This story is porno-GRAPHIC fiction for adults only. It may NOT be copied in part or in whole without written permission from the author.
THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio.
Part 18: Wild Thang
Shortly after three o'clock, Malik returned from his mission. Under his arm was a large black shoebox with holes poked in its lid. He tossed the keys to the Mercedes onto the coffee table.
Dre slouched on the sofa, watching wrestling on TV. He was shirtless and his leather pants were down around his ankles. Between Dre's bare, brown thighs kneeled the little white toad, fully dressed, with his face pressed motionless in the young thug's crotch.
For the last few hours Aaron had maintained this position. Not allowed to suck or lick, his mouth served simply as a holster for Dre's dark dick. This was frustrating, as the hot aroma of Dre's crotch made Aaron's head spin and the instinct to suckle this instrument of pain and pleasure was almost too much to resist.
Gingerly, Malik placed the shoebox on the coffee table. Something seemed to stir inside the box. Dre lightly slapped the whiteboy's face and knocked him off his jock. Aaron got out of the way.
"Is dat what I think it is?" said Dre, pulling up his pants. He reached for the box.
"Fo' shizzle ma nizzle!" cracked Malik, peeling off his sleeveless undershirt. "But, I wouldn't open that, if I was you. Not in front of the slave. Reese wants to keep this a surprise, know what I'm sayin'?"
Aaron crawled to a spot by the wall. He had no idea what was being discussed, yet it filled him with apprehension. He placed his hands on his thighs and looked at the floor, trying to cancel his penis from becoming erect, but to no avail. For the moment, very little willpower resided in Aaron's conquered spirit.
Checking up on the worm, Malik found him working diligently at the computer.
"What chu been up to?" Malik put his large brown hand on Brad's shoulder, pressing down with enough force to make the worm wince.
Brad explained that he was posting invitations to a cross-section of message boards, and processing deposits to Master Thug's Paypal account as soon as they came in. So far, the response was overwhelming: more than one hundred people had paid in advance to watch Thug Theater.
"Show me what chu been posting," said Malik.
"Yes, Sir," said Brad. He quickly accessed a file and on the monitor appeared the same photo of Reese that Brad kept in a frame on his altar. Reese was smirking, hands behind his head, shirtless, with his jet-black pits exposed, inked pecs and abdominals smoldering with power. Below the pic ran these words:
"Tonight at 9:00, Master Thug presents THUG THEATER for the FIRST TIME, a webcam extravaganza in three parts: White Fear Factor, Solo, and Gangland. THUG THEATER is guaranteed to entertain dominant brothers and submissive whiteboys alike. The Donation for tonight's performance is only $50. Once you make your donation through Paypal (see link below), you will be added to Master Thug's Messenger for the 9:00 transmission of THUG THEATER. No payments accepted after 8:00. Adults only."
"Master Reese told me what to say," said Brad.
"Nice, very nice," Malik approved. "This gonna be interesting."
Malik left the worm to continue his chores. Dre hollered at the toad to bring them both a beer as Malik joined him on the sofa. Ordering these faggots around came very naturally to Malik and Dre, yet it never ceased to amuse them that two whiteboys were theirs to command.
Aaron scurried into the kitchen, hoping his erection would go down or go unnoticed. He was ashamed of the hard-on that once inspired him with narcissistic pride. His cock counted as nothing compared to the manhood of these young thugs. They were real men, superior men, blessed with bodies commensurate with their masculinity.
Dre and Malik were watching Shelton Benjamin square off against Chris Jericho in a repeat of the WWE Intercontinental Championship, when a heavy knock rattled the door. A deep voice boomed: "Special Delivery for Maurice Williams."
Malik opened the door slowly. Two brothers in shades, wearing white wife-beaters and long gray pants, stood aside a large crate, three feet wide by three feet tall.
After Malik signed for the delivery, the cat with the invoice said, "I got a message for you from the purchaser. Mr. Williams wants his workers to assemble this item immediately."
"No problem," said Malik. "Where did you say you're from?"
"NHL Retail Distributors," replied the delivery man, in a tone that brooked further questions.
Malik sensed an immediate accord with this cat and the one beside him. He had questions, but this was obviously not the time. Reese would explain everything.
After the two delivery men departed, the worm and toad were summoned to lug the crate to their room, where it was opened. By this time, Aaron's erection had gone down and he was much relieved.
After surveying the contents, Malik read aloud from the manual. Working together, Brad and Aaron followed the detailed instructions step by step, inserting Bolt A into Panel F with Washer C, etcetera. An hour later the strange object was at last assembled.
"What is it, Sir?" croaked the toad.
"It's called a Horse," said Malik.
The unusual apparatus resembled a cross between a sawhorse and a small picnic table with upholstered surface and padded seats. The wooden frame stood approximately three feet high and three feet in length. It was black, drilled with holes, and equipped with fixtures for constraints.
"What's it for?" Aaron inquired, naively.
"For you," snapped Malik, impatiently. "Got any more questions?"
"No, Sir," gulped Aaron. "I'm sorry, Sir."
The worm resumed his duties at the computer and the toad was ordered to clean the kitchen, just as Reese returned, holding a number of department store shopping bags. Reese wore white hightop kicks, oversized khaki shorts, and a long white tee-shirt. A thick gold chain hung around his neck.
The first words out of his mouth were, "Did it get here?"
"You mean, the Horse?" chuckled Malik. "The slaves just got done puttin' it together. What's the dealio with NHL Retail Distributors?"
"Let a nigga spark a joint first," grunted Reese. He reached into a cigar box on the coffee table for a joint. One of the worm's chores was to keep the cigar box filled with joints.
"I got what you wanted. It's in there." Malik nudged the large black shoebox.
"That's good," said Reese, exhaling smoke as he dropped into the armchair. "We gonna have some crazy fun tonight and make some scrilla while we at it."
"You know that's right," said Malik. "So, where did you find this Horse?"
"I'm gonna tell you, but chu ain't gonna believe it," said Reese, passing the joint. "Check this out. I was doin' some shoppin' downtown, right? Had everything I needed, `cept for one mo' thing, and I wasn't even sho' what that was, know what I'm sayin'?"
"You talkin' `bout the Horse."
"That's right! The Dee-lux Horse and Kneeler," said Reese. "This here the freaky part. I was waitin' on a cab when some nigga in a three piece suit tapped me on the shoulder and gave me this."
Reese held up a business card which stated in bold, black letters: "NHL Retail Distributors. 420 Division Street. What you need when you need it. Always open."
"I axed this cat where Division Street was and he says to me: right behind you. I looked around and there it was, an alley wit' a sign on a brick wall saying Division Street. Next thing I know, the brotha was gone! It was freaky-weird how he disappeared like that.
"So, I checked out the joint. A red, black, and green flag was in the window, which, you know, is deep and that made me curious, know what I'm sayin'? I walked in and started buggin' `cause it was like a porn shop or somethin'. There was all these movies and magazines and toys like dildoes and handcuffs and whips and shit like that there. Lots of books too.
"Behind the counter was some old-school nigga wit' a white beard and a mangy white `fro, lookin' like Frederick Douglas, know what I'm sayin'? He asked me what I was lookin' for and, for some reason, I broke it down to him. I don't why, but it felt like I knew the cat."
"Word is bond," said Malik. "I got the same feeling about the brothas who brought the box."
Reese shed his long white tee-shirt and tossed it aside, knowing the worm would pick it up and fold it as soon as he saw it on the floor. It was good having slaves.
"Yah, I met them too," Reese went on. "Didn't say much, did they. The old cat runnin' the joint didn't got much to say neither. I told him that I needed somethin' to restrain a bitch and it was like he knew just what I was talkin' `bout. He showed me the Horse and told me it could be delivered right away. I paid wit' the toad's credit card, and the nigga didn't even ask fo' no ID or shit."
"Strange vibe goin' down," said Malik.
"Damn skippy!" Reese agreed. "But I don't got time to figure this out. We got a show to put on. Got money on my mind and my mind on my money."
Reese was satisfied everything was going as planned. He was more than pleased with the assembled Horse, which looked exactly like the floor model he saw at 420 Division Street.
"Good job," he approved.
The compliment drove a warm, molten feeling through Brad's body like a current of pleasure running from his pussy to his brain.
"Please, God, may I ask permission to take a break from the computer?" Brad ventured.
"For what reason, worm?"
It humored Reese, who never tired being addressed as God, to hear his slave make a request, knowing this white faggot would never speak up unless it was important.
"To worship you, Master," said Brad.
"Yah, you can do that," consented Reese, already feeling the whiteboy's devotion rush through his veins like adrenaline. "Yah, you can worship yo' God. That's what I'm talkin' about. Show the toad how you do yo' thang. Then, tell toad to report back to me and you get back to work. The show goes on at nine o'clock. Don't let me down!"
Aaron accompanied Brad at the altar. It was a low table draped with red velour, adorned with tall black candles and Reese's picture. After lighting the candles and an incense stick of Egyptian musk, Brad led Aaron in the mantra of submission.
"I'm a little white worm," intoned Brad on his knees, bowing and kissing the floor. "I'm a little white worm."
"I'm a little white toad," said Aaron, kissing the floor. "I'm a little white toad."
"I'm a little white worm."
"I'm a little white toad."
A chill ran down Aaron's spine as he gazed into the eyes of his Master in the photograph.
"It's like he's watching us," Aaron exclaimed.
"He is," murmured Brad. "He's God."
Reciting their mantra one hundred times left the worm and toad feeling like the contemptible creatures which were their namesakes. The little white worm and little white toad kneeled with their brows against the floor, feeling weak and light-headed as if they had just donated blood.
Brad addressed the altar: "Master-God, thank you for sparing us so we may serve you."
"Master-God, thank you for sparing us so we may serve you," echoed Aaron with equal conviction, adding obsequiously: "I am just a little white toad, Master. Please use me, Sir, make me useful to you."
For both slaves, talking to the photograph was like being in their Master's presence, forging yet another link in the fetters that bound them bodily, mentally, and spiritually, to their Master, King, and God.
In the living room, overhearing his votaries at their devotions, Reese experienced another inrush of power, like fire in his veins. His limbs swelled with sudden vigor and his senses were sharply enhanced. Deep in his nuts, he felt the churning of his soul as his nature began to rise.
From time to time, Reese had doubts about this entire business, but now in a clarifying vision, he saw his game plan come to fruition. It was all good. Everything was going to work out. Everything was everything. He smiled with satisfaction.
While Brad resumed processing payments for Thug Theater, Aaron was ordered to the living room where he was made to execute pushups until told to stop. Aaron pumped out forty before faltering flat on his face, then he forced out another twenty-five. His arms collapsed after the next dozen. Aaron was not as strong as he looked, or as Dre put it, "all show and no go."
After half an hour, the weary, sweat-soaked toad was sent to get some rest. His chest and arms ached. Exhausted, he fell asleep almost at once on the bedroom floor only a few feet from Brad at the computer.
Reese ordered dinner on his cell phone: triple orders of barbecued spare ribs, the General's Chicken, Lobster Cantonese, Moo Goo Gai Pan, and Hunan Shrimp. Forty minutes later, he tipped the young Black delivery boy twenty dollars. The thugs threw down.
Reese presented Malik and Dre with a proposition. He needed two niggas to fuck the toad on camera for Thug Theater. If they were interested, Malik and Dre could conceal their faces with ski masks and collect a third of the profits. If not, Reese had other options. Malik and Dre went for the money.
At eight o'clock, Aaron was roused from his brief nap and summoned to the living room, where a bowl of left-overs was placed on the floor. Famished, given no utensils, and not permitted to use his fingers, Aaron chowed down like a beast, pushing his face into the bowl until every last scrap was gone.
Laughing at this spectacle, Malik handed the toad a tallboy of Colt 45 to wash down his meal.
Brad dined alone in the kitchen, then washed the dishes in the sink, wiped down the counter, and returned to his quarters to set the webcam. Thug Theater was less than an hour away.
After three cans of malt liquor and several hits from the blunt, Aaron's woozy head began to wonder why Reese, Malik, and Dre were being so nice to him.
"How you feelin'?" asked Reese.
"Pretty good," said Aaron, which was not at all true. His upper body ached from the regimen of pushups, and his stomach was knotted with anxiety.
"That's good," said Reese. "Now, stand up and take off yo' clothes."
Aaron rose and stripped, standing buck-naked in the center of the room. Under the eyes of these three thugs whose hard-muscled bodies put his to shame, he felt small and inadequate like a prepubescent boy.
"I bought chu somethin'," said Reese, reaching into a shopping bag and pulling forth a lacy black bra and low-cut black lace panties. "This fo' you. Chu like?"
"Yes, Sir," he mumbled, although his face clouded with shame.
"Put `em on," said Reese.
Aaron reluctantly but obediently put on the feminine garments. The black panties barely contained his turgid member and the black bra looked ridiculous stretched across his chest.
"There you go," Malik leered with mingled lust and malice. "You're starting to look like a real pussy."
Aaron had always despised gay men who wore women's things. Now he despised himself.
"Sucks bein' you, don't it," mocked Dre, as he passed a reefer cigar to Aaron. "Better smoke sum more! You need to get blunted."
Malik offered Aaron another tallboy of Colt 45, which Aaron gratefully guzzled.
"Toad, listen up," said Reese, assessing the submissive whiteboy from head to toe with a smirk. "You `bout to be pimped, bitch. This yo' chance to make that money like you promised, unnerstand?"
"Yes, Master, I understand," slurred Aaron, feeling the effects of the herb and malt liquor.
"Coo'," said Reese. "Let's get bizzy, y'all!"
Malik attached Aaron to the apparatus in the small bedroom. Aaron was supine, looking up at the ceiling, with his knees bent and his arms above his head. Ropes bound his ankles and wrists to the wooden frame.
As Dre gagged him with a black bandana and knotted it tightly, Aaron's heart began to race.
The room was brightly lit, which Brad achieved by unscrewing the glass globe from the ceiling fixture. The internet video camera was perched on a tripod. Malik and Dre stood to the side with grim faces, arms folded across their bare chests.
Precisely at nine o'clock, with a gesture from Reese, Brad activated the webcam and Thug Theater went online. Hundreds watched as Aaron appeared on their screens, bound to the Horse, gagged and helpless, wearing black lingerie. The camera lingered on this striking image for a full minute.
Then, wearing knee-length, black basketball shorts slung low on his loins and a thick gold chain around his neck, Reese strode onto the set. His powerful upper body was deliberately exposed to show off his muscular brown chest, monster shoulders, and bulging biceps. From any brothers who might be watching Reese wanted props, but from the fags he wanted glorification.
Reese knew what he doing. His pimp instincts made him a natural impresario. Looking directly into the camera's eye, he confidently addressed his unseen audience:
"Glad y'all could make it! I'm Master Thug and tonight, I'm springin' Thug Theater. Y'all gettin' yo' money's worth, word is bond! We got three parts comin' up, and believe me, yo, it's all good! I know y'all gonna like this shit. Now, If yo' screen goes black, don't go nowhere, aiiight? That's just an intermission. We'll be right back after a minute or two, so hang tight!
"First up is a li'l somethin' I call White Fear Factor. Check out the whiteboy behind me. As y'all can see, he ain't `bout to go nowhere. We got his white ass tied down pretty good, What we got here is a li'l white toad that used to think he was hot shit. That was until I got hold of him. Now this bitch does whatever I say, ain't that right, Toad?"
It was an effort for Aaron to nod his head.
Reese went on: "Check this out, cause White Fear Factor means we bout to scare the piss out this bitch. That's how I like to warm up whiteboys before gettin' down to the nitty gritty, know what I'm sayin'? Why is whiteboys so damn fuckin' tense, anyway? You niggas know what I'm talkin' bout. Snap, crackers walk around like they got a stick up their ass! Sup wit' that? Anyway, I say you gotta tenderize em first, know what I'm sayin'? Soften em up! That's what I'm talkin' bout."
Reese chuckled and continued: "Befo' we get this party started, lemme tell y'all somethin' bout me. When I was just a small-ass nigga comin' up with four brothers and three sisters, I wanted me a dog. But my folks, they couldn't afford no pets, so I captured spiders and talked to them when we was alone like they was my best friends. I even studied up on spiders, read some books and shit. I was a spider expert, but when I got older, I got interested in somethin' way deeper and mo' better and y'all know I'm talkin' bout that pussy! Oh, yahhh!"
Reese reached to the side and produced the black cardboard box which Malik brought back from his mission. The thug removed the perforated lid to reveal an enormous spider almost three inches long, reddish-brown, with light-brown stripes and brown hairy legs.
"What we got here is a South African baboon spider," Master Thug explained, stroking the large arachnid's hirsute back. "It might bite chu if you get it riled, but it ain't poisonous. What we gonna do now is bring the spider to the toad and see what happens. Like I said, this is White Fear Factor!"
Without qualm, Reese grasped the enormous spider and placed it on Aaron's scant panties. Craning his head as the hairy, six-legged thing scuttled across his washboard stomach, the toad's face went white as a sheet and sweat ran down his face, dripped from his armpits, and moistened his inner thighs.
Aaron's pale, muscular body thrashed and palpitated, but the eight-legged monster could not be shaken off. It crept across the brassiere and advanced toward Aaron's throat.
Suddenly, Aaron lost control of his bladder. Terrified out of his mind, he began to piss. He could not help himself. Urine soaked the lacy black panties.
Reese stepped back into the picture, picking up the spider just as it reached the whiteboy's quivering throat. He returned the creature to the cardboard box, restored the lid, and faced the camera, arms akimbo.
"Hope you enjoyed White Fear Factor as much as I did," said Reese, chuckling. "I want y'all to hang tight for a moment or two, aiiight? We takin' a real short break, then back in a few wit' mo' Thug Theater! You gonna like what's comin' up next. Word is money! Don't go nowhere!"
Screens faded to black as hundreds of viewers waited for the next segment.
TO BE CONTINUED... IN PART NINETEEN: MAD GUSTO