Date: Tue, 28 Nov 2006 16:34:56 -0800 (PST) From: Skorpio Subject: Thug Cash Master - Part 19 (author, interr) This story is porno-GRAPHIC fiction for adults. It may NOT be copied without written consent from the author. THUG CASH MASTER, by Skorpio. Part 19: Mad Gusto Dre unknotted and removed the bandanna gagging Aaron's mouth. Malik undid the ropes and barked, "Get down from there!" Lathered in sweat, Aaron clambered down from the horse. Remembering the large, hairy spider which crawled across his belly and chest, he shivered uncontrollably. His brawny, hairless body was covered with goose bumps. "Worm, get off yo' shirt and clean up the piss wit' it!" hollered Reese, sternly. "Toad, listen up! Lose the girly shit. I want chu bare-ass nekkid. NOW!!! Both y'all, be quick about it!" Without a second thought, Brad peeled off his cotton tee to swab down the horse and soak up a puddle of urine from the floor. The docile slave lived to carry out his master's orders. With equal alacrity, Aaron tossed away the humiliating bra and panties, glad to be free of them. He stood naked with a shriveled cock and shrunken balls, uncertain what to do next. Reese took Dre and Malik aside for a private colloquy. Their grim, brown faces glanced back at Aaron, making the whiteboy shudder. "Worm, put yo' shirt on and get back to the controls," said Reese. "Let's roll. Intermission is over!" Less than three minutes had passed since Thug Theater faded to black. Hundreds of viewers were waiting patiently online as Brad activated the webcam and Reese, with bulging arms akimbo, reappeared upon their screens. Master Thug was back! Master Thug shared the sly panther eyes of Tyrese Gibson and the sculpted physique of Terrell Owens, with tats like Tupac's inked across his rippling six-pack. Behind him quivered Aaron, hanging his head in shame, knock-kneed, covering his privates. "Welcome back!" Reese announced to the camera. "What did cha'll think about that spider? I don't know `bout chu, but I fell out over that shit! Only a stone pussy would piss his self like that, but that's what Thug Theater is all about. We separate the men from the pussies, know what I'm sayin'? Now we got the fag loosened up, I want y'all to check him out playin' wit' himself. "Let me tell y'all somethin' `bout this obedient white toad," said Reese, glancing over his shoulder. "He does whatever I tell him. That's what happens to whiteboys when I get hold of them. They learn real fast, ain't that right?" "Yes, Master," said Aaron. "See what I'm sayin'?" Reese smirked. "The whiteboy is gonna entertain y'all by jerking off. He's gonna do it because I tell him. This is what I'm talkin' about. Open yo' mouth, Toad." Aaron opened his mouth. "Wider," said Reese. Aaron stretched his jaws as Reese snatched the piss-soaked panties and stuffed them into the whiteboy's gaping mouth. "Now stroke your shit," growled Reese. "Get it hard. Jack off for the camera, or I'll jam that fuckin' spider down yo' throat instead!" Aaron clutched his flaccid penis. At first he worried he would not get erect, but with three thugs watching from the sidelines and knowing he was on display for an audience, Aaron's exhibitionist tendencies won out. He shut his eyes and breathed through his nose, tugging his ruddy, pointed phallus until it swelled to seven inches. As Aaron stroked with increasing speed, a succession of erotic images from the last twenty-four hours played like a long movie trailer in his mind: memories of being trapped, threatened, brutalized, shaved, whipped, terrorized, and broken. Aaron gagged on the odious panties, inhaling through his nostrils, furiously stroking his cock. He grunted like an animal. Every sinew in his body tensed. Bitch! Cunt! Fag! Cracker! Punk! Pussy! These harsh epithets echoed inside Aaron's cranium with the volume turned up full force. Homo! Punk! Slave! The slurs ripped into him like a lash, triggering a sudden orgasm. Aaron's ruddy toadstool erupted in his hand. He fell to his knees, choking on the panties, taking short quick breaths through his nose. "You can spit out the panties, slave," said Reese, stepping back into the camera's eye. "Hope y'all enjoyed that, seein' the whiteboy gettin' his shit off. I bring the real deal. On Thug Theater, whiteboys do what they're told. Word is bond! If y'all wanna see what happens to whiteboys when they come to the wrong side of town, stay tuned. We got one more short intermission, so don't go away, ya hear? Next up: Gangland! You gonna dig this action! We be right back!" Screens everywhere faded to black as Brad concluded the webcast. "Y'all down fo' this?" Reese turned to his two lieutenants. "Ain't too late to change yo' mind. I know this some freaky shit, but we makin' paper, y'all!" "Show me the money, nigga." said Malik. "You know I'm down." "Let's do it," said Dre, thumping his chest. "Knew I could count on my niggas," Reese replied, dapping both. Aaron was directed to the Deluxe Horse and Kneeler. This time he was mounted on his stomach with his thighs straddling the narrow trestle and his knees and elbows resting on support pads. Once again his wrists and ankles were tightly roped. Aaron's head hung at one end of the apparatus and his ass was hiked at the other, holes waiting to be ravished. Malik and Dre stripped naked, but kept their faces concealed with black woolen ski masks. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, Aaron's drumsticks were spread apart, rendering his rosebud anus exposed and helpless. His slack jaw left his ruddy lips agape. Ripe for fucking at both ends. Malik applied a gob of Vaseline to Aaron's ass. The two thugs stood at either end of the horse as Reese signaled the Worm. With a nod from Reese, Part Three of Thug Theater resumed transmission. "Yo, yo, yo!" Reese enthusiastically greeted the camera. "Welcome back to our third and final joint! I call this last part: Gangland. I'm gonna show you what happens to whiteboys who come into my world. Check it out." Reese stepped aside to reveal Malik and Dre standing at either end of the horse. Malik, with his face concealed by the ski mask, pressed the mahogany knob of his long dick against the whiteboy's exposed tender hole. With a sudden, violent thrust, Malik ploughed the little pink starfish and took control. "Unnh, mmmmm, yahh," he grunted, driving his long dick deep into the whiteboy's ass without mercy. "Mmmm, yahhh, mmmm, dat's right," moaned Dre behind his mask, raping the whiteboy's mouth and throat with his large molasses rod. Dre was accustomed to laying back and being serviced because fucking was too much work. But for the sake of the gusto, he was willing to make the effort. Instead of receiving pleasure, he took it. He snatched the slave by his ears. Pain and pleasure became synonymous for Aaron. The relentless, rhythmic pounding in his ass and throat was all he knew. Impaled at both ends, Aaron did not know how much more he could take. Not that he had a choice. He was totally helpless, a fact that thrilled and frightened him. The room tilted and swayed before his eyes. For Malik, there was nothing remotely sexual about fucking this white guy up the ass. It was an act of righteous retribution. Malik's dick swelled hard as steel because the high-octane testosterone in his nuts burned with rage, lust without desire, pleasure driven by cruelty. "Take what's coming to you!" Malik growled. "Keep it wet, bee-yitch," Dre demanded. "Yah, like that! Slobber on it!" "She likes it," said Malik. "Gimme more, gimme more!" Dre thrust again and again. "Choke on that dick!!!" "Ahhhh, yahhh, that's it, like that..." said Malik, thrusting again and again. "Take it, bitch!" "Unh, unnh, unh, unnh, uhhhhhh..." said Dre. Malik could not hold back. He felt his testicles contract. He was deep inside the whiteboy's ravaged pussy when he shot his load, filling the whiteboy with white-hot bullets of venom. A moment later, Dre let out a guttural moan of satisfaction as his nuts busted like fireworks, filling Aaron's gullet with hot, creamy semen. Both thugs groaned as they withdrew their weapons of destruction. Aaron's pussy hole released Malik's dick with a popping sound, like a cork sprung from a bottle of champagne. Cum drooled from Aaron's lips. All three were panting, glistening with sweat. Reese stood before the camera and addressed the audience: "Hope y'all enjoyed that. That's how we fuck around here! If you got a hole, we gonna fuck it! Don't come between a horny nigga and a hole. I want all you whiteboys out there to know! This is what happens when y'all step into my world. I'm Master Thug and if you wanna see some mo' nasty shit like this, let a brotha know. I'll be back next week wit' mo' of the same and somethin' fresh! Peace, out!" At a gesture from Reese, Brad brought down the curtain on Thug Theater with a click of the mouse and a few swift keystrokes. The show was over. Brad swiveled in his chair, hoping for a smile of approval on his Master's face. Malik and Dre peeled off their woolen masks. "Money in the bank," said Malik. "In da bank," echoed Dre. They dapped. At a command from Reese, Brad released his slave brother's bonds. Dazed and disoriented, with a sore throat and sore ass, Aaron climbed down from the horse and fell to his knees from physical exhaustion. "You bitches did aiiight," said Reese. "We made some money tonight. Now, both y'all, get some rest." Reese turned off the light and closed the door behind him, leaving the two slaves alone in the dark. "We should get some rest," suggested Brad, lying down on the floor. "Are you okay?" "I'm okay," mumbled Aaron, weakly. He laid beside Brad, curled up in a fetal position. "Are you sure you're alright?" asked Brad. "Do you think I really made money for the Master?" Aaron's voice was cracked and raspy. "Yes, you did it," Brad acknowledged. "I think he was pleased. You did good, Aaron. We both did." "That's not my name." "You did good, Toad.". "Thanks, Worm," said Aaron. In the darkness neither the Worm nor the Toad could see the contented smile on one another's face. But as exhaustion overcame them with sleep, they shared in a feeling of togetherness. The Toad put his arm around the Worm. Meanwhile, in the living room, Reese announced that almost $15,000 was made that night. Nearly three hundred viewers paid $50 for an hour of Thug Theater. Split three ways this sum was practically five thousand for each thug. Malik wanted his share of the gusto transferred electronically to his account. Dre wanted cash. "Dis shit is off da hook, cuz!" said Dre. "Five fuckin' grand just by getting my dick sucked. When we doin' this again?" "Next Saturday, if y'all still down," said Reese. Raising half-quart tallboys of Steel Reserve, the three thugs toasted their prosperity. They guzzled sixteen ounces of malt liquor with a single swallow, then threw the cans against the wall. "The faggots can clean that up tomorrow," chuckled Reese. "Right now, I think we should go out and celebrate. Don't know `bout y'all, but I need me some pussy! This fag shit don't cut it fo' me!" "Oh, hell, yeah!" Malik agreed. "I'm down with that, but who gonna watch the crackers?" "They aiiight," said Reese, confidently. "They ain't goin' nowhere." "You sure about the toad?" "I own his ass." "I still don't trust him," Malik snarled. "Let me worry `bout that," said Reese. "So, what chu say to gettin' outta here?" The thugs showered, dressed, and went out on the town, leaving the slaves home alone. Several hours passed. At four-thirty in the morning, after getting his dick sucked for twenty dollars in the cab by a white skeezer, Reese returned alone to the crib. Malik and Dre were on their own. Reese snapped on the kitchen light and saw a message on the refrigerator door which read: "Thank you, Master-God," signed, "worm and toad." Reese grinned, as he stripped off his shirt. He looked in on the slaves and found them curled up on the floor of their room, sleeping contentedly. Reese repaired to his room, where he placed his gold watch and gold chains on the nightstand, and climbed into bed. As he slipped between the soft Egyptian linen, Reese thought back to that fateful night two weeks ago when this all began. He was chilling on a bench in the park, watching the sun go down, with a couple dollars in his pocket, when he caught sight of the whiteboy strolling into the park. Reese decided he was gonna get paid that night, one way or another. Returning to the whiteboy's crib, Reese let the faggot suck his dick and then knocked him unconscious with a single blow. After hogtying the whiteboy's wrists and ankles and gagging him with a sock, Reese hunted for valuables, turning up some petty cash and two credit cards. On a hunch, Reese decided to check out the faggot's computer. He had been interested in computers ever since attending a workshop at the county workhouse. Accessing his captive's e-mail, bookmarks, and documents was easy enough, since they were not password protected. It turned out that this cracker had a mad fetish for thugs. He got off giving money to brothers called cash masters on the internet. The faggot's fantasy struck a chord. This was more than just a golden opportunity. Taking money from a white fag was like taking candy from a baby. But there was something else, something Reese first felt that night in the park when the whiteboy lit his cigarette. His Nubian soul was aroused and the warrior within would not be appeased by anything less than victory and domination. Letting a white faggot pay him to be treated like a bitch was more than satisfying. It seemed as natural as eating, breathing, and shitting. How could he say no to a pussified whiteboy who wanted to give him cash money? It was like a dream come true. Reese turned on his side and drifted off to sleep. Soon, he found himself dreaming of an ebon-skinned sovereign upon a golden throne draped with leopard and zebra skins. A dark regal woman stood to the side. Both were arrayed in colorful robes of silk and linen. In this dream, the king's shaved brown head was crowned with a golden circlet from which projected a stylized cobra of gold and turquoise. A long, wooly, black beard jutted from his chin. Across his knees rested a flail and crook. Reese did not know the names for these ancient symbols of office, but they seemed vaguely familiar. About pillared aisles collected many tall, dark-skinned men and women, all richly attired. Many of their faces seemed familiar. Was that Malik with an exquisite Nubian princess on his arm, speaking with a brother who looked like Dre? Was that his brother-in-law Mohammad among the royalty? Naked servants, male and female, bore brass trays laden with fruit, cheese, and flagons of fermented honey. These servants were petite and slender with mustard-colored skin, straight black hair, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. It was hard to discern one gender from the other at a glance, as the naked females' breasts and the naked males' genitalia were exceptionally small. An unseen gong reverberated, accompanied by the pounding of drums, signaling the entrance of twelve white naked slaves. Six white males and six white females lined before the golden throne with their heads bowed. The dream turned dramatically erotic as the white males began to rut with the females, breeding them like animals until their seed was spent. Somehow Reese knew these bulls would be gelded and consigned to hard labor for the rest of their lives, while the cows would beget another generation of drones. The dream shifted scenes. Now, the king was in a sumptuous bed atop his queen, taking her with long, deep, measured thrusts. Her supple, brown body arched and moved in rhythmic accord. As he picked up speed, she made cooing noises like a dove. Their passion was in perfect unison. For Reese, the dream was like looking through the king's own eyes. It was like Reese himself was fucking this Nubian beauty. He nibbled at her breasts and throat. He felt the power between his legs thrust inside her body like a scepter. Reese heard his own voice whisper, "Tonight, my Queen, our son, my heir, is planted in your womb!" The King roared like a jungle cat in the night as his royal seed fecundated her with fire and life. His cry echoed against the walls of stone. A few moments later, a scrawny, white eunuch rushed into the bedchamber, naked except for a rag covering his nether parts and a thick iron collar around his neck. "Please forgive it for intruding, Divine Lord," pleaded the slave, bowing and scraping. "It heard you cry out." "It may attend me," said the king. "My work is done tonight. The land will prosper and my line will continue." The king sat naked at the edge of his bed. Draped in fur, his exquisite queen quit the chamber, passing the cringing white slave as if he did not exist. "Fill the basin and bring it to me, slave," said the king. "There is something familiar about you, slave. How long has it served me?" "All of its life, my Lord." The king had momentarily forgotten that this slave had belonged to him since childhood, but this was understandable. These creatures resembled human beings in a debased way. They did what they were told because obedience was bred into them. If they labored hard, they were well-treated, and provided with food, shelter, and purpose. Laziness and disobedience were swiftly punished. The pale-skinned drone poured water from a pitcher into a large basin and presented it on his knees. Through the window of the king's eyes, Reese looked upon the slave's uncomely features and recognized the Worm. Splashing water on his face, the king caught his own reflection in the bowl. At that moment, Reese bolted awake in his own bed. His smooth, brown, muscular chest glistened with a patina of sweat and there was a puddle of sperm on his stomach. "So fuckin' real," he muttered, shaking his head. "Did you need me, Master?" The worm trembled in the doorway. His pale features stood out in the semi-darkness. "I heard you call, Sir, but I couldn't make out what you were saying," murmured the worm. "Did you?" said Reese, warily. His feral cat eyes flashed suspicion, before the tension in his face relaxed into a generous smile. "Come here, worm... On yo' knees. I got a treat fo' you." The servile whiteboy kneeled between the thug's powerful thighs. "Lick it up," directed Reese, pointing to the cum congealing on his muscular, tattooed stomach. "Thank you, Sir!" gushed Brad. His small, pink tongue lapped the salty mixture of sperm and sweat as if it were the elixir of life. His meager nostrils were glutted with an aroma arousing his deepest instinct to submit. "There ya go," Reese chuckled. "That's yo' reward fo' doin' a good job tonight. Does IT want to kiss my dick now?" "Yes, it does, Master," replied the worm. "Let me hear IT ax permission." "Please, Master, may it kiss your dick? "Do it!" The thug's cock was flaccid, but still very intimidating. Joy, love, lust, awe, worship, reverence, and fear rippled through the worm's body like one emotion, one powerful current, making him shiver from head to toe. A warm, tingling sensation tickled the hole between his legs like a feather. He loved being an "it." "Fetch my smokes and some Kool-Aid," said Reese. He loved being worshipped. The obedient white worm scampered to do his Master's bidding. TO BE CONCLUDED... IN PART TWENTY: GANGSTA'S PARADISE