Save the Clinic! Episode 14
This is an episode about frustration. Cassandra is the crafty attorney representing the Porg and their racist plans. The Pale Oyster Development Group looks to evict minorities from their government-assisted housing and shut down the Elimination Clinic. The resilience of The Black Power Movement frustrates Cassandra who is cornered into sacrificing more from her client in hopes for a settlement. Meanwhile, Kathleen is sexually frustrated. Between caring for her ill husband and the racial justice protests against her company, her libido is in overdrive. As much as she wants to protect her husband's legacy, betraying her race never felt so good!
In her rather expensive vehicle,
costing as much as a lower income minority resident of Black Pine makes in two or three years, Cassandra pulled onto the parking lot of broken pavement. She looked up and saw the sign of the shop, “Blossom Boutique”. It wasn't far from The Black Power Movement headquarters in the illustrious African Heights district. The district was in the older part of town long overlooked for redevelopment no thanks to white politicians and companies Cassandra represented, The Pale Oyster Redevelopment Group. However, due to the election of the city's first black mayor, Mayor Sweet, the area was given new life and new pride in being black. Black-owned was more than a motto but a lifestyle.
The boutique was one of those black-owned businesses. It offered women's clothes with an urban appeal, meaning appealing to black men. It was a place for women of all colors comfortable with their sexuality. Whether it was a night out at the club or standing on the corner in the red light district, the boutique had the wardrobe. Prudish women, those of the religious right or considered themselves chaste or conservative felt uncomfortable unless they were looking to be converted. The woman who ran the place, Monique, had the clothes to suit the occasion.
However, Cassandra wasn't looking to be converted. She was too busy looking at herself in her mirror and feeling proud. Her arrogance and vanity defined the married, 32 year old blonde with dark streaks. Though she was an attorney defending the “Porg”, she had looks suited more for pornography or even prostitution. Too bad Cassandra never gave either consideration. She was dressed too professionally. Maybe in a corporate world of profit, Cassandra would be considered attractive. But elsewhere far from the comfort of white racism and closed mindedness, her wardrobe was outright prudish. It showed disdain for black fashion and culture. Her avoidance to express sexual openness was as obvious as wearing a white bed sheet.
Cassandra spotted a customer stepping out of the boutique in her “slut wear”. The lawyer raised her eyebrows and judged the woman in her tight mini-skirt, tighter top, and knee-high boots. The slutty-looking woman looked barely twenty in age and strut her ass towards a black gentleman walking up to greet her. Cassandra tried to look away but couldn't notice how this gentleman was pawing at her ass and nodding in approval. The woman, his woman, nodded seriously welcoming his hands. He had liked what he saw and took her hand leading her to his black sports car.
Cassandra stepped out of her car and walked to the front entrance. She felt impatient and hoped the visit would be short. To Cassandra, the boutique was just a stepping stone and not giving the respect it deserved. When inside, Cassandra tripped the electronic chimes, “ding-ling-ding”, getting the storekeeper's attention. Monique, a slender woman of mixed race, with long, straight dark hair with smooth skin, greeted Cassandra with a smile. Monique was in her mid twenties and wore an outfit as hot as a prostitute while still being elegant and demanding respect. Cassandra had it all planned. She was going to be subtle, get an outfit out of the boutique without revealing her meeting with the BPM. But Monique had other plans.
“You, Miss Cassandra?” asked Monique. Cassandra figured Aggie had tipped Monique off.
“Um, I'm a Mrs.” corrected Cassandra. Monique looked at the ring on Cassandra's left hand and raised her eyebrows with a big smile, “I see!” Monique introduced herself and shared how Aggie at The Black Power Movement made her the gatekeeper for Cassandra's big meeting with the highly esteemed, Akin Kalu.
“Gatekeeper?” asked Cassandra, unprepared for new demands from the Movement to meet her. Monique answered, “That's where I get to decide whether you, a white girl, are worthy enough to speak with our Black Power Movement!” Cassandra felt enraged and wanted to scream at Monique. But she remembered how Aggie put her in her place. Cassandra cooled and kept mute. The attorney realized Monique was acting on the behalf of The Movement. The BPM had influence throughout the city with numbers of devotees greater than Cassandra could have guessed. Monique continued, “About time we put you white people under control!” Cassandra smartly showed obedience by staying silent.
“So … where do we start?” asked Cassandra after a long, awkward pause. Her mind kept racing and thinking procedural like a lawyer in a courtroom.
Monique walked Cassandra up and down the aisles of clothes suited for strippers, prostitutes, and dominatrices. She pulled out a blue mini-dress, a black and blue midriff vest, matching heels, and finally a g-string. Cassandra took the pile of clothes, feeling feather-light, in her arms. Monique pointed her to the dressing room.
“This? You want me to wear this with the Black Power Movement?” Cassandra questioned Monique's taste.
Monique took the criticism maturely and explained, “Well, I admit it is sort of prude if you're meeting Mr. Kalu. But I want to see how you present yourself in an urban wardrobe that's black- friendly before I approve of you.”
Cassandra took a deep breath convincing herself it can't be that bad … to take orders from a black woman. Cassandra stepped to the back to the fitting rooms. She looked over her shoulder and saw Monique attend to a customer. By the cash register was a bashful-looking woman in her thirties bringing her clothes to the counter. She whispered to Monique she had “a date” and confessed it was “with a black man.”
“Is sex part of the date?” Monique proudly asked. The woman nodded, feeling almost embarrassed, and brushed back her hair with her left hand sporting a ring on her wedding finger. Cassandra looked away and took another deep breath. She stepped into the dressing booth and began tearing her clothes off like a high-paid fashion model ready to sport her lingerie underneath. The professional-looking lawyer began looking more feminine and sexually prepared as her clothes melted off. When she was down to her panties underneath, she gathered her work clothes and piled them into a corner of a small bench seat. Her wardrobe was made from heavy fabric, expensive in cost. Cassandra picked up her g-string Monique wanted for her. It was closer to a piece of thread and cost as much as her entire wardrobe she had walked in with. She peeled off her panties and snorted hot air from her nostrils. There was a hint of sexual frustration either from stresses from work or meeting one woman after another who seem to have a more satisfied sex life than her.
First went on was the g-string. Cassandra turned on the balls of her feet, mimicking the heels she hadn't put on yet and stared at herself in the mirror. She silently approved of it. Next was the black and blue midriff vest. It covered her breasts by a single clasp and exposed her belly button. It was purposely a size or two too small making appear to push out her breasts and making them appear larger. The white-bread lawyer expected to think of it as tacky but had to admit it made her figure look good. Then it was time for her mini-dress that barely covered the bottom of her ass. Cassandra felt embarrassed to look at herself. It was a world difference than what she appeared in the courtroom. Finally, came her heels. It was black with blue accents. When Cassandra looked up, she didn't recognize the whore looking back at her.
“No, fucking way! I can't present myself in this.” she whispered to herself forcing to emote disgust. Cassandra twirled on her heels looking at her body with a finger on her lower lip. For some strange reason, she was fascinated by the woman looking back at her.
The store was empty leaving Cassandra as the only customer. “You ready, white girl?” Monique asked. “I … I guess so.” the blonde answered. Cassandra stepped out and Monique was there waiting with her arms crossed. Monique had Cassandra spin on her heels like she was modeling for a room of rich, black men needing a breeding partner.
“Walk for me in those heels.” said Monique before adding, “Those do make your ass look good!” Cassandra, feeling self-conscious, took a few steps away and spun around. She walked back to Monique who smirked and shook her head. “That's it?” Monique asked and told the blonde to sport her outfit again. Cassandra walked off. Although she was in a wardrobe ready for porn, she proudly sported an attitude suited for a courtroom. Cassandra spun and returned but Monique shook her head again in much disappointment.
“Girl! Where's the hotness? Where's the 'sex'?” demanded Monique who was disappointed her wardrobe on an attractive woman could put on a show so cold. “I don't know what you mean.” replied Cassandra feeling so insecure she put her left arm across her cleavage..
“You should be walking like you had the best black dick in your life! Not that you would know anything about that.” Monique said. Cassandra couldn't help but feel a offended by the criticism. “You have no confidence, no … enthusiasm about arousing a sexually aggressive black man and what will happen next.” added Monique.
Cassandra, visibly shaken by Monique's critique and assumptions she would use her body for sex, spoke up and maybe a little too loud. “What a second! This is a meeting about legal affairs. I'm not putting myself out ...”
Monique put her hand up with that “Don't you go there!” look on her face. “You know how to fit into the clothes. But you don't know how to wear them for a black man … especially the likes of Mr. Akin Kalu. Damn, he's royalty to our people!” Then Monique's words hit Cassandra like a black hammer, “You'd just embarrass yourself. Nope. I can't have you to stand in front of the Movement and certainly not in my clothes.”
Stunned and powerless, Cassandra begged “What … what do you want me to do?”
Monique looked pessimistic. Cassandra feared it would be another setback that would put her, her client, and every employee at the Porg, in legal jeopardy. Monique was ready to put the uppity blonde in her place, take her money for the outfit, and send her home with The Black Power Movement celebrating another racial victory over racism. Then came the “ding-ling-ding” from the electronic bell. Monique looked at the man who had just stepped in and waved at him. “He's right on time!” Monique shared with Cassandra. Cassandra, however, felt intimidated knowing she was going to share her new 'look' with another man, a stranger.
His name was JaMarcus, a lean, handsome black man pushing forty with graying hair. JaMarcus dressed nice, perhaps overdressed in his pressed, black pants, brown button-up shirt and silk tie. He walked straight to the back, smiling ear to ear, his eyes never leaving Cassandra's tight, white body. The blonde felt mortified with one arm over her breasts and her free hand trying to pull her dress longer.
Monique tried hard to suppress a giggle as she greeted JaMarcus, one of her best customers. “Is this her? Hmmm, very nice!” JaMarcus complimented as he rubbed his chin while avoiding to tussle at this crotch. Monique was very pleasant with JaMarcus, her mood and demeanor obviously more uplifting than privately with Cassandra. Goosebumps on Cassandra's arms raised like boils and she felt flush and embarrassed. JaMarcus held out his hand to Cassandra snapping her out of her paralysis and offered her hand.
“What a fine white girl! A fine … white girl!” said JaMarcus who gestured Cassandra to twirl on her heels while he had her hand in his palm. Monique took the opportunity to explain to JaMarcus that Cassandra needed lessons how to “work that ass!” Cassandra huffed, still smarting over demeaning suggestions not quite picking up on the innuendo. JaMarcus was patient and understood. He raised an eyebrow at Monique, “I see.”
Cassandra, bored being described as an object and not the respectable attorney, spoke up with her knees rubbing together like a bashful school girl. “Excuse me, where is this going?” she asked, her voice exhausted. Monique, being stern yet polite answered, “JaMarcus is going to 'teach' you how to get a black man's attention. He's in the, uh, 'entertainment' biz!”
“Oh?” replied Cassandra and maybe even a little star-struck with curiosity.
JaMarcus smiled, “Yeah. I run a black-owned business right here in Black Pine. I know a little about managing models in front of a very discriminating crowd. “
Monique put up a grin, “His business has been very successful in, let's say, bridging the racial divide in the city. I'd be very impressed if I knew you were taking some pointers from him before I recommend you to our Movement.”
JaMarcus reassured Cassandra with his calm voice. He saw how Cassandra was still obviously uncomfortable in her outfit, “I'd be happy to help out.” he told her before handing Cassandra his business card. “Stop by the place and bring your outfit … things slow down after two in the morning. Then we can work on making your more comfortable with men with the… color of our skin, sort to speak.”
“Yeah!” cheered Monique. Cassandra couldn't decide if she was just labeled as a racist.
As Cassandra returned to the dressing booth, Monique escorted JaMarcus to the front. There Monique would be ringing up Cassandra's total. A hefty price tag to dress more appealing within the black community and shed her white privilege. The blonde couldn't make out the serious whispers from the register and she realized she would have to work harder, sacrifice more, and prove herself more than ever. Cassandra took a close look at the business card JaMarcus gave her. It read: “The Black Fantasies Lounge.” located in the heart of the red light district.
Meanwhile,
Kathleen was suffering her own frustrations. She had locked herself in her bedroom, strutting around naked. Normally, she enjoyed listening to new age. However, Kathleen chose to stream urban and more explicit choice of music. Heavy erotic beats filled the room with deep voices of black rappers praising “black men”, “black culture”, and “black power”. The proud business woman didn't pay attention to the words only how they made her feel. Every time a song would mention “pussy”, “fuckin'” or anything sexual, Kathleen would touch herself.
Kathleen looked great, if not wonderful, for a woman in her mid forties. She had blonde hair with a slight gray streak. She was 5' 8” and a slender hottie keeping her 34-24-34 figure. A teen beauty pageant contestant, Kathleen understood how parading her body for the pleasure of others benefited her. Being the head of a company while married to an invalid was too stressful. She needed release. She needed to be “bad”. Kathleen treated herself to one cigarette from her nine-dollar pack hidden in her nightstand drawer. Kathleen lit one and pranced around on the balls of her feet as if she was walking in heels. She wanted dick … big, black dick. It would take a confident, healthy, and very aggressive man to tame her demanding sexuality. Kathleen needed to feel alive. That meant having a black cock in her mouth to taste before going deep into her cunt and making her feel like a helpless slut. While she longed for a black man, she never considered once in her life to submitting to them completely physically and emotionally. This made her a racist. Beautiful and rewarding interracial sex didn't move her to help the residents in the Brickyards district. Nor did she have any sympathies for The Black Power Movement. Worst of all, she was just as committed to evict The Elimination Clinic and disrupt their pace of white abortions performed daily. Kathleen just enjoyed her arousal, squeezed a tight breast, and ignored racial justice. She continued to act white, rich, and proud. Kathleen thought all she needed to do was throw money at a black man to get the attention her body needed.
The needy blonde had been texting her man-for-hire, Tremaine. Tremaine had made quite an impression on her after a couple nights of “interracial healing” His ready-cock, black and hard, was everything Kathleen wanted. The way he talked to her, the way he handled her was what every woman needed to fuel their feminine, sexual energy. But she hadn't heard from Tremaine and was worried he was ghosting her. She would do anything to get his attention. She would be willing to pay more. Much more.
The digital chimes rang from her phone. It was her husband calling for her. He only did that when he felt his health slipping. Kathleen's arousal depleted and she exhaled an exhausting breath. She took one last puff from her smoke and smashed it on a dinner plate next to the unfinished brie. Kathleen threw on a robe and marched out of the bedroom and down the hall. It occurred to her, if she just slow down, just a little, it might make her a little too late. Both she and her husband, Olde, could have peace. She stopped in front of Olde's door. Behind it was the chamber of her husband's suffering … and hers. Kathleen put her hand on the knob and held her breath. She knew if would step inside, she would not see a healthy, sexually aggressive man on his bed waiting for her. Kathleen realized she was deliberately stalling and couldn't resist squeezing her left breast. Images flashed in her head …
Kathleen went to her knees in front of Tremaine, her black man, and gave him a sloppy blow job. Olde was on the other side of the door crying out for his wife but she was too busy worshiping black cock. Tremaine laughed and taunted the old man's money since he had his wife. Kathleen looked up with her round eyes showing love and racial devotion. She couldn't get enough of him inside her mouth and jabbing her throat. Feeling a hand on the back of her head made her controlled and well-used. “Fuck you, old man! This slut is black-owned!” Tremaine cried out.
… Olde called the chime again. Kathleen's phone reminded her, blaring loudly. No doubt now that Olde knew Kathleen was on the other side of the door. Kathleen shook herself out of her fantasy and opened the door. She went to her husband, sick in his bed. Olde's masculinity was little more than a scrawny hand reaching out to his wife. Kathleen rushed to hold his hand wondering if these were his final moments.
But Olde smiled. He gave an evil grin not seen since his walking days. “Have you rebuilt the Brickyards?” he asked. Kathleen was surprised at Olde's determination. The social and racial divide the Brickyards represented was keeping him alive. Kathleen answered straight, “We're winning. We'll be evicting all those poor minorities and shut down that Elimination clinic! White women won't be able to erase our future and breed more white babies.”
Olde looked at the ceiling and laughed. He was growing stronger. Kathleen couldn't be surprised if he ripped off the oxygen and jumped on the bed like lunatic. But something more surprising happened. Kathleen's phone buzzed with a text from Tremaine.
“I can see you later tonight. Dress HOT and I will do you RUFF”
Kathleen popped to her feet, anxious to get dressed and out. Olde's eyes looked at her, asking what the fuss was all about. Kathleen had to make up a story and fast, “Um … it's news … good news! It something that's good for me … for us. I can't stay I have to go!” she said. Unapologetic, she rushed to the door only saying to her husband she'd send a nurse to look after him tonight. Kathleen would be very busy, her time very well filled.
Cassandra wore no more
than a man's white long-sleeved shirt and panties. She sat at her kitchen table browsing websites on the laptop. More interested than ever to learn how to get a black man's attention, she read articles ranging from modeling fashion to sex advice. The ambitious attorney looked for ways to help her win over Monique and The Black Power Movement. Cassandra read every word and studied the powerful images of confident black men asserting their strength. The pictures, the words, the philosophy began to open her mind.
Maybe, she didn't notice but Cassandra was slowly becoming woke. The photos of white women in the arms of strong, alpha males made her smile. They looked so beautiful together. In a few more clicks, the images were more explicit and pornographic. “Black men are more masculine …”, the blonde thought and began to giggle. A few more videos of interracial sex and Cassandra wouldn't be able to spell monogamy let alone practice it. She found the men “so fucking passionate!” and admitted black men “deserve pussy”. The men were beautiful, strong, and sexually aggressive, after all. Cassandra understood she needed to dress appropriate for the times. She had to drop her white privilege and be more sexually confident, sexually open for black men. Cassandra acknowledged Aggie and Monique had every right to diss her. She had acted snooty with them. If she wanted to make amends with The Black Power Movement, she needed to embrace Black Power. With an evil grin, Cassandra said to herself, “Black power is here. In the boardroom, in the back room, and in the bedroom!” Cassandra sneered a little, shaking her head. She was very jealous! “They're sluts … yeah … they're sluts!” she complimented them.
Cassandra wasn't the only one frustrated. Her white husband, Kenneth, stood behind her and helped himself by grabbing a breast underneath's his wife's shirt. It was a selfish grip, cold and without consent. Cassandra complained and squirmed free. “What? No!” she barked looking very displeased. Kenneth was unapologetic and seemed proud of his sexual assault. He put his other hand on the back of her head and fantasied about, maybe just maybe, give him a blow job right in the kitchen. His wife had other ideas and slapped it away. She was in no mood.
“Hey, I just want to … you know … 'fuck' you.” he begged.
Cassandra huffed, “Can't you see I'm doing legal research. I don't have time for your horseplay!” Kenneth was taken back by his wife's independence and overt sexual disinterest in him. Her husband glanced over at her laptop and saw images of naked black men with white women in submissive and sexual poses. “I see that!” he replied. “You looking at black guys … again. What? Are you attracted to them or something?”
Cassandra slammed her laptop shut, grabbed it, and exited the kitchen. There wasn't enough distance between her and her husband. She spun on heels and faced him from the other side of the room, “I'm doing research! Besides, there's nothing wrong with white women to find black men sexually attractive!” Kenneth was left speechless and didn't offer support to his wife. Cassandra realized this by his silence. Cassandra wondered herself if her husband was a racist.
Well after midnight,
Kathleen pulled her expensive sports coupe along the curb deep inside the community of Ebony Paradise. It was area of Black Pine with rows of shotgun houses built decades ago. Mostly occupied by minorities, it was home for running prostitution, drugs, and safe houses for released convicts from inner city jails and prisons. It was a place Kathleen needed. She killed her lights and engine and took one final look at herself in the mirror. The cheating-slut-wife never felt so alive and self-confident. Kathleen adjusted her overcoat as she looked prim and prude. Taking a deep breath she puckered lips that ached for a touch. She opened her driver's side door and stepped out planting her left stiletto on the concrete below. As soon as she closed and locked her door, bright flashes of headlights twice flickered at her.
Kathleen covered her eyes and looked who had parked behind her. A blonde woman, in her older twenties, wearing a leopard spotted dress. She looked just as out of place in Ebony Paradise as Kathleen. The strange woman held something up in her right hand. Something metallic. It was a police badge.
“Ma'am … “ the blonde called out to Kathleen, “I'm Black Pine Police Officer Jones. I'm working undercover … I need to ask some questions.” Officer Joanna Jones was a very cute, very fit woman. Only the black work boots on her feet gave her away she wasn't another ordinary resident trolling the block. Joanna looked very inconspicuous otherwise including a little purse strapped around her shoulder carrying her sidearm, mace, and handcuffs.
“Is there .. is there something … wrong?” Kathleen stammered as Joanna approached. The officer replied, “Only if you're here prostituting yourself.” Kathleen felt embarrassed and looked over at Tremaine's front door. The lights were off in the front room. Steps so close to sexual bliss instead she was in legal peril. “Um, no. I'm not doing that at all.” Kathleen whispered she felt mortified at the idea. Worse, when a car blazed down the street.
“Really?” Officer Jones said sarcastically. “Let's see some ID ...” she asked Kathleen who turned to her locked vehicle, “It's in there...” Frustrated, the officer replied, “Never mind, I don't care what a whore's name is.” Then came the moment that made Kathleen sweat. “Get out of that coat. I'm going to search you for drugs and weapons.” said Joanna. Kathleen was aghast and she wanted to protest but the officer threatened her with arrest. “Drop the coat, now!” ordered Joanna. Kathleen's khaki overcoat dropped to the sidewalk like a wet towel. The proud and wealthy business woman, who had the power to evict an entire block of tenants, stood there in black high heels and a black g-string bikini. Standing cold and vulnerable, Kathleen modeled for Joanna while rubbing her arms. Unable to make eye contact with the police officer, the look on Kathleen's face made her guilty enough.
Joanna simply nodded, perhaps satisfied, she didn't see anything unexpected. The officer reached down, picked up and searched Joanna's coat and found a roll of bills in the front right pocket. Officer Jones opened her palms to Kathleen, giving her a good look what she found. “Not a prostitute, huh?”
“It's not what it looks like!” said Kathleen. Joanna stuffed the bills back into the pocket and tossed the coat on top of the sports car. She then rushed to put her hands on Kathleen's waist and spun her around on her heels. Eager sounds of clip-clop-clip-clop made by stilettos. “Very nice.” said Joanna rather clinically. “But you are a whore, aren't you?” Officer Jones added. Kathleen tried to plead otherwise but Joanna wouldn't listen.
Joanna guided Kathleen off the sidewalk and in front of her car. The officer pointed to the hood, “Lose the top, bend over the hood and spread your legs. You do know how to spread your legs?” she ordered. The taillights of another car spotlighted the look of panic on Kathleen's face just as she undid the bikini top. She immediately covered them with her arms as Joanna stared at her. “Bend over the hood. This won't take long. Then we discuss how much of a slut you are!” said the police officer.
Kathleen turned around and leaned over the front of her overly priced car and pressed her firm breasts against the hood. It felt cold but at least she could hide her face and body from the cars making circles around the block. She felt Joanna hands again on her waist before she felt the officer rub up against her. Joanna pressed against Kathleen's ass while reaching both hands underneath and grabbing a breast in each. “They're real … nice and firm.” Joanna whispered.
“There's no drugs there!” Kathleen protested. But Joanna didn't stop fondling them. “Oh, but these are weapons … made to get a black man's attention.” Kathleen squirmed as another vehicle, perhaps the same one, made a circle around the block. “I'm calling all the shots here! I can do whatever I fucking want!” said Joanna, “You're the… whore.” Unlike the previous times, the label of “whore” began to stick with Kathleen. She didn't protest. Instead she laid quietly letting Officer Jones have all the feel of her breasts as needed. When Kathleen felt Joanna's weight lift from her back she felt relief. That was until Joanna made the comment, “What a fine ass!” loudly. “No wonder you want to sell it!” Then came the subtle pull of a string and Kathleen's bikini dropped to the pavement.
Kathleen gasped, “What are you doing?” and she lifted her head and nervously panted. Joanna answered sternly, “I'm doing my fucking job. The sooner we do this the sooner you can troll the neighborhood for more dick.” The officer told Kathleen to lower head and a good smack went across Kathleen's ass from Joanna's right palm. The dominating smack quieted the forty-ish blonde who lowered her head flat on her right cheek. She faced the side of the street seeing another blurry image of headlights sped past her. She felt Joanna hot breath on her ass. Joanna told Kathleen, “What a pretty pussy you have!” When Kathleen felt the fingers rub against her pussy and tapping that needful clit, she shuddered. “Yeah, white girl. I need to do this.” explained Joanna who didn't wait a moment longer to push her index finger inside. “Feels warm and tight!” Joanna commented as she twisted her finger a little before beginning a steady rhythm of sliding in and out. “swish … squish … swish ...” Kathleen's wet pussy snug tight around the finger.
Kathleen couldn't help but to “oh” and “ah” as her pussy was giving her the attention she didn't expect. “How is this helping?” she pleaded. But Joanna wasn't interested in stopping her search and just kept sliding it in and out feeling every patch of smooth, warm flesh inside. “You tell me. You're the one using pussy to get what you want.” Kathleen felt her thighs quiver as the Joanna's finger relentlessly penetrated her. Kathleen gasped and huffed like an exhausted sprinter before begging, “How much longer?”
Joanna smirked and replied, “As long as it takes until you tell me who your pimp is.” While her finger went in and out she was getting hypnotized by Kathleen's sex. “I don't have a … pimp.” said Kathleen, struggling with the words. The officer didn't like the stubbornness and slapped Kathleen's ass with the left hand. SMACK! “Fuckin' liar! Here … maybe this will change your mind.” Joanna maneuvered her middle finger inside of Kathleen's pussy twisting two fingers inside.
“Oh! Aaah!” the proud, business-woman reacted. “Oh .. oh yes!” she continued to confess.
Joanna responded pissy and sarcastic, “You want me to do this … you enjoy knowing I want your pussy, huh? You selfish slut!” Joanna gave Kathleen another slap feeling impatient but didn't stop her from finger-fucking her suspect. Kathleen's pussy did look and felt good. “Who … is … your … pimp!” demanded the officer. Joanna's voice was beginning to crack, she was losing patience. Kathleen gasped, “I don't have a pimp!”
Joanna's failure to break Kathleen frustrated her and she cried out “Fuck you!” The blonde cop pulled her fingers out and lowered her head and ran her tongue up, around, and into Kathleen's twat. Kathleen lifted her chin, kept her eyes shut, and opened her mouth making a moaning look on her face. Joanna spat on Kathleen's pussy before continuing eating her pussy while wiggling her nose. Meanwhile, a sport car made a quick pause to look at the white girls putting on a show near the sidewalk. A deep-throat hoot and hollers shouted out before it roared away.
Kathleen put both her hands underneath her and squeezed her breasts. She let out a couple chirps and a moan. Kathleen felt the fingers push into her cunt again. They made a twist and a merciless shove. Joanna took a deep breath and sniffled through her nose. “Gonna tell me the truth now? You are here for black dick, aren't you?” Joanna demanded.
Kathleen looked over her shoulder and nodded. “Good.” said the officer and the two girls were closer to an understanding. “Where does he live?” the Joanna asked and Kathleen gestured over towards Tremaine's shotgun home. Joanna pulled her fingers out and gave Kathleen's ass a good “smack”. Kathleen was told to get her bikini on and carry her coat to the house.
“Whores aren't allowed to work here unless they're black managed.” Joanna explained. Kathleen stayed quiet and rushed into her bikini outfit. The humbled professional woman hurried up Tremaine's walkway to the front door. Joanna kept a step behind her, escorting her and even reached over to knock on the door for Kathleen.
Kathleen couldn't wait for the door to open. She prayed for it. Desperate, she wanted Tremaine to save her from the humiliation. The lights in the front room lit up before heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the door. The knob turned, squeaking as it did, before pulling open to reveal a masculine, black Adonis figure. Tremaine was wearing nothing but long lounge pants. He was barefoot and shirtless. He smelled fresh having just stepped out of the shower. Tremaine looked unconcerned seeing his 'date' escorted by Joanna. He just gave Kathleen a quick look understanding she was feeling uncomfortable, awkward, and very vulnerable. Tremaine then locked eyes with Joanna. Joanna looked pretty in her outfit. “Yes?” asked Tremaine.
“Is this your property, sir?” Joanna asked while showing her badge to him.
Tremaine gave Kathleen a look in her bikini. Kathleen's sad-looking eyes begged him to answer. “Yes. Yes, she is, officer.” he answered. Tremaine opened the door and Kathleen rushed inside for shelter.
“You should tattoo your name on her if she's going to work in the neighborhood. If she wasn't whoring for you I was going to arrest her for being a social nuisance for sexually exploiting good, decent, black men.” said Joanna.
“I'll make sure everything is right with my 'hoe.” Treamine assured. Joanna smiled, “I'll hang around the neighborhood and look after when she walks the block.” she said before heading back to the street.
Treamine quietly closed the door and grinned. Kathleen broke the silence, “I feel so embarrassed. I'm sorry you had to get in the middle of that. The officer, thought, thought, I was your prostitute.”
Tremaine walked over to Kathleen and put his hands up and down her side feeling how hot she was. He kept silent and let the older woman blabber on with her 'feelings'. At first, Tremaine seemed sympathetic, but his tone was very possessive. “Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm … how things have turned?” he said.
Kathleen wrapped her arms around Tremaine needing his manly protection, “I really need you tonight. I need you to do things with me … tonight.” she told him. Kathleen even went so far to beg “Fuck me up.” Tremaine put his left thumb on Kathleen's lips and pressed it in between. “Oh … you're going get fucked alright. But first, we need to discuss a change in our … arrangement.” Tremaine shared. Kathleen's eyebrows raised in anticipation then concern. She stopped sucking on his thumb, pulled her lips away and replied with a simple, “Oh?”
Tremaine explained the new 'rules'. He pulled off Kathleen's bikini top before tugging the string holding her bottom. Her clothes dropped to the floor and he gripped her tits with stern possession. It made Kathleen feel wanted. “This belong out in the streets of the black man. Here on out, you work for me. You're the 'hoe!” said Tremaine and Kathleen understood she was feeling 'owned' … black-owned.
“Wha … what?” Kathleen stuttered unsure what Tremaine was up to. Tremaine smirked, “I take half plus $300 a day 'management fee'. You'll be fucking a half dozen men a day just to stay even!” The proud, privileged woman Kathleen was didn't comprehend the honor Tremaine had given her by being his whore. She was the prostitute needing the black men in Tremaine's community to feed her cock addiction. Kathleen hesitated and tried to reason with her black pimp. She really thought she could talk him back into being her object for hire. But Tremaine wouldn't have any of that. He squeezed her breasts and spun her on the edge of her heels to feel and smack that white ass.
“You're black-owned now, Kat! That's what I'll call you from now on … Kat. You're no different than other white hoes turning out for my people. Except, you make money for me!” Kat, crossed her arms over her breasts feeling the sudden change in her life. She felt afraid, alone, and so … aroused! Kat couldn't resist thinking about the many different black men that will fuck her day and night. Personal goals of wealth and influence vanished replaced with desire for cock, black cock.
Kathleen snapped herself out of the trance, however, and out from the temptation of becoming a wanton whore pranced around the city like a toy, like a sex object. She covered her twat with her spare hand and turned to the side. Kathleen tried to look modest and uninterested in Tremaine's proposals. Bouncing on her heels impatiently, she pleaded “I can't do that, Treamine!”
Tremaine immediately stepped up and lifted Katheen's chin with his hand, “You never talk back to your pimp. You only say, 'yes, sir'.” Kathleen quivered in his arrogant confidence, his … black power. But the naked blonde was still too proud. She gave out a muted “Tremaine?”
Tired of her impudence, Tremaine let out his frustration and said “Fine then!” and stormed to his front window. He pulled apart a couple blinds to show who was waiting in the street. It was Officer Joanna Jones leaning against her car waiting … waiting for Kat to step out and begin her night prowls. “You see her?” asked Tremaine, “If she don't see you whorin', she's gonna arrest you for being white.”
All the air was let out of Kathleen's lungs because it was true. A white person could be swept off the streets, shamed and arrested for the slightest hint of racism. It was a beautiful time in Black Pine when racial justice had no limits. Kathleen's money and influence meant nothing in Ebony Paradise. But her sweet ass, swinging in her heels, could make all the difference. But first, she had to win the trust of the black community. While Kathleen rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, Tremaine pulled down his pants and his rock-hard cock sprang out. The image of black steel emotionally paralyzed Kathleen. She started feeling very warm. Her heart raced and her body ready. But she understood that big cock came with a big price.
"I know you been hurtin' for dick ..." said Tremaine calmly, almost sympathetically, "... been beggin' me to call you. Now, here it is." The powerful black male waved his cock up and dawn simulating a tap-tap-tap on Kathleen's forehead. "In return, you be the 'hoe and start making money for the black man for here on out." he offered.
Kathleen covered her mouth looking at Tremaine's gorgeous and demanding black manhood. She just had to have it! It looked so beautiful and she needed to be used, filled, and rightfully fucked! Kat was near to trading everything ... her career, her marriage, her self-respect for this one moment and be in servitude of a black man? The blonde stepped up and easily, instictively, reached out her left hand and stroked Tremaine's cock. It was rock hard as she anticipated ... and warm, bulging ... hungry for a woman ... for pussy. She shook her head like someone getting over her denial. Tremaine didn't need to say anymore and Kathleen bent her knees and put them to the floor. Kat fisted the cock a couple more times, lowered her head, and started treating herself to a mouth full of black cock.
"Mmmph ... mmmph ... mmmph ..." the hot blonde began slurping on Tremaine's cock. The organic flavors gave her an instant high and that good, "dirty" feeling she craved. "Suck that black cock, hoe. Lick those balls. Treat your pimp like a king." he told her.
"Yes, sir." Kat answered and she began lapping the heavy balls with her slick tongue. She felt nothing but sexuality. Her white world of wealth and bigotry was left behind as she served her black man with devotion. Just the fragrance of his balls put her in her place as a piece of fuck-meat, a sex toy, a dumb slut used for the pleasures of black men. Tremaine tapped Kat's forehead with his cock and demanded a sloppy blow-job. Their eyes met, locked on each other. It was a man and woman, a black king and a white 'hoe.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! You're such a dirty slut!" Treamine told Kat. She said nothing but replied using her lips, mouth, and tongue. A possessive black hand rested on top of Kat's head. Spit ran down the whore's chin dropping on her titties. She began to gag after trying to push the organ too deep down her throat. But she loved it. It made her complete.
Tremaine brought Kat to her feet and gave her ass a good, possessive slap. Kat bucked and grunted but took it. Tremaine took a good handful with his right hand and asked, "Who owns this, now?"
"You do, sir." the whore answered with muted breath and surrender.
Another possessive slap went across Kat's right tit. "Who owns this?" Kat immediately answered, "You do, sir." Satisfied with her answers, Tremaine took her by the hand and took her to the couch. He took a seat first and directed her to ride her. Kat climbed on top. Her heart raced because her body knew what was coming, that so much needed feeling of penetration and sexual mating. Regardless of what was going through her mind, complete surrender of her morals, values, and lifestyle ... her body needed to be fucked.
Firm, black hands cupped Kat's breasts. Hot air blasted her neck from Tremaine's mouth. She felt the rubbery bulb of his cockhead press and mash against her pussy. The black cock wanted and needed in. Kat reared her head back and moaned as she dropped her ass penetrating herself. Tremaine roared as his new 'hoe gave herself freely to him. Up and down Kat moved her hips, grunted as she did. "Ugh ... ugh ... ugh ..."
Tremaine mouthed, "... yeah ... yeah ... yeah ..." enjoying the rightfully deserved pleasure. "Ride that cock, white girl. Fuck it." he told her. Kat simply mumbled, "... yes ... yes ..." The couple kissed passionately with open mouths and open hearts. But Tremaine wasn't her boyfriend but her master. He turned her to the side, pulled her legs over his shoulders and started driving his loins ahead. Slammin' in ... slammin' in ... stuff .. stuff ... stuff.
Kat cried in an intense orgasm. Tremaine was a gifted and relentless sex machine. He pushed forward and gave every inch of his black cock, balls deep. "You love black cock, Kat? Huh?" whispered Tremaine. His 'hoe couldn't deny nor resist another orgasm brewing inside of her,. She screamed, "Yes! I love it. ... ugh .. ugh! I love you!" Kat followed with a squeal before turning her head as Tremaine kept pounding her with dick. She was in heaven.
Tremaine, however, wasn't interested in romancing a 40-something business woman. She meant little to him other than to make money and sometimes pleasure, if he was bored enough. No, Treamaine needed to tame her and fuck her mind as hard as her body. He crawled off of her and yanked her to the floor by her elbow. A good "slap" across her ass was enough to coax her to get on her knees and elbows on the floor. Kat showed great obedience. There was potential in her being a good whore for the black men in the city. She arched her back and presented her sweet pussy to her pimp. Kat felt empty and lost without his cock inside of her. She had an insatiable need to please him. She felt Tremaine rub the tip of his cock against her pussy but not yet ready to push inside.
"Tell me you need this dick.." Tremaine demanded. "I need this. I need this." Kat desperately whispered to him. As he slowly penetrated her, pushing his steel rod deep into Kat's warm hole, he demanded obedience, "You promise to be a good 'hoe?"
Kat struggled to answer as inch after inch of cock made its way inside her, "I promise, sir. I'll be a good whore." Tremaine began full, powerful thrusts. He celebrated breaking the rich girl's mind and began all the money he would make. "You are fucked, Kat! I'll make sure you're fucked day and night." he told her.
Kat accepted her fate and whispered back defeated, "... fuck me ... I'm fucked." She then started whelping a short lived wail with each thrust forward. "Ah ... ah ... ah ..." Tremaine's hand pulled on her hair and another slap went across her ass. "Gawd-damn, slut!" he yelled out, "Take my mother-fuckin' black cock!"
It was then the front door opened and Officer Jones let herself in. She could hear the action from the street and was pleased to see the progress Tremaine had made. Tremaine was steady with his pace of bucking his loins into Kat's ass. It was beautiful to look at and a symbol of racial progress the community was making. Joanna nodded and said to Tremaine, "Breaking in your whore?" Joanna and Tremaine looked at each other and couldn't resist kissing. Joanna put her right palm on his face and saw how gorgeous he was. "Fuck your whore." Joanna told him. Kat raised her head and wailed again feeling another orgasm coming at her pimp's generosity. But Officer Jones put her work boot on Kat's head and pressed the cheek back to the floor.
"Keep your head down and ass up, slut." Joanna told her.
Tremaine gripped Kat by the hips and continued a steady, hard rhythm. Joanna spoke to Kat like she was a helpless pet. "That's it white girl. Help your pimp get off. You have a busy night." Joanna looked at Kat's wedding ring on her left hand and smiled. She enjoyed the idea that another married white girl went black." But Joanna couldn't take her eyes off of Tremaine and they kissed again. Their tongues danced as sweat from Tremain's brow dripped down Joanna's cheek. He started grunting and his face made difficult looks. Tremaine felt the frustrations overwhelm him. They were both racial and sexual. He needed to "get off" and dump his semen into a warm womb. Kat and white girls like her and Joanna were made for that. There should be more white girls like them. There must be. Tremaine deserved the money white men stole from the community. Pushing his black spear, the weapon of racial justice, into a coninving racist like Kathleen Pale was right and proper. Sweat ran down his cheek and he breathed heavy, almost panting like an enraged beast devouring its prey. The man wanted to release his aggression on the white race through Kat, his 'hoe, his ... whore and slut. Fuck the white race, Tremaine thought. He yelled out his disdain for white men, white culture and their racism. Joanna put her hand on Tremaine's chest knowing what will soon to happen. She started breathing heavy out of sympathy as did Kat.
Joanna nodded, "Yeah ... fuck our race! Fuck your whore you motha-fucking god!"
Tremaine looked into the heavens above, praying to its utopia ran by black supreme beings. He wanted so much for release, power, and satisfaction. Tremaine wanted what he was entitled to as a dominant black man with the physical, emotional, and sexual traits the white women worshipped. Yes, Kat. Bend over and worship your pimp, your black god.
"Fuckin' gawd-damn ... fuck me!" she pleaded, "Fuck that cunt!" she begged.
The next thing Joanna saw was Tremaine's sticky cock, pulled out, and dancing in front of her mouth. She dropped to her knees, parted her lips as Tremaine took his left hand to the back of her head. Hot cum spewed into her mouth before second and third streams popped across her nose and chin. It was warm, potent, and a blessing of black power. Selfless, Joanna took the mouthful of cum and walked on her knees to Kat. She put her mouth to Kat's, parted her lips, and let a mouthful of hot spittle and semen out, dripping over Kat's tongue.
Kat, the whore, smacked her lips and rolled her tongue in her mouth. After an open mouth kiss with Joanna she ran her lips over Joanna's face. Both women swallowed their goo, it tasted too good to resist. Joanna kept whispering into Kat's ear, "Fucking whore ... fucking whore ..." breaking her spirit. Kat became a white girl only used for her holes.
"I'll clear her up. I have a make up kit in my car and can have her ready in less than an hour." suggested Joanna to Tremaine. Tremaine nodded, waved his hand and sat on the couch to recover . His half-erect cock was still plump and sticky dropping between his legs. Joanna couldn't help but ot look at it. It looked delicious.
"You gonna escort her around the block?" Tremaine asked, a clever request from Black Pine police. Joanna nodded and took out her shield and put it into her purse. "Yep, I now I'm off duty!"
An hour later,
off-duty police officer Joanna Jones escorted Kat around the block of Ebony Paradise. Kat was back into her string bikini and heels. She was showered, cleaned, with make-up more heavy and provocative . Joanna introduced many men hanging out in front of their houses or in the lawn or street corners. Kat said little, made fewer eye contact but never shied away from posing, giving a wave, and sometimes a smile. Her mind was emptied, blank. The embarrassment of her "wardrobe" vanished. She may have been a little cold with goosebumps covering her in the cool night. But her heart was racing with lust and the excitement of exploiting her body for black men's pleasures. When the white girls completed circling the block, there was a number of "clients" waiting on Tremaine's front porch. Tremaine was entertaining them with conversation and weed. It started with at least six men varied in age. Cash was exchanged. One by one, Kat and Joanna escorted a client into the front room. Their pimp would distract the others waiting with jokes, laughter, and more weed.
In little time, the white girls were into their sexual tirades. There were little to say. The men were black, the 'hoes were white. The men needed pussy ... they get it. The whores, married or not, rich or poor, police or citizen, they all had racial obligations owed. Kat was beyond sexual bliss but an emotional contentment. This was what she needed ... one black cock after another. Her body was made to please them. It didn't take much to put her over the edge. Just her primal need to be dominated by men. She owed Tremaine everything and she would continue to make sure the black man wins everyday.
"Fuck me ... fuck me, please!" begged Joanna as she was on her knees bending over the edge of the couch. Her man was fucking her from behind with strong hands around her waist. "Hate my race ... hate my race ..." the off-duty law officer begged. Her client was a good man in his late 20's who needed to get off for the evening. It was good fortune Joanna and Kat came around explaining they belonged to Tremaine. The client may not have been much of an active racial justice activist, but Joanna was beginning to show him the way. Bent over for him, squealing and begging in delight, he enjoyed the power he had over her ... and her race.
Kat was on her back, on the floor. Her knees brought up near her shoulders as her client was nose-to-noise with her. Both breathed heavy and her man chanted "I fuck you .... I fuck you ..." he was an older man around 50 years old. Race debt by getting pussy was something he believed in and wanted more of. The respect Tremaine showed the community that night would quickly raise his status in the community. "You're a whore ... just a whore ..." her man whispered. It made him feel euphoric. His 50 year old cock was rock hard and ready to dump cum in or on her. Kat was ready to be covered in cum. She felt the fullness in her pussy. This was the feeling she wanted. She turned her head away and saw Joanna still in her work boots but naked otherwise, being sexually used by her client. This was Kat's world now. She loved her pimp.
While Kat was pleasing the neighborhood into the morning,
Kassandra made her way to the Red Light district of Black Pine. That is where the business card, JaMarcus had given her, took her. In her modest clothes carrying a bag with her Blossom Boutique outfit, she stood in front of the blinking lights of the The Black Fantasies Lounge. At the top of the hour of two in the morning, the place was still booming bass from within the walls. Kassandra took a deep breath and walked to doors. She was ready to step inside into a world unknown to her.
To learn more about the city of Black Pine and its characters, read the reference guide under the Author's Den found in the forums section.
This is an episode about frustration. Cassandra is the crafty attorney representing the Porg and their racist plans. The Pale Oyster Development Group looks to evict minorities from their government-assisted housing and shut down the Elimination Clinic. The resilience of The Black Power Movement frustrates Cassandra who is cornered into sacrificing more from her client in hopes for a settlement. Meanwhile, Kathleen is sexually frustrated. Between caring for her ill husband and the racial justice protests against her company, her libido is in overdrive. As much as she wants to protect her husband's legacy, betraying her race never felt so good!
In her rather expensive vehicle,
costing as much as a lower income minority resident of Black Pine makes in two or three years, Cassandra pulled onto the parking lot of broken pavement. She looked up and saw the sign of the shop, “Blossom Boutique”. It wasn't far from The Black Power Movement headquarters in the illustrious African Heights district. The district was in the older part of town long overlooked for redevelopment no thanks to white politicians and companies Cassandra represented, The Pale Oyster Redevelopment Group. However, due to the election of the city's first black mayor, Mayor Sweet, the area was given new life and new pride in being black. Black-owned was more than a motto but a lifestyle.
The boutique was one of those black-owned businesses. It offered women's clothes with an urban appeal, meaning appealing to black men. It was a place for women of all colors comfortable with their sexuality. Whether it was a night out at the club or standing on the corner in the red light district, the boutique had the wardrobe. Prudish women, those of the religious right or considered themselves chaste or conservative felt uncomfortable unless they were looking to be converted. The woman who ran the place, Monique, had the clothes to suit the occasion.
However, Cassandra wasn't looking to be converted. She was too busy looking at herself in her mirror and feeling proud. Her arrogance and vanity defined the married, 32 year old blonde with dark streaks. Though she was an attorney defending the “Porg”, she had looks suited more for pornography or even prostitution. Too bad Cassandra never gave either consideration. She was dressed too professionally. Maybe in a corporate world of profit, Cassandra would be considered attractive. But elsewhere far from the comfort of white racism and closed mindedness, her wardrobe was outright prudish. It showed disdain for black fashion and culture. Her avoidance to express sexual openness was as obvious as wearing a white bed sheet.
Cassandra spotted a customer stepping out of the boutique in her “slut wear”. The lawyer raised her eyebrows and judged the woman in her tight mini-skirt, tighter top, and knee-high boots. The slutty-looking woman looked barely twenty in age and strut her ass towards a black gentleman walking up to greet her. Cassandra tried to look away but couldn't notice how this gentleman was pawing at her ass and nodding in approval. The woman, his woman, nodded seriously welcoming his hands. He had liked what he saw and took her hand leading her to his black sports car.
Cassandra stepped out of her car and walked to the front entrance. She felt impatient and hoped the visit would be short. To Cassandra, the boutique was just a stepping stone and not giving the respect it deserved. When inside, Cassandra tripped the electronic chimes, “ding-ling-ding”, getting the storekeeper's attention. Monique, a slender woman of mixed race, with long, straight dark hair with smooth skin, greeted Cassandra with a smile. Monique was in her mid twenties and wore an outfit as hot as a prostitute while still being elegant and demanding respect. Cassandra had it all planned. She was going to be subtle, get an outfit out of the boutique without revealing her meeting with the BPM. But Monique had other plans.
“You, Miss Cassandra?” asked Monique. Cassandra figured Aggie had tipped Monique off.
“Um, I'm a Mrs.” corrected Cassandra. Monique looked at the ring on Cassandra's left hand and raised her eyebrows with a big smile, “I see!” Monique introduced herself and shared how Aggie at The Black Power Movement made her the gatekeeper for Cassandra's big meeting with the highly esteemed, Akin Kalu.
“Gatekeeper?” asked Cassandra, unprepared for new demands from the Movement to meet her. Monique answered, “That's where I get to decide whether you, a white girl, are worthy enough to speak with our Black Power Movement!” Cassandra felt enraged and wanted to scream at Monique. But she remembered how Aggie put her in her place. Cassandra cooled and kept mute. The attorney realized Monique was acting on the behalf of The Movement. The BPM had influence throughout the city with numbers of devotees greater than Cassandra could have guessed. Monique continued, “About time we put you white people under control!” Cassandra smartly showed obedience by staying silent.
“So … where do we start?” asked Cassandra after a long, awkward pause. Her mind kept racing and thinking procedural like a lawyer in a courtroom.
Monique walked Cassandra up and down the aisles of clothes suited for strippers, prostitutes, and dominatrices. She pulled out a blue mini-dress, a black and blue midriff vest, matching heels, and finally a g-string. Cassandra took the pile of clothes, feeling feather-light, in her arms. Monique pointed her to the dressing room.
“This? You want me to wear this with the Black Power Movement?” Cassandra questioned Monique's taste.
Monique took the criticism maturely and explained, “Well, I admit it is sort of prude if you're meeting Mr. Kalu. But I want to see how you present yourself in an urban wardrobe that's black- friendly before I approve of you.”
Cassandra took a deep breath convincing herself it can't be that bad … to take orders from a black woman. Cassandra stepped to the back to the fitting rooms. She looked over her shoulder and saw Monique attend to a customer. By the cash register was a bashful-looking woman in her thirties bringing her clothes to the counter. She whispered to Monique she had “a date” and confessed it was “with a black man.”
“Is sex part of the date?” Monique proudly asked. The woman nodded, feeling almost embarrassed, and brushed back her hair with her left hand sporting a ring on her wedding finger. Cassandra looked away and took another deep breath. She stepped into the dressing booth and began tearing her clothes off like a high-paid fashion model ready to sport her lingerie underneath. The professional-looking lawyer began looking more feminine and sexually prepared as her clothes melted off. When she was down to her panties underneath, she gathered her work clothes and piled them into a corner of a small bench seat. Her wardrobe was made from heavy fabric, expensive in cost. Cassandra picked up her g-string Monique wanted for her. It was closer to a piece of thread and cost as much as her entire wardrobe she had walked in with. She peeled off her panties and snorted hot air from her nostrils. There was a hint of sexual frustration either from stresses from work or meeting one woman after another who seem to have a more satisfied sex life than her.
First went on was the g-string. Cassandra turned on the balls of her feet, mimicking the heels she hadn't put on yet and stared at herself in the mirror. She silently approved of it. Next was the black and blue midriff vest. It covered her breasts by a single clasp and exposed her belly button. It was purposely a size or two too small making appear to push out her breasts and making them appear larger. The white-bread lawyer expected to think of it as tacky but had to admit it made her figure look good. Then it was time for her mini-dress that barely covered the bottom of her ass. Cassandra felt embarrassed to look at herself. It was a world difference than what she appeared in the courtroom. Finally, came her heels. It was black with blue accents. When Cassandra looked up, she didn't recognize the whore looking back at her.
“No, fucking way! I can't present myself in this.” she whispered to herself forcing to emote disgust. Cassandra twirled on her heels looking at her body with a finger on her lower lip. For some strange reason, she was fascinated by the woman looking back at her.
The store was empty leaving Cassandra as the only customer. “You ready, white girl?” Monique asked. “I … I guess so.” the blonde answered. Cassandra stepped out and Monique was there waiting with her arms crossed. Monique had Cassandra spin on her heels like she was modeling for a room of rich, black men needing a breeding partner.
“Walk for me in those heels.” said Monique before adding, “Those do make your ass look good!” Cassandra, feeling self-conscious, took a few steps away and spun around. She walked back to Monique who smirked and shook her head. “That's it?” Monique asked and told the blonde to sport her outfit again. Cassandra walked off. Although she was in a wardrobe ready for porn, she proudly sported an attitude suited for a courtroom. Cassandra spun and returned but Monique shook her head again in much disappointment.
“Girl! Where's the hotness? Where's the 'sex'?” demanded Monique who was disappointed her wardrobe on an attractive woman could put on a show so cold. “I don't know what you mean.” replied Cassandra feeling so insecure she put her left arm across her cleavage..
“You should be walking like you had the best black dick in your life! Not that you would know anything about that.” Monique said. Cassandra couldn't help but feel a offended by the criticism. “You have no confidence, no … enthusiasm about arousing a sexually aggressive black man and what will happen next.” added Monique.
Cassandra, visibly shaken by Monique's critique and assumptions she would use her body for sex, spoke up and maybe a little too loud. “What a second! This is a meeting about legal affairs. I'm not putting myself out ...”
Monique put her hand up with that “Don't you go there!” look on her face. “You know how to fit into the clothes. But you don't know how to wear them for a black man … especially the likes of Mr. Akin Kalu. Damn, he's royalty to our people!” Then Monique's words hit Cassandra like a black hammer, “You'd just embarrass yourself. Nope. I can't have you to stand in front of the Movement and certainly not in my clothes.”
Stunned and powerless, Cassandra begged “What … what do you want me to do?”
Monique looked pessimistic. Cassandra feared it would be another setback that would put her, her client, and every employee at the Porg, in legal jeopardy. Monique was ready to put the uppity blonde in her place, take her money for the outfit, and send her home with The Black Power Movement celebrating another racial victory over racism. Then came the “ding-ling-ding” from the electronic bell. Monique looked at the man who had just stepped in and waved at him. “He's right on time!” Monique shared with Cassandra. Cassandra, however, felt intimidated knowing she was going to share her new 'look' with another man, a stranger.
His name was JaMarcus, a lean, handsome black man pushing forty with graying hair. JaMarcus dressed nice, perhaps overdressed in his pressed, black pants, brown button-up shirt and silk tie. He walked straight to the back, smiling ear to ear, his eyes never leaving Cassandra's tight, white body. The blonde felt mortified with one arm over her breasts and her free hand trying to pull her dress longer.
Monique tried hard to suppress a giggle as she greeted JaMarcus, one of her best customers. “Is this her? Hmmm, very nice!” JaMarcus complimented as he rubbed his chin while avoiding to tussle at this crotch. Monique was very pleasant with JaMarcus, her mood and demeanor obviously more uplifting than privately with Cassandra. Goosebumps on Cassandra's arms raised like boils and she felt flush and embarrassed. JaMarcus held out his hand to Cassandra snapping her out of her paralysis and offered her hand.
“What a fine white girl! A fine … white girl!” said JaMarcus who gestured Cassandra to twirl on her heels while he had her hand in his palm. Monique took the opportunity to explain to JaMarcus that Cassandra needed lessons how to “work that ass!” Cassandra huffed, still smarting over demeaning suggestions not quite picking up on the innuendo. JaMarcus was patient and understood. He raised an eyebrow at Monique, “I see.”
Cassandra, bored being described as an object and not the respectable attorney, spoke up with her knees rubbing together like a bashful school girl. “Excuse me, where is this going?” she asked, her voice exhausted. Monique, being stern yet polite answered, “JaMarcus is going to 'teach' you how to get a black man's attention. He's in the, uh, 'entertainment' biz!”
“Oh?” replied Cassandra and maybe even a little star-struck with curiosity.
JaMarcus smiled, “Yeah. I run a black-owned business right here in Black Pine. I know a little about managing models in front of a very discriminating crowd. “
Monique put up a grin, “His business has been very successful in, let's say, bridging the racial divide in the city. I'd be very impressed if I knew you were taking some pointers from him before I recommend you to our Movement.”
JaMarcus reassured Cassandra with his calm voice. He saw how Cassandra was still obviously uncomfortable in her outfit, “I'd be happy to help out.” he told her before handing Cassandra his business card. “Stop by the place and bring your outfit … things slow down after two in the morning. Then we can work on making your more comfortable with men with the… color of our skin, sort to speak.”
“Yeah!” cheered Monique. Cassandra couldn't decide if she was just labeled as a racist.
As Cassandra returned to the dressing booth, Monique escorted JaMarcus to the front. There Monique would be ringing up Cassandra's total. A hefty price tag to dress more appealing within the black community and shed her white privilege. The blonde couldn't make out the serious whispers from the register and she realized she would have to work harder, sacrifice more, and prove herself more than ever. Cassandra took a close look at the business card JaMarcus gave her. It read: “The Black Fantasies Lounge.” located in the heart of the red light district.
Meanwhile,
Kathleen was suffering her own frustrations. She had locked herself in her bedroom, strutting around naked. Normally, she enjoyed listening to new age. However, Kathleen chose to stream urban and more explicit choice of music. Heavy erotic beats filled the room with deep voices of black rappers praising “black men”, “black culture”, and “black power”. The proud business woman didn't pay attention to the words only how they made her feel. Every time a song would mention “pussy”, “fuckin'” or anything sexual, Kathleen would touch herself.
Kathleen looked great, if not wonderful, for a woman in her mid forties. She had blonde hair with a slight gray streak. She was 5' 8” and a slender hottie keeping her 34-24-34 figure. A teen beauty pageant contestant, Kathleen understood how parading her body for the pleasure of others benefited her. Being the head of a company while married to an invalid was too stressful. She needed release. She needed to be “bad”. Kathleen treated herself to one cigarette from her nine-dollar pack hidden in her nightstand drawer. Kathleen lit one and pranced around on the balls of her feet as if she was walking in heels. She wanted dick … big, black dick. It would take a confident, healthy, and very aggressive man to tame her demanding sexuality. Kathleen needed to feel alive. That meant having a black cock in her mouth to taste before going deep into her cunt and making her feel like a helpless slut. While she longed for a black man, she never considered once in her life to submitting to them completely physically and emotionally. This made her a racist. Beautiful and rewarding interracial sex didn't move her to help the residents in the Brickyards district. Nor did she have any sympathies for The Black Power Movement. Worst of all, she was just as committed to evict The Elimination Clinic and disrupt their pace of white abortions performed daily. Kathleen just enjoyed her arousal, squeezed a tight breast, and ignored racial justice. She continued to act white, rich, and proud. Kathleen thought all she needed to do was throw money at a black man to get the attention her body needed.
The needy blonde had been texting her man-for-hire, Tremaine. Tremaine had made quite an impression on her after a couple nights of “interracial healing” His ready-cock, black and hard, was everything Kathleen wanted. The way he talked to her, the way he handled her was what every woman needed to fuel their feminine, sexual energy. But she hadn't heard from Tremaine and was worried he was ghosting her. She would do anything to get his attention. She would be willing to pay more. Much more.
The digital chimes rang from her phone. It was her husband calling for her. He only did that when he felt his health slipping. Kathleen's arousal depleted and she exhaled an exhausting breath. She took one last puff from her smoke and smashed it on a dinner plate next to the unfinished brie. Kathleen threw on a robe and marched out of the bedroom and down the hall. It occurred to her, if she just slow down, just a little, it might make her a little too late. Both she and her husband, Olde, could have peace. She stopped in front of Olde's door. Behind it was the chamber of her husband's suffering … and hers. Kathleen put her hand on the knob and held her breath. She knew if would step inside, she would not see a healthy, sexually aggressive man on his bed waiting for her. Kathleen realized she was deliberately stalling and couldn't resist squeezing her left breast. Images flashed in her head …
Kathleen went to her knees in front of Tremaine, her black man, and gave him a sloppy blow job. Olde was on the other side of the door crying out for his wife but she was too busy worshiping black cock. Tremaine laughed and taunted the old man's money since he had his wife. Kathleen looked up with her round eyes showing love and racial devotion. She couldn't get enough of him inside her mouth and jabbing her throat. Feeling a hand on the back of her head made her controlled and well-used. “Fuck you, old man! This slut is black-owned!” Tremaine cried out.
… Olde called the chime again. Kathleen's phone reminded her, blaring loudly. No doubt now that Olde knew Kathleen was on the other side of the door. Kathleen shook herself out of her fantasy and opened the door. She went to her husband, sick in his bed. Olde's masculinity was little more than a scrawny hand reaching out to his wife. Kathleen rushed to hold his hand wondering if these were his final moments.
But Olde smiled. He gave an evil grin not seen since his walking days. “Have you rebuilt the Brickyards?” he asked. Kathleen was surprised at Olde's determination. The social and racial divide the Brickyards represented was keeping him alive. Kathleen answered straight, “We're winning. We'll be evicting all those poor minorities and shut down that Elimination clinic! White women won't be able to erase our future and breed more white babies.”
Olde looked at the ceiling and laughed. He was growing stronger. Kathleen couldn't be surprised if he ripped off the oxygen and jumped on the bed like lunatic. But something more surprising happened. Kathleen's phone buzzed with a text from Tremaine.
“I can see you later tonight. Dress HOT and I will do you RUFF”
Kathleen popped to her feet, anxious to get dressed and out. Olde's eyes looked at her, asking what the fuss was all about. Kathleen had to make up a story and fast, “Um … it's news … good news! It something that's good for me … for us. I can't stay I have to go!” she said. Unapologetic, she rushed to the door only saying to her husband she'd send a nurse to look after him tonight. Kathleen would be very busy, her time very well filled.
Cassandra wore no more
than a man's white long-sleeved shirt and panties. She sat at her kitchen table browsing websites on the laptop. More interested than ever to learn how to get a black man's attention, she read articles ranging from modeling fashion to sex advice. The ambitious attorney looked for ways to help her win over Monique and The Black Power Movement. Cassandra read every word and studied the powerful images of confident black men asserting their strength. The pictures, the words, the philosophy began to open her mind.
Maybe, she didn't notice but Cassandra was slowly becoming woke. The photos of white women in the arms of strong, alpha males made her smile. They looked so beautiful together. In a few more clicks, the images were more explicit and pornographic. “Black men are more masculine …”, the blonde thought and began to giggle. A few more videos of interracial sex and Cassandra wouldn't be able to spell monogamy let alone practice it. She found the men “so fucking passionate!” and admitted black men “deserve pussy”. The men were beautiful, strong, and sexually aggressive, after all. Cassandra understood she needed to dress appropriate for the times. She had to drop her white privilege and be more sexually confident, sexually open for black men. Cassandra acknowledged Aggie and Monique had every right to diss her. She had acted snooty with them. If she wanted to make amends with The Black Power Movement, she needed to embrace Black Power. With an evil grin, Cassandra said to herself, “Black power is here. In the boardroom, in the back room, and in the bedroom!” Cassandra sneered a little, shaking her head. She was very jealous! “They're sluts … yeah … they're sluts!” she complimented them.
Cassandra wasn't the only one frustrated. Her white husband, Kenneth, stood behind her and helped himself by grabbing a breast underneath's his wife's shirt. It was a selfish grip, cold and without consent. Cassandra complained and squirmed free. “What? No!” she barked looking very displeased. Kenneth was unapologetic and seemed proud of his sexual assault. He put his other hand on the back of her head and fantasied about, maybe just maybe, give him a blow job right in the kitchen. His wife had other ideas and slapped it away. She was in no mood.
“Hey, I just want to … you know … 'fuck' you.” he begged.
Cassandra huffed, “Can't you see I'm doing legal research. I don't have time for your horseplay!” Kenneth was taken back by his wife's independence and overt sexual disinterest in him. Her husband glanced over at her laptop and saw images of naked black men with white women in submissive and sexual poses. “I see that!” he replied. “You looking at black guys … again. What? Are you attracted to them or something?”
Cassandra slammed her laptop shut, grabbed it, and exited the kitchen. There wasn't enough distance between her and her husband. She spun on heels and faced him from the other side of the room, “I'm doing research! Besides, there's nothing wrong with white women to find black men sexually attractive!” Kenneth was left speechless and didn't offer support to his wife. Cassandra realized this by his silence. Cassandra wondered herself if her husband was a racist.
Well after midnight,
Kathleen pulled her expensive sports coupe along the curb deep inside the community of Ebony Paradise. It was area of Black Pine with rows of shotgun houses built decades ago. Mostly occupied by minorities, it was home for running prostitution, drugs, and safe houses for released convicts from inner city jails and prisons. It was a place Kathleen needed. She killed her lights and engine and took one final look at herself in the mirror. The cheating-slut-wife never felt so alive and self-confident. Kathleen adjusted her overcoat as she looked prim and prude. Taking a deep breath she puckered lips that ached for a touch. She opened her driver's side door and stepped out planting her left stiletto on the concrete below. As soon as she closed and locked her door, bright flashes of headlights twice flickered at her.
Kathleen covered her eyes and looked who had parked behind her. A blonde woman, in her older twenties, wearing a leopard spotted dress. She looked just as out of place in Ebony Paradise as Kathleen. The strange woman held something up in her right hand. Something metallic. It was a police badge.
“Ma'am … “ the blonde called out to Kathleen, “I'm Black Pine Police Officer Jones. I'm working undercover … I need to ask some questions.” Officer Joanna Jones was a very cute, very fit woman. Only the black work boots on her feet gave her away she wasn't another ordinary resident trolling the block. Joanna looked very inconspicuous otherwise including a little purse strapped around her shoulder carrying her sidearm, mace, and handcuffs.
“Is there .. is there something … wrong?” Kathleen stammered as Joanna approached. The officer replied, “Only if you're here prostituting yourself.” Kathleen felt embarrassed and looked over at Tremaine's front door. The lights were off in the front room. Steps so close to sexual bliss instead she was in legal peril. “Um, no. I'm not doing that at all.” Kathleen whispered she felt mortified at the idea. Worse, when a car blazed down the street.
“Really?” Officer Jones said sarcastically. “Let's see some ID ...” she asked Kathleen who turned to her locked vehicle, “It's in there...” Frustrated, the officer replied, “Never mind, I don't care what a whore's name is.” Then came the moment that made Kathleen sweat. “Get out of that coat. I'm going to search you for drugs and weapons.” said Joanna. Kathleen was aghast and she wanted to protest but the officer threatened her with arrest. “Drop the coat, now!” ordered Joanna. Kathleen's khaki overcoat dropped to the sidewalk like a wet towel. The proud and wealthy business woman, who had the power to evict an entire block of tenants, stood there in black high heels and a black g-string bikini. Standing cold and vulnerable, Kathleen modeled for Joanna while rubbing her arms. Unable to make eye contact with the police officer, the look on Kathleen's face made her guilty enough.
Joanna simply nodded, perhaps satisfied, she didn't see anything unexpected. The officer reached down, picked up and searched Joanna's coat and found a roll of bills in the front right pocket. Officer Jones opened her palms to Kathleen, giving her a good look what she found. “Not a prostitute, huh?”
“It's not what it looks like!” said Kathleen. Joanna stuffed the bills back into the pocket and tossed the coat on top of the sports car. She then rushed to put her hands on Kathleen's waist and spun her around on her heels. Eager sounds of clip-clop-clip-clop made by stilettos. “Very nice.” said Joanna rather clinically. “But you are a whore, aren't you?” Officer Jones added. Kathleen tried to plead otherwise but Joanna wouldn't listen.
Joanna guided Kathleen off the sidewalk and in front of her car. The officer pointed to the hood, “Lose the top, bend over the hood and spread your legs. You do know how to spread your legs?” she ordered. The taillights of another car spotlighted the look of panic on Kathleen's face just as she undid the bikini top. She immediately covered them with her arms as Joanna stared at her. “Bend over the hood. This won't take long. Then we discuss how much of a slut you are!” said the police officer.
Kathleen turned around and leaned over the front of her overly priced car and pressed her firm breasts against the hood. It felt cold but at least she could hide her face and body from the cars making circles around the block. She felt Joanna hands again on her waist before she felt the officer rub up against her. Joanna pressed against Kathleen's ass while reaching both hands underneath and grabbing a breast in each. “They're real … nice and firm.” Joanna whispered.
“There's no drugs there!” Kathleen protested. But Joanna didn't stop fondling them. “Oh, but these are weapons … made to get a black man's attention.” Kathleen squirmed as another vehicle, perhaps the same one, made a circle around the block. “I'm calling all the shots here! I can do whatever I fucking want!” said Joanna, “You're the… whore.” Unlike the previous times, the label of “whore” began to stick with Kathleen. She didn't protest. Instead she laid quietly letting Officer Jones have all the feel of her breasts as needed. When Kathleen felt Joanna's weight lift from her back she felt relief. That was until Joanna made the comment, “What a fine ass!” loudly. “No wonder you want to sell it!” Then came the subtle pull of a string and Kathleen's bikini dropped to the pavement.
Kathleen gasped, “What are you doing?” and she lifted her head and nervously panted. Joanna answered sternly, “I'm doing my fucking job. The sooner we do this the sooner you can troll the neighborhood for more dick.” The officer told Kathleen to lower head and a good smack went across Kathleen's ass from Joanna's right palm. The dominating smack quieted the forty-ish blonde who lowered her head flat on her right cheek. She faced the side of the street seeing another blurry image of headlights sped past her. She felt Joanna hot breath on her ass. Joanna told Kathleen, “What a pretty pussy you have!” When Kathleen felt the fingers rub against her pussy and tapping that needful clit, she shuddered. “Yeah, white girl. I need to do this.” explained Joanna who didn't wait a moment longer to push her index finger inside. “Feels warm and tight!” Joanna commented as she twisted her finger a little before beginning a steady rhythm of sliding in and out. “swish … squish … swish ...” Kathleen's wet pussy snug tight around the finger.
Kathleen couldn't help but to “oh” and “ah” as her pussy was giving her the attention she didn't expect. “How is this helping?” she pleaded. But Joanna wasn't interested in stopping her search and just kept sliding it in and out feeling every patch of smooth, warm flesh inside. “You tell me. You're the one using pussy to get what you want.” Kathleen felt her thighs quiver as the Joanna's finger relentlessly penetrated her. Kathleen gasped and huffed like an exhausted sprinter before begging, “How much longer?”
Joanna smirked and replied, “As long as it takes until you tell me who your pimp is.” While her finger went in and out she was getting hypnotized by Kathleen's sex. “I don't have a … pimp.” said Kathleen, struggling with the words. The officer didn't like the stubbornness and slapped Kathleen's ass with the left hand. SMACK! “Fuckin' liar! Here … maybe this will change your mind.” Joanna maneuvered her middle finger inside of Kathleen's pussy twisting two fingers inside.
“Oh! Aaah!” the proud, business-woman reacted. “Oh .. oh yes!” she continued to confess.
Joanna responded pissy and sarcastic, “You want me to do this … you enjoy knowing I want your pussy, huh? You selfish slut!” Joanna gave Kathleen another slap feeling impatient but didn't stop her from finger-fucking her suspect. Kathleen's pussy did look and felt good. “Who … is … your … pimp!” demanded the officer. Joanna's voice was beginning to crack, she was losing patience. Kathleen gasped, “I don't have a pimp!”
Joanna's failure to break Kathleen frustrated her and she cried out “Fuck you!” The blonde cop pulled her fingers out and lowered her head and ran her tongue up, around, and into Kathleen's twat. Kathleen lifted her chin, kept her eyes shut, and opened her mouth making a moaning look on her face. Joanna spat on Kathleen's pussy before continuing eating her pussy while wiggling her nose. Meanwhile, a sport car made a quick pause to look at the white girls putting on a show near the sidewalk. A deep-throat hoot and hollers shouted out before it roared away.
Kathleen put both her hands underneath her and squeezed her breasts. She let out a couple chirps and a moan. Kathleen felt the fingers push into her cunt again. They made a twist and a merciless shove. Joanna took a deep breath and sniffled through her nose. “Gonna tell me the truth now? You are here for black dick, aren't you?” Joanna demanded.
Kathleen looked over her shoulder and nodded. “Good.” said the officer and the two girls were closer to an understanding. “Where does he live?” the Joanna asked and Kathleen gestured over towards Tremaine's shotgun home. Joanna pulled her fingers out and gave Kathleen's ass a good “smack”. Kathleen was told to get her bikini on and carry her coat to the house.
“Whores aren't allowed to work here unless they're black managed.” Joanna explained. Kathleen stayed quiet and rushed into her bikini outfit. The humbled professional woman hurried up Tremaine's walkway to the front door. Joanna kept a step behind her, escorting her and even reached over to knock on the door for Kathleen.
Kathleen couldn't wait for the door to open. She prayed for it. Desperate, she wanted Tremaine to save her from the humiliation. The lights in the front room lit up before heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the door. The knob turned, squeaking as it did, before pulling open to reveal a masculine, black Adonis figure. Tremaine was wearing nothing but long lounge pants. He was barefoot and shirtless. He smelled fresh having just stepped out of the shower. Tremaine looked unconcerned seeing his 'date' escorted by Joanna. He just gave Kathleen a quick look understanding she was feeling uncomfortable, awkward, and very vulnerable. Tremaine then locked eyes with Joanna. Joanna looked pretty in her outfit. “Yes?” asked Tremaine.
“Is this your property, sir?” Joanna asked while showing her badge to him.
Tremaine gave Kathleen a look in her bikini. Kathleen's sad-looking eyes begged him to answer. “Yes. Yes, she is, officer.” he answered. Tremaine opened the door and Kathleen rushed inside for shelter.
“You should tattoo your name on her if she's going to work in the neighborhood. If she wasn't whoring for you I was going to arrest her for being a social nuisance for sexually exploiting good, decent, black men.” said Joanna.
“I'll make sure everything is right with my 'hoe.” Treamine assured. Joanna smiled, “I'll hang around the neighborhood and look after when she walks the block.” she said before heading back to the street.
Treamine quietly closed the door and grinned. Kathleen broke the silence, “I feel so embarrassed. I'm sorry you had to get in the middle of that. The officer, thought, thought, I was your prostitute.”
Tremaine walked over to Kathleen and put his hands up and down her side feeling how hot she was. He kept silent and let the older woman blabber on with her 'feelings'. At first, Tremaine seemed sympathetic, but his tone was very possessive. “Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm … how things have turned?” he said.
Kathleen wrapped her arms around Tremaine needing his manly protection, “I really need you tonight. I need you to do things with me … tonight.” she told him. Kathleen even went so far to beg “Fuck me up.” Tremaine put his left thumb on Kathleen's lips and pressed it in between. “Oh … you're going get fucked alright. But first, we need to discuss a change in our … arrangement.” Tremaine shared. Kathleen's eyebrows raised in anticipation then concern. She stopped sucking on his thumb, pulled her lips away and replied with a simple, “Oh?”
Tremaine explained the new 'rules'. He pulled off Kathleen's bikini top before tugging the string holding her bottom. Her clothes dropped to the floor and he gripped her tits with stern possession. It made Kathleen feel wanted. “This belong out in the streets of the black man. Here on out, you work for me. You're the 'hoe!” said Tremaine and Kathleen understood she was feeling 'owned' … black-owned.
“Wha … what?” Kathleen stuttered unsure what Tremaine was up to. Tremaine smirked, “I take half plus $300 a day 'management fee'. You'll be fucking a half dozen men a day just to stay even!” The proud, privileged woman Kathleen was didn't comprehend the honor Tremaine had given her by being his whore. She was the prostitute needing the black men in Tremaine's community to feed her cock addiction. Kathleen hesitated and tried to reason with her black pimp. She really thought she could talk him back into being her object for hire. But Tremaine wouldn't have any of that. He squeezed her breasts and spun her on the edge of her heels to feel and smack that white ass.
“You're black-owned now, Kat! That's what I'll call you from now on … Kat. You're no different than other white hoes turning out for my people. Except, you make money for me!” Kat, crossed her arms over her breasts feeling the sudden change in her life. She felt afraid, alone, and so … aroused! Kat couldn't resist thinking about the many different black men that will fuck her day and night. Personal goals of wealth and influence vanished replaced with desire for cock, black cock.
Kathleen snapped herself out of the trance, however, and out from the temptation of becoming a wanton whore pranced around the city like a toy, like a sex object. She covered her twat with her spare hand and turned to the side. Kathleen tried to look modest and uninterested in Tremaine's proposals. Bouncing on her heels impatiently, she pleaded “I can't do that, Treamine!”
Tremaine immediately stepped up and lifted Katheen's chin with his hand, “You never talk back to your pimp. You only say, 'yes, sir'.” Kathleen quivered in his arrogant confidence, his … black power. But the naked blonde was still too proud. She gave out a muted “Tremaine?”
Tired of her impudence, Tremaine let out his frustration and said “Fine then!” and stormed to his front window. He pulled apart a couple blinds to show who was waiting in the street. It was Officer Joanna Jones leaning against her car waiting … waiting for Kat to step out and begin her night prowls. “You see her?” asked Tremaine, “If she don't see you whorin', she's gonna arrest you for being white.”
All the air was let out of Kathleen's lungs because it was true. A white person could be swept off the streets, shamed and arrested for the slightest hint of racism. It was a beautiful time in Black Pine when racial justice had no limits. Kathleen's money and influence meant nothing in Ebony Paradise. But her sweet ass, swinging in her heels, could make all the difference. But first, she had to win the trust of the black community. While Kathleen rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, Tremaine pulled down his pants and his rock-hard cock sprang out. The image of black steel emotionally paralyzed Kathleen. She started feeling very warm. Her heart raced and her body ready. But she understood that big cock came with a big price.
"I know you been hurtin' for dick ..." said Tremaine calmly, almost sympathetically, "... been beggin' me to call you. Now, here it is." The powerful black male waved his cock up and dawn simulating a tap-tap-tap on Kathleen's forehead. "In return, you be the 'hoe and start making money for the black man for here on out." he offered.
Kathleen covered her mouth looking at Tremaine's gorgeous and demanding black manhood. She just had to have it! It looked so beautiful and she needed to be used, filled, and rightfully fucked! Kat was near to trading everything ... her career, her marriage, her self-respect for this one moment and be in servitude of a black man? The blonde stepped up and easily, instictively, reached out her left hand and stroked Tremaine's cock. It was rock hard as she anticipated ... and warm, bulging ... hungry for a woman ... for pussy. She shook her head like someone getting over her denial. Tremaine didn't need to say anymore and Kathleen bent her knees and put them to the floor. Kat fisted the cock a couple more times, lowered her head, and started treating herself to a mouth full of black cock.
"Mmmph ... mmmph ... mmmph ..." the hot blonde began slurping on Tremaine's cock. The organic flavors gave her an instant high and that good, "dirty" feeling she craved. "Suck that black cock, hoe. Lick those balls. Treat your pimp like a king." he told her.
"Yes, sir." Kat answered and she began lapping the heavy balls with her slick tongue. She felt nothing but sexuality. Her white world of wealth and bigotry was left behind as she served her black man with devotion. Just the fragrance of his balls put her in her place as a piece of fuck-meat, a sex toy, a dumb slut used for the pleasures of black men. Tremaine tapped Kat's forehead with his cock and demanded a sloppy blow-job. Their eyes met, locked on each other. It was a man and woman, a black king and a white 'hoe.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! You're such a dirty slut!" Treamine told Kat. She said nothing but replied using her lips, mouth, and tongue. A possessive black hand rested on top of Kat's head. Spit ran down the whore's chin dropping on her titties. She began to gag after trying to push the organ too deep down her throat. But she loved it. It made her complete.
Tremaine brought Kat to her feet and gave her ass a good, possessive slap. Kat bucked and grunted but took it. Tremaine took a good handful with his right hand and asked, "Who owns this, now?"
"You do, sir." the whore answered with muted breath and surrender.
Another possessive slap went across Kat's right tit. "Who owns this?" Kat immediately answered, "You do, sir." Satisfied with her answers, Tremaine took her by the hand and took her to the couch. He took a seat first and directed her to ride her. Kat climbed on top. Her heart raced because her body knew what was coming, that so much needed feeling of penetration and sexual mating. Regardless of what was going through her mind, complete surrender of her morals, values, and lifestyle ... her body needed to be fucked.
Firm, black hands cupped Kat's breasts. Hot air blasted her neck from Tremaine's mouth. She felt the rubbery bulb of his cockhead press and mash against her pussy. The black cock wanted and needed in. Kat reared her head back and moaned as she dropped her ass penetrating herself. Tremaine roared as his new 'hoe gave herself freely to him. Up and down Kat moved her hips, grunted as she did. "Ugh ... ugh ... ugh ..."
Tremaine mouthed, "... yeah ... yeah ... yeah ..." enjoying the rightfully deserved pleasure. "Ride that cock, white girl. Fuck it." he told her. Kat simply mumbled, "... yes ... yes ..." The couple kissed passionately with open mouths and open hearts. But Tremaine wasn't her boyfriend but her master. He turned her to the side, pulled her legs over his shoulders and started driving his loins ahead. Slammin' in ... slammin' in ... stuff .. stuff ... stuff.
Kat cried in an intense orgasm. Tremaine was a gifted and relentless sex machine. He pushed forward and gave every inch of his black cock, balls deep. "You love black cock, Kat? Huh?" whispered Tremaine. His 'hoe couldn't deny nor resist another orgasm brewing inside of her,. She screamed, "Yes! I love it. ... ugh .. ugh! I love you!" Kat followed with a squeal before turning her head as Tremaine kept pounding her with dick. She was in heaven.
Tremaine, however, wasn't interested in romancing a 40-something business woman. She meant little to him other than to make money and sometimes pleasure, if he was bored enough. No, Treamaine needed to tame her and fuck her mind as hard as her body. He crawled off of her and yanked her to the floor by her elbow. A good "slap" across her ass was enough to coax her to get on her knees and elbows on the floor. Kat showed great obedience. There was potential in her being a good whore for the black men in the city. She arched her back and presented her sweet pussy to her pimp. Kat felt empty and lost without his cock inside of her. She had an insatiable need to please him. She felt Tremaine rub the tip of his cock against her pussy but not yet ready to push inside.
"Tell me you need this dick.." Tremaine demanded. "I need this. I need this." Kat desperately whispered to him. As he slowly penetrated her, pushing his steel rod deep into Kat's warm hole, he demanded obedience, "You promise to be a good 'hoe?"
Kat struggled to answer as inch after inch of cock made its way inside her, "I promise, sir. I'll be a good whore." Tremaine began full, powerful thrusts. He celebrated breaking the rich girl's mind and began all the money he would make. "You are fucked, Kat! I'll make sure you're fucked day and night." he told her.
Kat accepted her fate and whispered back defeated, "... fuck me ... I'm fucked." She then started whelping a short lived wail with each thrust forward. "Ah ... ah ... ah ..." Tremaine's hand pulled on her hair and another slap went across her ass. "Gawd-damn, slut!" he yelled out, "Take my mother-fuckin' black cock!"
It was then the front door opened and Officer Jones let herself in. She could hear the action from the street and was pleased to see the progress Tremaine had made. Tremaine was steady with his pace of bucking his loins into Kat's ass. It was beautiful to look at and a symbol of racial progress the community was making. Joanna nodded and said to Tremaine, "Breaking in your whore?" Joanna and Tremaine looked at each other and couldn't resist kissing. Joanna put her right palm on his face and saw how gorgeous he was. "Fuck your whore." Joanna told him. Kat raised her head and wailed again feeling another orgasm coming at her pimp's generosity. But Officer Jones put her work boot on Kat's head and pressed the cheek back to the floor.
"Keep your head down and ass up, slut." Joanna told her.
Tremaine gripped Kat by the hips and continued a steady, hard rhythm. Joanna spoke to Kat like she was a helpless pet. "That's it white girl. Help your pimp get off. You have a busy night." Joanna looked at Kat's wedding ring on her left hand and smiled. She enjoyed the idea that another married white girl went black." But Joanna couldn't take her eyes off of Tremaine and they kissed again. Their tongues danced as sweat from Tremain's brow dripped down Joanna's cheek. He started grunting and his face made difficult looks. Tremaine felt the frustrations overwhelm him. They were both racial and sexual. He needed to "get off" and dump his semen into a warm womb. Kat and white girls like her and Joanna were made for that. There should be more white girls like them. There must be. Tremaine deserved the money white men stole from the community. Pushing his black spear, the weapon of racial justice, into a coninving racist like Kathleen Pale was right and proper. Sweat ran down his cheek and he breathed heavy, almost panting like an enraged beast devouring its prey. The man wanted to release his aggression on the white race through Kat, his 'hoe, his ... whore and slut. Fuck the white race, Tremaine thought. He yelled out his disdain for white men, white culture and their racism. Joanna put her hand on Tremaine's chest knowing what will soon to happen. She started breathing heavy out of sympathy as did Kat.
Joanna nodded, "Yeah ... fuck our race! Fuck your whore you motha-fucking god!"
Tremaine looked into the heavens above, praying to its utopia ran by black supreme beings. He wanted so much for release, power, and satisfaction. Tremaine wanted what he was entitled to as a dominant black man with the physical, emotional, and sexual traits the white women worshipped. Yes, Kat. Bend over and worship your pimp, your black god.
"Fuckin' gawd-damn ... fuck me!" she pleaded, "Fuck that cunt!" she begged.
The next thing Joanna saw was Tremaine's sticky cock, pulled out, and dancing in front of her mouth. She dropped to her knees, parted her lips as Tremaine took his left hand to the back of her head. Hot cum spewed into her mouth before second and third streams popped across her nose and chin. It was warm, potent, and a blessing of black power. Selfless, Joanna took the mouthful of cum and walked on her knees to Kat. She put her mouth to Kat's, parted her lips, and let a mouthful of hot spittle and semen out, dripping over Kat's tongue.
Kat, the whore, smacked her lips and rolled her tongue in her mouth. After an open mouth kiss with Joanna she ran her lips over Joanna's face. Both women swallowed their goo, it tasted too good to resist. Joanna kept whispering into Kat's ear, "Fucking whore ... fucking whore ..." breaking her spirit. Kat became a white girl only used for her holes.
"I'll clear her up. I have a make up kit in my car and can have her ready in less than an hour." suggested Joanna to Tremaine. Tremaine nodded, waved his hand and sat on the couch to recover . His half-erect cock was still plump and sticky dropping between his legs. Joanna couldn't help but ot look at it. It looked delicious.
"You gonna escort her around the block?" Tremaine asked, a clever request from Black Pine police. Joanna nodded and took out her shield and put it into her purse. "Yep, I now I'm off duty!"
An hour later,
off-duty police officer Joanna Jones escorted Kat around the block of Ebony Paradise. Kat was back into her string bikini and heels. She was showered, cleaned, with make-up more heavy and provocative . Joanna introduced many men hanging out in front of their houses or in the lawn or street corners. Kat said little, made fewer eye contact but never shied away from posing, giving a wave, and sometimes a smile. Her mind was emptied, blank. The embarrassment of her "wardrobe" vanished. She may have been a little cold with goosebumps covering her in the cool night. But her heart was racing with lust and the excitement of exploiting her body for black men's pleasures. When the white girls completed circling the block, there was a number of "clients" waiting on Tremaine's front porch. Tremaine was entertaining them with conversation and weed. It started with at least six men varied in age. Cash was exchanged. One by one, Kat and Joanna escorted a client into the front room. Their pimp would distract the others waiting with jokes, laughter, and more weed.
In little time, the white girls were into their sexual tirades. There were little to say. The men were black, the 'hoes were white. The men needed pussy ... they get it. The whores, married or not, rich or poor, police or citizen, they all had racial obligations owed. Kat was beyond sexual bliss but an emotional contentment. This was what she needed ... one black cock after another. Her body was made to please them. It didn't take much to put her over the edge. Just her primal need to be dominated by men. She owed Tremaine everything and she would continue to make sure the black man wins everyday.
"Fuck me ... fuck me, please!" begged Joanna as she was on her knees bending over the edge of the couch. Her man was fucking her from behind with strong hands around her waist. "Hate my race ... hate my race ..." the off-duty law officer begged. Her client was a good man in his late 20's who needed to get off for the evening. It was good fortune Joanna and Kat came around explaining they belonged to Tremaine. The client may not have been much of an active racial justice activist, but Joanna was beginning to show him the way. Bent over for him, squealing and begging in delight, he enjoyed the power he had over her ... and her race.
Kat was on her back, on the floor. Her knees brought up near her shoulders as her client was nose-to-noise with her. Both breathed heavy and her man chanted "I fuck you .... I fuck you ..." he was an older man around 50 years old. Race debt by getting pussy was something he believed in and wanted more of. The respect Tremaine showed the community that night would quickly raise his status in the community. "You're a whore ... just a whore ..." her man whispered. It made him feel euphoric. His 50 year old cock was rock hard and ready to dump cum in or on her. Kat was ready to be covered in cum. She felt the fullness in her pussy. This was the feeling she wanted. She turned her head away and saw Joanna still in her work boots but naked otherwise, being sexually used by her client. This was Kat's world now. She loved her pimp.
While Kat was pleasing the neighborhood into the morning,
Kassandra made her way to the Red Light district of Black Pine. That is where the business card, JaMarcus had given her, took her. In her modest clothes carrying a bag with her Blossom Boutique outfit, she stood in front of the blinking lights of the The Black Fantasies Lounge. At the top of the hour of two in the morning, the place was still booming bass from within the walls. Kassandra took a deep breath and walked to doors. She was ready to step inside into a world unknown to her.
To learn more about the city of Black Pine and its characters, read the reference guide under the Author's Den found in the forums section.
