Date: Sun, 16 Oct 2016 20:00:11 +0000 (UTC) From: Skorpio Subject: Good Dogs Get Good Masters (author, interr) This tale of Black Domination is dedicated to those of you who can't get enough of that sort of thing. But if this is not your particular fetish, Nifty Stories has plenty more to offer and entirely for free. Please support this indispensable library of porn by making a donation to Nifty now. Good Dogs Get Good Masters by Skorpio Robert Barker was a forty year old apartment dweller with a hot nubian neighbor living across the hall who sometimes dropped by to watch basketball or football or whatever game happened to be in season on Rob's wall-mounted, seventy inch screen TV with ultra high definition. Also for the occasional blowjob. It sometimes seemed like Deshawn Dixon was always hanging out, watching TV, getting fed, getting high. Rob used to be a chef for a tony restaurant in a pretentious artist colony, but being around strangers, especially other gay men, made him hyper fussy. A nervous predilection only cannabis and sucking cock could quell. When Rob's Aunt Matilda left him a substantial inheritance, Rob decided to take a year off, or a decade off, to plot his next move. Or just enjoy life. It was that much money. Everyone knew old Matilda was well-off, since all three of her late husbands had been bankers or stock market analysts, but no one had any idea she was literally rolling in dough. As far as Deshawn was concerned, "Mister B" was cool. The feeling was mutual. Rob could not believe his luck in getting a straight black stud with no qualms about getting head from a homosexual for a neighbor. He only wished Deshawn wanted head more often. But Deshawn was popular with the ladies. He had babes coming in and out of his crib all the time. He was having plenty of sex. Maybe once a month, while chilling with a blunt and some beer, watching TV, he would ask Rob, "You feel like suckin some dick?" He made it sound like the thought just occurred to him, on the very spur of the moment. That obliged Rob to reply, "If you want me to." Deshawn would pretend to think it over, making the gay man wait, enjoying the look of uncertainty and anxiety on his face. Usually Deshawn would answer, "Okay, I know you been wantin this. Hurry up. Get it done. I don't wanna miss my game." The profound urgency in Deshawn's deep voice made Rob go down on him in a heartbeat. "Hurry up! Make me nutt!" Wasting no time for licking the dark brown mushroom head with his tongue, Rob plunged down on the turgid pole of flesh, soft as silk, hard as steel, taking it all the way down his throat. He worked slavishly to deliver an orgasm, like a cocksucking robot, skilled, efficient, relentless. But inevitably Deshawn instructed Rob to slow the fuck down, and for the next half hour or so he enjoyed a slow, pleasurable blowjob, nice and easy, enough teasing stimulation to keep him aroused, on the edge of cumming. Deshawn would casually smoke a cigarette and more weed, work the remote control, or talk/text/surf/play games on his phone while his dick was given the royal treatment it deserved. Rob fell for this bait and switch every time without fail. Six times in all. Six times in little more than a year since Deshawn moved in across the hall this ritual or something like it went down. Although Deshawn told Rob he had never gotten a blowjob from a faggot before, that was a lie. Deshawn was well acquainted with the hospitality some homosexuals will show a brother who isn't too proud to get his dick sucked every now and then. It's not like the strapping young brother went looking for cocksuckers. The Universe just kept sending them his way. Wherever Deshawn went were white guys, young and old, not all of them gay or so they claimed, interested in spending time with him, buying him things, taking him places. Coaches, professors, preachers, men from all walks of life, appeared like lizards slithering out from under rocks to bask in the warm golden rays of Deshawn's masculine perfection. Deshawn could stand in a crowded bus terminal or go aboard a cruise ship, and get hit on by a white fag asking for directions or offering to buy him a drink in no time at all. It was uncanny, and what was wrong with taking advantage of their generosity? Nada. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship, almost as if by design, a strong black man and his fag, complementing one another. When Deshawn met Rob for the first time, he naturally took up the role to which he was accustomed. He knew a good fag when he saw one. What Deshawn did not know for a long time was how perverted a good fag his neighbor Rob really was. He found out one day in late December, between Christmas and New Year's Eve. It was an unannounced visit like any other, dropping in for more herb to replenish the last ounce Rob gifted him, and for a bite to eat. While raiding the refrigerator, Deshawn saw two stainless steel bowls on the floor. One was filled with water, the other contained dog chow. When asked about this, Rob said they were for a friend's dog, a relative who came over, a relative who is a friend, who has a dog, who filled the bowls and forgot to take them when he left, with his dog. "You can't lie for shit, can you?" said Deshawn. "Tell me the truth. Sup with the doggie dishes? I know you ain't got no dog up in this crib. You told me you was allergic to cats and dogs, am I right? Nah, you up to something. Why you got doggie bowls in your kitchen, Mister B?" Deshawn got up in Rob's face to intimidate him with that scary don't-piss-me-the-fuck-off look, sneering so hard his upper lip trembled. He dragged Rob into the living room, flung him down on the leather sectional, and demanded the truth. It took some doing to break the faggot down, but in the end, after a Niagara of tears and evasions, Deshawn got the nasty 411. It was a very sordid story. Seems that Rob was beholden to a long-distance Master he found on YouTube, an Alabama brother who called himself Black God Alif. This young entrepreneur's mission in life was training whiteboys to see themselves as obedient dogs whose first trick is learning to fetch gifts from the market for their Black Master. Because Rob could not control his spending, Black God Alif put him on a steady weekly payment plan, an Amazon gift card for $25 every Friday without fail. Additional tribute, what Alif called surtax on cracker tax, earned Rob a text message, phone call, or sometimes a Skype session with his Master. The latter always drained Rob of even more money than intended. But it was worth it. He never saw Black God Alif naked, but he was usually shirtless with the physique of an African warrior and forever lifting his arms to expose his furry black pits because one time a fag paid Alif $500 to make a special armpit video for YouTube. That fag happened to be Rob. He had a fetish for armpits, especially Black Men and Latinos. A few months ago while Skyping with Black God Alif, it came out that Rob always wanted to be a dog. Even as his fingers flashed across the keyboard, depositing money into Alif's Paypal account, he revealed that because his last name was Barker, kids used to taunt him cruelly. "Bark, Barker boy! Bark!" Over time Rob came to identify with dogs, especially canines that cowered or had been mistreated or attacked by other dogs. Rob was very unhappy at home as well, where his fragile self-esteem cracked and crumbled under his drunken step-father's constant verbal abuse. If only he could really be a dog, he dared imagine late at night when insomnia kept him up, a content Labrador Retriever with a nice family, a yard to frolic in, a ball to chase, slippers to fetch, mailmen to bark at, but most of all with no worries and no cares. When Rob got older and began having sexual thoughts about men, he found himself attracted to men of color, and his wet dreams were fraught with being a black man's house pet, sporting a collar, taking walks on a leash, barking on command. The dreams disturbed Rob at first, but soon he was looking forward to them. Then he stumbled across Black God Alif's YouTube video, a virile, dominant, superior Black Man who let whiteboys pay to be treated like dogs, and he was hooked. The bowls on the kitchen floor were a late protocol from Master Alif, to eat like a hound at least once every day, confirmed by time-stamped selfies. Once Rob's confession was given in full, and not without a little prodding, Deshawn was utterly nonplussed. He had encountered a lot of stone freaks but Mister B was the definitely one of the freakiest. A man who wants to be a dog. Freakier yet, a white man who wants to be a black man's dog. Deshawn had to respect, if not admire, Black God Alif's game. It was definitely a step up from using a faggot for free weed and blowjobs now and then. Deshawn looked at Rob, sitting on the edge of the sofa, head hung in shame, elbows on his knees, palms on his forehead. For a minute Deshawn felt sorry for Rob, a shot of pity mixed with revulsion that soured into nausea. This poor excuse for a man did not deserve to be pitied. His compulsion for black dick and eagerness to please black men in general was understandable, but wanting to be a black man's dog was one step beyond into the twilight zone. Taking advantage of this opportunity was a temptation. Deshawn held no personal animosity for whites, but as a black man living in America he certainly had grave misgivings about whites in general. Treating a white man like a dog had a certain appeal. And apparently this faggot was giving away cash to his internet master, Black God Alif. Oh, hell no. Deshawn hated blowing up that nigga's spot, but this shit would have to stop. If anyone was getting paid to put a white cocksucker on a leash, it was going to be him. "Yo, Mister B, can I tell you somethin?" said Deshawn softly, waiting for Rob to look up uncertainly, before hollering: "Get off the furniture! Fucking sub-human! Get down! Down on the floor!" Rob slid to the carpet and scrambled to his hands and knees, eyes shining through a glaze of tears. "You wanna be a dog, Mister B?" smirked Deshawn. "You wanna be my dog from now on? If you wanna my pooch, wag your tail and bark." Without a moment's hesitation, Rob wiggled his rump and yelped like a Cocker Spaniel, "Arf! Arf! Arf!" Deshawn fell out, laughing uncontrollably. "Aiiight, okay, that's a good puppy dog, yeah, I'm gonna be your new Master. Things are gonna be different now. I don't want you to talking to that Black God thug again. In fact, I don't want you on the internet period! I'm your fucking Master. Don't be calling me Deshawn no more. From now on call me Master D. And I'm gonna keep callin you Mister B, because that's your doggie name. Do you got a collar, Mister B? Bark once if you do." "Arf!" Deshawn had to chuckle. This was never going to get old. "Go get your collar," he ordered, gaining control of his mirth, "and while you're at it, get nekkid. No, second thought, don't get nekkid all the way. Keep your drawers. I know you're a dog and shit, but I don't need to be seeing all that." The night was young, and Master D had more rules for his new pet to obey. Since Mister B had few visitors, he would have to wear nothing but his collar and underpants, preferably boxers whenever he was at home. If someone came to his door, he could throw on a bathrobe. If Mister B needed to go grocery shopping, he could dress like a man, nothing fancy, just a tee-shirt and jeans, and fold those clothes away soon as he got home. It didn't matter to Master D what his dog did all day. He could watch TV so long as the house was clean, and he made sure there was plenty of food, beer, and weed for whenever Master D decided to drop in. Deshawn took possession of the faggot's door key. "I'll keep this and get a copy made so you can lock up when you go shopping and shit. Yeah, this is gonna be good. I think that I'm gonna be eating dinner over here every night, let's say round about six, so you make sure to get some grub together. If I don't show, I ain't gonna call you `cause I ain't your husband, I'm your fucking Master. Keep dinner warm in case I come by late. I would move in but explaining to bitches why I got a white man on a leash is not gonna go well. Since you're not wasting your money on that internet nigga, you can spend that shit on me, pay my fucking rent, yeah, that's gonna be your job, bitch. Wag your tail and bark three times if you're down for this shit." "Arf, arf, arf!" Once again Deshawn could not help but laugh out loud. "This is gonna work out just fine, Mister B," he affirmed, patting the white faggot on his head with mock affection. Wielding this kind of power over an inferior stirred the young black man's core like kindling star-fire in his loins, quickly turning his blood to fire, bringing the sap in his nuts to a raging boil, making his nature rise. The long outline of his growing erection was clearly visible. Deshawn unzipped, letting his cock spring out like a polished wooden baton. It was imperious and intimidating, a symbol of virility, power, and authority, a weapon of absolute aggression, and the means for total domination. A phallus like Deshawn's was meant to be hidden most of the time, tucked away, because the very sight of it roused the most primitive emotions, lust and fear. It demanded to be worshipped. It expected to be serviced. "Suck the dick, Mister B," said Master D. "That's your other job. I'm horny as fuck and need to bust a nutt right now. Get busy, yo. Hurry up. Suck the dick! I'm serious this time. I just wanna get my shit off and bounce outta here. Make me cum, Mister B. Use for mouth for what it's for. Get it done!" Eagerly, the dog-fag went to work, slobbering all over his Master's cock, determined to extract the sweet sperm nectar he loved more than anything in the world as quickly as possible. Because Master had other things to do, places to be. Attentive readers will know how that worked out. Mister B's frenzy was soon ordered to slow down to a suckle, while Deshawn reached for a joint from a ceramic box on the coffee table and the remote control. He thought about all the fags in the world, longing for a brother to dominate them ruthlessly, any way imaginable, and how easy it is for them to fulfill that fantasy, but instead most of them seemed content to hide in their rooms, safe and secure behind the ramparts of intrinsic privilege, to masturbate at leisure over black dick. It was the rare cocksucker like Mister B who had the brains and/or balls to live out his dream. His first step with Black God Alif was a small, cautious one, but it was a step nonetheless. That took conviction. Deshawn realized he kind of respected the old fag. Not a whole lot. To begin with, there was nothing to respect about a man who sucks dick. Wanting to be treated like a dog was even more pathetic, but who was Deshawn to judge another man's deepest aspirations? Mister B was gonna be some nigga's pet, one way or another. All Deshawn had to decide was did he want to own a dog-fag, and that die was cast. It was going to work out just fine. With a smug smile of satisfaction, Master D turned his attention to the large TV screen on the wall, turning up the volume the noise of sucking and slurping did not drown out the crew on Dish Nation. They were doing a feature on Kim Kardashian, slide-showing her most titillating pix, and because he was sprung on Kim, or at least her bodacious booty, Deshawn did not want to miss a single shot. Over the next few months the relationship between Master and mutt turned into a predictable routine. Deshawn had dinner almost every night. He moved the large screen TV into his crib across the hall and replaced it with his own which was much smaller. He permitted Mister B to suck his dick more often, almost once a week, saving the hurry up-slow down trick for when he felt like messing with the faggot's head. It was fun teaching his dog-fag tricks, such as rolling over, playing dead, fetching slippers. One day the postman delivered a package from Amazon containing an adult sized dog costume, with a floppy-eared hood, a bushy tail, a realistic looking plastic dog snout, and gloves that looked like paws but could be removed when necessary. This became Mister B's standard outfit except for the increasingly rare times he was allowed out of the apartment. He was happy as a hound. He slept a lot, when he was not cooking or cleaning or curled up on the floor at his Black Master's feet. Deshawn had big plans for Aunt Matilda's money. He was going to buy a house in the country with a lot of acres. Where friends, family, and women could visit, because Mister B would have a small caretaker's cottage to dwell in. That would explain why an old white man lived on the estate. When the coast was clear, Mister B could romp in the meadow to his heart's content, chasing butterflies and burying bones. Deshawn would have an inground fiberglass pool installed, fill one room with workout equipment, build a home theater, and it would definitely require a well-stocked bar, with a pool table. Deshawn figured if a faggot's dream could come true, why not his? It was going to happen. Both the Master and his mutt were going to get their happily ever after. THE END