Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 01

*

Mitch walked into the back room.

“I’m Tyrone, and this here’s my boy Leroy.” Neither of them extended a hand in friendship. “Take a seat.”

Mitch sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the middle of the room while Tyrone and Leroy stood over him, hovering menacingly. The air felt stale. A single bulb burned white brightness.

Mitch began to blubber. “I’m so sorry … I … my wife and I have been looking forward to visiting your diner for a few weeks now, and I suppose it’s obvious that things haven’t turned out well for us tonight … the thing is, I seem to have lost my wallet, we caught a cab up from the upper east side, and …”

The two thugs exchanged knowing glances. Upper east side? Whiteboi’s probably got some cash.

“… and I know I had it with me when we got out of the cab because I paid the driver, but I swear, I’ve lost it, or maybe I dropped it, I don’t know, but I’m worried that someone’s maxing out my cards as we speak, and I need to make some calls.”

“You ain’t suggestin’ someone in our fine neighbourhood lifted it, are you?” asked Leroy. Their voices were deep and rumbly, oozing with masculinity.

“You mean … like, am I saying someone stole it from me?”

Tyrone sneered. “Yeah, that’s what my boy meant. You callin’ someone a thief?”

Mitch tried to remember. “We got out of the cab a few blocks away and we walked the rest of the way here, you know, just to see a piece of Harlem.”

“Good for you. Welcome to our neighbourhood. But it doesn’t solve our problem with tonight’s check, does it?” probed Leroy.

Mitch stammered, not knowing what to say or do.

Tyrone reached into his back pocket. “Your name Mitchell?”

Mitch was stunned. “Yeah … it is, but how could you possibly know that?”

“Because I think you dropped something.” He lobbed Mitch’s wallet at his feet. He recognised it immediately.

Mitch couldn’t describe the relief he felt. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered. “You stole my wallet?”

Tyrone threw his head back in laughter. “You whitebois are too fuckin’ easy nowadays. It used to be a challenge. Pick it up and pay your check. I’m sure you’ll be leaving your waitress a healthy tip.”

Mitch collected his wallet from the floor. The $150 he was carrying in bills had mysteriously disappeared, but his cards seemed to be undisturbed.

“Now just before you leave,” Leroy emphasised, “we didn’t lift your wallet, we found it for you.”

“I’m so grateful,” Mitch replied. He was almost weeping.

And it was at this point he glanced at Leroy’s crotch. His eyes landed upon a thick bulge that seemed to travel almost as far south as his knee. Mitch’s mouth gaped open in surprise. He looked across at Tyrone. If anything, Tyrone’s package looked even bigger than his colleague’s.

“Yeah, whiteboi, that’s right,” Leroy seethed. “We see what you lookin’ at.”

Mitch felt embarrassed and ashamed. “Uhh, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You starin’ at these big black cocks, ain’t you?” Tyrone dropped a meaty, tattooed hand down to his crotch. His fingers drew an outline of his dick.

“Err … no … not at all,” he lied. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” His mouth was salivating.

“You want a taste of this dark meat, don’t you?”

Mitch’s head reeled with uncontrollable cocklust. His tiny dick twitched, but he remembered his wife. He wondered what might’ve unfolded if he was here on his own, but he needed to look after her. He needed to be a man. But he didn’t even know whether she was still here.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I need to go. I need to take my wife home. Thank you so much for … umm … finding my wallet. I’m grateful to you both.”

“Yeah,” said Tyrone. “We know you are. Show your gratitude with a big tip. Get the fuck outta here.”

Mitch returned to his wife. She stood and embraced him. She'd feared the worst. “Are you alright, babe?”

He looked terrible, he stunk bad, and he felt lightheaded. He pointed towards the backroom, but his two interrogators were nowhere to be seen. “They found my wallet.” He held it aloft like it was a trophy. He pointed towards the backroom. “Everything’s good.”

Mitch headed towards the counter. Wordlessly, the waitress printed his check. He waved his card and entered a tip that was double the price of the meal. The waitress raised an eyebrow. Including the $150 in bills he’d lost, this had been a ridiculously expensive night out.

They headed out into the street to hail a taxi. Mitch’s hand never left his pocket. He gripped his wallet all the way home like his entire life depended on it.

They rocketed back south towards the safety of Central Park. Mitch, once again in control of his personal finances, paid the cab driver, who sped off in search of his next fare.

“Well, that was an adventure,” Mitch said.

Trina gave no response. She enjoyed her meal, but she hated everything else. Her husband reeked of half-digested chicken and panic sweat.

They silently rode the elevator up to their floor. Trina tried to not breathe in.

Mitch opened the front door. “Take a shower,” his wife commanded. “You fucking stink.”

Mitch loaded his leftovers into the fridge before preparing to comply with his wife’s order. He stripped off, throwing his clothes into the laundry hamper. He left his phone on the ledge above the bathroom sink, and just as he was about to turn on the faucet, it vibrated.

He stood there naked, feeling curious. Who could be texting him at 10.30pm on a Saturday night?

He keyed in his code and unlocked the screen.

An image of a gigantic black penis appeared. It was closely followed by a message from Leroy.

“We know you was checking us out, whiteboi. We know we intimidated you. That’s what we do. We got your number off your reservation, and it won’t take long for us to work out where you live. You want some of this shit, don’t you? You want this big black dick.”

Mitch made sure the bathroom door was locked before he turned the shower on. His tiny penis was rock hard. The image of Leroy’s BBC was already tattooed onto his brain. He’d barely even gotten his body under the warm spray before he came.

He then addressed the question of not smelling like puke, washing himself for what felt like an eternity.

He dried off and returned to the bedroom. Trina was sitting up in bed, thumbing through a magazine.

“Well, that was an unusual evening, wouldn’t you say?” suggested Mitch, sliding under the covers.

Trina sniffed her husband, making sure he’d washed the stench away, before responding. “I’m never going there again, you hear? And it’ll be a long, long time before you get to pick the restaurant again. I’ve never felt so fucking embarrassed. Watching you eat tonight was, frankly, disgusting. And then you threw it all back up, and who the fuck knows what happened when they took you out back. They wouldn’t let me come with you. Fuck, Mitch, you don’t know the things that ran through my mind. I thought they might’ve even killed you back there. I was really scared.”

She threw the magazine onto the floor and switched her lamp off. She wasn’t in the mood to ask Mitch for a debrief on what happened in the back room. Right now, she just wanted to forget it all and go to sleep. And Mitch was about to fall asleep too, but he was startled by another phone vibration. A new message had arrived.

He unlocked his screen and read a message from Tyrone. “Hey, whiteboi. Suck this shit.” A photo of his huge penis appeared. Mitch stared, and stared, and stared.

Trina lay next to him, fast asleep on her side.

He couldn’t stop staring at it. His dick stood up. Minutes felt like hours. He began to feel lightheaded as he fixated on the picture of Tyrone’s dark meat. He felt cockdrunk, like he was in a trance. He tugged and teased his nipples, imagining what it’d be like to feel Tyrone’s fat BBC in his mouth. The warm wetness on the bed sheets was unmistakeable – he was literally oozing precum.

He imagined gazing up at Tyrone’s sculpted body towering above him, dominating him, humiliating him. He imagined Tyrone’s enormous piece of meat waving in front of his eyes and slapping him in the face. He imagined being skullfucked by Tyrone’s big black cock, feeling it grow harder in his mouth, stretching his jaw to its absolute limit. And as he imagined it twitching, firing warm, thick cum into his throat, he pinched his nipples and he climaxed hands-free, sprinkling the sheets with his weak ass load.

Trina slept through the entire performance, but Mitch knew that she’d wake up if he tried to clean up, and she’d have questions.

He didn’t want the interrogation.

He tried to fall asleep as his watery cum slowly dried on his itchy, shrivelled penis. It wasn’t easy.