This story is porno-GRAPHIC fiction! Should depictions of homosexual acts or interracial domination offend your sensibilities, read no further!! If you are under the age of consent, turn back at once!!!
THUG CASH MASTER by Skorpio
Part One: Black and White
Reese was chilling on a park bench, watching the sun go down, considering spending his last $2 on a forty, when he saw the faggot stroll into the park.
Yeah, gots to be a fag, the twenty-four year old brother figured. Why would a whiteboy come to this part of town just as it was getting dark unless he was looking for something? If not for some dick, then it had to be drugs. Those are the only things whiteboys come to the ghetto for.
It was a hot and sticky August night. Reese carefully observed the whiteboy loiter for a few minutes around the perimeter of the park, then slowly make his way toward the bench under the broken streetlight where Reese was sitting.
Reese smirked. One way or another, he was gonna get paid tonight.
The young brother's white undershirt was slung over his brawny left shoulder. His bulging cannonball biceps were inked with black tribal bands like barbed wire. Tats like Tupac's illustrated his chest and six pack abs.
Reese was dark brown with panther eyes, full lips and a fierce white smile when he chose to flash it. He sported a goatee and a Brooklyn fade, both badly in need of a shape-up.
The whiteboy appeared to be in his mid thirties, but shit, it's hard to tell. White people always look older than they are.
This one had a youthful face, but his hairline was beginning to recede. The cracker wasn't tall, maybe five/ten, and the bare, untanned arms exposed by his red and white tank top were not impressive.
He held a cigarette with one hand and with the other clutched a brown grocery bag that obviously contained a six-pack.
The whiteboy glanced at Reese furtively. Just as he was about to pass, Reese said. "Yo, wassup? Can a nigga get a square?"
"Sure," he said, surrendering a Newport 100.
Reese smelled alcohol, whiskey probably, on the whiteboy's breath and recognized the unfocused look in his eyes. The whiteboy had been doing some serious drinking. Reese smiled.
Somewhere in Africa a panther was about to pounce on a gazelle at a watering hole.
"Gimme me a light," demanded Reese, cigarette dangling from his lip.
The whiteboy flicked a lighter. Reese took a long pull and exhaled the smoke into the whiteboy's face. Just like when he was a kid, when Reese and his dawgs Trace and Lil John used to blow smoke at white guys on the bus, scrawny pink-faced businessmen in suits who just sat there shitting their pants.
Much later, the whiteboy would reflect upon this moment and remember it as his first command from the man who was to own him. Reese too would think about it and recall the sudden surge of power he experienced when the whiteboy lit his cigarette.
It was like the rush Reese felt when he was about to get some pussy, that fire kindled deep in his nuts, or what his brother-in-law Mohammad called "his African soul."
"What's yo name, whiteboy?"
"Brad."
"Name's Reese, yo."
"M-m-mind if I sit down?" Brad stammered. "I got some beer."
The brown bag contained a six-pack of Steel Reserve tallboys, which is some pretty strong shit. Reese could feel the whiteboy's eyes prowling over his bare upper body and he didn't like that.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" asked Brad.
"You mean ho's? Yahhh, got plenty. How about you, you know any bitches?"
"Um, no," said Brad nervously. "N-not really."
"Dayumm, too bad!" Reese shook his head. "Was hopin' you did, man! I feel like getting' some head tonight, know what I mean?"
Brad chugged the last of his beer and fumbled nervously for a cigarette. He was about to place it between his lips when Reese plucked it away.
"I want to hold your lighter," said Reese.
"Uh, sure, okay." Brad passed it to him.
"Newports, too," said Reese.
Brad handed over the pack of cigarettes, somewhat mesmerized. Lust and drunkenness short-circuited his common sense.
The whiteboy was getting over-excited. He had to be with this handsome, muscular thug. He was dying to know what Reese's dick looked like. It had to be huge, if the size of Reese's hands and feet were any indication.
Brad couldn't take his eyes off Reese's ripped physique. The Black man exuded raw masculinity: aggression, power, confidence. He was everything Brad thought a real man should be. Everything that Brad was not and could never, never be.
"You smoke herb?" Brad inquired. "I've got some back at my apartment, if you feel like getting high."
"Hell, yeah!"
Reese jumped up from the park bench. He towered over Brad by at least five inches. As Reese slipped into his wifebeaters, Brad glanced at the distinct outline of Reese's cock under his gray sweats cut off at the knee. There was no concealing a cock that size.
Brad licked his lips in anticipation. He couldn't wait to get this Nubian Adonis behind closed doors, drunk and aroused by porn like so many other Black men before him. He long ago lost count of the many Black men he had picked up in parks, train stations, and dives over the years.
"Aiiiiight," said Reese. "Let's roll."
TO BE CONTINUED...
IN PART TWO: WHITEBOY'S CRIB