Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 08

Tyrone shook his head in disbelief at what he just heard. "Wait a second, whiteboi... you' tellin' me you got yo' fuckin' ass inked just this mornin'?"

Mitch nodded.

"You didn't plan this shit in advance?"

Mitch shook his head.

"But you ain't got no tattoos befo'," Tyrone said. "I already checked yo' shit out. You' a cleanskin."

"Yeah... but I'm not anymore. This was my first," Mitch said confidently, puffing himself up for some unknown reason.

Tyrone was intrigued. "So of all the places you could get yo' very first imprint, why'd you get it on yo' ass?"

Mitch didn't feel comfortable answering that question. It was still too soon.

"You' washed it already, right?" Doctor Tyrone was concerned about infection. "You gotta keep that shit clean, you know. Ain't nobody wants that shit to turn red."

"Yeah, I guess," Mitch replied. "The girl who works there put some cream on it before wrapping it in clingfilm plastic to keep it protected. She told me what to do. She said to be especially careful with it, probably because it's so close to my asshole. Nobody wants to accidentally wipe shit into a wound, right? I went home straight after and had a shower, and it stung like fuck when the water ran over it."

Tyrone stroked his chin and cracked half a smile, imagining the whiteboi jumping around the shower cubicle in agony. "Yeah, that sounds 'bout right. By the way, who was the chick?"

"Don't know her name," Mitch replied, "but she couldn't have been any older than about nineteen. I've never seen so many tatts and piercings on someone so young."

Tyrone felt confident he knew who Mitch was describing. "Yeah, dude, I know that bitch. She offer to suck yo' dick?"

Mitch's brain froze. "Huh? What? She looked at me and licked her lips, but maybe I imagined it."

"Nah, dude, you prolly didn't imagine it. I know exactly who you' talkin' 'bout. She' a fuckin' beast for the cock. She drinks nut like water. She give you head? Her mouf is amazin'."

Mitch must've lucked out. "No. I mean, I saw her looking at me, and I got hard, but then I got distracted... and... I just... I don't know... and then I looked up and she was gone."

"Fuck, dude," Tyrone commiserated, "She knows how to suck it good."

"Yeah, OK," Mitch replied defensively. "I'll have to take your word for that, but dude, you're you and I'm me. I mean, fuck's sake, dude. Look at the difference between us. Look at the tatts you've accumulated. Your ink fucking screams 'fuckin' suck my dick bitch', and you've got the inches and the swagger to back it up. Do you really think a nineteen-year-old nympho working in a tattoo parlour is gonna suck some puny white dude who's getting his very first tattoo on his butt of all places, when she's got so many other cocks to choose from?"

Tyrone nodded in understanding. "You might need to go back fo' some mo' ink jus' to find out". He waited for a second. "Does it hurt when you sit yo' ass down?"

"Yeah, it still stings. I caught the train home from Harlem this morning after I got it done, and there were spare seats, but I stood up the whole way. It felt a little better after I cleaned it up in the shower and put some topical cream on it, but yeah, it stung when I sat down on your couch before."

"Damn, son, it must've stung like a mo'fucker! I gots lots of tatts myself, but there's three places that are off-limits for me. One's my face, and the other two places are my ass and my dick."

Mitch nearly drooled hearing Tyrone talking about his sexy collection of ink, though he wondered why Tyrone was opposed to facial ink. He filed it away as a question for another day.

Tyrone was still naked from the waist down, his flaccid dick resting on the couch beneath him, but he was still wearing a basketball singlet.

"Oh, an' the other thing is, all these tatts I got were done late at night when I was hella drunk. I ain't never had ink while I was sober, but being smashed just delays the pain. Nex' mornin', you fin' yo'self dealin' wit' a hangover *and* a new tatt."

"Please... can you take it off?" Mitch whispered.

"What you say jus' now, whiteboi?" Tyrone boomed. "I didn't hear you."

"Can you please take your basketball singlet off?"

"Fo' sho'," Tyrone replied, throwing the fabric up over his shoulders and onto the floor. His cap stayed firmly in place, as did the gold bling around his neck.

"Fuck," Mitch breathed, unable to tear his eyes away from Tyrone's sculpted, inked chest. "You're so fucking hot, dude." He nearly lost his mind.

"I showed you mine, so now you show me yours," Tyrone said, confidently pumping his pecs.

"Oh my fucking god," Mitch seethed, staring at Tyrone's plump, pierced nipples. He wanted to roll them around on his tongue and feel them grow stiff inside his mouth.

Tyrone couldn't hide his curiosity. "So, can I see? I'm showin' you my ink, whiteboi, so leas' you can do is show me yours."

Mitch felt sheepish. "Promise you won't laugh?"

Tyrone threw his head back. "Why would I laugh?"

"You don't know what it is yet."

"I won't laugh," promised a straight-faced Tyrone. "I'm jus' curious to see what you got."

"OK," said Mitch, "but promise me one other thing."

"Huh?"

"Please don't touch it. I've wrapped clingwrap around it to keep it clean and protected."

"Coo'," Tyrone agreed. "Jus' show me."

Mitch delicately pulled his pants down and showed Tyrone the sweet, pink whiteboi pussy he wouldn't be getting tonight.

Tyrone looked closely, trying to see the design through the clingwrap. His jaw dropped. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah," Mitch admitted, "probably."

"You got yo'self a Jack o' Spades tattoo on yo' ass?"

Mitch gulped, knowing his life would never be the same after this moment. "Yeah."

"Yo' bitch ass wife know 'bout this?"

"No... she doesn't."

"Maaaan," whistled Tyrone, "she gon' smack you up when she sees what you gone done."

"No, she won't. Anyway, I don't care what she thinks."

Tyrone tried to be the voice of reason. "You sho' 'bout that? I mean, I ain't never been married, but I'm assuming you can't just walk away. There's legal shit, ain't there? And you got mutual friends? Have you thought about what she gon' say to yo' set 'bout this?"

A tear fell from Mitch's eye. "Fuck," he whispered.

"Hey, hey, whiteboi, don't get me wrong, I think your ink is a beautiful gesture. Is it for me?"

"Yeah, kinda," Mitch admitted, wiping his eyes. "And for Leroy, too. But he doesn't know about it yet."

"Yeah... so... like I was sayin', if you truly don't want to be wit' yo' bitch no more, it ain't gon' be as easy as..."

"I still want to be friends with her," Mitch interrupted.

Tyrone nearly lost his mind. "How the fuck you think you still gon' be tight wit' her after you got ink that tells the world 'I'm addicted to big black dick'? You thought that shit through?"

Mitch shook his head. "I'm always so rational. Before I ever do anything, I think it all through from a million different perspectives, which usually means I end up not doing anything at all. It's like I paralyse myself with overthought and indecision. It felt so fucking exhilarating to do something just on instinct for once. I can only think of two times recently where I've decided to do something in the moment, rather than thinking about it endlessly before talking myself out of it. The first one was getting my nose pierced, and the second one was this." He pointed to his right ass cheek. "If I'd walked past 'Black Ink' this morning and said to myself 'I've been thinking about getting a Jack of Spades tattoo on my ass, and now's a good time to get it done, but I'll wait and think about it some more', I know exactly what would've happened: I'd have eventually convinced myself not to do it, and in time, I'd come to regret it. I do this to myself all the fucking time, and I'm tired of it. I don't regret getting this, and I guess I'll just have to deal with the fallout in my own way."

Tyrone leaned back on the couch and held his palms up in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, whiteboi, don't get me wrong, I ain't tryna talk you out of nothin' or get involved in shit I ain't got no business in..."

"Good," Mitch interrupted defiantly, "because it's done. I was thinking earlier that I could take my nose piercing out right now and throw it into the Harlem River. The hole in my nose would soon close over, and after a few weeks, or maybe a month or two, nobody would ever have known it was there. But ink is different. Once it's done, it's done."

"Hey, you don't fuckin' need to tell *me* that," Tyrone replied. "Look at this shit," he said, pointing to his chest and abs.

Mitch gazed at Tyrone's sexy body. "Fuck, dude... I want you inside me so bad right now... but I got this open would on my ass..."

"Yeah, whiteboi, I get it. But jus' you wait til' you' good an' healed up. Imma pound the shit out of you. Imma nut all over your tatt, and you' gon' scoop it up and eat it." He paused for a moment, before looking deep into Mitch's eyes. "You belong now, whiteboi. You' our possession. You un'stand?"

Mitch smiled; this was exactly what he wanted to hear. "Fuck yeah, dude." He began thinking about looking for an apartment in Harlem. "But it's getting late," he pleaded as reality hit, "and I need to be at work tomorrow by nine. I brought my work clothes up with me in a bag so I don't need to swing by my apartment in the morning on the way. Cool if I sleep soon?" He yawned.

"Yeah, dude," Tyrone answered. "I'd recommend you take another shower, just to keep yo' shit clean. Lemme get you an ol' cumrag first. It's clean, but I don't want you inkin' up my good cotton and ruinin' it."

Mitch undressed and stepped under the shower, yelping again as the warm water ran across his ass. He washed and dried it gently, wondering if he was really drying himself off with one of Tyrone's old cumrags. His tiny dicklet twitched as he wondered about Tyrone's colourful sexual past. As he left the bathroom, he noticed Tyrone had left some topical cream and a roll of clingwrap for him on the kitchen counter.

Tyrone heard noises in the bathroom and kitchen come to a stop, and he noticed the living light go off. He waited for Mitch to come to bed, but...

Five impatient minutes later, he got up and padded to the living room to find Mitch lying on the couch, using a brace of Tyrone's cushions as a blanket. It had been an intense day for Mitch, and he was nearly asleep.

"What the fuck, whiteboi?" boomed Tyrone. "Why you sleepin' on my couch when there's room fo' you in my bed?"

Mitch's bleary eyes snapped open with a start. "Fuck, dude, I didn't know..."

"Get yo' ass in here, whiteboi," Tyrone interrupted. "Ain't havin' no fuckin' guest o' mine sleepin' on the fuckin' sofa when there's room in my bed," he mumbled to himself.

Mitch followed his host and lay down on his bed. "I've got my alarm set for 7.30am. I didn't want to wake you in the morning." He pulled the covers up and made himself as comfortable as possible.

"It's coo'."

All Mitch could hear was Tyrone breathing.

Tyrone rolled over. "So, this shit on yo' ass," he began, before accidentally landing a hand on Mitch's cheek...

Mitch's breath caught in pain.

"Oh, fuck, whiteboi, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Mitch's breathing slowly returned to normal, but his ass still stung.

"So I was just gonna say you can't keep yo' ass wrapped up and moisturised forever. Skin wounds heal by bein' exposed to the air, and by bein' allowed to dry out."

Mitch rolled over to face Tyrone, burying his head in his pecs. "I'm glad I've got an experienced guide." His hand reached up to find Tyrone's beautiful dreadlocks. He thought of Leroy. "Actually, *two* experienced guides."

"Yeah, we' got you," Tyrone reassured, hugging his whiteboi tight. "You an' yo' Jack o' Spades bullshit."

Tyrone reached down and found Mitch's clitty. His thick, heavy hand cupped Mitch's small balls, and he felt his whiteboi's dicklet begin to grow. With a thumb and forefinger, he jerked Mitch off. He heard Mitch moan soundlessly before trickles of weak whiteboi liquid oozed over his knuckles.

In the darkness, Tyrone held his hand up to Mitch's face. Mitch licked his thick fingers clean.

They drifted off to sleep. Neither of them moved until Mitch's alarm summoned them back to life in the morning.

*

The alarm on Mitch's cell sounded bright and early on Tuesday morning, bringing him back to consciousness at exactly half past seven. He blinked. He needed to be in the office by nine. The last few days of Mitch's life had been extraordinary -- it was only two short days ago when he stared down a gunman in the bar on the next block, and then later that day, he told his wife to go fuck herself -- but reality had since cleared its throat, coughed gently, and quietly reasserted itself.

Tyrone rolled over and went back to sleep.

He changed into the work clothes he brought with him last night -- a collared shirt, which was now no longer crisply ironed, a pair of slacks, and a change of undies. He checked the health status of his tattoo, brushed his teeth, and prepared to leave.

Tyrone was still sleeping when he softly closed the door behind him. He thought about leaving a note on the kitchen counter but decided against it. He waited in the corridor for the elevator to take him back down to street level. He grabbed a takeout coffee and a bagel from a nearby café, consuming both as he walked east towards the 125th street subway station. It was a warm morning in Harlem, and it was only going to get warmer as summer slowly swung into gear. He sweated a little as he waited for his train. He couldn't tell whether his perspiration was caused by the heat, the coffee, or the uncertainty looming in his life. It was probably all three. At least the train was air-conditioned. Mitch was gonna need it: he was about to travel the entire length of Manhattan during peak hour.

He noticed a sexy black dude standing next to him on the platform, waiting for the train. This dude was wearing a hoodie, which made no sense at this time of the year, though the hood itself was swept back. Mitch's eyes glanced downward. Yeah, this dude was packing a serious BBC. He tried to catch his eye but failed.

The train was crowded, which suited Mitch fine. His right ass cheek still felt tender and warm, and he was quite content to stand. He held a strap to stop him being thrown back and forth as the carriage shuddered and screeched. The train arrived on time, and Mitch climbed the stairs up to the Financial District. He walked two blocks southeast along Wall Street to his building and grabbed an Americano from a street vendor. He carried the warm takeout cup up to the 30th floor. He sat down at his desk with a silent ouch before logging on.

His boss came over to ask politely whether Mitch's next recent 'family emergency' had been resolved. His smile, intended to convey concern, looked more like a grimace.

"Yes," Mitch lied. It didn't matter what his answer was. He knew his boss didn't care whether his personal problems were resolved or not. The boss was just glad his absent employee was back at his desk. There was money to be made.

His boss sounded pleased, and wished Mitch a productive day, pointing out that he had a lot to catch up on from yesterday before turning on his heel back to his office and closing the door.

Mitch stared out of the 30th floor window of his Wall Street building, thinking about the ways in which his current surroundings differed from the ones he'd left less than an hour ago. He was now in a world of money, finance, power, wealth and greed. True, Harlem was about those things too, but Wall Street embodied them on an international scale. He watched boats on the East River as he listened to his colleagues desperately tapping away at their computer keyboards.

Manhattan was geographically small, but culturally immense. Thirty floors up at the epicentre of global capitalism felt a million miles away from the gritty streets of Harlem.

He heard phones ring. He saw colleagues fumble for their headsets as they dialled into yet another urgent Teams call. He heard papers rustle, distant conversations falter, and footsteps land. He smelled coffee and sweat, and he felt a toxic mixture of ego, opportunity, anxiety and disappointment in the air.

Despite the weak, transparent lie he'd been telling Leroy and Tyrone, this definitely wasn't the postal service.

He snapped out of it and began scrolling through his emails and newsfeed.

The first hour of his Tuesday morning was spent triaging his emails from yesterday and the weekend. He weeded out the obvious spam before putting the remaining messages into some kind of order of priority. He shook his head, amazed at how much e-crap his account had accumulated in a single absent day. He checked in with his team about tasks that had probably been dealt with while he was away. Most of them had been, so he categorised those messages and moved on. He was about to deal with the top priority emails -- the ones that only he could deal with, and those that couldn't wait -- when his boss left his office, walked briskly over to Mitch's desk, and called his employee into a meeting.

Shit; fuck.

Mitch sat in the meeting room, staring out the window at the boats on the East River, barely even listening. He suddenly became conscious of the hickey on his neck. He hoped his shirt collar was tall enough to hide it.

Eleven miles north, Tyrone woke up in his Harlem penthouse apartment. He blinked his eyes open and rolled over. His huge flaccid cock slapped down on the mattress. There was no sign that Mitch had even been here last night. He threw the covers off and walked slowly towards the kitchen, expecting to see a note on the counter. There was nothing. He shrugged and went back to bed, but he'd slept enough.

Tyrone felt horny. He was still thinking about the juicy whiteboi ass he didn't get last night. He scratched his sweaty, swollen balls.

His laptop lay on the floor at the side of the bed, collecting sunrays. He scooped it up and placed it on his mattress, on the side where Mitch had slept. He booted it up before propping himself up on some spare pillows.

He went looking for porn.

He started with a favourite scene of his. A pornstar with Botoxed lips and huge, fake titties rang a doorbell. She was a real estate agent, who'd been commissioned by the owner of the house to put it on the market. The owner was another pornstar with juicy lips and a pair of equally large plastic breasts. The two women talked about real estate for a few short minutes before they began complimenting each other on their massive racks. Bras flew off as they groped and sucked each other's tits.

Tyrone lay back on his pillows. He spat on his hand and began slowly stroking his ten inches. He wished someone was here to jerk his dick for him, so he could just relax and watch.

Mitch's morning meeting ran forever. He wasn't even sure what was being discussed. He glanced at his boss with raised eyebrows as if to say 'I've got other important stuff to do right now, do you really need me in this meeting?', but his boss either didn't pick up on his implied message or he ignored it.

Mitch's shoulders slumped. He wondered what Leroy might be doing. He was still worried about the awkward way they parted company yesterday morning.

Thick streaks of warm blood began to flow into Tyrone's BBC as he watched the pornstars eating each other out. A series of sex toys appeared (did the real estate agent carry them around with her on regular business?) and they began fucking each other. He exhaled as his cock began to reach full mast. Even as he wrapped both of his thick hands around his fat shaft, one above the other, the head of his enormous cock still poked out the top. He looked down and noticed a thick pearl of clear liquid pooling at the tip of his dick. He smeared it around with his thumb, imagining it was someone's warm, wet tongue. Fuck, that felt good.