PROFESSOR MASONS MESS,
OR, A SWEET DARK PUSSY

by DannyR (MMMM/bbb, incest, oral, anal, piss, racial epithets, extreme pedo)
Copyright 2011.  All rights reserved.

Authors Reminder:  Dont forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think?  So when youre done, put your fingers to a  dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing:  dr_harris_81@hotmail.com.

DISCLAIMER:  Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality.  This story is a fantasy.  It didnt happen.  Never will.  And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. After that, well, hopefully everything Law and Order and the news say is true about child molesters in prison, is really true.  Now that were clear on whats what, and whats not, read on.

SPECIAL NOTE:  This story would never have existed if it hadnt been for an email from my good cyber-buddy right-hand pedo perv pal, TAP, a/k/a The Atlanta Pervert. I just rediscovered an email he sent almost two years ago, with a hot, hot, hot story idea (or so my hardon said), and what follows is based on his story outline.  Actually, I plan on following it pretty damn closely, though obviously expanding on it just a little. <g>  So if you cum well to this and other chapters, say thanks to TAP!

PROFESSOR MASONS MESS

Chapter 1.

Professor Mason was a mess. 

He'd finished dinner, put his three young sons to bed, kissed his wife good night and then like every good philandering father, had "gone back to work". True, he was in fact writing a book...publish or perish was alive and flourishing at Brentwood College...and working in his office was more conducive to concentration than trying to work in his den/office at home, with three little boys who found clambering all over their daddy to be much more fun than any toy or video game ever devised. True, he had actually written part of the next chapter. True, he had some thoughts he could have typed into his computer and gone on. But then his cock had twitched. He hadn't had sex with a man in weeks. He was trying to stop. Really he was. But he was so fucking horny.

And there was a gay bar not that far away from campus. The proximity was no surprise, of course. The campus queers needed an outlet, he supposed. But still, it wasn't a bar that really encouraged the happy horny twink college crowd, although some dared its doors anyway. It was...darker. And not merely in the fact that it was a non-dance bar that was dimly lit in the first place.  It also had, amazingly, what the Europeans called a dark room. A back room that was actually several rooms with halls and nooks and twists and turns and little crowded rooms with virtually no light other than a few flickering blue bulbs here and there. A room to fuck and be fucked in, to suck and be sucked in.

Hed been there once before. Wondered that other time as he walked in and discovered what it was, how it was even possible. Wondered who the owners were paying off. Wondered whether the owners were so powerful in some way that they didnt need to pay anyone off. A Friday night with his wife on a business trip, the boys with her parents. Nothing to do but get fucked, hed thought. And so he had. A slender but tough looking much younger white man whod fondled his meat through his slackshed looked very out of place walking into Franks Saloon in dress pants and a partially undone button-down shirt and loafersthen roughly shoved him to the floor, thrust his jeans-clad bulging crotch in his face, and said, Suck me off, nigger.

It was the first time hed been called a nigger during queer sex. For a moment, just a moment, it enraged him, causing the briefest of struggles to get up, but the white man above him didnt have to use all that much strength to keep him down. For a moment, just a moment, too, those hands, that voice, those words, had felt, sounded, somehow, familiar. Like it had happened before. But it hadnt.

Had it?

Hed mentally shrugged it off, ignored the fact the floor was undoubtedly so filthy hed have to get the slacks to the cleaners before his wife saw the knees and asked questions. Opened the mans jeans with trembling fingers. Hauled his raunch-smelling prick into the near-dark. Almost gagged as the cock was shoved all the way into his throat, his nose buried in the smelly pubes, scratched by the zipper. Once he felt the white mans hands threaded through his thick nappy hair, holding his head in place for a skull fuck, he fumbled at his own zipper, hauled his leaking cock out, began to jack.

A soft, menacing voice came down on him. You fuckin mess me up with your cum, nigger, and Ill beat the shit outa you. You got me?

And with that the cock was withdrawn, his head tilted up. Even in the darkness he knew an answer was being demanded.

Y...yes.  I understand.

The hands gripped tighter, shook his head once, made him understand his error.  Y...yes, sir. I understand, sir.

His head was lowered and he instinctively opened his mouth as the white meat was shoved fast and painfully deep back into him. The face fucking he got was fast, brutal, ruthless. A plunging white prick that had no fucking interest in whether he enjoyed it or not; he was just a hole, an easy cum dump. That thought, feeling, whatever the fuck, somehow turned him on.

Yeah, hed had sex on the down low when he was in college. In the library toilet, sometimes being the sucker, sometimes being the sucked, through the gloryholes. Sometimes fucked, sometimes fucker, through gloryholes, the park trails, a bar toilet. Sometimes in some tricks room somewhere. College guys and older men. One really old man whod gone crazy when he offered up his skinny shiny black, black ass, moaning about how he was going to breed him, seed his hole. And now that he thought about it, there had been a second when, he was now sure, the old man was about to call him a nigger, but restrained himself. Hed had more down low man sex since his marriage, even after the boys, his young beautiful boys, were born. Mostly a quick blowjob or fuck through a gloryhole at an adult bookstore downtown. Once in a while hed dare a gay bar, but usually drove to the next city to avoid recognition locally.

But despite the fact most of his tricks were white, or fellow niggas on the down low, hed never been niggered before. He was ashamed to admit, even deep inside himself, that it had turned him on. But it had, and hed moaned, and the white man using him had understood, and though he didnt say another word, his use of his mouth became even more brutal. His own jacking had become more frantic too, and his moans and gasps as the cock choked him and released him and choked him again became louder and louder, until he finally began spewing spooge everywhere, his cum gasps tightening his throat muscles down on the buried cock, and then his white abuser was pumping cum down his throat, holding his head motionless, nose in the smelly pubes, until he nearly passed out.

The cock was roughly withdrawn, and the hands shoved so he fell back on his haunches. The man shoved his cock back inside, zipped, buttoned, buckled, left. Still gasping, hed sat there for a moment, recovering before getting up and going home. He vaguely heard some shouts of laughter out in the bar, and an angry Goddamnit! and hed just leaned forward, right hand finger tips on the dirty floor as starting leverage to get up when he saw black work boots in front of him. Black boots with white blobs on them. He looked up. Same white man. Only angry now.

I told you, nigger. Told you I didnt want no fuckin nigger scum on my boots, on my jeans. Now you fuckin clean it off!  

He hadnt needed any further instruction. He continued leaning forward, using his tongue to clean the thick globs of his own cum off the toes of both boots. With his fingertips he found the wet spots on the jeans, one almost halfway to the mans knees, and did his best with his dirty, wet tongue to clean them up, too.  And knowing only soap and water would really do the job. He finished and knew he didnt dare to try to get up.

Look at me, nigger. The voice was still furious. He looked up. You member what I told you bout messin me up?

He had no time to think, no time to answer, before the heavy fist came swinging down, punching the left side of his face and he and his formerly nice dress shirt and slacks were sprawled in the floor filth. He was deeply grateful that the kick from the boot was only to his belly and not his balls. And that it was just the one.

He had stayed curled in a fetal position on the floor for an unknown time before he managed to get up. Minutes more before he could walk without a stagger. Hed left the bar to sniggers from a group of three white men.  One of whom was the man whod fucked his mouth and rightfully...what the fuck was that fucking rightfully thought shit?...smacked him down for disobeying.

He was more shaken by the twin realizations that hed been turned on by being controlled, and that he somehow felt it was right for the white man to beat on him when he hadnt done as he had been told.

He told his wife hed slipped on the kitchen floor, taken a sharp corner of the kitchen table to his stomach, and then when hed tried to get up, slipped again and hit his face. His family had commiserated but also laughed at his clumsiness. Basically the same reaction from his colleagues and students.  He laughed at himself, too. And jacked off a few times in a faculty toilet stall, gently rubbing the bruises, recreating the night again in his mind. Recreating how fucking hot it felt to be used that way. And feeling fucking sick and perverted for feeling that way.

He dragged his mind back to the present.

Hell, it was Wednesday fucking night. No one was going to be there. Hed be better off with a quick trip to the fucking bookstore. Even on weeknights his cock and ass were sure to attract enough attention for him to get off somehow.

But then his dick twitched. Memory time again.  The trip six months after the bar face fuck...his first time in a dark room in Paris. His passport (never leave hotel home without it) and folded francs down inside the over the calf socks he wore with his boots...difficult to get to but then the signs in multiple languages as you entered the dark room (fucking big area, actually, not just a room) did warn of pickpockets. His tight jeans, worn commando, pulled down but still above his knees, his jeans shirt fully unbuttoned and flopping loose as he was bent forward, bracing his hands on the bench, giving the seated man whose thick white dick he was sucking, access to his large, pointy nips, twisting, hurting, bruising them, while the man behind him pounded his cunt. He was...the third? fourth? He'd lost count. Apparently a tall, slender, swimmer-muscled, thirty-six year old American nigger in faded tight jeans and boots  in a previously all white (that night) Parisian bar was a consummation devoutly to be fucked.

Only his own cock wasn't getting any consummation. Ten slender inches of nigger meat and no one wanted to suck it. Or jack it. And the one time he had reached toward his aching leaking meat, the big dicked man fucking him at the time had slapped his ass hard enough to hurt, grabbed his sweaty nappy hair and yanked his head back, up and off the cock to the point of pain, and a sharp "Non, negre!" helped him to understand he had offered himself up to be used, not to get pleasure himself except as he served. He was eventually awash in cum, his face, his mouth, his belly, his cunt, dizzy and staggering from all the beer and the poppers and the abuse his holes had suffered, when they stopped. He tried to stand up, staggered, twisted, sat down on the bench, gasping, feeling his loose and sloppy pussy open up and start oozing man slime and ass juices. He had to cum.  He grabbed his cock and began jacking furiously, eyes shut, knowing he would erupt quickly, unaware that his last few users had not left, had moved closer. Unaware until a soft deep voice said, "Faire pipi," words he didn't comprehend. At least not until hot stinking piss began to pour down on his jacking hand. His eyes snapped open. A young, young man, a boy almost, how the fuck had he gotten in, a fat man with a short thick cock, a tall man with long foreskin peeled back. They'd used his holes and now they were using him as a fucking urinal. He'd never been so turned on his life, and he came in eight violent spurts that sprayed his face, his shirt, his chest, his piss wet belly.

He slumped against the wall, panting.  Two of the three pissers tucked themselves back in. The big one stepped between his legs, used his left hand to pull his head close to the smelly cock and he automatically opened his mouth. The cock went in and so did the rest of the piss that had been held back. Strong, acrid, foul tasting. The hold wasn't that tight. He could have struggled, could have broken away. But he didn't. He just...gulped and gulped until his abuser was done pissing. The cock stayed in his mouth and he knew what he had to do.  He licked and slurped and used his life-long cocksucking skills...the phrase "life-long" not registering until much, much later...to get the man hard, to get his face fucked again until a final load of cum pumped into his throat. The still hard cock withdrew and he slumped again.

A hard, hurting slap to his left cheek snapped his eyes open. The big man fisted his sweaty damp shirt and hauled him upright.  "Sortez, negre!" he growled. The professor just blinked. The man gestured to his clothes, and the professor got the message. "Sortez" in that tone apparently meant "get the fuck dressed, nigger." He leaned over, wobbled, managed to get his wet messy jeans pulled up over his hips. He buttoned just the bottom button of his now filthy jeans shirt, the way it had been when he walked in, showing off his hairless muscled chest, the thick neatly trimmed treasure trail leading from his navel down to his jeans, tucked himself in.

He blinked, stood for a moment to try to get his fucking act back together, but that was far too long for the big man.  Apparently "Sortez, negre, sortez!" when combined with a shove from a meaty hand, actually meant, "Nigger, get the fuck out."

The professor got the fuck out. It only took him four tries to get a cab where the driver would let a grossly smelly drunk American into his cab, but eventually he waved enough francs to get that job done. And managed to get back into his hotel room without any of his colleagues from the trip seeing him. Numerous hotel staff did, and he struck that hotel name off the list in case he ever came back to Paris.

That dark room had left him with a jackoff memory he would never forget. A memory that got him hard and leaking every time.  Just the way he had been in his office.  When he'd squeezed his cock, and instead of leaning back and putting on a condom and jacking, had left for the fucking bar, and the fucking dark room.  In hopes of finding...what he found. Actually finding more than he was hoping for.

And now Professor Mason was a fucking mess.

Even as he headed over to Franks place, telling himself that all he wanted, needed was some white guy hung up on once you go black, who wanted to do his damnedest to suck down all ten inches of his black cock, or maybe just bend over to get that dark meat shoved up his ass in the near darkness of the back room, down deep he knew he was lying to himself. What he really wanted, needed, was what he had his first time at the bar, what hed gotten when all those white men used him in Paris. When he finally admitted the truth, he still almost turned around, almost went back to his office to actually work.

But he didnt.

He stopped in the entrance, yelling at himself to go back, feeling dizzy, feeling that if he opened the door and walked in his life was going to fucking change forever.

He opened the door.  Walked in.  Inhaled the scents of a neighborhood bar, the smoke from all the cigarettes despite the law, the beer, fresh and spilled, liquor, disinfectant, the smells of men, the booze on breath, raunchy pits, smelly crotches, sweat and funk. His commando cock spurted precum, staining the dress slacks at the tip of the ridge running down his left thigh.  His lucky slacks. The same shirt, opened almost to the waist, same slacks the first time here.

The jukebox was playing some country song.  An old man was on a stool at the long bar to the right, slumped over. Two men were shooting pool off toward the left and back. Three men were sitting at the table right next to the entrance to the dark room. The one facing him tilted a long neck Bud, the label briefly visible in a flash of an on-off bar sign, and swallowed.  Stood.  Rotated his shoulders, took another swig. And looked right at him.

The professor panicked.  It was a goddamn cop.  In uniform. He froze...almost began a fear-based spin and a rush out the door when he realized.  Halloween was approaching.  It was just some guy in cop drag. He let out the gasped-in breath hed been holding. Looked at the cop. Who was definitely looking back at him.

The cop, yes, he could stop with the mental quote marks and go with the fantasy, was probably shorter than the professor, but a fucking lot wider and heavier.  His dark blue shirt had to be tailored. No off-the-rack uniform shirt could fit that tightly over his huge chest, around the large biceps. He was square-faced, square-jawed, clean-shaven. Deep-set eyes. Thick eyebrows. Close-cropped hair on his head, a thatch of hair curling over the neck of his white tee. A torso that might just be naturally thick, might just be beer belly. Blue trousers molded far too tight to be standard issue, a large bulge as if his cock was curled, too, over large balls. Hed stared at the cops crotch for far too long, he suddenly realized, and lifted his gaze.

The cop was watching him watch him. He flushed, lowered his head, his lashes.  It was his turn to be looked up and down, to have the cop stare at his slacks where his meat was unquestionably visible, straining against the fabric down his left thigh. Staining the fabric, too, although the cop probably couldnt see it. He waited...and waited, and waited for the inspection to be over, though he also thought he might just be imagining it since hed been so fucking submissive that hed bowed his head.  Shit!

Nigger. 

The bass voice cut through the juke box racket, the sound of the billiard balls clacking off each other as one of the men broke. He lifted his head. He didnt have to. He could have turned around and walked away when a police officer sworn to protect used such a derogatory term, out where everyone could hear him. He could have filed a report with the cops superiors the next morning. 

But he didnt turn and walk and report.  Because he was, after all, just that:  a nigger. If hed been a woman his pussy would have been sloppy wet with cunt juices, ready for fucking. As it was, his prick was draining dick slop steadily. He looked at the cop.  The cop nodded, as if satisfied with what had happened, what he saw on the professors face, or in his pants.

Get your cunt in the back room, nigger.

He lowered his head again, twisting his head to the left so that all he saw was empty tables. Somehow that sentence was an even greater humiliation than being used by one white man in this back room, used and abused by all those white men in that foreign dark room, since all of that had been in dimly lit, barely lit rooms meant for anonymous sex.  But here.  Fuck, here he was out in the open, where all the men in the bar could see him.  Even the old man had raised himself up, swiveled, looked at him.  The bartender made no pretense of doing anything except stare at the new and free entertainment. The pool game was suspended. Even the fucking jukebox had gone off and no one moved to drop coins or bills in it.

Last fucking chance to be a fucking man. To assert himself. To give the fake cop the finger and walk away, because if he didnt, if he did what he was ordered to do, they would all see, all these men would know, that he was just a nigger cunt. Not a real man at all. 

He took a deep breath, turned back, lifted his head, looked.

The cop was gone.

Into the toilet next to the curtain-draped archway into the back room? Down the hall off to the left with the red lit exit sign and out some back door?  Just ducked out of sight somewhere?  Was this a fucking joke?  Hed humiliate himself by going into the back room, proving he was a wimp, only to be further humiliated by the knowledge the cop didnt actually want him, was only messing with his mind and dignity as he waited for the professor to come out of the dark room...out by the only way out...to find the cop and his friends watching and laughing.

Or maybe the cop had gone through the curtains. Showing disdain for the nigger, demonstrating superiority, making it clear that if the nigger wanted to follow and get used, the cop might oblige him, but if not, he was a powerful white stud who could, who would, easily get some replacement hole for his cock to use.

The fuck! he screamed was only inside his head.

He lowered his head yet again, knowing it was what he was supposed to do, as he walked toward the curtains. Through the curtains. Blinked. His eyes hadnt fully adjusted to the bar and it was obviously even darker in here. Except for the glow of the cigar the cop still had in his hand.

Over here, boy. The contempt was plain. He turned his head, found the source, went anyway. Stopped in front of him. Kept his head down.

Knees, nigger.

The professor dropped. Confronted the hefty bulge in the cops pants. Raised his hand, then lowered it, uncertain what he should...what he was allowed to...do.

Get my cock and balls out.  The professor fumbled a bit at it, his hands shaking, but eventually got the zipper down, the pants spread, the thick uncut musky cock, and large hairy balls out in the open, the tighty whities the cop wore acting almost like a cock ring. He inhaled the cops scent and whimpered.

The cop grabbed his head and shoved all eight fat, fat veiny inches down into his throat.  The professor coughed and gagged and struggled, real this time, but the cop held on, forcing his nose into the white cotton. He felt his mind getting hazy from lack of oxygen.  The fake cop was gonna fucking kill him! Panicked, he began struggling again and the cop let up. Pulled partially out. The professor gasped and gulped in air around the meat in his mouth.

Yeah, youre a cocksucking faggot all right. You take cock up your cunt, too?

The professor nodded, realized it might not be seen, quietly said, Yes, sir.

Got lube?

The professors mind flashed to a KY commercial, where the white froth on the mouth was leaking cum.  N...no, sir.

Hope you like a spit fuck, then. Get my cock nice and wet, boy, while you get your pants down.

The professor did what he was told, licking and slurping the cock, covering it with mouth slime, while he fumbled again, this time with his own belt and button and zipper. More struggling while he was on his knees to raise his ass up, get his slacks down over his hips to he was fully exposed, and all without losing the cock in his mouth. But he managed.

The cop pulled his prick out of the professors mouth. It glistened in the faint light.  You clean, nigger?

I...have a condom....

The slap wasnt hard enough to leave a mark, at least he hoped and prayed it wasnt, what could he walk into this time if it was?

Not what I asked, boy.

He wanted to scream that of course he was clean, that he was a faithful spouse, the faithful father of three young sons...and...and when he wasnt, he always used a condom. All he said was, Yes, sir.

Good. Because if I ever find out you lied to me, infected me with fucking anything, youre fucking dead, nigger. First Ill cause you so much hurt youll fuckin beg me to let you die, and then youll get your fuckin wish.

Even though this was just a cop-fuck-fantasy, the tone almost made it real. The professor shivered, answered as he knew he should to keep the fantasy going. Christ but he was going to have jackoff memories for days. Im clean, sir.

Good, nigger. The cop patted him on the head with the cigar hand.  Me, too, so Im gonna breed you bare. Get up, lean against the wall, and lube your pussy.  Fast, motherfucker!

The professor awkwardly scrambled to his feet, hampered by the slacks slithering down to his ankles. He crab-walked to the wall as the curtains opened and shut. The flash of light from the bar let him see two more men coming in. Joining them? Another gang fuck?  He wasnt certain he could take it.

No, no they werent. He realized the two men werent part of the group that had watched him follow the cops orders. Just two horny men wanting some quasi-anonymous public sex. Just like him.

The professor leaned forward, bracing himself with his left hand, while he slicked up the first two fingers of his right hand with spit, reached back and worked them around his ass lips.  He repeated the process, working two fingers inside his pussy, feeling the heat of his ass walls, did it again, made it one more time before the cop stepped up and the wide knob end was pushing at him. He gambled, hawked up more spit, though his mouth was starting to dry, reached back, managed to get some of the slime on the cop cock.  Bent further forward, braced now with both hands, offering his nigger cunt up for use.

The cop took him up on the offer, bent his legs, left hand clamping tight on the professors lean waist, right hand guiding the cop meat to twitching hole. A brief shove and the knob punched in. The professor gasped as pain sliced through him. Then screamed as the cops right hand grabbed on, and powerful white cop hips shoved powerful white cop meat into nigger man cunt.

No one came to rescue him from pain far worse than anything hed experienced before. Of course not. No one cared.

And the cop gave him no chance to relax, adjust, loosen up his muscles to accept the invader. He just started fucking. Long, steady, piston-regular pumps that concentrated solely on how good it felt to him, not giving a fuck whether his nigger hole was in pain or not.

As it should be.

But it wasnt as if the professor was some sort of darkie virgin. His pussy eventually did relax, eventually molded itself around the fat man meat using him. He began to moan and whimper, uncaring that the two other men could hear him, uncaring if the sounds carried out into the bar, as his scream had to have done.

The cop blew a heavy cloud of cigar smoke down on him, making him cough as he inhaled it. Leaned forward over him, reached under, ripped his shirt open, the buttons popping and scattering.  Large, callused hands began feeling his smooth chest, his not-bad-for-fucking-thirty-six abs, moved up to his large nipples, pinched and twisted them, and the professor moaned even more loudly.

More cigar smoke surrounding his head, and then he sensed it was dropped, crushed out with the cops boot.

Im gonna fucking breed this hole, nigger, the cop growled as he ploughed the professors eager cunt. The mans beer and cigar breath was hot in his ear as he shoved his cock deep. Damn, fuck, boy, you got a talented ass here.  You ever whore out this sweet dark pussy? You could make a fucking mint.

The professor froze. His ass muscles tried to do a turned-to-the-max vise imitation on the cops cock. The cop started to thrust, stopped.

What? he demanded.

The floodgates opened. The fucking dam broke.

The professor shook his head.  At himself, at the words.  Shit, he was a goddamned college professor with a first-rate education, and he couldnt come up with anything better than tired clichs to describe the memories that were suddenly released by the sweet dark pussy phrase.

Or rather, by having his cunt referred to as a sweet dark pussy while a man, a white man, had his cock buried deep inside his tight fuck hole. Molesting him. Using his paid-for pussy to get off.

Christ!  I have.

Apparently those words had not been just in his head. Hed blurted them out. If hed been white his whole body would be blushing from that humiliation. The prick in his bowels still wasnt moving. The cop said, Say again. It wasnt a request, the tone left no doubt it was an order.

I, Id forgotten, until you said.... Thats what daddy always called my...my...my cunt. His, his, sweet dark pussy. His, oh fuck, his sweet dark money making pussy.

The cop reached up to twist and hurt one tit. Your fucking daddy whored you out?

The professor groaned.  Y...yes, sir.

How old were you?

Wh...when he started, or when he started selling me?

The cop started fucking again, bent close so that their shirts rubbed together, the buttons of the cop shirt pressing into the professors back. His head was down, his breath hot in the professors left ear, spoke so that even though the other men having sex were nearby they couldnt hear.  Both.

T...two when he started. I think. Maybe earlier, but two is what I remember.  He made my uncles wait until I was three. He gave me to our landlord twice for a months rent when I was six.

Jesus fucking Christ, whispered the cop.  You had your daddy and your uncles and other men up this same cunt Im fucking now? Using your baby whore pussy when you were two and three and fucking four?

Y...yes.

That is so fucking hot!

The professors mouth dropped open. He had just fucking confessed to something he had repressed for years, confessed that he had been molested and abused as a very young child, turned into a prostitute by his own father...and the cop thought that was hot? 

His own dick apparently agreed. Jesus, but he was a sick bastard.

Then things changed. 

The cop yanked his prick out of the now warm and willing hole of the confused professor. Startled, he looked over his shoulder. The cop was tucking his spit and ass juice slimy cock back into his briefs. Get dressed, nigger.

Wh...what?

The cop slapped his ass.  Hard. Youre coming with me.

The professor managed to stand, waddle around so he was facing the cop, his button-less shirt hanging open, his now-dirty slacks bunched around his ankles on the undoubtedly filthy floor.  I...I cant. My, uh, I have to....

The cop, all buttoned and zipped, grabbed his throat.  You only have to do what I say. Understand, nigger?

All the professor could do was nod. And not much of a nod at that. The cop let him go. He leaned over, grabbed his slacks, yanked them up, tucked his shirt in as best he could, zipped, buttoned, buckled.

Follow me.

Another opportunity to get the fuck away. To run out of the bar. Even a guy into cop role playing fantasy wouldnt be stupid enough to make the kind of a scene that would happen if he followed and tried anything in public. He was putting himself in danger if he did what hed been told. The cop and he was putting air-quotes around the word again, could be some sort of psycho killer.

Apparently that didnt matter to his dick. It had gone a little limp, but it was hard again.  He stepped into the bar, close behind the cop, wincing with the knowledge that these men had heard his scream, that their x-ray eyes had watched him getting fucked, that they knew he was following the man in the cop uniform so he could go somewhere else and get fucked some more. He followed anyway.

A right turn, several steps, another right into the hallway with the exit sign. He followed as ordered, his head automatically down, his eyes on the large, muscular ass in the tight uniform. The cop shoved the emergency release bar, stepped outside.  The professor followed, blinking in the bright security light that lit some sort of back lot. The door slammed shut behind him with prison finality.

The cop had moved towards his car. The professor blinked again to clear his vision, raised his head...and fucking panicked. He whirled, stepped back, grabbed at the closed door.  Locked, fucking locked. He spun again...to find the cop...the real goddamned fucking cop, standing in front of his real goddamned fucking squad car, all shiny white and blue with the rack of lights on top, the big spotlight on the driver door, the antennae, every fucking thing.

He was fucked. And not in a way he liked. They...whoever they might be...would believe whatever story the cop would tell. The Net would definitely pick up the story of the nigger professor arrested for soliciting, accosting, groping, whatever-the-fuck a cop in a bar. Hed probably go fucking viral or something. He was done.

Get in.

Like he had a fucking choice.  He walked slowly over to the back door, shoulders slumped.

Naw, you can ride up front.

Great. He was such a fucking wimp the cop didnt even think he was dangerous enough to be in the back seat, locked in behind the steel mesh.

He started to go around the front, but the cop stopped him.  Wallet, boy.

Listlessly, he pulled it out, handed it over.  There was no point in arguing, in running. He went around the car, got in, slumped, his head dropping almost to his chest, shut the door.

The cop stood in the open drivers door, opened the wallet, pulled out the professors license. Looked through it, pulled out the Brentwood faculty photo ID, put it back, pulled out a picture of a black woman, slightly on the hefty side, but not enough for a Jack Sprat and his wife joke, and three little black boys.

Your family?

Huh?

The cop leaned in, left arm resting on the door and the roof, right hand extending the photograph.

Oh, yeah.

Handsome boys. What are their names? How old are they?

What the fuck did that matter? He answered anyway.  Uh, John, Jr., uh, John is seven. Mark...Mark is five.  And, uh, Luke is, is, fifteen months.

Very, ah, Christian names.

The professors voice was dull, sapped of energy. My wife is a preachers daughter.

The cop nodded. Lean over and play with my meat, boy, he told the professor as he got his cell phone out of his shirt pocket. The professor did as he was told, his strong fingers fondling the cops hardon.

The cop speed dialed a number. It rang twice and a soft voice said, Yes, sir?

The cop snickered.  Got me a nigger here, educated kind of guy who likes playing with my dick.  So meet me at the usual place.  There was a pause.

The cop looked down at the professor who was bent almost in half as he stretched his arm out to get to the cop cock.  How tall are you, nigger?

Huh? Wha....

How the fuck tall are you, nigger?

Uh, six, uh six one.

Weight.

But why....

You want me to pull off this leather belt, make you drop trou and beat your fucking ass until you cant walk, much less sit down for fucking month?

I, uh, one forty.

The cop repeated the numbers into the phone, flipped it shut.  He pulled the picture out of the pocket hed put it in while he used his cell, looked at it again. Smiled.

Your baby boys pretty important to you?

The professor just nodded.

Your boys know their daddy is a nigger who likes to get fucked in sleazy bars?

The professors head snapped up.  Christ, no!

The cop was smirking. He put the picture back in the wallet, got in the car, dropped the wallet onto his seat.  Buckle up, boy.

The professor and the cop both did.  The engine started. The cop twisted a little to look at the professor.  You want to keep it that way?

Keep...? Fuck! He was going to be blackmailed. He was a fucking college professor, not a Gates. And no one would ever believe, not in this town, that the cop had had his fucking dick up the professors ass in that same sleazy bar.  How was he going to find the money, and hide it from his wife, and....

Dont be  a dumb shit, nigger. The smirk was in his voice, too. The cop leaned forward, put his large hand down into the professors crotch and squeezed the gone-soft meat. Ran the flat of his hand up over the professors belly, up to his pecs, his tits, squeezed the right one until the professor whimpered, repeated with the left.  Let go, turned forward, started the car, put it into gear.

As they left the bars back lot, the cop said, Pull out your nigger meat and play with it, professor, and tell me about what your daddy did to you when you were two.

