Date: Thu, 28 Dec 2017 13:45:27 +0000 (UTC) From: Skorpio Subject: World Class Cocksucker - 6 (author, interr) After you finish visualizing this story of Black Domination, wash your hands or lick that mess off your fingers, whatever it is you do to clean up, and then, make a donation to Nifty Stories. Drake McKeefer and the World Class Cocksucker, or Black Magick Dick, by Skorpio Chapter 11: Fun and Games with Faggots, or Slavery in Suburbia, the Trending Lifestyle Nobody Talks About "Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding." - Khalil Gibran By the time DeVaughn finished whipping Mitchell's ass with the belt, forty-eight strokes for every year that he was born, plus two to grow on, it was four o'clock. The submissive homosexual was once again reduced to sobbing tears, a crumpled, quivering manikin. Such unmanly passivity ignited the young, sneering roughneck with fiery contempt. So much so that it was exigent to hawk a hot loogie, ejecting the foul sputum squarely on the faggot's face. And again. "You fucking disgust me you subhuman piece of shit freakazoid," ranted DeVaughn. Whatever he had been drinking had not worn off, and his eyes shone with a mineral glaze that came from something stronger than booze or weed. "Rayshawn was right. You need your ass beat. This shit ain't no joke, faggot. And don't think you're gonna get summa this dick, because this ain't about sex. I like hurting you. I like seeing you cry, you little pussy! You should be ashamed of yourself, sucking dick, waiting on niggas like a damn slave, giving up cash. But you're not ashamed. If you were, you would stop. But you can't stop, can you, bitch? You're nothing but a whore for black meat. That's all you are. That's why I'm not going to stop hurting you. I'm going to make you suffer for being whatever the fuck it is you think you are. Word is bond! That's a promise! Right now, you're gonna tell me what the fuck you are! Speak up so I can hear you!" "I think... I'm a subhuman piece of shit," whimpered Mitchell. His eyes ached from crying, his jaw was tense from clenching, and his doughy cheeks thoroughly toasted and still warm. Spittle ran down his face. At the same time, Mitchell was transfixed by the vision of DeVaughn, now shirtless, looming over him, displaying his sculpted six-pack and flashing glimpses of his furry, black pits. He could not help himself, just as DeVaughn said. Despite the pain wracking his body, despite the bile of self-loathing rising in his gorge, despite the promise of beatings and more to come, there was this menacing young thug with his dark brown, defined physique radiating waves of raw sensuality. That the ultimate source of Nubian virility was tucked out of sight behind sheer fabric was almost maddening. After DeVaughn went to his room, Mitchell lay for a long time on the old sofa looking up at the Styrofoam ceiling tiles. He felt shattered in body and spirit. Even the psychological spell of submission which held him in thrall for so long was broken. With some effort, he could think again. He wanted to think about DeVaughn's coal-black cock, but forced himself to focus on the problem at hand. He had serious regrets. Buyer's remorse. Had the fantasy run its course? How could he be sure? Maybe he could suffer a few more beatings, possibly get used to it, and perhaps it was intensely erotic, at least after the fact. There was something to fearfully love about the animalistic look of aggression on DeVaughn's face. Comes a climax, it is said, between sadist and masochist when one is revealed to the other in mutual, naked self-exposure. One sees the abject truth of his victim's pusillanimous nature, a weak, groveling, sniveling creature that can only be pitied or despised. The other is blinded by a radiance of will that cannot be denied, resolve beyond measure, powerful, seductive, and perilous. This was Mitchell's quandary, and he had to ponder fast. In all likelihood, Drake had not come home yet, however DeVaughn and Rayshawn would be expecting breakfast as usual. The alarm clock would soon shatter the silence. Mitchell shuddered to think what would happen if he ever failed to feed those two angry black men on time. Why could it not go back to just him and Drake? Everything changed when DeVaughn and Rayshawn moved in. Drake's superlative cock was more than enough for him. It was the best cock in the world. Mitchell almost regretted being tempted by any other, and lately, there had been so many. It was that night-long orgy of black cock, he decided, that tossed him down the well into that tar pit of total, helpless submission. But now, for the moment, he was free. Suddenly, with the succinctness of a metaphor, the alarm clock rang, and at the same instant, Mitchell decided what to do. He would tell Drake everything. That's what he would do. He would not complain, but bring to Drake's attention the rape and corporal punishment. He knew Drake would listen. Now his head was clear. He was willing to pay Drake a thousand dollars every week, provide room and board for Drake and his friends, and suck their cocks whenever they wanted. That was an equitable exchange. But no beatings. It did not matter how they spoke to him, just no physical pain. That was all he would ask. There was always the possibility Drake might not be reasonable. In his heart, Mitchell did not think that would happen, but it could not be ruled out. Drake was inscrutable, too deep to fathom, too remote to make out. Not like DeVaughn and Rayshawn. Those two Mitchell knew only too well. Their cruelty would leave scars in his flesh and soul. If he even had a soul. Mitchell remembered Drake telling him once that some black men don't believe caucasians have souls. Making up his mind to tell Drake everything took all the willpower Mitchell could muster. It was the right thing to do. Drake was his one true Master. They shared an understanding. Mitchell was in awe of Drake as well as head-over-heels and heels-over-head in love with his massive black cock. He would do anything for Drake. Drake could be demanding, but he made Mitchell feel useful. What was useful about being whipped with a belt? Thinking about the whipping he took a few hours ago, and the promise DeVaughn made, turned Mitchell's blood cold as ice. He did not want to go through that again, or whatever else the young thug had in mind. The young thug who let Mitchell smell his pits. The one whose cock looked like a chunk of bituminous coal, dark brown going on black. It was such a nice cock, thought Mitchell. Why was DeVaughn being so mean? For a moment, the proud cocksucker had a mad urge to wake up DeVaughn with a blowjob, the best blowjob imaginable, to prove his worth. But he quickly thought better of it. No telling what else that young thug would want. The same went for Rayshawn. Maybe Drake would want a blowjob when came home? Where was he? Where did he spend the night? Mitchell believed in Drake. They shared a bond, a connection, like nothing Mitchell ever felt for any man before. Not only would he tell Drake everything, Mitchell suddenly decided to give Drake the house. That would convince Drake to agree to his only stipulation, and besides, it was fitting. Drake was his Master, not DeVaughn or Rayshawn. Of course, he respected them as Superiors, and was willing to obey them within reason, because the Master he loved commanded it. Could there be any greater love than that of a slave for his Master? Mitchell understood at last what it meant to know his place. This was the way things should be. This was why Drake's name must be on the deed. The kitchen table was set and breakfast was on the stove when DeVaughn and Rayshawn eventually stumbled downstairs. First was the young thug, wearing a plush black bathrobe, unbelted, over his boxers and wifebeater. "Pour me some juice," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. There was a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He reached for the buttered toast. A few minutes later, Rayshawn sat down across from DeVaughn, making as much noise as possible when he snatched the chair out from the table. DeVaughn muttered something without looking up from his phone. Rayshawn was in his boxers sans undershirt. In an arc over his cinnamon brown, perfectly chiseled abdomen in black ink letters was the word SLANG, which did not mean what the clueless white man thought it meant. While the men threw down greedily, barely speaking to one another, Mitchell absented himself quietly from the kitchen. There was other work to be done, beginning with the upstairs bathroom. It seemed being a toilet-flusher was Mitchell's responsibility in addition to being toilet-scrubber. Not one of his men ever flushed the toilet after they were finished using it. No matter how persuasively Mitchell convinced himself it was a privilege to perform menial tasks for his master, there was no way the fussy college administrator did not feel demeaned by this. Nonetheless, it was better than being used as a whipping boy, Mitchell glumly consoled himself, as he watched a coil of enormous brown turds spiraling away. Ordinarily, that noisome sight would have turned his stomach, but now nothing seemed to matter. This was his life now. It was where he belonged, and he could live with it. If only Drake would put a stop to the vicious assaults and keep feeding him black cock. Thinking about Drake's blessed endowment lifted the old cocksucker's spirits. It always did. Mitchell's elation was short-lived. From the living room, Rayshawn barked: "Motherfucker, get your cracker ass down here, front and center. It's Faggot Fun Time!" DeVaughn was shedding the black robe when Mitchell scurried into the room and gave knee. Rayshawn was sipping from a long-necked bottle of beer. Several full shopping bags rested on the coffee table. "Get nekkid," said DeVaughn, before turning to Rayshawn: "Wait, should he get all the way naked?" "How else are we gonna fuck him?" "Yeah, right." "He's a fucking pig," said Rayshawn. "Pigs don't wear clothes!" Mitchell was reduced to his Fruit of the Looms. "C'mon, Pain-Piggy, get `em off," snickered DeVaughn. Mitchell took a deep breath and plunged full Monty. There was no need to cover his diminutive genitals in shame for that was the least of his worries. With Drake still absent, the vulnerable white man's worst fears had been realized. He was at the mercy of the Diabolical Duo. Whatever they planned on doing, he was helpless to stop them. In their presence, he had no will of his own. It was Rayshawn who came up with attaching clothespins to the white man's nipples. Mitchell winced as they were applied, and felt a sensual current ripple from his chest to his solar plexus every time Rayshawn flicked them with his fingers. "We're gonna get those titties big, baby. A man's gotta have somethin' to grab onto when you're sucking his dick." "What should we do with the rest of these clothespins?" asked DeVaughn. "Put some on his nut sack," Rayshawn suggested, unsuccessfully smothering a childlike titter. His dark eyes gleamed. Mitchell wobbled on his knees, legs apart, hands behind his back, eyes clenched, as DeVaughn attached four wooden clamps to the faggot's shrunken scrotum. It was not long before the victim's pallid, flabby body was pinched by clothespins in two dozen places: ear lobes, lips, arms, chest, belly, buttocks, testicles, toes. There were stages of pain. The initial pinch stung for only a second. Then came numbness, a loss of sensation, followed by an aching soreness that became more intense as time passed. When one of his tormentors touched or tugged a clothespin, Mitchell felt a sharp twinge of pain. When he cried out, Rayshawn told him, "Shut the fuck up, bitch! You want the neighbors to hear you hollering? Fucking pussy! You think this hurts? You think this is all we're gonna do to you?" "The faggot looks fucking ridiculous," chortled DeVaughn, taking a picture with his phone. "It's your turn, bruh," said Rayshawn. "Faggot Fun Time. What do you got lined up for our lucky contestant?" DeVaughn pulled out a small jar of Icy Hot from one of the shopping bags. He unscrewed the lid, smeared some of the crystal blue ointment on his fingers, and proceeded to massage his trapezius muscles. "That feels good," he said, flexing his shoulders. "Doesn't it burn?" asked Rayshawn. "Nah," DeVaughn scoffed. "It's hot and cold at the same time, very soothing. Try summa this." Rayshawn applied some to his triceps. "Ohhh, yeah, I can feel it. Yeah, that feels nice. It's like getting a massage. It, like, melts away the tension." "I know, right?" said DeVaughn. "So this is what I figured. Why don't we do something nice to this faggot for a change? You know his nuts gotta be sore after all the shit we put him through. Maybe that's why he's horned up for dick all the time, `cause he never gets off. I never seen him cum, did you?" "Nope," shrugged Rayshawn. "What do they call that thing that happens to white guys when they don't bust a nut?" "Blue balls?" "Yeah, that's it. Their balls turn blue and shit. Supposed to be real painful." "I think the faggot might got blue balls," said Rayshawn. "It's hard to tell, they're so small. You should put summa that Icy Hot shit on his nuts. Make them feel better." "That's what I was thinking," said DeVaughn. Mitchell's eyes were round as saucers. He knew liniments were not meant for testicles. He wanted to speak up, but could not find the gumption. He knew this would be painful. It was going to happen, and there was nothing he could to stop it. The glob of Icy Heat which DeVaughn scooped up with his fingers was more than twice the amount either he or Rayshawn had used. With one hand, DeVaughn snatched the faggot by the hair and jerked back his head. With the other, DeVaughn grabbed the faggot's testicles and squeezed, smearing Icy Hot into the thin, sensitive, tender skin. It did not take long to deform the look of panic on Mitchell's white, stricken face into a red mask of ineluctable anguish. With a scream, he rolled onto his side and drew up his knobby eyes. He clutched his balls, convulsing, sobbing: "It burns! It burns! Make it stop! Please! Help me! Please! Please! Please!" DeVaughn and Rayshawn looked at one another blankly, and then down at the writhing, babbling white man on the carpet with frowns of contempt. Said the young thug: "What's the matter, Mister Charlie? Don't you find that soothing? You look like you're in pain." "`Do not apply to genitals or sensitive skin,'" Rayshawn read from the label on the jar of Icy Hot. "No shit?" said DeVaughn. "Sorry about that, faggot." "Do you think his tits are `sensitive skin'?" asked Rayshawn. "I don't know," said DeVaughn. "Only one way to find out." "Tie his hands behind his back first." A length of rope was quickly produced, but it took both of them to hold the squirming faggot in place. There was no indication the Icy Hot would wear off any time soon. Once Mitchell's wrists were bound, all of the clothespins were removed with a tug, eliciting high-pitched yelps of pain followed by deep groans of relief. The swollen nipples were lavishly coated with liniment until they looked like stubby candles dripping wax. For Mitchell, it felt like matches setting his nubs on fire. He flopped around on his belly helplessly like a fish out of water, blubbering incoherently, gasping for air, red in the face. For DeVaughn and Rayshawn, it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Who knew torturing a queer bitch could be so much fun? It did not look like Mitchell was going to stop wriggling in excruciating pain any time soon. From time to time, DeVaughn would kick the faggot in the ass with his foot simply to produce more sounds of suffering. "What else you got in them bags?" he inquired. "Check it out," said Rayshawn, empty the contents onto the sofa. There was an assortment of sex toys, including a cucumber sized black dildo, whips, paddles, ball-gags, and restraints." "Where did you get this shit?" "That porn shop on East State. Borrowed the faggot's credit card." "Does Drake know?" "Why do I gotta tell him? The fag wanted me to use it," Rayshawn smirked, not actually trying to put one over on DeVaughn. Playing along, the roughneck seized the wriggling faggot by the jaw and spit in his face. "What's wrong with you, bitch? How come you didn't let ME hold your fucking credit card? You got something against me? You like Rayshawn's dick more better, is that it, you little cunt? You know you can be replaced. Just like that!" DeVaughn snapped his fingers. "You're right about that," Rayshawn agreed, flipping through new porn magazines. "I ran into one of these fairies when I bought this ish. He was working there. A real sissy. Got smart with me when I went got to the register." "What'd he say?" DeVaughn's interest was piqued. "He looked at my shit, right, and he said, `Is that all for you, sir?'" "What did you say?" "So, I said, `Hell, no, none of this shit is for me. It's for a faggot like you, you fucking homo. Ring this mess up. I don't wanna hear another word out your mouth.' And he shut the fuck up." "Yeah, queers can real uppity if you let them." Rayshawn was not finished with his tale. "There was only me and him in the store," he went on. "After he put all this shit in a bag and gave me my change, I looked him dead-cold in the eye, and I said: `Can I axe you a question, whiteboy? Do you know, I mean, do you really know where you belong? Do you?'" "What did he say?" "Are you ready for this?" said Rayshawn with evident glee. "He said, `On my knees, sir." Can you beat that shit? He said: On my knees, sir! So I said to him: then why aren't you? He said, `I have to lock the door first.' And I said: What are you waiting for?" Rayshawn paused to spark a cigarette. DeVaughn took a gulp of beer. Mitchell remained face down, wrists bound, naked, squirming less but still groaning and whimpering. His balls and tits were still on fire, but by thinking intently of something else, he could almost forget the searing pain. Of course, he thought of cock. "That's how I got my dick sucked at the porn shop," Rayshawn exclaimed, expelling a skunky cloud of smoke as he passed the blunt. "Skinny whiteboy, kind of effeminate, know what I'm sayin'? Pretty mouth. Nice lips for a caucasoid. Sucked my shit real good. Not as good as this cocksucker - " He spat on Mitchell. "But not bad." "I've only had a few faggots blow me," said DeVaughn. "They all gave head better than any female. But none of them compare to our little slave bitch here." He patted Mitchell on the head. Thoughts of Drake's blessed cock filled Mitchell's mind. The one cock he wanted more than any other. He could picture it so vividly that he almost did not hear the harsh, authoritative voice speaking to him. "Did you hear what the man said?" barked Rayshawn. "He said you're our fucking slave. We own you, faggot. Drake isn't coming to your rescue, and even if he was here, he doesn't give a shit about your queer white ass. You're a slave. You're property. We can do anything we want to you." "It's Faggot Fun Time," laughed DeVaughn. "Yeah, and I'm ready to get my dick sucked," said Rayshawn. "Think this cocksucker is done marinating?" "I'm looking it up now," said DeVaughn, thumbing away at his smart phone. "I'm Googling: Icy Hot genitals... Here it is. Says the burning sensation can last for several hours. Dayummm. Those chestnuts are gonna be fucking roasted." "I almost feel sorry for the bitch." "I don't." "I said, almost." "What this cocksucker needs is some dick to take his mind off the pain. He's probably thinking about our shit right now." "He's been steady thinking about our dicks ever since he got up this morning. That's all this homo ever thinks about." "Do you think about pussy all the time?" asked DeVaughn. "I think about it a lot," Rayshawn admitted. "I wouldn't say all the time." "Me, neither. Not all the time. That wouldn't be normal. That's why these cocksuckers are freaks. They're out of control. They can't control themselves. They have to BE controlled." "Why don't you control the freak's cunt while I stick something in its mouth," Rayshawn suggested. "I've got something for his mangina," said DeVaughn, slipping off his boxers. "Did you say his mangina?" Rayshawn laughed as he stripped. "I hear that's what they're called." "Where did you hear that?" "On The Real." Rayshawn indicated with a nod that reference was sufficient proof for this funny new word. "Yeah, you get yourself summa that mangina," he sniggered like a teenager talking dirty for the first time. "Nigga, how am I gonna get my dick hard if you keep talking?" "Put some porn on. No, hold up. I got the remote." There was a disc in the DVD player. Ghetto Gangbang VII flickered into view on the large TV screen: a pretty white girl, barely legal, was getting pounded at both ends. The camera rolled around the threesome, zooming in on the action: the thick black sausage stuffed in her mouth, another like a black-iron cylinder relentlessly drilling her ass. "That's what I'm talking about," said DeVaughn. He slapped the pain-wracked faggot's dimpled cakes with a resounding whack. "Bitch, that's how I'm gonna fuck you." Mitchell's talented mouth was already on Rayshawn's long, baton-like cock, slobbering gratefully. "Yeah, slave, suck that dick. Suck your Master's dick. This is what you wanted." "You're giving the slave what he wants," said DeVaughn. "I'm gonna give this motherfucker what he needs." With that, DeVaughn rammed his coal-black chunk of meat into the faggot's pink, puckered hole. It took what remained of Mitchell's self-control not to cry out or bite down. There was resistance at first as his sphincter clenched against the sudden intrusion, but DeVaughn persisted until he was all the way inside. "You sure you screwed this cunt?" taunted DeVaughn. "It's so fucking tight, I can't believe it been tapped already. Dayummm, it's super tight. Oh, hell, yahhhh, I'm gonna pump the shit outta this pussy. This mangina, I mean." "Awwww, shit," Rayshawn laughed and groaned at once. The expert cocksucker somehow managed to flick his tongue against the shaft while pubic hair tickled his nostrils. "Yahhhh, you fuck that fucking mangina, cuz. I can't believe how good this bitch can suck a dick. Ohhhh, shit, yahhhh, that's right, slave, you fucking queer, suck your Master's dick. Suck that black dick!" As Rayshawn ranted, he began to softly chant: "Get at that mission whiteboys do so well, Worship my dick like a harlot from hell, Service the phallus plainly superior! No teeth, go deep, you faggot inferior!" "What was that?" questioned DeVaughn, slowing his thrusts. "It's nothing," Rayshawn shrugged. "It's from a song I wrote. It's not very good." "I like it," said DeVaughn: "`Service the phallus that is superior! No teeth, go deep, you fucking inferior!' That's dope, man!" "I've been doing a lot of thinking," said Rayshawn. "Drake is never home. He barely uses this faggot. We're the ones been giving it what he needs. We're the real Masters in this house, you feel me, bruh?" "I feel you," said DeVaughn, "but Drake is cool, man. We can share this faggot. We got it made." "I just want this slave to know we are his Masters too, and Drake isn't gonna come to his rescue. If I'm gonna stay here, I'm gonna use this fucking slave however I want. I'm gonna make Faggot Fun Time a weekly thing so the slave has something to look forward to." "I don't think Drake gives a shit how we treat the faggot." "Wait until you see some of the other shit I bought," said Rayshawn. "I got this remote controlled butt plug. The faggot keeps it in his hole all day and you can make it vibrate any time you want using your phone." "That's sound cool," said DeVaughn, resuming a faster tempo while steadily taking in the rectal ravaging displayed on the TV screen. It was almost like screwing a real female up the ass. Instinctively, he reached around to twist the tender, swollen, burning tits. At that moment a familiar, booming voice filled the room, pricking Mitchell's ears and making his heart pound with excitement. "When y'all get done with the cocksucker, I wanna see him in the kitchen." Drake leaned in the doorway, bulging arms folded across his chest. There was no telling how long he had been there, or what he may have overheard. He was wearing a snug, black, short-sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of pressed khaki slacks, polished loafers, gold Rolex, and both ears glittered with small diamond studs. Neither DeVaughn nor Rayshawn could read the smile flickering on Drake's full lips and in his catlike eyes. Perhaps the contrast between Drake's casual but dignified attire and the spectacle of two naked brothers brutally double-teaming a white man twice their age on the living room floor spoke for itself. Drake turned and walked away. "Take my skeet," Rayshawn snarled, gripping the cocksucker's head with both hands, grunting as he ejaculated. "Good cocksucker! Good slave!" At the same time, DeVaughn threw back his head and cried, "Booyahhh!!!" as his white-hot venom shot like molten bullets deep into the faggot's core. Sobbing, Mitchell collapsed. His entire body ached. He did not want to move. He was broken, inside and out. He surrendered. He could not prevent DeVaughn and Rayshawn from beating and torturing and raping him. It was never going to stop. He was at their mercy, if they had any. He was their property. "Get your rump in the kitchen, slave," barked Rayshawn, loosening the rope that bound the faggot's limp wrists. "See what Drake wants. Don't you forget. We own your ass! And we're gonna get everything that's comin' to us!" WORLD CLASS COCKSUCKER WILL BE CONCLUDED IN PART 7 (CHAPTER 12) ~ COMING SOON