What Fags Are For

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What Fags Are For is a series of short narratives by men of color concerning their experiences with homosexuals. Next up, the story of a college student obsessed by his roommate's mouth.

What Fags Are For,

by Skorpio

Part Three - My Roommate the Fag: the Story of Rodney Epps.

My name is Rodney, and this is a true account of something that went down when I was at college. My freshman year, I had a cool roommate named Deshawn Miller who hooked me up with our English professor, a cocksucker who gave us both an A, and top-notch blowjobs on demand.

At the end of spring semester, Professor Hamilton quit his job and moved away quite suddenly. I guess he couldn't handle the pressure of sucking dick every night of the week. Or maybe his wife found out. I don't know. Anyway, Deshawn found himself a crib off campus, and I got a new roomie, a dude named Scott. As luck would have it, Scott turned out to be another useful fag.

This lad had the prettiest, poutiest, bee-stung lips you ever saw, the color of ripe, juicy strawberries. Shaggy blond locks hung in his big, periwinkle eyes, and his complexion was like peaches and cream. As an Art major, Scott spent a lot of time sketching in a big drawing pad. He was pretty talented, actually. Chicks often stopped by our room to model for him, although he was painfully awkward and shy around them.

At first, I figured Scott was getting a lot of trim, but after a few weeks went by, it became pretty obvious he wouldn't know what to do with a naked chick if he woke up beside one. With that old professor out of the picture, I was in the market for another cocksucker, and Scott seemed like the perfect candidate. So I decided to find out.

One morning as Scott was gathering up his dirty clothes to do some laundry, I asked if he wouldn't mind washing a few of my things since I planned on spending the day with my girlfriend. "Sure," he said, so sweetly like it was no imposition. Into his laundry bag, I tossed my basketball shorts, jerseys, sweat socks, and a couple jockstraps. "Make sure you use them dryer sheets," I told him. "I like my stuff smelling nice." "Um, okay," he mumbled.

Now, you know, if some cat asked me to wash his stinky gym clothes, I would have told him to go fuck himself. But little Scott did not seem to mind at all. What does that tell you? Yeah, I thought so too. When Scott got back about two hours later, I was in bed blasting Jay-Z, and wolfing down some leftover pizza. "I thought you were seeing your girlfriend," he said. "Nah, she busy," I answered. "Um, okay," he shrugged. Scott emptied his laundry bag of clean clothes, and started folding. Sorting out my gear, he placed them in a pile by my feet. "Dude, can you fold them for me?" I asked. "I don't want them to get wrinkled." Scott did not utter a word, but he folded them neatly, anyway.

The next day before Scott left for class, I mentioned that I needed some more of my shit washed, including my bed sheets. "Oh," he replied, looking perplexed. "Look," I said, "I know you're headed out. You can do them when you get back. No rush." "I don't know, man," he said, with a furrowed brow. "What's the matter, you don't wanna help a nigga out?" "It's not that," he said. "Why can't you do your own clothes?" I know it took a lot of courage for him to say that.

"I'm gonna be real with you, cause I like you, see? I'm no good at washing and folding clothes. My mom always did that shit for me. Tell you what. You do my laundry and you can party with me tonight, aiiight? I'm gettin some herb. We can chill and get to know each other more better. How does that sound?"

Those pretty lips of his curved into an ambiguous smile that could have been interpreted several ways. But what he said next gave the meaning loud and clear. "You've got weed? Well, I guess that I can wash your clothes," he beamed. Scott was definitely a pot head, no doubt about it. "Think you can iron my shirts for me? Oh, and my jeans too. Put a crease in them."

That night after Scott hung my shirts and pants in the closet, I told him to put a towel under the door. He knew what that was about, and didn't have to be told twice. I pulled out two dime bags of Jamaican gold from my pocket, sliced open a cigarillo from butt to tip, emptied out the tobacco onto Scott's desk, and tongued the entire blunt in a lascivious manner to get it moist.

"While that's drying, let's drink a toast," I suggested, opening a fifth of Jack Daniel's Old Number 7.

"I dunno," he hesitated. "I don't really drink."

"Sure you do," I countered. `It'll put hair on your chest." I splashed a little into two Styrofoam cups and handed one to Scott. "Bottoms up!" I swallowed mine in one gulp, while Scott took a cautious baby-sip. "Nah, not like that. Pour it down the hatch like I did. Go on, dude. Don't be a pussy."

"Here goes nothing," he said. His eyes got round as saucers as the smoky bourbon warmed his throat. "Wow!"

"How's that taste?"

"I think it's burning my stomach."

"You'll get used to it."

"I dunno."

"Is it hot in here, or is it just me?" I asked.

"It's a little warm," he agreed.

Scott watched as I pulled off my shirt and tossed it to the floor. His eyes studied my muscular torso. It wasn't the first time I was bare-chested with him around, but now he seemed a little curious about my body. Totally used to other cats slyly checking me out, comparing my physique with theirs, but I suspected Scott's interest went deeper than that, know what I'm saying? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Scott wasn't a fag. Only one way to find out.

"You can take your shirt off too, you know."

"I'm good."

"Man, why you so shy? Get comfortable."

"Can we smoke that blunt now?"

"Take off your shirt, dude. You're making me feel self-conscious and shit. Then we can smoke the blunt."

The little pot-head went along with that, fumbling with his buttons clumsily, which told me the shot of Jack was hitting him already. He had a smooth, hairless body with tiny pink nipples perky in their own way. Obviously he did not play sports, never lifted a dumbbell in his life, but at least he had the beginnings of a six pack. Me, on the other hand, my stomach was a perfect washboard, and my arms and chest were swole.

"Oh fuck," I exclaimed. "We forgot to make a toast."

I poured more Jack Daniel's into our cups, doubling the amount, and lifted mine. "To friendship!" "To friendship," he echoed, and gulped it down.

Before Scott knew what I was doing, I refilled his cup, splashed a little more into mine, and said: "Now it's your turn to make a toast."

"Um, sh-shure, o-okay." Scott stammered, beginning to slur his words. I never saw anyone feel the effects of liquor so fast. He raised his cup in a jerky motion, almost spilling it. "Heresh to m-my new friend... Rodney... a real good dude!"

"Yeah, I'll drink to that! To ME!"

Scott did not hear me snicker, but even if he did, I don't think it would have bothered him at all. His glazed eyes glanced at the phat brown blunt through that veil of long blond locks, then back to me.

"Can we... uh, shmoke that now?"

I picked up the blunt, and licked it again. "Nah, not yet. I wanna make sure it's right. But you're really gonna like this shit." I was stalling for time. Wanted to make my little roomie was shit-faced before I put the next step of my plan into action. And in case you're wondering, that chump was never gonna get none of my weed.

"Think you can handle one more drink, friend?"

"I gueshh show."

Yeah, he was really feeling it now. I poured him another full glass, and only pretended to refill mine. I took out a pack of Newports, lit one for myself, and offered him one. I'm not selfish. The weed was mine. But I could spare a cig for my new best friend with the pretty mouth, considering all the shit he was gonna do for me once he understood what I expect from whiteboys who wanna be my buddy. You know what I'm talking about.

""I bet you get laid a lot," I said.

"Uh.. not really," he admitted.

"Are you shittin me? All those chicks who model for you? I thought for sure you was fucking them."

"I wish."

"What's the matter?"

"It's nothing."

"Let's do another shot."

Eventually, I got the truth. Scott told me he lacked confidence with girls because he was ashamed of his dick. Seems the first and only chick he was laughed when he got naked.

"I'm n-not exactly what you would call well endowed."

"It can't be that bad," I consoled, trying to keep a straight face.

"I shouldn't be telling you thish."

"You can tell me anything. I'm here for you, buddy. Let's do another shot."

I poured another round.

"Thanksh, man. You're a true friend."

"So, tell me, Scott. Your dick can't be that small. Have you ever measured yourself?"

"Yeah..."

"Well?"

"Five inches."

"Five inches? For real? You probably measured it wrong. Were you hard?"

"Yeah..."

"You must have measured wrong. I can't believe a good looking cat like you got cheated downstairs. Want me to measure it for you?

"I don't know..."

"Relax, dude. This is just between us. We're friends now, right? Why don't you show me what you're working with, and let me be the judge if it's small or not. It's probably all in your imagination!"

With very little coaxing, I got Scott to expose himself. He opened his jeans and pulled them down. There was practically no bulge at all in his Fruit of the Looms. Then he went full monty.

His limp, thin dick looked like a white toadstool poking out from a thatch of yellow moss. Nuts were like acorns.

"Get it hard," I insisted. "And I'll measure it."

"It ish hard," he slurred.

"Then, it's not your imagination."

Word is bond. That had to be tiniest little penis I ever saw. Not that I check out other dude's chunk. But, you know, I shower with dudes, and I watch a lot of porn. What Scott was working with was pitiful. No wonder that chick laughed. No bitch was gonna waste her time on a little boy cock.

"Itsh not?"

"You was right. You do got a little dick."

"Told you," he said, pulling up his drawers, buttoning his jeans.

"I feel bad for you, buddy. Have you seen a doctor?"

"Man, it's not like there a cure."

"No, I guess not."

"Don't tell anyone, please," he pleaded.

"Who am I gonna tell? Your secret is safe with me. So your dick ain't all that. It doesn't make you less of a man. Okay, maybe it does, but you shouldn't let that get to you. Lots of guys with little dicks manage to get plenty of pussy."

"I gotta lay down," he said, staggering to his feet. "My head ish spinning..."

Scott stumbled to his bed and passed out. I shook my head with pity, smiled with satisfaction, and sparked the blunt. Since Scott was out cold, I stripped off his clothes and left him stretched out naked on top of the covers. Then, I urinated on his pants and underwear, soaking them. Aimed my dick at his groin before I was finished. All part of my plan. I am nothing if not methodical.

Next morning when Scott woke up, I was sitting in a chair wearing just my boxers, smoking a cigarette, looking right at him. It took Scott a minute to realize he was stark naked. See, when you take away a guy's clothes, exposing him exactly as he is, he gets embarrassed, humiliated. You know, like after Adam and Eve ate the apple, the first thing they did was sew fig leaves because they were ashamed. I read somewhere that was like a metaphor for children who think nothing of running around bare-assed until they hit puberty.

Personally, it's not like that for me. I don't mind being naked around other people. But, then, I got something to be proud of. I don't care who sees my junk. Scott, on the other hand, being naked definitely put him at a serious disadvantage because he had something to hide. That little boy-dick of his was nothing to be proud of.

He looked down at himself and immediately covered up with a wet, piss-soaked blanket. "What happened?" he asked, groggily. "What happened to my clothes."

"You got drunk, man. Pissed on yourself. I got you outta them wet clothes."

"Ohhhh." His cheeks blushed. "My head feels like it's gonna explode. I guess this is what a hangover feels like."

"Noooo," he groaned. "I never drank much before. I tasted some champagne once. I didn't like it."

"I thought maybe that blunt would take the edge of. Works for me."

"I don't even remember smoking it."

"What do you remember?"

"Not much."

`Looks like you pissed yourself while you was sleeping too. Damn, you stink, man."

"I need a shower."

"Here," I tossed him a raggedy, old towel, which he wrapped around his narrow waist before throwing off the wet blanket.

"Thanks."

"No problemo." I stood up and stretched. I was hungry, but before heading down to the cafeteria, and letting Scott take a shower, I had a few more things to establish. "It's my fault, bro. If I knew you weren't used to getting your drink on, I would looked out for you. I just figured, you being an artist and all that you must have been to a few parties."

"I've been to parties," he offered in his defense. "I just never drank."

"Well, we shared something personal last night. I feel real tight with you now. I've ain't never been friends with a whiteboy. But you're a cool cat. You're like the little brother I never had."

"Aren't we the same age?"

"I didn't mean it like that, little guy."

"Little guy? Oh God," Scott buried his face in his hands. Yeah, he remembered what we talked about. I could see it was all coming back to him.

"Hey, don't get offended. I'm just trying to get you to lighten up. It's not a big deal. Look, I'm not gonna call you that no more. But you need a nickname. Niggas always got nicknames for each other. Tell you what. I'm just gonna call you LG from now on. Just between us, aiiight? And you can call me Boss Man. That's what they called me back in the hood."

"I guess," he sighed with hopeless resignation.

It was fun teasing Scott while pretending to be his best friend and confidante. Cruel, maybe, but for real, I got a kick out of messing with his head. It was all part of his psychological conditioning. I might have been a Business Major, but I knew a few things. From that point on, I called Scott by his new nickname all the time, and he called me Boss Man.

Soon, Scott was even leaving me notes signed LG. Like when he started doing my laundry without being asked. He left me a note: "Boss Man -- at the laundry. Be back in a while." Signed: LG. I had that chump eating out of my hand. It was time to put the next phase of my plan into action.

I let a week go by, spending time with Scott, getting him to really trust me, while planting ideas in his head. I made up some shit, told him stuff that I could never tell anyone else but him because we had that special bond, you know? Like the time I (never) got nabbed shop-lifting, or when my mom (never) caught me jerking off. Or the chick I (never) got pregnant, and I (never) had to borrow money from my dad for the abortion, and how I (never) still felt guilty about that.

The more that I shared with Scott, the more he confided in me. He got caught shop-lifting too. He was thirteen. Tried strolling out of a store with a Penthouse magazine under his shirt. Folks grounded his ass for a month.

I constantly praised his artwork, which wasn't a lie, because LG had mad skills. He could draw chicks with a pencil or charcoal that looked real as fuck. He kept a secret sketchpad filled with drawings of naked chicks. Big tits, big asses, like the kind you see on Conan the Barbarian paperbacks. Fantasy stuff. That's when I figured Scott probably wasn't queer after all. But he was a nineteen year old virgin, and insecure about his sexuality. That was all I needed to work with.

"Do you think you could draw a picture of me?" I asked. "There's this chick I want to give it to for a birthday present. I've been trying to get into her pants all semester."

"Sure," he said. "That's funny, because I've been wanting to draw you for some time, but I didn't want to do it without your permission."

"Cool," I replied. "When did you want to do this?"

"Why not right now?"

"Sounds good to me!"

"Why don't you sit in the chair. That way I can catch the light from the window on your contours."

"Is it okay if I take my shirt off? This chick digs muscles."

"Yeah, we can do that."

While Scott got his art supplies together, I stripped down to my boxers, and waited until he was ready.

"How's this?" I asked, leaning back, fingers laced behind my head, showing off my furry armpits. Hair under a man's arm are a secondary sex characteristic brought on by increased male hormones at puberty. Most females won't admit it, or they aren't consciously aware, but hairy pits turn them on. I wanted Scott to think about how manly I was. His pits had thin wisps of light hair barely noticeable.

"That's fine," he nodded. "You've got excellent definition. And your Apollo's belt is like a Greek sculpture."

"My what?"

"Your loin muscles. They're really developed."

"Probably because I fuck a lot."

"Maybe," Scott blushed. "But it's probably due to genetics. Men of African and hispanic descent generally have less subcutaneous fat than caucasians. That's one reason why your body looks so chiseled compared to mine."

"Is that why we got big dicks?"

"Um, I wouldn't know anything about that."

"That gives me an idea," I said, as if it just came to me. "But you might not be down for it. If you're not, that's cool."

"What is it?"

"Can you just draw a picture of my dick?"

"You want me to draw your cock?"

"Yeah," I insisted. "Told you I wanna get with this girl. Something like that will get her juices flowing, naw mean? Unless, of course, you don't want to.

"It's not a problem," he said. "I've drawn nudes before."

"Cool."

I stepped out of my boxers and stood a few feet away with my hands on my hips. My dick was dangling at four inches, pretty thick, but still soft. "How's that?"

"It's good," he nodded, as he sharpened a pencil.

"Wait, let me get it hard."

"Hard?"

"Yeah, I want this chick to see what she's gonna be gettin. That won't make you nervous, will it?"

"N-no. I g-guess not." He was stammering again.

All I had to do to get my nature rising was staring at Scott's pretty mouth. Those sweet, plump, strawberry lips. I could picture my dick sliding between them. Yup, that was all it took. My chocolate dick swelled up until it was jutting straight out, eight inches long, parallel to the floor.

"Told you it was big," I boasted, studying his reaction. Raised brows, wide eyes, lower lip quivering.

"I see," he gulped.

"When I drill a bitch, she feels it for days. It's the gift that keeps on giving. Especially if I shove it up her sweet little ass."

Scott was steady examining my johnson with his sharp artist's eye, as he sketched an outline of its shape on paper.

"Can I ask you a question, LG?"

"What' s that?"

"I heard most artists are bisexual. Has somethin to do with their creativity, they say. That true?"

"Some artists are, I guess."

"Are you?"

"Am I?" He was flustered. "Not really. I don't think so."

"What do you mean, not really?"

"Rodney, if you're wondering if I'm gay, the answer is no."

"Dude, I know you're not gay. But if you're bi, that would be cool."

"Why would that be cool?"

"Well, if you were bi, maybe we could help each other out sometime."

"I'm not bi. Are you?"

"Me? Nah. But I got friends who are. I don't judge no one. It's all good, you know. What would be cool is having a roomie with benefits, know what I'm saying?"

"What are you saying?"

"I thought you might help me out sometime."

"Help you out? Like how?" He was definitely curious.

"Touch my dick, LG."

"What?" I could see the wheel turning in his head. Yeah, he had thought about dick before.

"Go ahead, touch it with your fingertips. Feel how hot it is. You're an artist. You should be open to new experiences. Don't be scared."

"Rodney, I mean, Boss... I don't want to touch your cock."

"I didn't ask what you wanted."

This was the moment of truth. Time to get real. If Scott resisted, I would let him off the hook. I would try to respect him as a person. But if I was right, if he was curious enough to give into temptation, there could be no turning back.

"Grab -- my -- dick!" I dropped bass into my voice. Some dudes are naturally submissive. They respond instinctively to the sound of authority, and they're intimidated by black men.

You probably know the urban legend about the white guy who gets on an elevator with a black man who has a dog on a leash. The brother commands, "Sit!" and the white guy immediately plops down. "I was talking to my dog," the black guy laughs. Heh-heh. That's what I'm talking about.

Hesitantly, cautiously, Scott reached out, and clasped his right hand around my turgid, swollen, ebony shaft. His skin was soft like a girl's.

"There you go," I said, approvingly. "That wasn't so difficult. Get a tight grip. Tell me how it feels."

"It's really hard," he gushed, surprised, I think, by his own reaction.

"What else?"

"Smooth, warm..." His fingers tightened involuntarily, making my dick throb.

There's something about a hand not your own putting a grip on your tool. I used to jerk off like crazy when I was kid, two or three times a day, until I figured out how to talk chicks into giving me hand-jobs and head. Liked that so much it was one short step to using faggots. Since then I maybe masturbate once or twice a month, and that's just to get rid of a hard-on when I wake up in the morning. Can't walk around all day with my dick hard. Can't think straight with a permanent erection. Guess it's because all that blood to the brain gets diverted, you know?

"Feels pretty good, doesn't it."

"I guess."

"Like how big it is?"

"Um, yeah, it's pretty big," he admitted.

"I know you're not gay, but if you were... hypothetically speaking, would you like big hard dicks like mine, or small, soft cocks like... well, like yours, for instance."

This time Scott did not give me an answer, but he did not have to because his fingers refused to let go, and his big blue eyes were kind of mesmerized. Yeah, I knew he was digging it.

"Stroke it."

Almost like a man in a trance, Scott began giving me a hand-job. Timidly, at first. Sliding down the pole an inch or two.

"That feels really good," I remarked. You've done this before, haven't you."

He nodded slightly, blushing.

"That's what I thought. Keep stroking while you tell me about it."

Scott revealed how at the age of twelve he and a classmate messed around one night while camping out in a tent behind his house.

"We were playing strip poker. I lost. Eric wouldn't give back my clothes unless I jerked him off. I was a kid. I didn't know what else to do. I was scared my folks would catch us."

"Did Eric have a big dick?"

"Uh-huh."

"Not like yours, right, LG?"

"Unn-unhh."

"Did you blow him?"

"No!" said Scott, relaxing his grip for a second. "Why not?"

"He wanted me to..."

"But you didn't want to take it that far, did you."

"I'm not gay."

"That's what you keep saying."

"By any chance, was Eric black?"

"His father was."

"Interesting. Did you ever regret not sucking him off?"

"Not really."

"Not really? I think you were just scared."

"I wasn't scared."

"What if I want a blowjob right now. Would you be willing to help a nigga out?"

"I don't know..."

"Keep stroking my dick," I urged. "You don't have to blow me if you don't want to."

"Thank you," he said, sounding very relieved.

"You know, LG," I proposed, "if you do blow me, no one is gonna know. This is strictly between you and me. I really wanna get my dick sucked. I want to experience this with you."

"I can't..."

"Sure you can. Just put your lips on the knob. Give it a little kiss."

"A kiss?"

"Yeah, kiss the head."

Scott took a deep breath.

"Kiss it!" I insisted. "No one's gonna know. You wanna be my friend, right?"

"I'll try."

Scott leaned forward. I could feel the warmth of his breath on the tip of my dick... the silky softness of his ample, sexy, fuckable lips on my skin... smacking a kiss...

"That wasn't so bad, was it," I said, running my fingers through his long blond hair like he was a chick. "Put your mouth back on it."

Scott tried lifting his head to speak, but I held him down.

"Use your tongue," I instructed.

Obediently, Scott's little pink tongue flickered at my dick head like he was tasting a lollipop.

"Get it nice and wet," I added. "If you're gonna do this, do it right."

Whatever inhibitions Scott may have clung to were gone. Clearly, he was a text book submissive, driven by feelings of guilt, shame, and inadequacy, making him easy to manipulate. Nice traits in a white guy. Maybe I should have been a psych major instead of business.

"Open your mouth as wide as you can and go for it! See how much you can get in your mouth. Relax your throat and take it."

He could only manage about half before choking. I let him catch his breath, then ordered him back to work.

"Suck my dick, little guy! Suck it good! I know you ain't a fag. That's not what this is about! You're sucking my dick because I'm telling you to suck it. Boys like you do what they're told!"

Scott's entire body quivered with excitement. He liked being bossed around. That really turned him on. Maybe what Scott needed was a dominatrix, some alpha bitch in leather and high heels, wielding a whip. Assuming he was heterosexual to begin with, about which I always had my doubts. In any case, what he got pulling the puppet strings of his need for domination was me!

With that in mind, I pulled out every stop, laying on more verbal abuse, feeding words into Scott's head while he sucked.

"You worthless piece of shit," I snarled. "Suck that dick right! I will beat your ass if you don't suck it good! Hear me? I will beat you like a dog!"

I was not bluffing, either. I meant what I said. I was ready to take a belt to his ass if his technique did not improve. By any means necessary.

"Know what? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you ARE a fag. A little cocksucking faggot who's only good for one thing: doing what he's told! Like a slave. Is that what you are, LG? A slave? Shake your ass if that's true!"

Watching Scott struggle to deep throat and wiggle his little round butt at the same time made me laugh out loud. Raw, nasty, verbal abuse was the key to manipulating him. Such a fag!

"That's what I thought," I crowed with satisfaction. "You like it when I take charge, don't you, little guy. You wanna be my slave, don't you!"

Again, Scott wiggled his ass. Again, I cackled. This was going better than I ever expected.

"What are the odds, you and me being roomies?" I asked, while his tousled head continued bobbing up and down, taking my big dick deeper with every plunge. "It must be fate. You need a master, and I need a slave. That's how it's gonna be from now on, isn't it...

"You're a slave, LG. If I tell you to suck my dick, you're gonna do it, right? Without question. If I snap my fingers any time we're alone, that's your cue to drop to your knees and get busy. Go to work. Get the job done. Understand me?" I was paraphrasing the lyrics from a rap by Big Daddy Kane.

Another wiggle of agreement.

"Good fag!" I patted him on the head like I would a puppy. "You're gonna be busy from now on. Two, three times a day. And that's when I'm getting pussy on the side. You got such a pretty mouth. Your lips were made for sucking dick, am I right? I asked you a question, boy!"

Wiggle, wiggle!

"Now, make me bust in your mouth! Do your job, slave boy! Suck this big black motherfucking dick! Suck it good! Work for that nutt! Do your fucking job! You got a horny nigger to take care of! Be a good little whiteboy fag and get me off. Suck that dick! You know you can do more better! Put your heart into it. Making me feel good is your number one job! Get it done! Suck it! Use that perfect pussy mouth. Suck it, bitch! Choke on it! Fucking fag! Suck my dick! Suck it with all your might. Suck it! Suck it good!!!"

That last spiel really got Scott going. What Scott lacked in skill, he compensated with sheer determination.

Like a dedicated sex slave.

My own personal roommate cocksucker.

I could have watched my chunk slide in and out of Scott's plump lips for hours. But he was doing such a fantastic fucking job that the hot rush of adrenalin, the mad churning of my nuts, made me shut my eyes, and skeet without warning. Sperm shot down his throat like white-hot bullets, filling Scott with my life force, making him gag on my spunk. It was one of the best orgasms I ever had, word is bond!

After it was all over, I gave Scott the unfinished drawing he made of my erection. "I want you to have this," I said.

"I thought you were giving to this a girlfriend."

"That hasn't changed."

The impact of my words slowly dawned on him.

"I'm your girlfriend?"

"Well, actually you're my bitch, but it's kind of the same thing. Bitch, slave, fag, girlfriend, cocksucker, what's the difference, ya know? You are what you are."

From that point on, we had the perfect understanding. Scott not only sucked my dick on demand, like I said, two or three times a day, he did everything a bitch is supposed to do for her man. He kept our room clean, did my laundry, and ran errands. Whatever I wanted, he was more than eager to please.

Before I wrap this up, I gotta tell you, Scott had money. His folks sent him a nice check every month. But I didn't want or need his fag cash. All I cared about was that pretty cocksucking mouth. I didn't share him with no other niggas, either. I am a man of my word.

I treated LG better than he deserved, and we stayed roommates until graduation. After that, I never saw him again, however it would not surprise me none if he went on to take good care of some other nigga's big black dick. I suppose by now it goes without saying, but that's what fags are for.

To be continued in Part Four -- My Best Friend the Fag: The Story of Dion Miller.