This story is pornoGRAPHIC fiction! Should depictions of homosexual acts or interracial domination offend your sensibilities, read no further!! If you're under the age of consent, turn back at once!!! Otherwise, read on...
THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio
Part Five: White Worm
Toweling off after his shower, it occurred to Reese that this was a chore the whiteboy could perform in the future. He chuckled, picturing Brad scrubbing his back and drying him off. It would probably give the little faggot a hard-on, he figured.
Reese emerged from the bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his slender waist. Breakfast was waiting for him at the kitchen table: coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, toast. Brad stood with downcast eyes and trembling lower lip, still wearing white briefs and nothing else. He felt puny and insignificant.
"Take yo' plate to the other room," said Reese in a low, dangerous voice. "I don't wanna look at you while I'm eating. Might make me lose my appetite."
Reese was deadly serious. He didn't care much for white people.
"Yes, God."
Reese suppressed a smile, amused that the whiteboy remembered what to call him. He liked having a cracker call him God. It gave him ideas.
Brad took his plate to the living room and ate in silence while Reese threw down with gusto at the kitchen table. The thug decided he could get used to being served breakfast every morning, although the scrambled eggs were a little dry and the bitch would have to add grits and cornbread to the menu. Scrapple too. And grape Kool-Aid.
When Reese was finished, he leaned back in his chair and told Brad to fetch a cigarette. Brad placed a Newport between Reese's lips and lit it. Then, he collected their plates and utensils and placed them in the sink. He was about to walk away when Reese ordered him to wash the dishes.
"From now on, do the dishes after every meal. Understand? I don't wanna see no dirty dishes in the sink. Not even a glass. This is my crib now and it's yo' job to keep it cleaned up."
"Yes, God."
"Do you know what happens to lil bitches like you who don't do what they're told?"
"No, God."
"They get punished."
"Yes, God."
After Brad completed washing, drying, and putting away the breakfast dishes, Reese ordered him to phone in sick to work. For the moment, Reese wasn't curious what Brad did for a living or even how much he earned.
Brad made the phone call as Reese tore off the towel and tossed it to him. The damp towel struck Brad in the face because he was too busy gazing at Reese's private parts.
"You're fuckin' pitiful, you know that?" said Reese. "Get dressed, bitch. We goin' shoppin'"
Reese stepped into the gray sweatpants he wore the night before when they met, tucking Brad's wallet in the waistband. One of Brad's black tee-shirts stretched across his chest and around his monster arms.
In a dazed state brought on by exhaustion, fear, and sheer horniness, Brad put on a pair of blue jeans, a green Izod pull-over, and black sneakers.
He had always fantasized about being brutally used by a Black man. It was a scenario he had played out time and again online. Now that fantasy had become a reality.
As they made their way down the stairs, Reese instructed Brad to remain a few paces behind him.
"Walk behind me and pay attention. And don't even think about taking off, `cause I'll hunt you down like a dog. I own you, bitch! You work for me now! You're MY slave, ain't that right!"
"I won't run away, Sir," said Brad, meekly.
"Good slave."
It was raining heavily with frequent peals of thunder and sudden flashes of lightning. Reese deployed Brad's only umbrella while the whiteboy stumbled behind in the drenching downpour. Brad was reminded of prostitutes he'd seen strolling behind their pimps. It was an apt comparison. Pimps own their bitches just as Reese owned Brad.
Seven hours later, a yellow cab returned Reese and Brad to the apartment. The rain had stopped. Brad struggled with numerous large shopping bags.
Reese looked like a new man in his new Jordans, black nylon shorts, and shiny black see-through jersey, with a thick gold chain around his throat and a flashy gold Rolex on his wrist. He sported a sharp new fade and his goatee had been neatly trimmed. In his left earlobe a small diamond glittered.
He swiftly bounded up the stairs two steps at a time and unlocked the door to Brad's crib with Brad's key, now attached to his own key ring. In the bedroom, Reese emptied the dresser and closet, tossing Brad's clothes to the floor.
Brad set the shopping bags on the floor and stood silently while Reese spread out his gear across the bed: half a dozen expensive shirts and slacks, leather belts, underwear, short sets, over-sized jerseys, three pairs of Italian shoes and two pairs of Jordans.
Also, a cell phone, two dozen CDs, and an ounce of weed, not to mention an Allen Iverson poster, various colognes and precious oils with names like Egyptian Musk and Somali Rose, plus do-rags, shaving powder, and other sundries that Brad never heard of before.
Reese peeled off the black jersey and posed before a full-length mirror admiring the14 karat gold Figaro chain around his neck. He flexed his huge biceps and expanded his chest. The chain, earring and watch glittered handsomely against his dark brown flesh.
Wait `til my niggas see me know, he grinned. Yah, this situation was gonna work out fine.
"Roll me a joint," he told Brad, feeling very pleased with acquisitions. "After you do that, go take a cold shower. You heard me! No sense wasting hot water on you. You smell like a wet dawg, bitch! Wash off that stink and get yo' ass back here in ten minutes."
Reese turned on the radio. Nelly was rapping:
"Think that's cool? 40 acres and a mule? Fuck that! Nellyville! 40 acres and a pool!"
During his 3-year prison stint for possession of a controlled substance, Reese had gotten head from more than a few white inmates. He never actually owned a bitch, but he had witnessed other niggas turning whiteboys into maytags.
The important thing now was keeping this faggot in line. Maybe this cracker wasn't the richest white cat in the world, but he had a job and credit cards. As far as Reese was concerned, he hit the jackpot.
Having read all of the whiteboy's e-mails and seen all his favorite internet sites, Reese knew exactly what strings to pull. It was like taking candy from a baby.
Brad felt invigorated by the shower, even if the water was cold. It cleared his head. But he only had ten minutes, so that didn't give any time to reflect on his situation. He wasn't sure what to put on after his shower. Did Reese want him naked or in his briefs again? Brad wasn't sure and he was afraid to think for himself. There was security in being told what to do.
Finally, unable to make a decision, Brad called out to Reese from the bathroom: "Sir, what should I wear?"
"Dumb bitch, put on some drawers and get out here! Yo' time is up!" Reese sounded pissed, but he was actually pleased that the whiteboy needed to be told what to do. From now on, Reese decided, he would make all the decisions.
"Yo, slave, you wanted to give yo' money to a nigga. Was today good for you?" Reese finished pulling on the joint and put the roach out in the ashtray.
"Yes, Sir, said Brad, wearing clean white briefs, kneeling before Reese. Brad had a hard-on, not that it was particularly noticeable,
"Who's yo' God?"
"You, Sir, you're my God."
"Good slave. Now listen up, I got some ideas on how you can worship me."
Reese instructed Brad to take his photo with a digital camera. Posing for the shot, Reese leaned back against the sofa, bare-chested, monster arms behind his head, ink-black armpits exposed, pecs tensed, and his thick upper lip twisted in a sneer of contempt.
Brad printed out the pic and, in accordance with Reese's instructions, assembled an altar.
"Make it right," Reese directed. "I'm yo' God, so you need to worship me, understand? From now I control you. You ain't nothin' but a lil white slave bitch, understand?"
Reese loved being worshipped. Why shouldn't a whiteboy get on his hands and knees and do whatever he was told? Yah, this felt right. Reese felt a churning in his nuts, in his African soul.
"Get me a beer," said Reese.
Brad fetched a beer from the fridge, then returned to making the altar. In a corner of the living room, Brad covered a low table with a red velour cloth and set it with tall black candles and a brass incense burner. Reese's picture was in a simple black frame.
"Nice," Reese approved. "I like dis shit. What I'm talkin' about! I wanna see my bitch worship her nigga. Do it now! Worship yo' God, slave!"
Brad obediently kneeled before the makeshift altar and lit the black candles.
"You are God," he intoned solemnly, palms pressed together in prayer, eyes fixed on Reese's hot photo. Reese looked hot in that pic. He was truly a God.
Brad's little penis was rigid. He knew it would take forever to pay these bills, but that's how sick this bitch was. It made him hard thinking about the merchandise his credit cards had provided.
Brad wished he could touch himself, but didn't dare without his Master's permission.
"What are you?" Reese asked.
"I'm a little white worm," said Brad at the altar.
"Say it again."
"I'm a little white worm," Brad repeated, obediently, not to mention honestly because that was exactly what he felt like in Reese's presence.
"Yah, you my lil white worm, ain't you, bitch! You wanna suck this dick?
"Yes, God, please God!" Brad pleaded.
"You wanna jerk off, bitch?"
"Yes, Sir! Please, Sir!"
"Good whiteboy!" said Reese. "But you don't get to play wit' yo'self yet. I might even let you taste this dick. But not right now. I wanna see you worship some more, understand? I control yo' azz! So I wanna see my lil white bitch on his hands and knees worshipping dis nigga, aiiight? I want to see you praying to me at yo' altar every morning and every night, do you understand?"
"Yes, God."
"Good lil worm," said Reese, satisfied. But this was only the beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED. . . . IN PART SIX: CHASTITY BELT