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Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker,
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
Chapter 3: This Shit Ain't Free, or Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Dick-Breath
Mitchell did not have to wait a month or even a week to hear again from Drake. The next text message came three days later:
"If u wanna hookup Fri 8:00 I need u to get me something - pair of white Buscemi calfskin leather hightops size 12. Let me know what's up."
Without any hesitation, Mitchell texted back: "I can get those for you." His heart pounded with excitement.
Drake responded: "Cool. C U Fri."
The sneakers cost almost nine hundred dollars. That was a lot of money, more than the out-of-touch, middle-aged dean of students ever imagined for an ordinary pair of athletic shoes. But he could easily afford it. If Drake wanted a pair of sneakers fit for the feet of a king, that was what he would get. It felt wonderful buying a gift for the man who had given him the perfect cock.
Mitchell fussed over wrapping paper and a bow. The sneakers were not actually gift, were they? They were something Drake wanted. Something Drake told him to get, something he had buy if he wanted more of what Drake had to give him. That was how he saw it now.
He experienced a little stab of panic at the thought of losing Drake. That could never happen again. He needed that cock, and would do whatever it took to keep it in his life. Mitchell left the purchase in the bag from the store along with the receipt.
Came eight o'clock. As soon as Drake entered, he made a bee-line for the bag. He took out the sneakers to look them over closely. His teeth flashed a million-watt smile, lighting up the room.
"You did good, bitch. Exactly what I wanted."
He sounded genuinely pleased, and that made Mitchell happy. It felt so good being in Drake's warm, radiant presence once more.
"I left the receipt in case you wanted a refund," said Mitchell.
You stupid faggot," Drake's nostrils flared. "Why would I go to all that trouble? If I need cash, I can always come to you, am I right?"
"I'm sorry," said Mitchell, softly. He felt tiny and loathsome like an insect the way Drake looked at him. "You're right, sir. You are always right. You can always come to me."
Faggots can be complicated, conflicted creatures. Mitchell was saying what he needed to say to get what he wanted. At the same time he meant what he said, and it felt good saying it out loud. He wanted to be used by Drake. He could not help himself. No other cock, no other man, ever made him feel so submissive.
"This is the way it's gonna be," said Drake. "I'm gonna need a flat grand every Friday night I come over. Take it or leave it. All I'm gonna say is you know and I know my time is worth a lot more than that. That's all I'm gonna say. Are you in or out?" He stressed "time" like he meant to say something else.
"I'm in," Mitchell gulped in relief, so deep into a fog of submission that a thousand dollars seemed more than reasonable. It made him glad to be able to give this money to Drake. He wanted him to have it. He was prepared to do anything Drake said.
Drake calculated that the expense of the sneakers came to a little less than nine hundred, including the tax, but he generously rounded that off, leaving Mitchell with a hundred dollars to pay.
"See, I'm not greedy," said Drake. "I'm letting you buy me shit and give me money as a favor to you, because I know that's what you wanna do but you need my permission. See, I don't have to do that, but I like you, faggot. You should thank me for being so generous."
"Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome, bitch." Drake proceeded to the sofa where he began to lower his jeans and boxers to his ankles. "You owe me another two hundred for not being on your knees. Get down where you belong."
At once, Mitchell complied, inwardly berating himself for stupidly forgetting his place.
"Let me explain something," said Drake. "I don't want to see you standing unless it's absolutely necessary. It's disrespectful. It's like you're being defiant. Do you think we're equals? In any way? Is that what you think?"
"No, sir," said the chastened cocksucker, hanging his head.
"Do you think you're inferior to me?"
"Yes, sir," Mitchell admitted, biting his bottom lip.
He never thought of himself in that way before, but it was true. All those years of giving blowjobs to dumb or drunk white jocks never made him feel inferior. He was not less of a man, just a different sort of man, that was all.
With Drake, he felt submissive and weak. Drake's physical beauty made the white man conscious of his own flabby, ungainly body.
"Do you know why you're inferior?" asked Drake.
"Because I'm a cocksucker," said Mitchell.
"Nah, that ain't it. You think gay people are inferior? That's just plain prejudiced. I know plenty gay cats, and I don't feel superior to them just because I like pussy and they don't. To each his own. Think harder. Why are you inferior to me?"
Mitchell's brow furrowed with thought, but he found it hard to concentrate.
"Don't worry, you'll figure it," said Drake, deciding to move on to more important concerns. "Where's my money at?"
"It's in my wallet," said Mitchell. "In the den, I think."
"Go get it. On your hands and knees. I want my money before you suck this dick."
Mitchell scampered into the next room to return with more than enough cash, but Drake took only what was claimed.
The eager cocksucker got down on his knees and it was business as usual. Only this time, and for the first time, Drake warned the faggot when he was about to come:
"Get ready, bitch. You gonna get what you want. It's coming. Oh, shit. Suck that dick, faggot. Any second now..."
Chapter 4: The More the Merrier, or The Cocksucker Who Died and Went to Heaven
Next Friday night, after Mitchell paid the going rate, and provided his best blowjob ever, Drake had this to say:
"You're the best damn cocksucker I ever had. Out of all the bitches and faggots I've had go down on me since I was fifteen, word is bond, you are that fucking good. You know what I want before I know I want it, and the way you deep throat without ever gagging, like Linda fucking Lovelace, damn, I love when you do that shit. You love it too. You love your job, I can tell. So I've been thinking, since you're such a stone whore pig, maybe one black dick, even if it is the best dick in the whole world, isn't enough for you. I bet you can't stuff enough dick down your throat. I'm gonna help you with that. Gonna introduce you to some cats I know, so you can prove to them I'm not bullshitting when I claim you're a world class cocksucker, maybe the best."
Drake did not say when this was going to happen, but Mitchell hoped it happened soon. He was a whore pig, like Drake said. He was gluttonous for more black cock.
The following Friday, Drake brought along a young friend. DeVaughn was a cocky, maybe eighteen years old, thugged out, black as coffee, lavishly inked, scrawny roughneck with a permanent sneer on his upper lip. "This the cocksucker?" he asked.
"What do you think?" Drake smirked.
"Looks like a cocksucker to me," DeVaughn shrugged.
"Wanna beer?"
"Nah, I'm straight. Wish I had some weed, though."
"You read my mind, cuz," said Drake. He barked at Mitchell who was on his knees: "Get busy. Get to work. Suck his dick."
The middle-aged white faggot proceeded at once to unbutton and lower the young man's raggedy jeans. DeVaughn turned to Drake, "You gonna scope this shit, man, or can a bruh get a blowjob in private?"
"Aiiight," said Drake. "I'm gonna step out for a few. I seen this cat up the street, I think he's selling herb, so I'm gonna check that out, and I'll be back. Thirty minutes good enough for you?"
"Damn, man," said DeVaughn. "Half an hour just gets me warmed up. I want my shit SUCKED, you feel me?"
"I feel you, bruh," Drake laughed. "Aiiight, you got an hour. And you gotta tell me if that ain't the best goddamn blowjob you ever got. We got us here a national treasure. This might be the best cocksucker in the world."
For the next sixty minutes, Mitchell serviced DeVaughn's sturdy, intimidating cock. It was blacker than Drake's, thicker and shorter, yet an awful lot of meat. The cocksucker could not take his eyes off that black sausage. Even when performing his oral ministrations, he kept his eyes open the entire time.
It took the skilled cocksucker a minute or so to get acquainted with DeVaughn's cock, but once he licked it up and down, root to crown, he found the most sensitive spots and knew instinctively what to do. He intended to blow the young black man's mind as well as his massive black tool. DeVaughn was going to get the kind of blowjob he deserved.
By the time Drake got back, DeVaughn had busted twice, and was resting his dick in the cocksucker's mouth like it was a holster. He was unfazed by Drake's return. Privacy was no longer an issue since he was feeling great.
Drake was not alone. Behind him stood a tall brother in an Allen Iverson throwback jersey, and long black basketball shorts. Drake introduced Rayshawn. Both men stank of skunky weed.
DeVaughn said, "Sup? Can't get up right now to shake your hand. Gotta feed this cocksucker. My dick makes him happy, naw mean?"
"You don't mind if we come in?" Drake was amused.
"Nah, it's all good," laughed DeVaughn, still maintaining a sneer. "I've just been getting to know your cocksucker here. Damn, I ain't never seen no one love dick as much as this one!"
"I told you he could a dick," Drake shrugged, sharing a look with Rayshawn.
"I know you told me, bruh, but you didn't prepare me, you feel me?" said DeVaughn. "This bitch is off the hook. I don't want him to stop, and I came twice already. Which one of you got a joint for sale?"
"On the house," insisted Rayshawn, producing the desiderata from his pocket. "But only if you let me get summa that good head."
"I told Rayshawn about the faggot," Drake explained. "My man here is an old pro. Uses these fags all the time."
"Nowadays, you can't turn around without tripping over one," said Rayshawn. "They're everywhere, man. My dad and grandpa say there have always been white fags prowling for black dick, but there are more of them now than ever before. It's an epidemic."
"But they have their uses," said Drake.
Laughed Rayshawn: "And they will be used. Fucking faggots. Like little lambs to the slaughter."
"You can have this bitch now," announced DeVaughn, shoving the cocksucker away from his crotch. "But I'm warning you. Once he starts, you are never gonna want him to stop."
"He's that good?"
"Good ain't the word, blood."
Rayshawn had no problem getting his dick sucked while smoking a joint and carrying on a conversation. And wanting a beer, which Drake had to fetch himself because the faggot was engaged. That was the first time it occurred to Drake the convenience of owning two faggots or more. Or maybe one with a lot more money. It was food for thought.
The three men joked, talked sports, movies, and found they liked the same teams and shared the same tastes in music. Much of what they said zoomed over Mitchell's head. He could not follow most of their speech. But his ears perked when they talked about him.
"Am I the only," asked Drake, "who thinks there is something kind of beautiful about seeing a white guy with a black dick in his mouth?"
"You think it's hot?" said Rayshawn. His large hand palmed Mitchell's head like a basketball, pushing down to insist on deeper deep throat.
"It's not hot," Drake scoffed. "That's not what I'm saying."
"It's a little hot," said Rayshawn.
"It's not hot," DeVaughn put in. "Seeing a white chick go down on your chunk is hot. Seeing a white guy doing it is satisfying on a whole other level. What's hot is the way this old cracker gives head. He can suck a dick like nobody's business!"
"He loves having a big dick in his mouth," said Drake. "It's like giving a baby a binky."
"I don't got nowhere to be," said DeVaughn. "Why don't we keep the cocksucker happy?"
"I'm down for a fag party," said Rayshawn, sipping beer from a bottle while the cocksucker's head bobbed in his lap. "Haven't been to one of them in a minute."
"What's a fag party?" DeVaughn asked.
Drake explained: "It's like a stag party hosted by a fag. Usually you go to get your dick sucked, but you can just show up for the food and drink if you want. Whatever goes down at a fag party, stays at a fag party. Sometimes shit gets pretty wild."
"Someone had a good idea," said DeVaughn.
"That's the funny thing about fag parties," said Rayshawn. "Brothers didn't come up with the idea. It was something fags been doing for years, inviting a bunch of cats up to their crib for a party, getting them drunk, waiting on them hand and foot, sucking dick if they get a chance."
"If they get a chance," Drake snickered. "Put a faggot in a room full of brothers drunk on their ass, and there ain't a snowball's chance in hell that bitch is gonna miss out on some dick."
"I was at a fag party," said Rayshawn, where they had a bunch of white faggots. When they weren't sucking dick, they were put to good use as footstools, ashtrays, spittoons, and urinals."
"Dayumm," DeVaughn sneered. "That's some nasty shit."
"That's what these faggots want," said Rayshawn. "They're sick motherfuckers. You know that. Like this one we got here. Punk is probably dying for one of us to take a leak in his mouth."
There was beer in the refrigerator and the liquor cabinet was fully stocked. Rayshawn rolled joints. DeVaughn played with the Bose sound system until he found a station playing classic funk, an old Parliament-Funkadelic jam. "Can't have a party without music," he said.
Drake made a few calls, and before long, Mitchell Montague's house was filled with a dozen rowdy, intoxicated black men.
TO BE CONTINUED....