenty bitches on my jock! I don't need a punk like you to get my nutt."

"Why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you?"

"You got in my way," said Jamal. His upper lip twisted in a sneer of total contempt. "Who you think put out the word to give you the R. Kelly treatment?"

"It was you?" Jonathan's eyes were round. He did not know who R. Kelly was, but the implication was clear. "I thought you were my friend!"

"Get real, fool!" Jamal's nostrils flared. "You must be buggin'! Why would I want to be friends with an insect like you? I step on bugs! You better come correct. Understand me? I gave you a choice. Now you gonna be smart and suck my dick or would you rather smell like piss until you graduate? What's it gonna be? "

Jonathan did not feel like he had any choice at all. The thought of putting his mouth on another dude's genitals was twisted. He wasn't queer, but what was he going to do? He could not go on sleeping on soggy sheets and reeking like an incontinent bum. He just wanted this nightmare to be over, whatever it took.

Maybe he could do it, suck Jamal's cock just this once, get it over with and never think about it again. He did not bother to swat away a fly landing on his forehead.

"I'll do it," Jonathan acquiesced with a sigh. "I'll do it, okay?"

"Not good enough," said Jamal. "You took too long. Tell me why you wanna suck my dick."

"So everyone will stop pissing in my room," said Jonathan. "All right?"

"Nah, it ain't aiiight. Don't sass me, boy! Who's yo' Massa?"

"My Master?"

"That's right, pissant. Who's yo' Massa???"

"You are, you are," Jonathan broke down. "You're my Master, alright? You are! You are!!"

"That's what I wanna hear and don't chu ever forget that!" said Jamal, unzipping his cargo shorts and whipping out a meaty cock and large, low-hanging nuts. He loomed over Jonathan like a colossus. "Get bizzy! Show my chunk sum luv! Get it hard in yo' mouth!"

The swollen member dangled before the whiteboy's blue eyes like an over-ripe fruit. Poor straight Jonathan knew what he had to do. He had to perform fellatio, put his mouth to work like a common whore, a faggot, to pleasure another man. Jonathan did not even know what it felt like to get a blow job let alone how to give one.

Why did it have to be Black cock? Why couldn't his tormentor be white? Why did that even matter? Yet it did.

"Suck Massa's dick!" growled Jamal. Ever since "Roots," he had wanted to say that.

Sick with self-loathing, Jonathan deployed his short pink tongue to caress Jamal's dark brown corona. The thickly-veined shaft doubled in size. Eyes clamped, Jonathan ran his tongue along the inside of the column and tickled the frenulum.

"That's right, lick it like a fudgesicle! You know you want it!"

As far as Jamal was concerned there was nothing wrong with letting a cocksucker go down on him. He had sometimes wondered what it would be like to get a blowjob from a faggot. Maybe this punk was a homo, maybe not. That did not matter. Jamal never intended on taking it this far, but having a whiteboy at his mercy without having to do prison time for the opportunity was too tempting to resist.

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, Jonathan told himself. At the same time, an inner voice urged: no one has to find out, you can do it, just do it and get everything over with, you don't have a choice, just do it, do it, do it, and no one will piss on you again. He stretched his thin lips around the velvet glans like a juicy plum.

"There ya go, ohhhh, yahhh, that's right," Jamal groaned. A current of sensual lightning rippled through his loins. "Don't be scurred. Get it all the way in yo' mouth! Yah, work it, work it!!"

Gripping the cocksucker by the ears, Jamal's hips attained a tempo of mechanical precision. Slowly, relentlessly, remorselessly, in and out, deeper and deeper, he pumped until his balls bounced like walnuts against Jonathan's chin.

"There you go, yah, that's right, that's right! Swallow it! Pussy-throat slut! Don't choke on me, cocksucker! Suck my dick!"

Large hands held Jonathan's head in place. Instinctively he breathed through his nose and struggled not to gag. Over and over again the young brother slammed with scrotum-slapping force, with the rhythm of a metronome, forcing his cock into Jonathan's throat.

"Awww shittt, you gonna make me nutt!" gasped Jamal, pressing Jonathan's face to his groin,. "Yah, that's right, take it! Awwww, shittt, yahhh, take it! Awww, yahhh! Unhhhh, yaahhhh, unhhh...." His speech turned to inarticulate grunts of bestial satisfaction.

Jamal had experienced countless blowjobs but never a skull-fuck quite like this. Too much of a gentleman, he always let chickenheads perform their job without being too forceful or talking too nasty. He had too much respect for women to treat them like ho's. But what went down between him and this spineless punk had nothing to do with sex and everything to do power.

"Swallow it, pissant! All the way down yo' throat!"

Sperm skeeted down Jonathan's esophagus like hot lava bullets until Jamal shoved him away with contempt. Falling backward, Jonathan looked up with blue eyes damp with emotion. His expressive blond brows wrinkled with uncertainty and helplessness. Froth spilled between his lips.

"Dayumm, you sucked that right! "Jamal declared, breathing hard. "Fo' real, yo! You sure you not queer?"

Jonathan hung his head, weighted by shame like a millstone around his neck. He had let another man use him. He did not resist. Hating every moment, he nonetheless had participated in the act. He did not just let it happen. He performed fellatio.

He let it happen. He did not enjoy it, he loathed every moment, and yet it was not as bad as he thought it would be.

"You sure you didn't get off on that?" Jamal taunted, pulling up his boxers, tucking away his sausage-sized dick. "You really put yo' heart in it! You worshiped that shit like a stone faggot, Jonny!"

"I'm not gay," mumbled Jonathan.

"You ain't? You sure? I bet yo' shit is hard! Why don't chu drop them drawers! I ain't no freak, but I wanna see if you got off. I know you did."

Reluctantly lowering his pants, Jonathan exposed his soft, pink penis and marble-sized balls to ridicule. The ghetto timbre of Jamal's voice, the earthy, musky scent of his crotch, the bleach-taste of his cum, and his imposing physical presence, all these factors combined like ingredients from a recipe for domination.

"Awwww shittttt!" Jamal convulsed with laughter. "Aiiight, you can put that mess away! Awwww, man. I can't believe it. Is that what chu call a dick?"

Zipping up his pants, Jonathan was annihilated. The smallness of his penis was the source of his self-odium.

"Dayumm, so cocksuckin' really ain't yo swerve! I figured you for a stone faggot! But that don't change nothin'. You still a punk! I was just gonna bounce you to the gutter, but you might got sum potential. I can always use a prag."

"A prag?" Jonathan was not sure he wanted to know.

"You don't know shit, do you! Prag means prison fag! P.R.A.G. Punk Really a Girl! A prag does what it's told. Everything and anything! You ready for that? Think you can handle it? Say you wanna be my prag and I guarantee no more piss attacks!"

"Please, I'll do it," pleaded Jonathan. "I'm tired of this. I can't take it anymore! I'll do anything you want!"

"Aiiight, you can be my prag," Jamal snorted. "All you gotta do is suck my joint from time to time, and do what you're told. Think you can handle that?"

Jonathan nodded, trammeled by a nightmare from which there was no escape.

"Say it!" Jamal demanded. "Beg to be my prag. I wanna hear it!"

"Please... Can I be your prag?"

"That depends. Who owns you?"

"You do."

"What does a prag do?"

"What he's told." Jonathan swallowed the lump in his throat.

Jamal chortled, "Aiiight, you can be my prag if that's what you really want. Say: thank you Massa Jamal for lettin' me be yo' prag!"

"Thank you, Master Jamal, for letting me be your prag!"

Having this loser right where he wanted him, Jamal pressed his advantage. Getting his dick sucked was not enough. He wanted to know that his control was absolute.

"Kiss my Jordans, prison bitch!!"

In high school Jonathan had his fair share of bullies, but they never subjected him to anything at this level of cruelty. He placed his quivering lips on the instep of Jamal's black and white footgear, planting a kiss, then another and another. It was insane, degrading, yet he did not know what else to do.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" crowed Jamal. "Use yo' tongue, freak! Lick my kicks! I wanna hear it! Sound like you lovin' it!" Having a punk groveling at his feet fed his ravenous will to power. "We ain't finished wit' you, yet!"

"We?" gulped Jonathan with trepidation in his baby blues.

Y'all can come in now!" hollered Jamal.

The door burst open. Jamal's cohorts, Jimmy and Jamey Jones, sauntered into the room. Jonathan had not seen them since that fateful night of the Alpha party. They wore black wifebeaters displaying the Greek letters A-O-A across their chests. Do-rags capped their heads.

"Hose him down, fellas," said Jamal.

"But you said I had a choice," Jonathan whimpered.

"I lied, bitch."

The Jones brothers treated the freshman to a send-off he would never forget. They swung their long brown cocks like fire hoses, drenching the bed, carpet, and walls, soaking clothes, wetting text books, fouling everything in sight. Jonathan assumed a fetal position and whimpered.

"See you next semester, prag!" said Jamal.

THE END