Please donate to the Nifty Archives to make stories such as this free and available to the public. Imagine having to pay to read these flights of prurience. I'm not worried about it myself. A bunch of faggots will jump at the chance to pay my way. I'm concerned about all the old queers on fixed incomes and the crazy, lazy young ones too flighty to hold down a steady job. What of them? They deserve sexy stories too. Do the right thing. Make a donation.
Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker
or
Black Magick Dick,
by Skorpio
Chapter 9: Of Mice and Men, or The Irresistible Thrust of Black Domination
All week long, before and after work, Mitchell was kept busy serving the sexual needs of his three black masters. Rayshawn was enjoying up to four blowjobs a day. Drake and DeVaughn usually got by with one, either first thing in the morning or last thing at night, and they occasionally went without.
Whenever possible, Rayshawn took the cocksucker aside to remind him they shared a special, exemplary bond. He growled softly into the white man's ear: "You know I been dwelling on you, baby. I think my big, black, juicy dick is falling in love with your pretty little mouth." Rayshawn made sure Mitchell saw him tugging his dick.
When Friday rolled around, Rayshawn announced he would stay home to keep an eye on the faggot if Drake and DeVaughn wanted to go out. The generous offer was readily accepted. Mitchell cowered on the old sofa in the basement, apprehensive about being left alone with Rayshawn. But then he thought about Rayshawn's slender wand and the delicious ambrosia it produced, and his fears were dispelled.
At ten o'clock, Rayshawn stomped down the basement stairs, and stood before Mitchell. He was wearing Timberlands, raggedy jeans, and the Allen Iverson jersey. He smelled of cologne and coconut oil. Mitchell knew what was coming.
"Get out of my seat," snapped Rayshawn. "Get on your knees. Time for your feeding. Drake was right, you are a needy bitch. I bet you would love having a dick in your mouth all day long, wouldn't you? Like a baby with a pacifier! Suck my dick, you fucking homo. Suck my fucking dick!"
Mitchell scrambled frantically to unbuckle Rayshawn's belt and unzip his pants. He pulled out the soft, brown cock through the opening in the boxers, and wrapped his lips around the head. It was beginning to swell, when Rayshawn seized him by the ears.
"Get your mouth off my dick, faggot," snarled Rayshawn. "I wanna know when you're gonna tell Drake you're MY bitch. Are you scared of him, bitch? You need to be scared of me! I don't play around. You know what? I don't want my dick sucked. Get out them clothes. Get nekked, bitch."
This was an unforeseen development. Mitchell had never before been naked in the presence of his masters. In fact, no one had seen him naked, not even his doctor, since he had to take showers with the other boys in high school. That was a humiliating ordeal at the time, and it was no less humiliating now.
Twenty-five years ago, Mitchell had the body of an Adonis, or so he liked to think. Age and dissipation had taken their toll. His shoulders drooped, chest was flat, no muscle tone, and the beginnings of a paunch. His member protruded from a pubic nest like a mushroom cap. His balls were minuscule. His plump buttocks looked like large, doughy dumplings.
"You need to get your ass beat, faggot," said Rayshawn, pulling off his belt.
Doubling it in his hand, Rayshawn brought the leather strap down hard on Mitchell's right cheek. Thwack! Mitchell cried out in pain. Rayshawn repeated with another blow, harder than before. THWACK!!! Mitchell hollered even louder, and tears welled in his eyes.
Again and again, the whipping continued relentlessly with savage, stinging blows. Rayshawn laughed malevolently as crimson welts crisscrossed the dimpled, alabaster cheeks. The sound of sobbing was music to his ears. Thwack! Thwack!! THWACK!!!
"This is what you deserve, you nasty albino looking subhuman caucazoid faggot motherfucker. Tell me whose bitch you are. Say it, cunt. Who's your Master? Who? Is? Your? Fucking! Master!"
Rayshawn punctuated his final words by applying the belt five times with all the severity he could summon.
"You are! You're my Master!" bawled Mitchell, as he collapsed into a heap of quivering pallid flesh. Looming over him was Rayshawn with his rigid member jutting like a baton of polished wood.
"You pathetic piece of shit," Rayshawn spat in the faggot's hair. "Get back on my dick!"
It was almost an hour before Mitchell earned the precious ounces of delicious African sperm which helped to distract him from his sore posterior. A small consolation that did not last long.
"I'm gonna leave my belt down here," said Rayshawn, "so you'll remember who tenderized your ass. That's gonna be my ass. Your pussy's gonna be my pussy. Think about it."
Alone in the basement once more, Mitchell contemplated what transpired. He did not like having his ass whipped. It was true, he was not actually capable of refusing Rayshawn or others anything, but pain was not in the bargain.
Surrendering his very home and being treated like an abject slave in exchange for black cock on the premises night and day was worth it. Little did Mitchell know there are many white men and women who would be more than content with such an arrangement. But he never counted on a brutal beating.
Mitchell did not know how much more rough treatment he could take. He wanted to please Rayshawn, he really did. Maybe he truly deserved corporal punishment. Between the verbal abuse and the obvious relish Rayshawn took in administering pain, Mitchell could not deny feeling a twinge of sexual excitement. Masochism was a new experience. He did not know what to make of it.
How far would Rayshawn go? Mitchell was afraid to inform Drake, afraid of sowing seeds of dissent, afraid of further discipline, afraid of confronting how little control remained to him. If things got worse, he decided, then he would speak up.
Mitchell was asleep when DeVaughn stumbled home drunk with a Spanish chick in a short, red dress. Drake did not return until late next morning. His clothes were rumpled, and he looked tired. After Mitchell fixed him a light breakfast, Drake repaired to his bedroom, presumably to sleep. DeVaughn took off with his latest strumpet.
That left the cocksucker once again at Rayshawn's mercy. There could be no escape. Without being summoned, Mitchell stepped out onto the sunny terrace where Rayshawn, shirtless in sweatpants, leaned back in a canvas deck chair. Mitchell could not stop himself. He had to see if Rayshawn needed anything.
"You look like a little white mouse, you know that?" Rayshawn looked up as he sparked a blunt. "You got them big ears, beady little eyes, twitchy nose, squeaky voice. All you need is some whiskers and a tail. I don't like mice. They're rodents. Wanna know what I do to mice? I put them out of their misery."
Those beady eyes were trained on the tubular bulge along the inside of Rayshawn's thigh. Mitchell felt like a child desperately straining to x-ray a package under the Christmas tree to no avail. Except in this case, he knew exactly what lay concealed, and he wanted it so badly he could already taste it. The visual was so tantalizing, it was hard to tune into what Rayshawn was saying.
Mitchell's pulse quickened as Rayshawn lifted his hips to slide the sweatpants to his ashy shins. His long, pointed brown cock pointed like a steeple toward heaven, like an arrow indicating the way to paradise. "Well?" said Rayshawn. "You want summa this or not?"
Like a pilgrim who has come a distance to venerate the holiest of shrines, driven by reverence, filled with awe, the cocksucker fell upon his knees and kissed the tip of Rayshawn's rod. This was no priestly kiss, no chaste benediction, but that of an ardent worshipper, eager, amorous, lingering, and wet, with a teasing slip of tongue.
"You must have been thinking about my dick," said Rayshawn. "I can always tell when someone is thinking about my dick. My dick got real hard soon as you came out here so you must have been thinking about it a lot. I told you, you can suck this dick anytime you want. I'm not like them other two. I ain't messing with no females right now, so this dick is all yours."
In the evening, Drake went out again. "I probably won't be back until tomorrow," he notified DeVaughn, who was getting his dick suckled gently while he watched TV. The roughneck's fling with the little whore in the red dress was already a thing of the past. Rayshawn was in his room, smoking weed and listening to music.
After DeVaughn busted a nut in Mitchell's throat and went off to bed, the cocksucker breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed Rayshawn was done with him, at least for the time being. Mitchell looked forward to getting some rest. Unfortunately for Mitchell, his reprieve was short-lived.
Waiting in the basement stood Rayshawn. He was naked, and his long, slender, brown cock was engorged. In his hand, a small jar of Vaseline. On his face, a sinister smile. The trap was sprung!
"Get nekkid, mouse," commanded Rayshawn. "That mouth of yours is off the chain, but you got a pussy too. I don't think it's right you been holding out on us. I think you need to get fucked."
Rayshawn took the white man doggy style. Once the pointed head of his greased pole located the puckered hole between Mitchell's cheeks, he penetrated with a sudden thrust.
Mitchell shrieked in agony, but Rayshawn came prepared with a black nylon do-rags to use as a gag. Only throttled moans came from the faggot's mouth as Rayshawn long-dicked him from behind. Nine long relentless implacable powerful inches sliding all the way in and almost all the way out, first slow, then fast, then faster.
"Don't run from me!" he growled between his teeth. "Hike up that ass. Give me that cunt, you fucking faggot. Take this dick! Take this black dick, you white motherfucker. Take it! I told you this ass was mine! You're my bitch! You hear me? My bitch!"
It was a long, relentless, satisfying fuck. Rayshawn cleaned his dick with one of Mitchell's shirts. The whimpering faggot lay crumpled on the linoleum floor in a fetal position, quivering.
"I wouldn't call that world-class," said Rayshawn, "but since that was your first time, I wasn't expecting much. Don't worry. I'm gonna teach your pussy how to respect a dick. Bring your sorry ass up to speed in no time."
Chapter 10: Signs of the Faggot Apocalypse, or Spare the Lash, Spoil the Caucasoid
Sunday morning, DeVaughn and Rayshawn ate breakfast in the living room, watched the Three Stooges and sports roundups, smoked weed, and took turns letting the faggot blow them.
It never ceased to amaze Mitchell how nonchalant these men were about nudity and blowjobs while carrying on a conversation. Mitchell was prudish. He preferred that special bond between his mouth and one cock without anyone watching but the stud he was servicing.
Said DeVaughn: "I never realized how much I needed to get my dick sucked until I could get a blowjob whenever I want. Used to go for days not thinking about it. Now, bam! Every day I need a fucking blowjob. And, bam! I get one. You can't beat this set-up."
"I'm lovin' it, for real," said Rayshawn, sending from his ample lips rings of thin, blue smoke. The cocksucker's face was buried in his crotch.
"Drake was one lucky motherfucker, finding this freakazoid."
"Nah," scoffed Rayshawn. "There are so many fucking faggots out there, it ain't no joke."
"I don't know," DeVaughn mused. "It's probably the same number there's always been, except all of them is out the closet. They got their own TV shows, get married, play football. They march in parades, calling themselves proud to be gay and shit. I know, I know, that's whack, but things are different now."
"I'm not talking about those kinds of homosexuals," said Rayshawn. "They're harmless. I mean freaks like this one here. Needing black dick so bad, they'll do anything for it."
"That's a good thing, right?"
Said Rayshawn: "It's a good thing. But if we don't keep them in check, there's gonna be too many of them. And you know how a mob of white folks get when they want something."
"So, we're actually doing society a favor by making this funny faggot our bitch."
"That's what I'm saying," Rayshawn averred.
"Do you think they're born that way?" DeVaughn's perpetual sneer added condescension to his query. "I mean, they have to be, right?"
"All I know is a whole lot of white guys got a craving for what we've been blessed with. I don't have a problem with letting a cracker suck my johnson, but if he wants to do that, he's gonna follow my rules."
Their conversation was accompanied by the steady sound of slurping. Rayshawn showed no signs of nearing an orgasm.
"I think they gotta be born like that," DeVaughn persisted. "Look at that cocksucker chowing down on your shit, man. That takes skill. It's like a God-given gift. Bitch knows what he's doing!"
"Yes, he does," Rayshawn concurred.
"His throat was made for taking dick. He didn't learn that. I bet his shit-hole feels like a pussy too."
"It does," said Rayshawn, smugly.
"You fucked the faggot?"
"I fucked the faggot."
"No shit, bruh!"
"Beat that bitch's ass with my belt too."
"You whipped his ass and you fucked him? Damn, I bet the cocksucker loved that shit."
"Yo, cocksucker!" Rayshawn addressed the faggot sucking his dick. "Tell the man how much you liked getting your ass beat."
Mitchell was so absorbed in his activity, he did not realize the brother was talking to him. Not until Rayshawn smacked him upside the head, and repeated the question. Mitchell groaned. He did not know how to respond. He did not like the belt, not at all. Except perhaps a little. He definitely did not care to repeat the experience. Except, maybe. It was not fun while it was happening, but in retrospect, he was not so sure. Something about Rayshawn's sadistic savagery excited him. In a way.
In any case, he dared not contradict Rayshawn. That would not end well. Both men glared at him with long, steady, piercing looks.
"Speak up," goaded DeVaughn.
"I liked it, sir," Mitchell hesitated. "Thank you, sir."
"This bitch practically begged me to whip his ass," said Rayshawn, giving a nod for Mitchell to resume. "I don't know if he gets off on pain or just likes being punished."
"Probably both," DeVaughn sneered. "That's dope. Good to know."
"Yeah, you should whip his ass. Do it for our bitch here. We gotta give this piece of shit what it needs if we're gonna get the most out of him, know what I'm saying?"
DeVaughn: "I don't got no problem whuppin' his white ass, oh hell, no. I can get down with that, word is bond. What I wanna know is how was that cunt-hole?"
"Tight as fuck," said Rayshawn. "Guess he was saving it for the right dick. Lucky for him that I was his first, because I took it easy, broke him nice and gentle. Most cats would have just rammed his ass."
"That would be me," DeVaughn boasted. "When I screw a virgin hole, I don't hold nothing back."
"The cunt can handle it," said Rayshawn. "He likes it rough."
"It doesn't matter what he likes."
Seeing as Rayshawn was in no rush to ejaculate, DeVaughn decided to head out. There was a chick he knew who worked at the diner who was getting off in an hour. This was his chance to at least walk her home, and hopefully hook up later.
Alone with Rayshawn once more, Mitchell was again gagged and subjected to another treatment with the belt. This time, more brutal and vindictive than before. Thwack! Thwack!! Thwack!!! Every time supple leather smote tender flesh, the white man's body convulsed in agony.
"I can't do this anymore...," thought Mitchell between blows. "I can't take it... I haven't done... anything... to deserve this... he simply likes hurting me... why....why?"
"You nasty, fucking, uppity, faggot, you're gettin' a whipping `cause that's what your white ass needs," Rayshawn snarled, as if some telepathic bond had been forged between tormentor and tormented.
Mitchell felt naked and exposed in more ways than one. It seemed as if the belt was splitting him wide open, turning him inside out. There was nowhere left to hide, no refuge, no turning off the tears. The only thing that helped to distract him from the pain was to focus on what Rayshawn was saying.
"You're MY bitch, you hear me? Drake and DeVaughn are cool, but you put me before them, understand? Give me my props, bitch, and maybe you won't need to get your ass beat. Disappoint me, and you're gonna get a lot worse than a whoopin'."
Rayshawn went upstairs, leaving the faggot in a heap on the floor. It took a few minutes for Mitchell to pull himself together. He grabbed a blanket and curled up on the sofa, too spent to turn off the lamp. But the night was not yet over.
Around three, DeVaughn returned. He was pissed because his tryst with the waitress did not work out as he hoped. Some ofay cat in a suit was waiting for her instead. After that, DeVaughn hit the bars to drown his sorrows.
What had Rayshawn been saying about taking a belt to the white man's ass? That sounded to drunken DeVaughn like a good idea at the time. He clomped down the basement stairs so noisily that Mitchell woke with a start to see DeVaughn brandishing the belt.
TO BE CONTINUED....