Ain't No Shame in Bein' a Ho
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Ryan Reeves woke slowly and stretched his slender frame. A bolt of anxiety raced through him as he saw the morning sun peeking under the drawn blind, but then he realized it was Saturday. No school. Ryan relaxed. He had a hard on. Reaching between his legs, he grabbed his cock and squeezed. He had to pee. He lay in the warm sheets thinking of Dray, his student and all-star basketball player from Bronx Academy. Ryan had moved from a wealthy suburb in Connecticut to teach in the South Bronx so that he could help girls just like Dray. She was eighteen, long and limber with a light brown complexion and big chunky lips. Ryan rolled off the bed and made his way to the bathroom.
He stood over the bowl in his jockey shorts and waited for his erection to diminish so his water could come. He toyed with the idea of beating off. He was a good-looking man, with a thin but well-built body, a full beard, and dark inquisitive eyes. He thought of his girlfriend, a Jewish girl with long wavy hair and a strong nose who taught English at Bronx Academy, and soon he was able to make his water.
Ryan tugged his cock back into his underwear, sat on the toilet seat, and fixed up a shot of heroin. It was his morning fix. Drugs were more plentiful in the Bronx than in Connecticut. He slipped the needle into his arm and felt the chemical warmth swallow his brain.
Ryan heard a faint tapping noise.
Tap, tap, tap.
He was unsure where the noise was coming from. Pulling on his jeans, Ryan padded bare-chested to the front door and peered through the peep hole. The hall was empty, except for Mook, a neighbor who slung dope for one of local dealers and a streetwalker in tight pink shorts. Ryan put his hands on the door and pressed his face for a better look. The streetwalker was actually a neighbor woman who lived with her mother just down the hall. As she negotiated with Mook, Ryan's eyes were drawn to the finely articulated muscles in her shoulders and back, her ripe round ass cheeks, and those sturdy black thighs. Ryan felt his cock swell in his pants. If she were already being pimped out, her mother would be disappointed.
"Mr. Reeves?" Dray's voice sounded meek and hesitant.
Ryan spun from the door with a guilty look on his face. Dray wore jeans, a light-colored T-shirt, and low-cut Converse, the uniform of the day for all the students at Bronx Academy. Sometimes Ryan felt as if he were the only thing standing between these sweet brown girls dressed in their modest jeans and t-shirts, and the neighborhood pimps so eager to dress them as whores.
Dray averted her eyes. Ryan couldn't be sure if she looked away because of the look on his face, his lack of a shirt, or the bulge in his pants. "Mook was in the hall," Dray said, "so I came through the window. I hope it's okay."
Ryan loved how adaptable and smart these girls were. A drug dealer in the hall just meant they'd climb the fire escape and come through a window. He grinned, casting off any lingering feelings of doubt.
"What up, Dray." He spied a terrycloth robe and drew it over his bare shoulders.
Dray grinned a brilliant smile. Her full cheeks glowed in the dim light. She was an athlete and it showed. Her thighs were bursting out of her jeans, fraying the seams at her hips and along the insides of her legs. Her family wasn't wealthy, so she'd probably owned those jeans for years and only now was her ripe body able to fill them out in all the right places.
Dray turned her head to the left, then to the right. Her hair was done in neat cornrows, half an inch apart, covering her entire scalp in geometric swirl pattern.
"Did Ms. Jesum do your hair?"
Ms. Jesum was Dray's guardian. Ryan wasn't sure how Ms. Jesum was related to Dray or if they were even blood, but it didn't matter. He knew Ms. Jesum loved Dray and wanted only the best for her. She'd made Dray sit for the hours it took to braid her hair because Ryan had once mentioned enjoying Dray with her hair that way at a parent teacher conference. He had only been making small talk, but since that day each time Dray came to his house for a practice test, Ryan found her hair braided and oiled in fresh new cornrows.
"You know she did," Dray murmured. He ran the back of his fingers along one of the knobby spine of braids and Dray ducked her head and blushed.
"You here for your practice test?" he asked.
Dray wordlessly nodded. He insisted on four practice tests each semester from every girl. The girls were responsible for making time for the tests outside of school. Ryan felt it was important for the girls to make an active investment in their future.
"What grade do you want, Dray?"
Dray grinned and looked at the floor. She shook her head.
"It's not funny," Ryan said. He gave her a cross look, produced a yellow legal notepad, and opened it to a blank page. "Write down the grade you want," he said.
Dray took the pen and studied the blank page. Ryan reached for her pen hand before she could write anything, touching his fingers lightly to her knuckles.
"You have to believe to achieve," Ryan said. This was Ryan's thing with the girls. He always told them they had to ‘believe to achieve', and he expected the girls to adopt this slogan and repeat it back to him, too. He felt it made them more comfortable with success. He was grooming them for their future after Bronx Academy.
"Do you believe Dray?"
Dray's shoulders began to quake with silent laughter. "Oh, I believe, Mr. Reeves. I believe," Dray said. Her voice had taken on a silky, dreamy quality, as if she were responding to one of the Reverend's calls at the local Baptist church. Looking up, she met Ryan's eyes and her eyes were wet and sparkling with joy.
"Then achieve!" Ryan said.
He put his fists on his hips and stared at the blank page before his student.
Dray bit her bottom lip.
She made a large "C" on the pad.
Ryan let his shoulders slump. He made a deep inhale and folded his arms acros s his chest. "Dray," he said. "C?"
"C is good," Dray said with a whine.
"Dray." His voice showed his disappointment.
Dray pursed her lips and blew the air from her lungs. "Here," she said. Leaning forward, she drew a little plus sign next to her grade.
Ryan sighed. He slumped into the middle of the couch, threw out his legs and laced his fingers behind his head. The heroin made it easier to accept these type disappointments with the girls, and he accepted them often.
"What's up with you?" he asked. He was indicating his willingness to let go of the lackluster grade she had chosen and inviting her to catch him up on her life.
Dray climbed onto him, straddling his legs and sitting heavily on his lap. She was substantial, heavier than he remembered from her last test, but Ryan was careful not to groan or even wince. He knew from experience that if he said anything about a girl's weight or growing body, she would slip into a nasty shame spiral, going on endlessly about being fat, flat-chested or having an ass that was either too big or too small, though Ryan knew nothing could be further from the truth. The girls of Bronx Academy were all beautiful and healthy and in their prime. They just lacked confidence about their looks. They were all trying to straighten their hair and keep their skin tone fair by staying out of the sun or applying abrasive salves.
They also didn't particularly know how to interact with men.
But this was only because they lacked practice. All the men in this community were either in jail or the cemetery. Ryan knew this, as did Ms. Jesum, as did Ryan's Jewish girlfriend, and the entire administrative and academic staff of Bronx Academy. Ryan was a prize. Because he was white and smart. Because he cared. But mostly, because he was a man. He could give the girls of Bronx Academy what they needed most. He was Dray's history teacher. He was her basketball coach. But mostly he was her confidant. Her daddy.
"My mom came for me last week to do more modeling in Queens," Dray said. Her mother was addicted to crack. The modeling agency was nothing more than a seventy-year-old white man who had advertised on Craig's list for black models. He liked to dress Dray in cotton panties and sundresses and then photograph her sitting Indian style on a big four-poster bed.
Ryan tilted his head and smiled. He felt his job during these sessions was to remain positive, never to judge. Dray shifted her weight. "He wants me to do a set for him in swimwear and tights," Dray said. "But he doesn't want to work with my mom anymore."
Dray began an unconscious hip rocking motion as she weighed the pros and cons of moving forward in her modeling career. Free tights and bikinis. Larger commissions without her mother. So, all of that, versus finding her own way to Queens and her mother's ire when she discovered she'd been cut out of the arrangement. Ryan felt his cock respond to the rocking motion. He put his hand on Dray's thigh.
She looked at his hand, then looked at him.
"What does Dray want?" he asked.
She sucked her teeth, pursed her lips and raised her brows.
"Dunno," she said.
He smiled. Tapped her thigh twice with an open hand.
"Let's get started," he said.
She smiled shyly and raised her body from his lap, but then at the last moment she sat back down again. "Wait, wait," she said, her face lit with excitement. "I almost forgot the most important thing." She shifted around in his lap until she was straddling one of his thighs. A group of thugs had commandeered the elevator in her building and were charging the females blowjobs for rides to their floors.
"Really?" Ryan asked. Dray lived on the 23rd floor.
"But they don't charge all the girls," Dray said. Only certain girls in the building were asked to perform. The big bottom women who steered into the elevator like great freighter ships were allowed to pass. The flocks of prostitutes were the center of many a pitched standoff. Dray tilted her head back and gave him a smug look. She was rocking her hips again but this time it was more of a conscious effort.
"Did they ask you to the prom, Dray?" There was no prom at Bronx Academy. Ryan wanted to know if she'd been asked to give the thugs blowjobs. Dray laughed softly. Shyly. She understood his meaning immediately and blushed furiously. Of course, they had invited her to suck their cocks.
"I'll talk to them," Ryan said. He could solve a problem like this.
Dray raised herself from Ryan's thigh, her face flushed with either the pride of having been selected to perform, or the excitement of having made her confession to Ryan. Or maybe it was a little of both. Ryan didn't think she'd met their demands, but he wouldn't have blamed her if she had. Twenty-three floors were a lot of stairs for a girl to climb.
Dray slipped from Ryan's lap to the floor. Ryan rose to his feet, unzipped his fly and fished out his hard cock.
This was the practice test.
Dray reached for her teacher's cock, gave it a quick pump, then popped it into her warm mouth. Originally the practice test had been an academic evaluation, but the girls didn't particularly like mathematics, and they weren't any good at rote memorization of facts. Ryan needed something the girls could do that they would feel good about. He needed to build their self-confidence, shore up their flagging self-esteem. Dray looked up at him once, then lowered her eyes and focused herself on the task at hand. All the girls knew how to suck a man's cock. It was a time-honored tradition in this community.
Ryan inched towards her, putting his hands on his hips and watching her bob her head. Heroin tended to deaden sensation, so he had to be careful not to allow his erection to diminish. Nothing could be more harmful to a girl's ego than to see her teacher's cock go flaccid and limp in the middle of the practice test.
Taking Dray's head in his hands, he stroked the knobby bristles of her braids. At the parent teacher conference with Ms. Jesum, Ryan had talked about the necessity of traditional hairstyles for black girls, and in his heart of hearts he believed in the fundamental truth of all of those ideals. But it was also true that cornrows were like a textured grip for a black girl's head. Placing one hand on the back of her head and the other under her chin, he pumped his hips. He had a long cock, but he didn't want to choke her. If he wrenched her neck the basketball team would surely suffer, not to mention Ms. Jesum's unhappiness about the unexpected cost of any doctor's visits. He just needed to create enough friction on his shaft to cause himself to ejaculate into her pretty mouth.
"Bitch," Ryan said. Dray grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight. Bitch was what she expected to hear, and Ryan didn't want to disappoint. His girlfriend would never accept him calling her a bitch in the heat of the moment, but with students it was different. Ryan understood this. A gifted intermediary, he grasped both sides of the equation. The switch to the current cocksucking methodology would never have been approved by the administration, so he kept it secret between him and his best students.
He lowered his pants to the middle of his thigh and Dray cupped his balls. He was very close. "Is my cock bigger than the boys' in the elevator?"
It was a loaded question, and probably unfair of him to ask, but he didn't care. He wanted her answer. She took his cock from her mouth with a satisfying pop.
"You have a big dick, Mr. Reeves."
He shoved his cock back into her mouth and came. It was a good answer. He grunted and held her head with both hands, flexing the muscles in his ass. She massaged his balls as he drained himself.
Ryan grinned down at her. "Let me see," he said.
She opened her mouth and showed him the pool of cream she'd collected from him. He gave her the yellow notepad paper with her grade on it, and she posed for a picture he took with his phone. Holding the grade sheet next to her face, she opened her mouth wide. Her eyes sparkled. It was an effort worthy of an A. It didn't really count toward her academic grade, but he liked to take the pictures as a sort of memento of each girl's progress. Closer to graduation most girls began requesting Bs and sometimes even an A. It was an unusual methodology, but it worked. His classes showed a lower incidence of teen pregnancy and dropout rates. His girls went on to cosmetology classes, trade schools and sometimes even community college.
"You have to believe to achieve," he said.
Dray swallowed the cum in her mouth and smacked her lips. "I believe Mr. Reeves," Dray said. "I believe."
There was a knock on the door.
Dray rose from her knees and Ryan assembled his pants. They walked to the door together. It was another student, Tanisha. Her hair was done in cornrows, laser straight rows front to back, with little orange beads woven into the ends at her neck.
"Hi, Mr. Reeves," Tanisha said.
She made her way into the apartment, and Dray folded her arms, staring icily at her classmate. Mook was gone from the hall. Ryan made Tanisha comfortable and then walked Dray to the street. Her lip jutted from her face.
"What?" Ryan asked.
"Dray," Ryan said.
He reached to touch her braids, but she jerked her head back. Jealousy was always the big problem with the practice test methodology. He reminded Dray about her future. He reminded her that it was his responsibility to think of the whole class.
Dray kept her arms folded.
"You want to do some extra credit work?" he asked.
Dray cut her eyes to his. A slow smile spread across her face.
"What's that?" she asked.
Ryan smiled. "After practice tonight," he said. He would wait for the other girls to go home, and then have her kneel before a toilet in the coach's lavatory and piss on her face. Just a little something to mark her, make her feel special among her friends and classmates. "You'll see," he said.
He held up his fist.
She looked at him, her eyes flat. She looked at his fist.
If that didn't work, he could always fuck her in the ass. He didn't do vaginal sex because these were good girls and most of them still had a hymen, and their mothers had their family doctors check to ensure it remained intact. The last thing the girls of Bronx Academy needed were more problems.
Dray popped her back from the wall and touched her forehead to his fist. "Aight, Mr. Reeves," she said. "I see you at practice."
As she turned her back to exit the building, he touched her hair. "Tell Ms. Jesum I love what she did with your hair."
"She can put the beads too," Dray mumbled, holding open the security door.
"Dray," Ryan said. He folded his arms across his chest. "Do you believe?"
Dray surveyed the street. It was a bright sunny day. Mook was on the corner talking to some white boys from another neighborhood. A police cruiser drove slowly past, eyeing the outsiders.
"I believe, Mr. Reeves," Dray whispered. "I believe."
COPYRIGHT © 2020 Huck Pilgrim. All right reserved.
Huck Pilgrim has lived on the streets of New York City, in a communal home for Christians, and on an American submarine out of San Diego. He has washed dishes, made costumed helium balloon deliveries, and robbed designer jeans from department stores.
Huck writes gritty stories about submission, sex, and power. Occasionally he tosses a hand grenade of action and adventure into the mix. Huck’s stories are vivid fantasies, exploring the darker sides of surrender and exposure. In Huck’s stories, the mousy girl becomes suddenly bold and capable, often discovering the hidden slut inside her. The men are handsome, hard-bitten, and cruel, enjoying all manner of debauchery.
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