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Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker,
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
Chapter 7: Five Men and a Faggot, or Open Mouth, Insert Dick
Mitchell descended to the basement where he felt comfortable among the other old, discarded, unwanted things held in storage against potential need. He had mixed emotions about the two sluts who were servicing his men. On one hand, he could do a much better job than they could. On the other, whatever made his men happy, made him happy.
Nonetheless, it was frustrating being pushed off DeVaughn's cock just when he was getting started. Mitchell wanted that chocolate sausage. Never before had he enjoyed so much cock. Friday night's orgy of cock was like nothing he had ever experienced. The sensory overload was too much to process. And yet, he wanted more!
In the dark, chill hour before dawn, Mitchell woke up shivering, and could not go back to sleep. Curling up in a fetal position for warmth, he thought about the two lusty black studs upstairs who were getting laid or sleeping soundly after the fact. It would be nice if one of them crept downstairs for a decent blowjob. A bellyful of lava from an active African volcano would warm him up nicely.
It was cold in the basement. The only sound was the soft rumble of the furnace. Heavier blankets would come in handy, definitely a few more appurtenances, but he could get accustomed to this. With real men living in his house, this was where he belonged.
He was forty-eight years old. What a waste his life had been, caring about no one but himself, squandering money on things he did not need. A pompous, useless fool all alone in his ivory tower with no practical, real world skills. Except one: sucking cock. That was the one and only thing he was actually good for. Real men needed and deserved competent cocksuckers. What they did not need was yet another silly, affected poet.
Mitchell was awake when the alarm clock went off at six. This gave him time to freshen up and get breakfast underway. Since both of his men had overnight guests, he decided to set two more of the good dishes and cook twice as much. There was no telling when they would wake or even come downstairs, but Mitchell wanted everything to be ready.
He hummed happily as he moved about the kitchen, beating eggs, brewing coffee, slicing potatoes and onions. It was like running a bed and breakfast. He should have been an innkeeper, but only for real men like Drake and DeVaughn. Mitchell Montague, full-service host and world class cocksucker.
It was almost eleven when the men came downstairs in boxers and wifebeaters. Their female guests did not stay for breakfast, although they wanted to. Drake and DeVaughn ushered them out the door into a waiting taxi with practiced ease. Then, they threw down with wolfish appetites consuming every morsel Mitchell had prepared.
After breakfast, both men withdrew to the living room to smoke a cigarette and watch college basketball. When Mitchell finished up in the kitchen, he was told to join them. Drake said: "That was a good meal, bitch. Nah, it was excellent. You should thank me for letting you cook our breakfast."
"Thank you, sir," said Mitchell, dazed into total submission by the sight of two black men in their underwear, knowing what was hidden beneath the cotton fabric. "Thank you for letting me cook for you."
DeVaughn laughed.
"You're welcome, bitch," said Drake. "I think you're finally getting the big picture. Now take a squat on the floor, and not a peep, until I decide what to do with you next."
It no longer felt like his living room. Nothing had changed, and yet everything was different. Any other Sunday morning, Mitchell would be in his robe and slippers, sipping tea, reading the New York Times while watching Meet the Press, and whatever travel, cooking, or decorating shows followed.
Now tobacco smoke hung like a canopy, athletes flashed across on the TV screen, he was on his knees, a humble servant in his own home, and he was content. Submissively content, knowing sooner or later he would be called upon to serve the best way he knew how. Why had none of the white jocks he serviced made him feel this way? What was so different about black men? Why did servicing them inspire him to utter servility?
Their strength and virility was a mystery to Mitchell. There was definitely something very special about Drake's cock. It really was the best cock in the world. But DeVaughn was not far behind. Just thinking about their black cocks made the faggot's mouth water.
A short time later, the doorbell rang: Windsor chimes. Mitchell's face drained white with panic. He could not imagine anyone coming to his door on a Sunday.
"That's Rayshawn," said Drake. "I told him to stop by."
Mitchell sighed with relief and calmed down. He liked Rayshawn, or at least his long, pole-like cock. There was something menacing or dangerous about Rayshawn that Mitchell did not sense from Drake or DeVaughn, no matter how roughly they spoke to him. Yet it was not an unwelcome thrill.
Rayshawn had weed, some to sell, some to share. He was wearing the same throwback jersey he had on the other night. Looked like he had not slept. He plopped down at one end of the sectional while Mitchell, directed by a single glance from Drake, scurried to fetch him a beer.
"I left out your party around midnight," said Rayshawn. "I was pretty buzzed. Got into some shit with my old lady when I got home. Bitch wanted to know where I had been. She said she could smell pussy on my dick. I told her I wasn't near no pussy, and you know that's the damn truth. She kicked me out the crib. Told me I can't stay there no more if she can't trust me."
"That's fucked up, man," said DeVaughn.
"Could you cats do me a solid? Tell that cunt I wasn't around no females Friday night. Tell her I was just chillin' with the fellas. I got no place to stay, man."
Drake took a joint from Rayshawn and sparked it. He took a long deep satisfying hit. Cannabis was clearly a gift from God. That was the only proof of His existence needed. And this was some good shit. Drake's feline eyes shone with a pearly luster. He expelled a cloud of smoke, and stroked his chin.
"We can do that, blood, no problem," he said. "Bro's before ho's, am I right? But I have a better idea. Why don't you move in with me and DeVaughn? There's another room upstairs. Rent free. We another brother around to help keep this faggot busy."
"Is that okay with the cocksucker?" Rayshawn looked over at Mitchell on his knees, eyes downcast, hands behind his back. "He still owns this crib, right?"
"He holds the deed," said Drake. "But I own him, you feel me, bruh?"
"Never doubted you for a minute," affirmed Rayshawn. They dapped, and then Rayshawn bumped fists with DeVaughn.
"Three house rules," said Drake. "Number One: no slangin' weed on the premises, except to me or Vaughn. Take that business down the street where you been dealing it. Number Two: watch who you bring home with you. Remember we got a faggot here the grapevine. Number Three: Enjoy the good life, my brother! Welcome to 420 Woodpecker Lane where the Black Man is King and the white man knows his place."
The three men lifted their bottles of imported beer in a toast, and another joint was passed around. When Rayshawn asked why nobody was getting their dick sucked, DeVaughn explained, "My shit is sore from that all-night pussy." Drake said: "My dick doesn't get sore, but I need to take a break. There's more to life than blowjobs."
"We'll have to agree to disagree," said Rayshawn.
At Drake's behest, Mitchell showed Rayshawn his new room. The large bed was fitted with green sheets, a quilted comforter, and more than enough pillows. Rayshawn inspected the empty bureau and closet, while Mitchell waited patiently to be dismissed.
"What's the matter with you?" said Rayshawn. "You want something?"
"I'm fine, sir," Mitchell fidgeted.
"Nah, I think you want something," Rayshawn went on. "You want some dick, don't you."
This was not really a question, not the way Rayshawn said it, but Mitchell felt compelled to answer. "Yes, sir." Although his face reddened, it was excitement not shame that brought blood to his pasty cheeks.
Rayshawn: "I know you been thinking about my dick. You couldn't get enough of this shit Friday night. I watched you chow down like it was the last dick on earth. You're glad I'm movin' in, right?"
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell.
"You take orders pretty good," Rayshawn snickered. "Drake got your cracker ass trained. That's sweet. But I see one thing he's doing wrong. He's not feeding you enough dick, is he. That's a problem. You need dick and he's not giving you none. Don't you worry. I'm gonna make sure you get all the dick you want. How's that sound? Sound good?"
"It sounds good, sir."
"Anytime you want some dick, come to me first, aiiight?" Rayshawn declared, with an air of magnanimity. Then, he lowered his voice as if he did not want anyone else to hear: "I'll feed you plenty. You and me, we gonna be real tight. Them other ones, they don't know how to appreciate a bitch. Don't worry about them. I'm the brother you wanna look out for. I'm the one you want giving the orders, understand me?"
"Yes, sir," said Mitchell, softly. He thought of more to say, but held his tongue. It had finally sunk in that his share of any exchange with these domineering men was pretty much limited to "yes, sir," and "no, sir." He knew they were not interested in his opinions.
In fact, he had not followed everything Rayshawn was saying. It was hard for him to think clearly in the presence of such a sexy man, and because his mind was on something else. Every so often he could make out the distinct, tantalizing outline of Rayshawn's pole beneath his loose-fitting, black mesh basketball shorts.
"Come over here and give me one of them world class super jobs," said Rayshawn. "See, I'm not even in the mood right now, but I'm doing this for you. I want my bitch to be happy. That's how I roll."
With Rayshawn perched on the edge of the bed, and Mitchell between his legs, the deed was consummated. Once more, Mitchell provided a blowjob exceeding all expectations. Deep-throating something like Rayshawn's long, wooden baton had to be carefully and attentively executed. Every cock responded differently, each one had its own unique personality.
Rayshawn ejaculated on the cocksucker's face. Sperm trickled from his brows and oozed down his cheeks like molten pearls. There were gobs of cum sticking to his lips and chin. Mitchell's fluent tongue tried to scoop up as much as he could.
"Don't worry, little bitch," comforted Rayshawn. "There's more where that came from. I'll shoot down your throat next time. You come back when you want some more, aiiight?"
"Okay, I mean, yes, sir," said Mitchell.
"Know what?" said Rayshawn, pulling up his shorts. "You come see me later anyway. I'll give you some more dick. I know that wasn't enough for you. I could tell you didn't want me to cum. That's why you got a facial. Next time, suck my dick the way I tell you and don't worry about if I cum too soon or not. That's not in your job description. Now get out of here. Don't wash up. Go show Drake what you look like."
Mitchell scurried out of the bedroom, and down the stairs. He heard deep, booming, unfamiliar voices. What was he walking into now, he wondered. He completely forgot about his cum-spattered face.
In the living room, Drake and DeVaughn had visitors. Mitchell recognized Leroy, and remembered his big brown rubbery cock. Beside him stood a slovenly dressed, heavy-set black man with a round face and shaved head. They were talking and laughing until Mitchell entered.
"Dayumm, bitch, you look nasty as fuck!" exclaimed DeVaughn.
The cum on Mitchell's face had not yet turned to jelly or dried up, and if someone had asked, he would have informed them it still felt quite warm. The potency of African seed has no equal.
"I'm not sure if that's disgusting or an improvement," Drake laughed. "Wade, allow me to introduce the world class cocksucker! Should we tell it to wash up before you get better acquainted?"
"You can wipe the skeet off a slut, but she's still a slut," said Wade.
"True that," said Drake.
"It's up to Leroy," shrugged Wade. "What do you say, man?"
Said Leroy: "I say let's not waste time. This bitch is gonna look way worse than this after we get done with her.
Mitchell obediently trotted after Leroy and Wade into the den. The louvered doors closed behind them. Drake went upstairs to see how Rayshawn was making out. DeVaughn had to take a shit.
An hour later, the louvered doors opened. Leroy and Wade walked out, buckling their belts. Crawling on his hands and knees behind them came Mitchell the cocksucker foaming at the mouth with spit and gobs of cum streaming down his face.
"Thanks for letting us use your faggot," said Wade.
"It's cool," said Drake. "You were doing me a solid. That's why DeVaughn and Rayshawn stay here. Takes a lot of dick to keep this faggot in the proper mindset, know what I'm saying?"
"I get it, bruh," said Leroy. "Keep feeding her dick. Don't give the bitch a chance to catch her breath."
"Exactly," said Drake.
"We'll be back," said Wade. "You don't got to worry about this cocksucker going hungry."
"You got yourself a professional cocksucker there," said Leroy. "If there was an Olympics for sucking dick, she would win the gold fucking medal."
"That's what I keep saying," said Drake. "A world class cocksucker!"
Chapter 8: Catch a Cracker by the Toe, or If He Hollers, Beat His Faggot Ass
Monday dawned bright and early. Mitchell emerged from the basement to shower quickly in the downstairs bathroom, get dressed for work, and fix eggs and sausage for Drake who was also up getting ready for work. There was plenty of food left for DeVaughn and Rayshawn whenever they got up. Mitchell would have to scrub the pans and plates soon as he got home. Looking after three men was going to keep him very busy.
For Mitchell, there was a moment of anxiety in which he dreaded leaving the house being away from his three Masters. Sometimes Mitchell saw Drake delivering mail to the English department. What would those encounters be like now? Mitchell knew Drake would not say or do anything in public to embarrass him. But what if Mitchell embarrassed himself? What if he slipped and called Drake "Sir" in front of other people? It could happen. He had to be careful.
Drake never came by the building, but he did send Mitchell a text around 11:45. "Take me to lunch bitch. Waiting by your car." Mitchell groaned with joy.
First, they stopped at a deli where Mitchell ran in and bought two hoagies and cokes. Drake told Mitchell to drive to the large park at the edge of town where there was a lake with dockage for small boats, picnic areas, paved bike and jogging trails, and winding paths that disappeared into the leafy woods.
Drake picked out a remote picnic table near the edge of the woods to sit awhile. Drake wolfed down his sandwich, and drained the bottle of soda. Mitchell was too nervous to eat, but he did take little sips to keep his mouth and throat from turning dry. Their conversation was one-sided. Drake did all the talking, and Mitchell did all the listening. How could it be otherwise? What could this faggot possibly have to say that a real man would want to hear?
"This is my private spot," said Drake. "I used to come up here with this chick, and we would sit together looking out at the lake. It was so fucking romantic, not that you could possibly understand. All a faggot thinks about is dick. That's your focus. You are a creature of lust, not passion. You're like a dog. You don't love other dogs. The only love you have is for your master. I saw the way you looked at me when you came out to the car. If you had a tail, it would have been wagging. I know you love me, bitch, so why don't take me into the woods, down that path over there, and show your master some love before I have to get back to work."
There are few things better than a blowjob alfresco. You feel like an exhibitionist. A breeze caresses your dick and balls before the cocksucker gets to work. You lean against a tree. You smell the leaves, bark, ferns, soil. You are restored to nature, the savage garden, while a diligent mouth worships your dick. All is right with the world.
Mitchell was grateful for this midday shot of life. He spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Drake's perfect cock when he should have been reviewing faculty performance percentiles. Drake had a class in the evening so he would not be home until late. That meant DeVaughn and Rayshawn would be in charge. Anything could happen.
As soon as Mitchell got home, he changed into jeans and a tee-shirt. DeVaughn and Rayshawn were in their rooms. There were breakfast dishes in the sink, and numerous mugs, tumblers, and wine glasses, to clean before getting dinner started. He wondered what his men would want?
"Fried chicken!" hollered Rayshawn from his room like he read the faggot's mind. "Fried chicken!" echoed DeVaughn. At least that was settled.
The men ate when they felt like it in the living room, watching Dish Nation. Mitchell cleaned up, did a load of laundry for Rayshawn, and at DeVaughn's insistence scrubbed the porcelain in the upstairs bathroom even though it was gleaming.
"I want you to clean that bathroom every day no matter what," said DeVaughn. "It's not what the bathroom needs. It's what you need. You need to scrub a toilet every day of your life."
While Mitchell was polishing the rim of the toilet, Rayshawn came in to take a piss. Mitchell attempted to move out of the way, but was told to stay right where he was. Rayshawn unzipped his pants. Out sprang his long, brown, flaccid cock.
"Hold it while I piss," said Rayshawn.
The slender, flexible pole of meat in Mitchell's hand pulsed and wriggled as a golden stream of urine splashed the water in the bowl. Mitchell looked up as Rayshawn looked down at him with a crafty expression.
It took a long time for Rayshawn to empty his bladder. When he was finally done, he ordered the cocksucker to lick the meatus perfectly clean. Mitchell was more than happy to rescue a few drops of piss with his tongue.
"See how good I treat you?" said Rayshawn. "I know what you need. We can finish this in my room. You're a world class cocksucker. You should be sucking dick all the time. That's why I'm gonna let you focus on my dick to your heart's content. You're gonna be my special little bitch from now on, aren't you. I know you gave Drake a blowjob for lunch. If he doesn't wanna hook up tomorrow, get your ass back here for lunch so you can suck my dick instead. Yeah, boy-eee, you and me, my obedient little white faggot bitch, that's how it's gonna be. Drake doesn't know how to look after a critter like you, but I sure as hell do, and I will beat your scrawny white ass if you give me any trouble."
TO BE CONTINUED...