Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 04

He rubbed his nose tentatively -- the piercing still felt tender. His wife still hated it.

The text message that changed the course of his day arrived around 4.30pm. It was from Tyrone.

'Hey whiteboi get your ass up to harlem meet me and my boy leroy at the bar at 6pm. Be on time, don't keep us waitin.'

It wasn't a request. It wasn't an invitation. It was a demand.

Mitch checked the time. He had ninety minutes to finish his task, get home, change clothes, and travel to Harlem.

Fuck work. He had no idea what Tyrone had in mind, but the possibility of getting another hit of BBC pulled Mitch like a magnet. He made a note of where he was up to and shut his computer down. He stood to leave. His colleagues noticed the clock hadn't yet hit five.

He knocked on his supervisor's door. "Family emergency. I need to leave a little early today. I'll log on tomorrow morning and finish what I was working on. It'll be on your desk first thing Monday morning, I promise."

His boss didn't care -- just so long as he got what he needed by Monday morning.

Mitch collected his laptop and backpack and raced out into the street to hail a cab. He was lucky to find one. It was a hot afternoon, and he was dripping beads of sweat as he waited on the street. Stepping into the air-conditioned taxi was like stepping into an icebox. Traffic was slow this time of day, and he checked his watch nervously.

He texted Trina from the back seat. 'hey babe sorry had to go out unexpectedly after work will be home a little later.'

As soon as he hit send, he knew she'd have a million questions. He'd have to answer them all, but that was a concern for tomorrow. He'd probably weave a lie around having an after-hours work meeting with a client.

He sat in the backseat, willing the traffic lights to change.

He made it home by 5.15pm; he dropped his laptop and went to the bathroom. He changed into street gear -- or what he thought was passable for street gear -- and raced to the subway station. The train screeched, metal grinding on metal, as it pulled into the 125th street elevated station at 5.50pm.

Mitch scampered down the stairs and ran west. He slowed to a brisk walk for the final half a block, but he was still sweating heavily and breathing hard as he stepped into the cool of the bar.

He saw them immediately. They were waiting for him at the same booth, but he was reluctant to approach until he was invited. He knew he wasn't their equal.

"Hey! Whiteboi!" yelled Leroy.

Mitch stepped across. "Hello," he said.

"Yo, what's good, whiteboi?" Tyrone asked.

"Ummm ... I don't know ... what do you mean?"

Leroy translated. "He's welcoming you. Sit yo' ass down. You out of breath?"

"I ran most of the way from the subway," admitted Mitch. "You said not to be late."

Tyrone smiled. "For real."

A waitress came over and asked Mitch if he'd like to order anything. He noticed Leroy and Tyrone were both drinking beers. "Can I get what they're having, please?"

The waitress raised an eyebrow. It was already obvious what her two dark-skinned customers were having tonight, and it wasn't just gonna be beer.

Mitch sat down next to Tyrone. Leroy noticed Mitch had pierced his nose, but he didn't comment.

The waitress plonked a cold beer down in front of Mitch, who took a deep gulp. She walked away without a word. Mitch swallowed his mouthful of beer before glancing up at Leroy. "Hot out today," he said.

"Sho' nuff," Leroy agreed. Mitch watched as Leroy's thick, tattooed fingers brought his drink to his fat, wet lips.

"How's your day been?" inquired Tyrone.

"Uhh ... been at work."

"Sorting that mail, hey?"

Mitch remembered his lie about working for the postal service. "Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night ... I forget how the rest goes."

They knew he was lying, but they didn't care.

"Hey," said Tyrone, "we' gon' head back to my crib soon. Kick back, listen to some beats." He paused, looking at Mitch intensely. "Come with?"

Mitch tried to look cool. He tried to shrug his shoulders nonchalantly, but it looked like he'd had a seizure. "Guess so." He'd do anything to hang out with these bulls.

Leroy visited the bar to settle the check. He returned to the table. "We' good. Let's go."

Mitch drained the rest of his beer and followed the two urban gangsters out the door. They arrived at Tyrone's building and rode up to the 16th floor. Tyrone opened his apartment door and Mitch followed them in.

Mitch noticed a solid metal pole in the corner of the room. It was thick and shiny, and extended from the ceiling to the floor. It looked like the kind of pole strippers danced around. "I noticed your pole," said Mitch, feeling slightly embarrassed at his poor choice of words.

Tyrone laughed. "I just got it installed this week. Come take a look?" He loped casually across to the corner and Mitch followed. Mitch saw a hot flash of bling in front of his eyes as Leroy grabbed his wrists, pulling each wrist either side of the pole. Mitch tried to resist, but Leroy was far too strong. And as Leroy held Mitch's wrists in place, Tyrone laid a heavy pair of handcuffs on him.

Mitch struggled to free himself, but he was manacled to the pole. "What are you doing? I thought we were going to listen to some music?"

"You're right, we are," said Tyrone. He picked up the remote, pointed it at his system, and thick, slow beats pounded out. "That's better, ain't it?"

Mitch was too stunned to respond. Tyrone stood behind him, intimidating him. "Let's see what whiteboi's got in his pockets."

Mitch tried to twist his hips away from Tyrone's inquiring fingers, but there was nowhere to hide. He was helplessly bound to the pole, and there was no escape. "No! Wait ... you're mugging me? Again? In your own apartment?"

"Nah, nah, nothin' like that," Leroy replied. "Just chill. Besides, we didn't drag you here, you came here all by yourself. And let me remind you, we didn't mug you that night at the diner either. We *found* your wallet for you that night. You remember?"

Mitch didn't reply. He wasn't sure exactly what happened that night anymore, and right now, it didn't matter either. He felt powerless as Tyrone's thick, heavy hand slid into the right pocket of his pants. He strained at the cuffs, trying with all his might to break away, but they held firm. All he managed to achieve was to hurt his wrists.

Mitch felt Tyrone's hot breath on his neck, but he couldn't turn around.

Tyrone held Mitch's wallet aloft like it was a prize. "Leroy, take a look at this."

Leroy stroked his chin, pretending to think. "That wallet looks familiar. I seem to recall finding it before."

"Me too," Tyrone confirmed. He opened it and extracted the bills, counting them off. "Twenty, forty, sixty ... fuck, there's two hundred dollars here."

Leroy shook his head in mock disappointment. "Ain't no whiteboi smart enough to bring two hundred dollars in cash to Harlem."

"For real," Tyrone agreed. "We best make sure we hold onto this cash, so whiteboi don't lose it." He put the bills into his own wallet before lobbing Mitch's empty leather onto a nearby table. He returned to Mitch's pocket. "What else we' got in here?" He pulled out a set of keys.

As Mitch felt Tyrone's hand in his pocket again, his dick began to swell. Even though he was panicking, and even though he felt completely helpless, he couldn't deny how hot this was. He loved the feeling of Tyrone standing behind him, completely dominating him as he inspected his possessions, but he couldn't afford to lose his apartment keys. "Wait! No! Don't! I need those!"

"We' ain't takin' 'em from you, whiteboi," Tyrone soothed, "we' jus' checkin' what you brought. I'm jus' gon' leave yo' keys right here on the table, next to your wallet, where you can see 'em. Chill."

There was nothing left in Mitch's right pocket, so Tyrone started on the left. He found Mitch's phone. "What's yo' code, whiteboi?"

"I ... I can't tell you that. Please don't play with my phone. I need it."

Tyrone was insistent. "What's the code?"

Mitch pleaded. "No ... no ... please don't."

"You'll just have to try to guess it," Leroy helpfully suggested.

"Yeah." Tyrone swiped the screen. "Let's try 1-2-3-4." He looked at the screen, puzzled. "It says 'incorrect code'."

"Try again," Leroy said.

"2-3-4-5." A pause. "Incorrect again."

Leroy thought for a second. "You know, I heard this model of phone only lets a user try ten times before it locks itself permanently."

"Shit, for real?" asked Tyrone. "We' already had two attempts. Let's try again. 5-6-7-8. Hmm. Denied again." He looked at Mitch. "You gon' tell me the code, whiteboi?"

Mitch had two options. Either to give the code to Tyrone, granting the thugs access to his emails, accounts, apps and personal secrets, or to watch helplessly as his phone began a new life as an expensive paperweight.

Tyrone placed the phone on the table next to Mitch's wallet keys and stood behind him again. Slowly, he placed his left hand inside Mitch's left pocket, and his right hand inside the right. Tyrone's warm, heavy hands were either side of Mitch's dicklet, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.

Mitch could barely breathe. He felt frightened, yet unbelievably horny. His tiny dick was straining against his pants. He felt Tyrone's warm breath on his right ear. "You like that, whiteboi? You like feelin' me standin' behind you with my hands in yo' pants?"

Mitch had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life. Blood pulsed through his cock so violently he felt lightheaded. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Nothin'," whispered Tyrone. "We' jus' gon' stand here, like this, with my hands in your pockets, until you tell me your code. I be patient."

Leroy moved around to stand next to the pole, right in front of Mitch.

Mitch whimpered. His cock was stiff as a fucking board. He could feel Tyrone's massive BBC poking into his back as his eyes drank in Leroy's beautiful face.

Tyrone licked Mitch's ear, which sent a jolt of electricity directly to his dicklet. "You feel my hands in your pockets?" he whispered. "You feel my hands restin' either side of your useless whiteboi clitty? You feel my big black dick pressin' into you? It ain't even hard, but I know you feelin' it. Whatchu gon' do?"

Mitch tried to concentrate on breathing, but it was difficult.

Leroy leaned closer to Mitch's face. "My boy talkin' to you," he whispered. "Whatchu gon' do, whiteboi?"

As he gazed at Leroy's fat, juicy lips, wishing he could kiss them again, Mitch felt the thick fingers of Tyrone's right hand tickling his dicklet through the fabric.

Mitch's face melted. He couldn't hold it back anymore. "Fuck," he sighed as his cock twitched, drenching the inside of his pants with a watery load of whiteboi cummies.

"Whiteboi can't come to Harlem without nuttin' in his pants," Leroy laughed.

Tyrone extracted his hands from Mitch's pockets and stepped away. Mitch was still cuffed up. He felt his load running down the inside of his leg. "Can you uncuff me now please?" he pleaded. "Can please you let me go? I'm fucking begging you."

Leroy looked at Tyrone, who pretended to consider Mitch's plea. "Hmm. What do you think? Should we uncuff him?"

"We' jus' gettin' started, ain't we?" They high-fived each other.

"Fuck ... I need to sit down," Mitch cried.

"Not yet you can't," Leroy responded. "But you can get on your knees."

Mitch whimpered again. He felt humiliated, yet at the same time, was delirious with lust.

"We' best get whiteboi's pants off," suggested Tyrone. "He can't fucking control himself."

They unlaced one of Mitch's shoes each, but they left his socks on. Leroy unbuckled Mitch's pants, being careful not to come into direct contact with his watery discharge, while Tyrone pulled them down from behind. They each pulled a leg, and after a short struggle, Mitch's pants eventually came off. His boxers came off, too -- they were glued to the inside of his pants.

The thugs helped Mitch manoeuvre his way down to the floor. He was now on all-fours, with his wrists still chained at the base of the thick metal pole. His naked ass was on full display. He felt even more vulnerable now than he did when he was on his feet.

Tyrone picked up Mitch's phone. "Back to business. We got seven attempts left, whiteboi."

"No ... please."

"6-7-8-9," said Tyrone. "Still no luck. Six more attempts left."

Mitch bowed his head and submitted. He gave them his code. He'd already lost two hundred bucks tonight, but it was possible these thugs were about to empty his bank account. He shook with fear. Tyrone tapped the digits in, and Mitch's email, social media accounts and apps were instantly unlocked.

"Whiteboi's got a Grindr account," Tyrone disclosed.

Leroy chuckled. He was hardly surprised. "Hey, maybe we should scroll through his photos."

"No ... please don't look through my stuff, that's private." At least they weren't trying to access his bank account.

Tyrone's eyes lit up at the idea, completely ignoring Mitch's concerns. Photos of Trina appeared. "Take a look at this bitch," whistled Leroy. "She's got a nice pair of titties. I'd stick my dick in between those tits any day of the week."

The thought of Leroy spitting on his wife's cleavage before titty-fucking her made Mitch's dick begin to grow again.

Tyrone had a question. "Yo' bitch suck good dick, whiteboi?"

"I guess." Mitch couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a blowjob from her.

"She do anal?" asked Leroy

Mitch shook his head.

"Can't hear you, whiteboi. She do anal or not?"

"No," Mitch replied. "At least, she doesn't for me." He had no idea what she got up to when she stayed out drinking with colleagues after work, and he didn't really care either.

"She wouldn't fuckin' say no to my fat dick," Leroy declared. "I'd fuckin' split her ass in half, fo' real."

Mitch knew exactly what it felt like to be split in half by Leroy's BBC, and he desperately craved feeling it again. This was all so fucking humiliating, but there was no denying it -- his whiteboi dicklet was hard again.

Tyrone scrolled through Mitch's gallery, trying to find a pic of Mitch's wife's ass for Leroy to appraise, but they found something else first -- the dick pics they'd sent to Mitch a few weeks ago. "Hey," Leroy said. "He's still got those pics we sent him the night we found his wallet in the diner."

"You were supposed to delete those," said Tyrone. Mitch couldn't remember ever receiving this instruction. He nervously shook his head. His naked ass was on full display.

"I think we' gon' need to punish him for that," Leroy said.

Tyrone nodded. His open palm connected with Mitch's bare white ass so hard the room nearly shook. It stung like fuck. Mitch yelped in pain, but he couldn't move.

"Take a pic of his slapped ass so he can upload it to Grindr," Leroy suggested. He looked closer. "Fuck, man, you hit him so fuckin' hard. I can see your palm-print coming up on his ass."

Tyrone laughed. He took some pics of Mitch's rapidly reddening ass. "You think that's enough punishment for not deleting our dick pics like we told him to?"

Mitch racked his brain. He seriously could not remember being instructed to delete the pics. He'd know for sure if he could quickly check his phone, but his device was well out of reach.

"One more, I think," Leroy replied. "Need to even him up a little. Not fair that only one of his ass cheeks is burning."

"Fo' sure."

Leroy wound up and slapped the fuck out of Mitch's other ass cheek. The pain was immense. He squealed like a stuck pig.

Tyrone took some more lurid close-ups of Mitch's puffy, red ass.

"OK, OK, that's enough," Tyrone declared.

Leroy leaned in close to Mitch's face. Mitch could smell his sweet breath. "We gon' fuck the shit out of you now."

Mitch gasped in total submission. He nodded. A big, black dick buried deep in his ass would take the pain away. "Yes," he panted. "Please fuck me."

Tyrone undid the cuffs and removed them. Mitch shook blood back into his hands, and the relief he felt momentarily took his mind away from his stinging ass. He lay on his back for a moment, recovering, while Tyrone gave him back his keys, phone and empty wallet. He knew he'd never see that cash again. He breathed deep.

"Come with us," Tyrone commanded.

Mitch obediently followed.

"Get on my bed."

Tyrone turned the lights down low as Mitch climbed onto the mattress, feeling like he was dreaming. His ass was still stinging like a bitch, but he knew there was more pain to come.

He couldn't fucking wait.

*

"Bend over," said Tyrone. "All-fours. Show me yo' pussy."

Mitch complied.

Tyrone spat on his middle finger and began teasing Mitch's pussy with it. He drew circles around Mitch's hungry hole. "You like that, whiteboi?"

"Please," Mitch begged. "Please."

Tyrone forced his thick digit in as far as the second knuckle.

Mitch pushed back, moaning like a bitch in heat as Tyrone slowly pistoned his fat finger in and out of his pussy. He looked across at Leroy who was standing beside the mattress. He watched Leroy touching his python through his pants. He could see it beginning to grow.

"Feed me," Mitch pleaded.

Leroy pulled his pants down and began to stroke himself. "You want this dick in yo' mouth, whiteboi?"

Mitch gasped. It looked so fucking delicious. "Please ... please, fuck my face. I need it so fucking bad." He needed a big black dick in his mouth like he needed air in his lungs. His ass cheeks were still stinging like a motherfucker.

Through the semi-darkness, Mitch gazed at nine inches of thick, dark, delicious meat as it waved in front of his face. It was hypnotising. He felt Tyrone's finger fucking his pussy.

"Suck it," said Leroy. Mitch opened wide -- as wide as he possibly could -- as Leroy fed him. "Fuck yeah, that's some good shit right there," he exhaled, feeling Mitch's tongue and fingers all over his thick, black shaft.

Mitch couldn't get enough, and he needed to feel more than Tyrone's finger in his ass. He took Leroy's huge, growing cock out of his mouth just long enough to beg Tyrone to fuck him.

"You sure you can take this, whiteboi?" Tyrone asked. He pulled his pants down, exposing his tool. "I got ten fat inches of BBC right here."

Mitch nodded. Leroy's nine-inch dick was only a little smaller than Tyrone's, and he'd taken that before. "I need your cock in my whiteboi pussy. Please give it to me."

"Get on the floor."

Mitch climbed down off the mattress and assumed the position, arching his back. Tyrone spat on his cock. "You ready for this?"

Mitch's ass was spasming in hunger. "I can't fucking wait any longer."

Tyrone jammed half of his shaft into Mitch's cunt and he screamed. Tyrone couldn't work out whether Mitch's scream came from pleasure or pain, but sometimes, there's only a fine line in between. He withdrew slightly and thrust forward again, building up a rhythm.

Mitch's pussy stretched like elastic. "Fuck yeah," he moaned. "Fuck me like a good little whiteboi bitch."

Tyrone gritted his teeth as he began pounding Mitch's asshole into the middle of next week. Mitch saw stars dancing around in front of his eyes. He arched his back, feeling lightheaded with lust.

Leroy slapped Mitch's face with his heavy dick. "Suck it." Mitch moaned as he sucked Leroy's enormous viper back into his throat, feeling it take his jaw to the threshold of pain.

Ten inches of hot black dick pounded his ass, and nine more choked his throat. He climaxed, again completely hands-free, as the feeling of Tyrone's dick pressing up against his prostate set his brain on fire. His load sprayed across Tyrone's bedroom floor.

He glimpsed back over his shoulder at Tyrone. He'd taken his singlet off. Mitch saw his long dreads flail behind him as his fat cock ground hard into Mitch's tight pussy. He drooled over Tyrone's huge, glistening pecs and his pierced nipples. He felt his hips being gripped by Tyrone's strong, tattooed arms as he lost what was left of his mind.