This tale of domination is set in the Black Magick universe which informs several of my stories at Nifty. It began as an old-fashioned, heart-warming servile fag-meets-ruthless thug-meets-more ruthless thugs kind of fantasy, the sort of story almost everyone enjoys, but it turned into something fantastical. You don't have to believe in Black Magick to believe in the mystique of black dick. Consider it a metaphor for the myths we tell ourselves in order to grasp the hard, implacable reality which confronts us. For most of you reading this that confrontation entails using your mouths, but you know who you are.
If Black Domination is your fetish, fantasy, or reality, please make a donation to support this site. If you consider yourself a true submissive, you should have done that already, which means now you need to do it again. Am I right? Black dick ain't always free, but the stories at Nifty Archives are. Even for faggots. Do the right thing.
Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker,
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
Chapter 1: Cocksucker in Extremis, or Lingering Lust for Low-hanging Fruit
Friday afternoon cast its spell, the promise of the weekend, freedom from neck ties, irritating people, always at someone's beck and call. Relaxing comfortably at his neatly organized desk in the corner office with windows at right-angles looking out on the campus, Mitchell Montague, Ph.D., was suddenly startled by the beeping of his phone. He had an incoming message, and that in itself was unusual.
Mitchell did not care for smart phones, and he never got texts from anyone except one person and those texts stopped a month ago, four weeks to the day. Who else could it be but Drake McKeefer? It had to be him. In more ways than one, it had to be. The very thought of him sent a frisson of excitement through Mitchell's body.
The forty-eight year old administrator, winner of three prizes for poetry, author of two books on Gide and Baudelaire, trembled like a frightened little girl. He missed Drake and their weekly encounters more than he thought was possible. Going without that amazing black cock for so long had been like suffering through withdrawal.
If it was Drake, what would Mitchell do? He was beginning to feel respectable again. He used to worry all his friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, and even strangers gossiped about the depraved things Mitchell Montague did with the black stud who visited his home once a week, every Friday night. That went on for three months until four weeks ago when Drake stopped texting or coming by without explanation.
Drake McKeefer was a twenty-five year old clerk in the campus mail room, taking business classes at night. He did not have the time or money for a girlfriend, but he still had certain basic needs. That was why he posted an ad on Craigslist for a reliable white cocksucker. Getting a free blowjob once a week from a skilled specialist seemed like the perfect solution.
One thing Drake had learned was he could always count on good head from a whiteboy. A lot of sisters and brothers in the life know how to suck a dick, but only a white fag actually worships it. That makes a difference. And there was something extraordinary about Drake McKeefer's magnificent uncut cock that more than deserved to be serviced religiously.
When Mitchell saw the Craigslist ad from Str8blkdragon4whtfag, it was naturally the dick pic that held his attention. Mitchell never tired of looking at cocks. He was obsessed with them, mostly white and circumcised, but until now he had never stared so intently at a black one in its natural state.
The mysterious jungle fruit was coal-black, flaccid yet more than a mouthful. Mitchell licked his lips. He had never sucked black cock before. He went for straight white jocks and the dumber or drunker the better, for which the college could be no better source. But this ebony tube of meat intrigued him.
The classified read in part: "Wanted: white cocksucker to service weekly. Must have excellent oral skills, be dependable, and most importantly know your place."
Know your place! Those three words rang out like a knell. Where on earth is my place, Mitchell wondered. Where do I fit in? The question that had plagued him all his life. Gay men fought for their civil rights, but Mitchell never saw himself as gay. Gay men dated one another, kissed, fucked, and fell in love, all the normal stuff Mitchell was never cut out for. All Mitchell Montague wanted was to give blowjobs to trade. He knew that was not the same as being gay. That was being a faggot. A faggot does not fit in anywhere.
He was lonely man. Was there more to life than a succession of cocks in his throat? Like his favorite chanteuse Peggy Lee used to croon, "Is that all there is?" Mitchell's career from high school English teacher to college professor to dean of students, the books he authored, prizes won, felt hollow and meaningless. There had to be something more. He wanted to be part of something.
Those three ominous words -- know your place -- was that destiny knocking at his door? Or was Mitchell simply stunned silly by that tantalizing black cock?
Mitchell hastily emailed Str8blkdragon4whtfag. He spilled more personal information about himself than he should have, including his address and phone number, along with an old selfie of him on his knees with his mouth open. Then, he waited nervously for a reply. But it did not come at once, as he feverishly hoped.
That night Mitchell had a surreal dream. He was in the woods or jungle holding up a large purple-black vegetable that looked like an eggplant. Someone was telling him to swallow the vegetable whole or die. It was too big, he protested. He was taken by African warriors to a thatched hut where he expected to be put to death. Inside sat a naked black man on a throne. His erect penis was the same size and color as the vegetable. Someone pushed Mitchell to his knees. Voices chanted: know your place, know your place!
Mitchell woke around three, unable to get the dream out of his head. It seemed so real, so vivid. Unlike any sex dream he ever had, and he had plenty. At that wee hour, he thought to check his inbox. There was a response from Str8blkdragon4whtfag:
"I will be at your place tonight at eight o'clock. Have a Tanqueray and tonic ready for when I get there. You be ready. You be sober."
Eight o'clock on the nose, there were three sharp knocks. Timidly, Mitchell opened the door. The man before him was tall, broad-shouldered, young black man with a dark chocolate complexion and smoldering, catlike eyes. He was one of the most handsome men Mitchell had ever seen.
Mitchell offered a tremulous hand, but the stranger refused to shake it. He looked the middle-aged white man dead in the eye, and sneered with disdain.
"You can call me Drake," he said. "Where's my drink?"
Mitchell invited Drake into the living room where the Tanqueray and tonic was ready and waiting. Drake looked around. It was a spacious house, and the paneled living room was well-appointed if somewhat out of date with an old leather sectional, matching leather armchairs, and bookcases. The walls were hung with ornately framed canvases and a flatscreen TV. There was a very up to date sound system with a turntable for his jazz albums.
"You stay here all by yourself?" asked Drake.
"Yup," said Mitchell.
"Cool," said Drake, pulling off his black Polo shirt, and unbuckling his trousers. The muscular, dark brown torso was impressive. "So, you wrote in your email that you're `more than proficient' at sucking dick. Is that right?"
"I'm pretty good, I think," said Mitchell, not knowing whether to be modest or boast of his skills.
"But you like having a man's dick in your mouth?"
"Oh, yes, very much," Mitchell exclaimed, expressing more enthusiasm than intended. "Very, very much."
"That's good," chuckled Drake. "And do you know your place?"
"I-I'm not sure - "
"On your knees. That's where you belong."
The brother smiled while satisfaction as Mitchell sank at once to the floor. The white man's face was barely inches away from Drake's bulging crotch.
"This is the deal," said Drake. "I'm looking for a cocksucker who can service my dick on a regular basis. Might be once a week, might be more. I need to know you can get the job done and will be here when I need you. This is your audition. You ready?"
"I'm ready," said Mitchell, eagerly.
"One more thing," added Drake. "I have to warn you. There is something special about my dick. Don't be surprised if you fall in love with it."
Drake lowered his pants and sat on the sofa. As soon as Mitchell laid eyes on the black dragon, he knew Drake had been telling the truth. This was no ordinary cock. It looked like it did in the photo and yet, it seemed to have a life, a will, a presence of its own.
The plum-sized, hooded head of the serpent, its thick but flaccid shaft, the large and heavy testicles dangling in their satin sack, and a whiff of musk rising from the jet-black, tightly-curled pubic hair compelled Mitchell to offer his mouth.
His tongue flickered at the glans penis as he took more into his mouth. He licked the veined column of spongy, hardening tissue, descending until the entire length filled his throat. But he did not gag. Not once. The only times Mitchell ever choked on cock was to dupe some white stud into thinking he was hung.
When it came to blowjobs, Mitchell acted on instinct like an infant takes his mother's nourishing teat. He always knew what to do for any given cock, yet Drake's impossibly perfect phallus gave him a moment's pause. It was like no other cock he had ever known. Why that was he could not tell. It had a unique, savory flavor. The thick vein climbing the shaft pulsed with life. A cock any stallion would be proud to flaunt. It was no single quality or aspect, Mitchell decided, but the combination of everything. No, there was something else. He was in love.
As Drake ejaculated deep down Mitchell's throat, his dark brown, muscular body tensed. His hands held the cocksucker's head in place, while his own was tossed back. A deep groan of relief passed his ample lips. His body relaxed.
"Man, that was something else," said Drake, beside himself with disbelief. "You are one world class cocksucker! Where did you learn to suck a dick like that?
"I don't know," said Mitchell, meekly. "I've always been good at it."
"Bitch, you are more than good. That was the best damn blowjob I ever got. Word is bond, motherfucker!"
Mitchell was thinking this was the best cock he ever sucked in his entire life. It was beyond his own personal best. Drake's cock had to be the best cock in the world at large. It was the ne plus ultra of cocks.
Somehow Drake seemed to know exactly what Mitchell had on his mind. "I know what you're thinking. I always get the same reaction. You're wondering how it's possible to fall head over heels in love with a dick at first sight. I know you truly appreciate dick because that's your obsession. But what you're feeling for my dick is something you never felt before, am I right?"
"It's true," Mitchell admitted. He remained on his knees where he knew he belonged.
"My dick is under a magic spell. It's both a curse and a blessing at the same time. I guess you don't believe in magic, but I'm gonna tell you what happened anyway. If you're gonna be my cocksucker, you need to know what you're in for. Are you paying attention?"
"I'm listening," said Mitchell, skeptical of anything having to do with magic, but was intrigued by further talk of Drake's beautiful member.
"It's a long story," Drake went on. "See, my first time with a woman was with a thirty year old Black Witch when I was fifteen. Her name was Rowena. We were lovers for a year. She taught me a lot about fucking. Showed me shit I never dreamt of. But I was young, restless, and eager to fuck other women. When the time came, Rowena totally understood. She was not possessive. In fact, I think she had her eye on some other guys as well. As a parting gift, she put a Black Magick spell on my dick. She made it the best dick in the entire world. And you know that's right. It's some powerful voodoo. That's why I got to be careful. If I fuck a woman once, she knows she had the best. It will make her so horny she will fuck a lot of men looking to experience the same acme of pleasure. But if I fuck her twice or more, look out, because then she wants to marry me. I've had bitches stalking me because they fell in love with my dick. Are you following all this?"
"I think so," said Mitchell, hesitantly. He had absolutely no idea what Drake was talking about. He was too rational to believe in magic and the supernatural. It was absurd, and yet Drake's cock possessed an inexplicable, irrefutable je-ne-sais-quoi.
Drake had more to say: "I can't have jealous bitches going all crazy and shit so I gotta be careful when I wanna get laid. That's where you come in. A cocksucker who knows his place isn't gonna give me no trouble. Besides, I want you to fall in love with my dick. I like what you do with your mouth. You might got a magic mouth. Are you sure someone didn't put a spell on your mouth?"
"I guess I've always been good at it," Mitchell blushed.
"Yeah," said Drake. "You're what they call a born cocksucker. But you're more than good. You're what I'm looking for. Think you can suck my dick next Friday same as you did tonight?"
"Definitely, certainly," said Mitchell.
Drake steepled his long, brown fingers, and peered down at his new official cocksucker. "Think you can do it better next time?"
"I will try."
"I wasn't clear. Let me put it differently. Next time you will service my dick even better. I'm not asking you to try. I'm simply telling you to do it. There's a difference. In fact, every blowjob is gonna be better than the last. That's how it's gonna be. If you can't handle that, let me know, so I can find a cocksucker up to the job."
"It's an honor to service you," said Mitchell.
Drake laughed. "No shit."
That was how Mitchell and Drake first met. For the next three months, Drake stopped by Mitchell's home every Friday night for increasingly better and better blowjobs. He rarely stayed longer than half an hour. That was just enough time to sit down, relax, have a cocktail, and let the cocksucker do his job.
Mitchell looked forward to Friday nights. Sometimes he worried what the neighbors thought of a black man coming to his house. It was an exclusively white neighborhood of old Victorian houses with porches, big yards, hedges, and old maple trees. Everyone knew everyone else's business. But as the week wore on, Mitchell's worries were dispelled, knowing Friday was coming when he would be reunited with his one true love: the cock of Drake McKeefer.
This appeared to be a mutually satisfactory, symbiotic arrangement. At least, Mitchell thought so. Drake apparently had other plans. After three months, that is, precisely twelve blowjobs, Drake stopped coming by altogether. He never called nor texted. It was if he dropped off the face of the earth.
Mitchell texted, "What happened? Are you all right?" But there was no reply. Mitchell was in the dark. It was hard getting over Drake's cock. Mitchell yearned for it like a tragic lost lover. He even wrote a few snatches of verse, odes to the best cock in the world. Ridiculous, but he could not help himself. Those Friday nights meant so much to him. They made him feel young again, delirious in love. It could not be over. He refused to believe he would never again taste Drake's copious spurts of sperm upon his tongue.
Over the next several weeks, the pain subdued leaving him with a dull ache and occasional nausea. Now the anguish was back with a vengeance.
Mitchell looked at the phone.
Please be Drake, he prayed. He wanted more than anything to impale his face one more time on Drake's cock, and inhale through his small nostrils the sensual odor of musk that used to get him hot as brandy. God, please let this be him!
The phone was one of those smart devices that always got Mitchell flustered when nervous. It had more apps than he knew what to do with. Fumbling, heart pounding madly, holding his breath, somehow he managed to swipe the screen and poke the right icon to bring up the new message:
"8:00. Be ready. Don't fuck up."
Chapter 2: Bliss is Another Name for Black Cock, or The Return of the Best Dick in the World
Mitchell hurried home to prepare. That meant picking up Tanqueray on the way as had finished off the bottle usually reserved for Drake. There was plenty of food in the fridge in the rare event Drake was hungry. He had fresh porn videos, the kind Drake liked with one black guy drilling lots of white sluts with big tits. Sometimes Drake wanted to watch one while he got his dick sucked. Sometimes he did not. Mitchell wanted to be ready for his black king.
Being deprived of Drake's cock for over a month taught Mitchell he needed to do more for this man. Sucking his dick was not enough. He wanted to cook for Drake and buy him things. He wanted Drake to use him. Mitchell never felt that way for any of the white studs who let him blow them. With them, it was like doing a favor. But Drake was different. Drake made him want to be submissive.
Eight o'clock came, but there was no knock at the door. Mitchell tried to stay calm. Then came eight-ten, eight-fifteen, eight-twenty-five. The minutes seemed to tick by arduously slow.
By now the frantic drama queen had given up all hope of ever seeing Drake again. It is always the end of the world or the most fabulous thing ever with these faggots, and Mitchell was no exception. He paced while wringing his hands.
Just as he reached for the Tanqueray to pour himself a drink, there were three sharp knocks. His heart stopped. He almost dropped the bottle. "I'm coming!" he said, automatically.
Drake sported a cap over short braids, wifebeater tucked into loose, frayed jeans, and old sneakers. He seemed even darker than Mitchell remembered. How could Mitchell not have noticed those bulging biceps before. Were those almond shaped, cat-like eyes always so focused and intense? It was like seeing Drake for the first time.
"Where's my drink?"
"I'm getting it."
"It should have been ready."
"I didn't think you were coming."
"Are you arguing with me?"
"No, sir." That was the first time Mitchell ever called Drake sir. He did not plan to say it. It simply felt like the right thing to say.
"It sounded like you were." Drake looked over his shoulder at the door. "Because if you're gonna argue, I might as well bounce. I'm not gonna let some white faggot waste my time." That was a first, calling him a faggot, a white faggot at that, and with such utter contempt.
"No, please, I'm sorry, Mr. McKeefer," pleaded Mitchell. "I'm not arguing with you. You're right. I should have had your drink ready when you walked in. It won't happen again." His hand trembled so badly that the ice clinked in the cocktail he offered.
Drake plopped down onto the sofa, his usual spot, the center where both wings met at right angles. He took a deep sip from his drink, the one which Mitchell prepared in such haste. Not only was it excellent, it had a fresh lime zest.
"You missed your calling," said Drake. "You should have been a bartender. A cocksucking bartender, now that's a combination. You ready to suck this dick, bitch?"
"Am I really your bitch, sir?" Mitchell wondered, realizing too late he had blurted his thoughts out loud. His self control was beginning to dissolve.
"You have always been my bitch," Drake chuckled, with both glee and scorn. "Yeah, MY bitch. Get busy. Don't keep me waiting."
Tangential to Mitchell's cocksucking and bartending skills was his innate talent with talent with buckles, buttons, and zippers. No stop watch could have measured the alacrity Mitchell displayed in setting free the living, growing, throbbing object of his desire.
Mitchell knew exactly what Drake liked, sliding back the hood with his agile tongue to suckle the large, super-sensitive head for several minutes before swallowing the shaft entirely.
"Damn," muttered Drake, "you certainly know how to suck a dick! Almost forgot about that. Did you miss this dick? You can stop for a second. Did you miss my dick, bitch?"
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell, catching his breath.
"Go on. Tell me more."
"I missed your cock," Mitchell gushed. "I thought you were mad at me. I didn't know what I did wrong. I worried so much. I told myself if you ever came back that I would do anything for you, whatever you want, anything you say. I wanted to be your bitch. That's what's been on my mind."
"It's all good," said Drake. "I missed your sweet dick-sucking lips, but I wanted to give you some time to think about how lucky you are. You need to be ready for when we kick this shit up a notch. While you're sucking my dick, think about tonight's lesson: you are not just my personal cocksucker, you are my bitch, as well. We'll talk about what that entails next time. Something for you to think about. Now, finish what you started. My dick's getting dry."
For the next half hour Mitchell went to work at what he did best. Despite his superlative technique, the determined cocksucker could not bring Drake to orgasm until the black stud permitted it to happen. But he always knew when Drake was ready to erupt by the way his muscles tensed.
The African nectar which Mitchell craved so badly, like a junkie waiting for his next fix, like a vampire lusting for blood, filled his thirsty mouth like foam. It was wonderful. Tears of joy welled up in the cocksucker's bleary eyes. He was beyond happy.
"Don't swallow none of that until after I'm gone," instructed Drake, who dressed quickly and took his leave without another word.
Mitchell remained on his knees where he belonged. The house was silent save for the ticking of a clock. African musk cloyed his nostrils. African ambrosia oozed down his throat.
He fished inside his trousers for his timid, white penis. It always wanted to hide from him. The little fellow was quite limp, but it grew another inch or two as the cocksucker stroked, replaying in his mind with the clarity of a video recording his latest encounter with the best damned cock in the entire fucking world.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .