THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio
Part Ten: Wolf in the Fold
Tuesday morning, Brad prepared breakfast without being ordered. A sultry breeze from the window promised yet another torrid day. "My grub ready?" demanded Reese, striding from the master bedroom naked as a jaybird. His long brown cock and low-hanging testicles swung from side to side. The young thug carried himself like an African prince, superior, regal, self-important. The look he gave Brad was the same look he gave the toaster. In his Master's eyes, Brad was merely an appliance. "Yes, Sir," said Brad, momentarily distracted by the pendulum of Reese's privates. "Everything is on the stove, Sir. Shall I fix your plate?" "Nahh," grunted the young thug, scratching his tattooed abs. "Go say yo' prayers." While Reese wolfed down scrambled eggs, grits, and bacon, Brad chanted his mantra of self-deprecation one hundred times at the altar in the living room. The altar was draped in red velour. Black tapers flanked a framed picture of Reese: he was bare-chested, bulging arms behind his head, furry black armpits exposed, and an inscrutable smile, possibly satisfaction, possibly not, illuminating his face. Mirth from the kitchen was sweet music to Brad's servile ears. If Master Reese was laughing, it probably meant he was in a good mood. Brad was only happy when his Master was happy. When Reese seemed anxious or concerned or preoccupied, Brad grew worried. While the little white worm performed his cold water ablutions in the bathroom, Reese took his coffee into the living room and worked the remote. He sparked a joint and sat down to "Pimp My Ride." This was one of his favorite shows and it got him thinking: he needed a ride. "Bitch just got to make me some mo' money, dat's all there is to it," he resolved aloud. After quickly washing dishes and cleaning the kitchen, Brad dressed with equal celerity. He amazed himself by how much he was able to accomplish. Fear of punishment was effective motivation. Brad presented himself, kneeling in brown dress slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and brown tie. One hand clutched a brown paper bag containing two bologna and cheese sandwiches and two apples). "I'm ready for work, Sir," said Brad softly, eyes lowered in submission. "Do you have any instructions, Sir?" "Nah," said the thug. "Just make dat skrill for me and bring yo' ass back on time, understand me?" "Yes, Sir," Brad replied, meekly. "Good bitch." Reese nodded his head with regal approbation. "Would you like to kiss my dick before you leave?" "Yes, Sir! May I, please?" Brad was salivating. "Kiss it!" The thug's cock rested between his muscular thighs like a dark exotic sausage. Brad's thin, moist lips lovingly caressed the large bulbous head. Contact lasted only a fleeting moment, but to Brad it seemed like an eternity. The flavor of Reese's cock tickled his nostrils like an aphrodisiac.
Brad ached for more. He needed it. Yearning for cock was in his nature. "You wanna suck it some?" said Reese. "You wanna suck it like you did last night?" "Yes, Sir." Brad's heart skipped a beat. "Suck my dick!" Those three words thundered with the power of an ancient incantation. The grateful slave eagerly stretched his lips around his Master's swiftly growing cock and took it deep into his mouth. The knob passed his tonsils and penetrated his throat, but Brad managed not to choke. Breathing through his nose, Brad plunged down on the largest cock he ever encountered. Reese grinned from ear to ear. Most females couldn't deep throat all ten inches. It was sweet sliding his long, thick shaft down the whiteboy's gullet. Pimping this cocksucker was making more and more sense all the time. After ten minutes, he commanded: "Stop!" Saliva and pre-cum drooled from Brad's lips. He panted heavily, with reddened eyes and flushed cheeks. "That's enough fo' right now! Don't want chu to be late! You gotta make dat paper fo' daddy." "Thank you, Sir," said Brad, wiping his mouth with a Kleenex. "Get yo' ass to work." Brad hurried down a flight of stairs and caught a bus downtown. Alone at last, the thug looked around, roaring with soulful laughter.
His dick pointed to the ceiling. This was his crib and everything in it belonged to him, including the bitch that paid the rent. It wasn't much, but one hell of a lot better than sleeping on his sister's sofa. There would be drastic changes. All of the furnishings would have to be replaced, of course, and a large-screen TV was definitely in order, not to mention an Xbox 360, but all that could wait until Reese got a handle on his cash flow. He didn't want to bleed the sucker dry. He just wanted to milk him. Reese turned on the radio and pumped out one hundred pushups to DMX's "We Right Here" without breaking a sweat. His erection grazed the floor one hundred times at the same spot in front of the altar where earlier the whiteboy pressed his lips one hundred times in worship. Strength flowed through him like a mystical current. Afterwards, Reese soaked in the tub, smoking a blunt, mulling distant thoughts. Xzibit was on the radio: "Oh no -- let's get drunk and fuck fo' sho' Please stop runnin' yo' mouth -- let's go Actin' like u never seen a dick befo'- " Reese toweled dry and stepped into a pair of green Thai-silk boxers. The clinging fabric left nothing to the imagination. He poured a tall tumbler of grape Kool-Aid and lit a cigarette, deep in thought, pondering ways to squeeze more cash out of this opportunity. An idea came to him. The computer monitor sat on a wooden desk. Reese commandeered the swivel armchair and booted up the Compaq Presario. He logged on with the worm's screen-name, whiteboy4thugs. A yellow smiley on the buddy list indicated that Nubian-king was online. "Booyah!" Reese picked up computer skills from a class at the county workhouse, but he was not much of a typist. It took a minute or two, hunting and pecking. to write: "sup nigga? this not who u think. I'm pimpin the whiteboy now so can we be kool... need sum 411 on this cash master shit... holla back..." Reese clicked Send and did another hundred pushups while he waited. Several minutes later, the machine beeped and Nubian-king's reply appeared: "LOL... u for real? Turn your webcam on." Reese had expected this. He activated the tiny camera perched atop the monitor, adjusted it to capture him from the chest up, and accepted the transmission from Nubian-king. In the webcam window appeared a grinning brother, maybe thirty years old, with a polished blue-black complexion and zigzag cornrows. Nubian-king's bright eyes glanced down at the keyboard as he messaged his phone number. They talked for two hours. Nubian-king's real name was Errol. He was a straight bruh living in San Francisco with his lady and three young sons. The internet cash master gig was not his only source of income, but it paid more than a few bills and only required a few hours of his spare time. Errol broke down how this worked. To begin with, he never met his subjects in real time. For a few hours, once or twice a week, Errol locked himself in his study to chat with cash-paying subjects by messenger, webcam, or phone. Some were under strict instructions and wanted to be controlled on a regular basis, others just wanted a Black man to abuse them verbally. All of them paid for the privilege of his time and attention. Errol explained how set up a Paypal account and an Amazon.com wish list. Said Errol: "Our boy Brad was sending me a $50 for a few minutes of domination and he was one of my cheaper subjects. That's why I don't mind you taking over. I had him make me some videos, fucking that dildo of his. Maybe you can sell them. He was one of my cheaper subjects, so that's why I don't mind you takin' over. I've got plenty high-rollers on my jock. One whiteboy is paying my cable bill, and another fag pays my car note, every month, directly from their bank accounts. Two more are in competition to see who can buy me more shit! How tight is that! If they want to peep my jimbrowski, they got to spend half a grand. But I don't show too much. Got to keep them coming back for more. Most of them just want some hardcore verbal abuse, that's all. Don't ask me why. I gave up trying to figure out whiteboys years ago. I just know it's easy money." After their long conversation, Reese dressed and headed out on a mission.
Meanwhile, thirteen blocks away on the sixth floor of an office building, thirty-one year old Bradley B. McMahon was hard at work filing documents in alphabetical order. It was sheer drudgery. He longed to be in the presence of his God. "His God." It was natural to think of Reese as a God. Reese was He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed and Brad loved serving him. For the first time in his pathetic existence, Brad experienced what it was like to be part of something greater than himself. This would be the closest he ever came to being in love. Brad felt self-conscious with the chastity belt beneath his trousers. It set him apart from other men. Unable to stand before a urinal to pee or attain an erection made him feel like a eunuch. He was less than a man. A puny white worm was all he was and all he would ever be. Every hour on the hour, he phoned his Master at home, leaving a brief message as instructed. At twelve o'clock: "This is your obedient slave reporting, Sir. I'm having lunch now. Thank you for permitting me to worship you. I am a little white worm with no reason to live except to serve you, Master." Sometimes Brad got carried away seeking new ways to proclaim his servility. As he was never sure if he said too little or too much, his hourly reports evolved into prayers of pious devotion. At two o'clock: "Thank you, God, for using me. I am your obedient slave, Sir!!! I am nothing without you!!!" Generally, Brad used his cell phone in the men's room, but when no one was around, he called from the landline at his desk, taking care to speak in a cautious whisper. He thought he was being careful. Little did he suspect that his routine was already under scrutiny. That morning when he phoned from the men's room, Brad made the mistake of neglecting to check the other stalls. Five o'clock was quitting time. Brad hastened from his cubicle, thinking only of getting home on time, when Aaron Levitz, his supervisor, caught up with him. Levitz stood two inches taller than Brad. His broad shoulders and slender waist hinted at a decent physique. He had curly brown hair and thick dark brows, hazel eyes, an aquiline nose, dark red lips. Rolled up shirt-sleeves exposed hirsute forearms. "I wanted to ask you something, Bradley. You seem very distracted this week. Is everything alright at home, I hope?" "Uh, no... I mean, yes..." Brad was tongue-tied. Aaron Levitz rarely spoke to him unless it was to point out a mistake or deliver a stinging reprimand. Brad looked at the clock on the wall. It was 5:01. If he missed the 5:07 bus, he would have to walk thirteen blocks in order to get home on time. Time was of the essence. "You live alone, don't you, Bradley" inquired Levitz, with a crooked smile. "Uh, that's right." "Well, be sure to have a great night, Bradley," Levitz chuckled genially, patting him on the shoulder. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Brad rushed out. A week ago, he might have lingered in some dive for a cocktail or two after work, picked up pizza or Indian take-out, watched sitcoms, jerked off at the computer, and fallen asleep, half-drunk, half-stoned. That was a worthless, pointless existence. But that was then, Brad ruminated. Now, he had a purpose, he belonged to someone, and this was no fantasy. It was real. He was a slave without hope of escape and every hour he sank deeper and deeper into the quagmire of submission. Reese was sprawled on the sofa, listening to his voice mail, when the worm returned. He wore a wife-beater and loose, calf-length khaki shorts. He registered Brad's return with a sideways glance, and then returned his full attention to the messages on his cell phone. Reese had intended to delete these without even listening to them, but the first message amused him so much he had to hear the rest. It was an adrenaline rush. Besides, he had to confirm that his slave phoned in every hour on the hour as commanded. The radio was turned up. Trick Daddy worked his flow: "I don't know what This world's gonna bring But - I know one thing - This is the life for me Baby 'cause I'm a thuggg All day - every day - Baby 'cause I'm a thuggg. . . . " Brad closed the door. A window fan generated a gust of warm air. Reese dominated the room with animal presence. "Get on yo' knees," he ordered. "Put yo' hands behind yo' back." Brad dropped obediently. His Master's voice penetrated to the core of his being, exhilarating and annihilating at the same time. Brad was a puppet with no will of his own. "Don't chu dare look up at me and only speak when I ax you somethin'!" For a moment, Reese felt vaguely sorry for the wretch groveling before him, but that sentiment quickly soured into contempt. "Did you miss me, slave?" he sneered. "Yes, Sir," said Brad, timorously. "You better miss me, bitch!" Reese boomed. "Who's yo' God?" "You are, Sir!" "Don't chu forget it! Yo' scrawny white azz belongs to me, bitch! Lissen up now and pay attention. You sure you payin' attention, bitch?" "Yes, Sir, I'm paying attention," the worm replied, on the very tip-toes of attentiveness. "Aiiight," said Reese, rolling his shoulders. "There gonna be sum changes around here. I opened up a savings account. You'll find the account number on the desk next to MY computer. Give that number to yo' payroll department for direct deposit. Unnerstand me?" "I understand, Sir," said Brad, weakly. Reese went on to say: "I talked wit' one of yo' friends today." Brad's heart contracted with panic. Who could his Master have spoken to? "Remember Nubian-king?" said Reese. Brad nodded without lifting his eyes. "Yah, thought that might ring a bell. Me and him, we had a good long talk. I told him you said Hi." Reese chortled at the look of consternation in Brad's pallid face. "He told me all about yo' ass," Reese went on. "You a stone freak fer sho', but we gonna get to that later. Right now, I got a job for you." Brad listened attentively as Reese outlined what was expected. The thug wanted his own website for cash slaves just like Nubian-king's, and it was Brad's task to set it up and solicit members. Reese had already established a Paypal account which could be linked to the site. "That's just penny ante shit," he expounded. "I want chu lookin' out for anotha cracker just like you! He gots do the whole worship thang and turn his pockets inside out for me just like you do, slave! My boy says you white faggots are a dime a dozen, so let's just see! Any questions?" "What name should I give your website?" Brad trembled. "I don't think it's wise to use your own, Sir. Excuse me for speaking out of turn, Sir.'' "That's coo'," said Reese. "I got no intention puttin' my real name out there. You come up with somethin'. That's yo' job, bitch. I want chu to work on this project a couple hours every night. Put some thought to it! You work fo' me now. You gonna always work fo' me. That ain't never gonna change!" The worm was, to be sure, well-acquainted with the kind of website his Master had in mind and, in fact, an appropriate name had already occurred to him. "Sir, what about Thug Cash Master?" "Thug Cash Master," repeated Reese, licking his thick, sensual lips. "I like that. Yeah, that'll work. Thug Cash Master... Get to work on it right away, aiiight? I want results." "Yes, Sir," said Brad. "May I ask, Sir, when you wish dinner to be served?" "Forget about dinner, you don't gots to cook tonight," said Reese. "I'm steppin' out. I want chu workin' on that website. Lights out at ten o'clock, you hear me? And sleep in the other room from now on. On the floor. Don't forget yo' prayers!" "Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir." "What are you?" "I'm a little white worm," said Brad, as if responding to a catechism. "Go on now, git busy," Reese snorted with disdain. He peeled off his undershirt, khaki shorts, and plaid boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor in a trail to the bathroom. Brad gaped at the tall thug's firm, round, coffee-colored ass and brawny back. An ornate tribal tat embroidered his broad shoulder blades. Brad gathered the clothes, placed them in the hamper, and then sat at the computer. Where to start? It was a formidable undertaking. He did not dare to fail. Thirty minutes later, Brad gulped in awe, seeing Reese in black shorts with crimson trim and a long black jersey, the14-k Figaro chain around his neck, a thick gold watch on one wrist and size 12, charcoal-gray Osiris Felons on his feet. Knowing his own wages paid for these things made Brad feel proud. He felt useful, needed, but when Reese slammed the door behind him, solitude closed in. Brad was alone with a job to do. He calmed himself by reciting: "I am a little white worm. I am a little white worm. I am a little white worm...."
TO BE CONTINUED. . .
IN PART ELEVEN: DOWN WITH THE CREW