The Oriental was a strip club in Vegas, though it was not on the strip, and had no employees from “the Orient”. The dancers, servers and bouncers were African-American, and the owners were white. and the decor was a Chinese New Year celebration glitz and Neo-Tokyo techno-glow. It was here in this strangely contradictory club, two months after the fateful fight night that had seen Jaren Washington defeated by an upstart contender, that Desirée Watters returned to the City of Sin to ply her trade.
The Oriental had three raised walkways and poles rimmed with neon lights, extending from the center of the main floor to the edges. On a Friday night it was packed with *****, rich men waving their blackjack and backgammon winnings in unsteady hands, eager to see a lineup of twelve African-American dancers of which Desirée was the featured attraction. After a successful tour that had taken her through Texas and back up to her stomping grounds of Atlanta (where she had taken nearly $80,000 in tips out of up-and-coming musicians in Bankhead), she had accepted a $10,000 downside fee to be the marquee dancer for the evening.
“Get up near the stage,” the DJ bellowed overtop the kinetics of his club banger. “It’s time for the booty-poppin’ contest! And ya’ll know how to choose the winners - make it rain on them bitches!” A cheer went up from the crowd and dozens of men pulled out billfolds and rolls of cash from the pockets.
This was Desirée’s moment to shine. She commanded an entire corner of the dressing room to herself and applied a new layer of pale pink plumping gloss to her puffy, moist dick-sucker lips as the other girls gave her a distrustful side eye. Desirée being present meant a lot of money at the club… but it also meant less money for them. They pulled on wigs, pulled up thongs between sweat-glistening black ass-cheeks and adjusted their multi-colored weaves while burning with jealousy. They had names like Destiny, Preciousness, Neesi, Perfection. They were veterans of the strip club circuit in Vegas and they knew how to take down tourists and fill a businessman’s drunken face with clapping, bouncing black ass while they rooted around in his wallet. They were bad bitches . But even with the finest implants and ass-enhancements their wads of 10’s and 20’s could buy, none of them had a body like Desirée.
“For real, I’m feelin’ a lot of heat comin’ up of you bitches,” Desirée said, casting a glance backward via her makeup mirror. “Don’t hate just because I’m the only one here who knows how to make money."
“Greedy-ass ‘ho!” came a hiss from the room, as a dancer named Golden Delicious ran a chrome gold lip gloss over her mouth and managed to speak sideways at the same time. “Every time ya’ll come here none of us regular girls can get any food in they mouf!”
“Bitch I will snatch that weave off your nappy-ass head!” Desirée returned, and finished her makeup, rising from her seat. Her ass-meat didn’t just bounce in the loose fishnet leggings that were her only clothing below the waist, it dropped and rebounded with each step. While many of the other girls had prodigious asses - some tight, some phat like a bowl of oatmeal and showing that light hint of cellulite around the edges that made the thicc-seekers swoon - none could compare to Desirée’s massive ass globes . Her thighs were toned and powerful and then exploded outward into big, burnished brown hemispheres that were almost perfectly round. Each cheek was easily the size of a basketball, flawlessly complexioned and hinting at a dick-aching mix of bounce-a-dime-off-it muscle beneath a layer of marshmallow softness that a man could bury his splayed fingers into. Was it implants? Fat injections? A gift from god? Some said all three. But the fact remained that no girl present could touch Desirée’s physique. She was the alpha bitch in the room and they all knew it. She had the phattest bank account, the flyest ink, she was Gucci, Fendi, Maserati while they were Wal-Mart.
This might have made Desirée vulnerable to their jealous undermining, but she backed it up with intensity and toughness. Cross Desirée once, the saying went, and a girl might find herself relegated to the “C” stage for the entire night, grinding for what singles she could pry from the fingers of busters and drunks. “If Jay-Z comes in tonight you better get your muh’fuckin binoculars because that’s the only way you’re going to see that nigga’s money,” as Desirée put it. Cross her twice and a girl better hope she hadn’t paid much for her extensions because that shit was getting ripped out. Desirée was not to be fucked with, and that was why the girls always backed down. She was the biggest, baddest, hottest black queen bee anyone could imagine. Adept at turning girls against each other or taking them on herself.
“Two minutes, girls,” said a bouncer, knocking on the dressing room door frame. “Time to get that money.” Desirée put the finishing touches on her outfit and made sure she was correct. No panties, no bottoms of any kind - just those fishnet leggings that seemed to barely hold her buttocks, the diamond-shaped spaces large enough to slide fingers into, letting her ass-meat bulge out in a waffle-iron pattern and clearly showing off her shaved pussy. Her clit glittered with a golden ring that was a smaller version of the big hoops in her ears. She wore a gold choker around her neck reminiscent of an African queen. Shining black platform stiletto heels, six-inches high, made her toned, athletic legs look even longer. She wore a gossamer gold belly chain and a golden stud in her navel. The only piece of true clothing on her body was a black silk bikini top with small triangular cups that didn’t even cover her large, porous areolas, let alone her huge breasts, which were the perfect mix between plausibly huge and lewdly fake. Each was easily the size of a man’s head.
Desirée spritzed some gold sparkles on herself and walked toward the door, heels clacking. Her straightened, silky black hair cascaded down her back, nearly to the top of her hips. One streak of hair was bright gold, the only detectable piece of artifice in an otherwise majestic, regal flow. “Let me show you how it’s done, bitches,” she taunted, and walked out on stage to the roars of the crowd. Tits flopping. Ass-mounds clapping. Puffy lips of her shaved pussy unhidden by the barely-there leggings and her big, protruding nipples tenting the black cups of her straining bikini top, in which her heavy breasts hung enormous, causing the strings to strain.
As the DJ busted into the traditional music for main event of the evening - “Tip Drill” by Nelly, Desirée led the other strutting, sinfully-dressed African-American dancers out on triple walkway, where three poles were waiting and customers were lining the edges. The cops had been given a kickback to look the other way when it came to Las Vegas’ sexual touching laws, both on stage and in the “champagne rooms” in the back, and when Desirée walked out and swung around the pole before opening her thighs and squatting down to pop that pussy in their faces, a dozen desperate eyes and grasping hands reached out with money at the ready. As she favored them with a sultry stare and licked her luscious lips, they blew geysers of folding cash all over her inner thighs like it was cum. Tens, twenties, even a few Benjamins began piling up beneath her feet, and every wannabe playboy and gangsta in the joint had his roll out to peel off some notes in tribute.
“Fuckin’ ass meat !” growled one gruff dark-skinned suitor as Desirée turned around, getting to her knees and making her booty twerk, first lifting one cheek, then the other, then bouncing them against each other and making the spritz of water and sweat on her skin fly off in a haze. Bills were stuffed into her tights. “How ‘bout I take you in the back and pay off that car? Or buy you a new one?” he continued, and Desirée took his cash and then pie-faced him away.
“Muh’fucka I got that car for free from a buster like you,” she hissed. The Desirée of two months ago might have been on the prowl for a black man who seemed to be packing some serious heat between his legs, but since the incident with Deacon, Desirée found that such things interested her less. She found the pick up lines and come-ons of black men more annoying than potentially fruitful, and she found their urban charms more tiresome and tacky than libido-stoking. She tried not to think too much about why this was, though the question nipped at her more and more lately as she plied her trade.
A drunken white businessman reached out and slapped her rear end, he had his tie undone and looked like he’d been chaining cocktails all night. The bouncers were on him immediately, taking him down with the force of a police arrest. Desirée stood up and took a step over to the pole, bending over, shaking her tits side to side and letting the metal pipe slide between her round, bubbly ass-cheeks, showing how much pipe those ass-mounds could make disappear. A cheer went up and she smiled enticingly. But inside she her stomach was in knots. That white slob had reached out and slapped her ass like she was a piece of meat… and her mind had immediately ventured back to that encounter with Deacon after the weigh-in. He, too, had been a white man who hadn’t thought twice about taking what he wanted. And the bet they had made was still outstanding. He had not come to collect. In fact, she hadn’t seen Deacon since fight night.
“Stuck up ‘ho!” came a catcall from the side of the stage. The man she had pie-faced, a African-American in his 20’s with the fashion and flash of a musician or athlete, was addressing her with a grave expression. “I done spent $400 in drinks, $500 in tips and dropped another $500 in paper on that ass! And this is how you goin’ to do me? I was going to put in my music video girl - make you famous!”
“Man, fuck you and fuck your tired-ass mixed tape,” Desirée spat back, bending over and twerking toward the other side of the stage. “Ashy-looking muh’fucka!” Even she realized that this was uncharacteristic of her. Even when she didn’t feel like flirting with men, she tended not to spurn them hard when there was money to be made. Yet something about this man had her more upset than she’d been before. He was black - like her - and she just found that… boring.
She thought again about how that white customer had just smacked her black ass without a second thought and her pussy turned to liquid.
Damn , she thought. Why am I getting worked up thinking about some rude cracker? Was it the way he just smacked me like he owned my black ass? Her stomach trembled like cold water had been poured inside. No, no. He was just *****. Just ***** and grabby. Come on, get it together, ‘Ree!
She spun down onto the stage and crawled, knee and elbow, toward the front, making sure to let her huge tits press and compact against the black, neon-reflective lacquered surface while her twin ass-globes bounced and wobbled above her arched back. She licked her lips and made sultry eye contact with the first person she saw at stage front, who also happened to be white. Her moist lips parted in a way that made it clear she wanted to suck some cock. That she was the sort of bitch who wanted a man to get behind her and fuck that ass. That she wanted to get her wet, shaved, puffy pussy pumped by some big dick! The pose might as well have been called woman in heat . The cash flowed like water. The bouncers had to take down two more men who wanted to reach out and get a touch, and through the corner of her eye, Desirée’ saw the black man who had catcalled her walking out the front door with his boys. She had treated him so shabbily, he was bouncing and going to another club. A pang of guilty satisfaction shot through her heart.
Get gone, busta-ass nigga. She didn’t know why it felt so satisfying to turn away a man of her own race… while she hadn’t reacted to any of the white men who were taking far more liberties. Or perhaps she did, and simply didn’t want to admit that the brothers no longer revved her motor as they once had. Ten inches? Twelve inches? Thirteen inches? The biggest, blackest cocks she’d ever had seemed so inadequate compared to what she’d seen and felt between the legs of the new, white heavyweight champ of the world, Deacon Dane.
As she finished out the song, and her performance, it was white cock, not black, that was on her mind.
Desirée was still collecting paper money from her bra and fishnets when one of the servers poked her head into the dressing area.
“White boy askin’ for you, Ree,” she said, popping some bubblegum between neon-painted lips that glowed in the blacklights cast by the club’s ceiling. “Good tipper but fuckin’ ruuuuude.” She waved a fresh hundred dollar bill and put it down on her tray before gesturing with her head. “In the back.”
The back was the remotest of the Oriental’s private rooms, a plushly furnished place for lap dances and intimate moments between dancers and ‘special’ customers who paid handsomely for the privilege. On nights when celebrities gathered, like fight nights, musicians, movie stars and athletes of all ethnicities could be found there, having their dicks sucked by a hot, willing African-American dancer who was sure to make at least $1000 for the night’s work.
Desirée walked out of the dressing room and along the side of the stage, with every table waving money and calling to her along the way. One broad-shouldered African-American man was showing a gold money clip with a thick wad of cash in it; obviously offering it for her time, some lap-dances, and perhaps more. It would be a good score - by the look of his gator-leather pants he was packing some serious meat - and he was even a little handsome.
Take that score Ree , a voice inside her said. Why you trippin’ and going to dance for some white boy when you got a real sprung nigga on deck for at least three grand? She ignored it and kept walking, not wanting to think about it or decipher what it might mean, only knowing that she was interested in the mystery man in the champagne room, not the known commodity on the floor. She didn’t even turn her head.
“Rude-ass bitch,” the man catcalled after her, his voice a deep bass.
“Fuck you, nigga!” she spat back, not even turning her head, and made her way down the hall. The room was closed and a sign hanging on the doorknob read “Private - No Service Unless Requested”. She opened it, not knowing quite what she would see but knowing this john would be arrogant and white, not knowing why she was looking forward in some strange way to dealing with that. She stepped inside the room and shut the door, muffling the thumping club music, and when she turned toward the plush booth on the back wall, stopped in her tracks and stared.
It was him .
Deacon Dane had cleaned up in the two months following his heavyweight title victory. Instead of loose jock athletic gear he wore a smart grey double-breasted suit tailored to his lean, athletic physique, complete with a vest. His wild blonde hair spilled down to his collar. Yet even beneath this facade he had a trashy gaudiness. His shoes were snakeskin and gem encrusted rings decorated two fingers of his left hand. He had a new Norse rune tattooed between thumb and forefinger on the same hand. He had the appearance of class but it was only skin deep.
He nodded at her and his mouth drew into an arrogant smile. “Bitch,” he said. It was more greeting than insult.
“Cracker,” she shot back, crossing her arms beneath her huge, bikini-constrained tits. They formed sweat-spritzed mountains above her slender wrists.
“Didn't think I was going to show up, did you?” Deacon went on, reclining regally against the cushioned back of the booth. “You thought you were off the hook.”
“I didn’t even think twice about yo’ punk ass,” Desirée shot back, but it was a lie and they both knew it.
“That hurts my feelings,” Deacon said, chuckling in his way, the way that said he was totally in charge and nothing she could say or do could affect him in the least. “I thought you’d be counting the days until I came to take what was owed.”
Desirée simply stared at him, and Deacon produced a wad of bills from his suit jacket. Beneath it, his muscles bulged underneath a shirt and suspenders. “Maybe this will make it easier,” he said, rolling his eyes, as if Desirée was just wasting his time by playing coy. “Let’s pretend for now that I’m just a customer.”
“A customer, huh?”
“Yeah,” Deacon confirmed, slapping down a wad of bills on the small circular table next to the booth. “A paying customer. Now bend over and show me that big, black ass!”
Desirée’s eyes seemed to widen and her nostrils flared as if she was ready to burst out at Deacon, telling him what she thought of his skin color, his ridiculous suit, his high-handed attitude, his money, and his momma. But after a moment, the look of concealed rage vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she walked to the table with a perturbed expression, thighs flexing and buttocks bouncing as her heels clicked on the room’s hardwood floor. She stopped just short of Deacon and looked at the stack of banknotes… and down to the crotch of his tailored slacks.
What she saw made her belly turn to ice water. A huge, captive tube-like bulge leading down one of his legs, all the way to his knee. Her mind flashed back, unbidden, to the time in the loading area, after the weigh-ins. She’d had that fucking monster right in her face! Two feet of throbbingwhite meat.
“Just a customer,” she said, making eye contact with him. “Just another randy-ass white boy, huh?” Her manicured fingers traced over the stack of cash and fanned it with a thumb. It was a fresh $10,000 band of perfectly uniform hundreds. Shit, it even smelled like a bank.
“Yeah,” Deacon said. “And that means you’re just a dancer! And I know the black girls here like it a little rough!” Before she could react he reached out and took her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. Desirée was built, graceful and powerful, but he was a larger, explosive athlete, and drew her wasp-waist into him without much effort. Her buttocks washed over his thighs in two big, bouncy drifts.
“Oh, fuck!” Desirée cried. She could feel that meat pipe pressing against her ass. “Fuckin’ white boy, I could snap my fingers and get the bouncers-”
“I could beat the shit out of the fucking bouncers and you know it,” Deacon hissed, bringing one hand to his necktie and loosening it before moving one by one down the buttons of his suit jacket releasing each. “Don’t let this suit fool you. I’m not the respectable type.” He seemed to flex his thigh and the fat meat pole bulging in his pants leg surged against Desirée’s round ass, causing her gasp.
“Yeah I know,” she snapped. “You jus’ a fuckin’ nasty white boy!” Already her voice had started to change; Desirée had one tone and register for dealing with the public, if she was in line at the bank or at the car dealership, or an upscale boutique. But now the other Desirée was coming out - the more urban, hoot rat Desirée.
Why do I want to sound more black for him , she thought. I sound like a little pickaninny girl with a basket full of cotton .
Deacon tossed his jacket on the corner of the booth and unbuttoned his shirt as well. Her toned, sculpted back pressed against his bare chest and their sweat sizzled together. “And you’re just a nasty black bitch,” he growled, pulling her waist harder against him. Her ass was grinding right on top of his throbbing dick bulge, which was growing in size and trapped in the leg of his pants. He brought her hand to his belt. “Now, take out my cock and get to work.”
Desirée felt panic inside her. This is it , she thought. Gotta stop it now. Gotta shut him down and tell him it was all just bullshit and he ain’t getting none of this pussy.
She raised her voice and began to read him the riot act. “White muh’fucka I ain’t takin’ shit out-’
His hand slid down between her legs instantly, powerfully, and two of his fingers slid probed powerfully against her puffy labia, dividing them and sliding against the moist honeypot beneath. Desirée’s voice cut off with a gasp and her amber eyes went newly wide as she blew out a hot breath.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked!” Deacon crowed, and then posted his arm to tilt Desirée off his lap for a moment. A wet spot had appeared on his thigh where the pipe-like dick bulge was running. “You try to play hard to get but you’re creaming for this cock, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you!” Desirée sassed, but he yanked her back down and shoved his two fingers in deeper than before. Her pussy was molten. There was no denying the effect it had on her to be grinding her ass against that monster cock! She could object, she could sass, she could insult, but she couldn’t hide how wet her pussy was, and when he slapped one of her big, black ass cheeks her cry sounded more like pleasure than pain.
“Get my dick out,” he ordered again.
“No!” Desirée cried. She wiggled her hips and it only turned her on more as she felt that meat beneath her pillowy round ass.
Deacon began to rub up inside her slit, finding her G-spot, that rise of flesh inside her vaginal canal. At the same time he put his mouth right next to her air, breathing in sweat and perfume and hair product, and growled his ultimate command:
“Get on your knees and take my big white cock out, nigger .”
Desirée bit her bottom lip and her pelvis surged upward into his fingers while her ass-globes rubbed all over his thighs. Hearing that forbidden word catalyzed something in her that she couldn’t understand and couldn’t admit. This muscled, hung white stud had come to her place, pulled her onto his lap, started finger-banging her wet, tight pussy… and had called her a fucking nigger while he was doing it. He was treating her like a piece of black sexmeat !
“Oh...f-fuuuuuck you nasty muh’fuckin cracker!” she gasped, wailing out as her body began spasming and shuddering in the throes of a humiliating orgasm. Deacon’s strong fingers had rubbed her to climax, helped in no small part by the intensity of his physical control and the brutality of his words. “You fuckin’… white bastard!” She moaned and gyrated against him, riding out her climax, and then when her breathing finally stopped hitching and gasping, he removed his fingers and she slid to the floor in front of the booth, landing knock-kneed on all fours between his manspread thighs. His right pantleg looked like it was housing an intercontinental ballistic missile.
“You just came from being called a fuckin’ nigger,” he prompted, his face devilish and teasing. “You love that shit, don’t you? You act like a tough black bitch but all you really want is a white man who will call you a nigger right to your fucking face!” He laughed at Desirée’s seething expression. “Now stop playing games. Take it out and get to work.”
“Fuckin’ nasty fucker!” Desirée spat back, her eyes intense with frustration and dislike, but her body moved nonetheless, and she crawled forward and began to fumble with his belt buckle, undoing it with a jingle, then undoing the buttons of his fly and tugging down on his pants and boxer briefs. The base of Deacon’s tree-trunk cock, decorated by a trim triangle blonde pubic hair, came into view. She reached down and gripped it with two dark hands, her dazzling golden fingernails barely touching on the opposite side as she tried to encircle it with her hands and haul that hogout of his pants leg.
What a fuckin’ white horse cock , she thought. God, I can’t even get my fingers around it! It’s thick as a log in a rail fence! Her fingers rubbed over the bulge made by Deacon’s urethra - it was as prominent as two of her digits put together, and some of the fat veins running across the top seemed to outside her pinky. And it was so heavy! A real slab of fuckmeat , so much larger than the coal black pipes she’d sucked and fucked with such abandon for so many years.
She drew it from his pants leg like a sword from a scabbard, watching as the slacks bulge gradually disappeared and the shaft entered the open air. It was like a magic trick or an optical illusion - just when she thought there was no way he could have any more dick in his pants, Deacon seemed to have a couple more inches. When it finally popped out of the waistband of his underwear, half-hard, it flopped back against his chest like a sleeping anaconda.
“Oh my fuckin’ gawwwwd,” Desirée moaned, and her voice was filled with dismay. Dismay because she didn’t want to like it. Her mind, her pride, wanted her to rise up send this white boy packing, with a heeled foot in his hindquarters for good measure. But that dick. That big, thick, nasty white dick! It was like something that belonged on a horse. It made all of her previous black boyfriends, hookups and johns look like a joke .
“Bigger than any black cock you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” Deacon prompted, and Desirée looked at him fiercely for a moment… and then, deflated, her shoulders slumping. She nodded her head meekly, reluctantly. There was no use arguing, no use denying. The pure, white truth was right in her face… and to say otherwise would just be a lie. She leaned in, tugging Deacon’s fly open further, letting his big, round nuts emerge and hang down onto the booth’s red leather seat. God, they were fucking huge . Each one looked as big as a coconuts to her eyes, and she could almost sense them churning up wad after wad of dominating, conquering, bitch-breeding sperm. It was an in-your-face display of white dominance . And her recently finger-fucked pussy was soaked.
“Bet you’ve been waiting on me, coming to collect,” Deacon teased, his voice always with the same maddening, superior tone. “Bet you’ve been counting the days.”
“Fuck no,” Desirée said, turning her head to the side to hide her blushing. “Yo’ ass got lucky one night. I haven’t even wasted my time on it.” But that was a lie. For the first few days after the big fight, she’d been dreading running into him, wondering what would happen. Even in the following weeks, when Deacon failed to appear, it had never been far from her mind. She took bookings at clubs, keeping herself busy on the circuit, but the spectre of the outstanding bet haunted her. As with this evening at the Oriental, for the past two months she’d found herself foregoing lap dances with rich black men to concentrate on white johns… and she let them touch and take liberties that she never had before.
At such times she would ask herself, why you doin’ this, Ree? Why are you showing out for white boys and giving the cold shoulder to the brothas? Even her demeanor and patterns of speech changed. With the black men she was as sassy as ever, using her body and practiced cock-pleasing skills to milk them for every dollar. And if they got belligerent about the cost or tried to get over on her for free gropes, she set them straight quick. The Desirée of old didn’t take any shit. But in these last eight weeks, it had been different with white men. She tended to gravitate toward them in the clubs and her voice and speech took on a more submissive tone. And that wasn’t all. The words she used, the way she said things, had an anachronistic quality that was right off the plantation.
“You gonna show this black girl a good time, mistuh?”
“That’s it honey, you grab that ass. You in charge.”
And one time an especially ***** businessman, upon being told that a club was closing up, had literally shoved a wad of cash into her mouth. “Here you go, black ,” he’d said, in a gruff Australian accent, spitting the final words from his mouth as if it disgusted him. Had she slapped? Eye gouged? Hit him in the balls? No.
Desirée, the fiercest black bitch in town had simply pulled the money from her mouth and said: “Thank you, baby!” Later that night she had replayed the scenario in bed, scolding herself for not reacting more strongly and showing that arrogant, rude peckerwood that nobody treated Ree that shabbily. Why had she allowed him to get away with it?
The answer was Deacon. Ever since seeing his enormous cock and feeling it pumping cum down her throat, she hadn’t been able to look at any white man the same way. She had considered them pay pigs and worms. Now, she saw them as bulls . Dominating, brutal white bulls with a taste for black flesh. But she couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. She had based so much of her adult life on the premise that black men were superior. She had formed a cult of personality around being the baddest bitch, untouchable by white men.
“Get those tits around my cock,” Deacon ordered. “Stop stalling. Or are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?”
“Muh’fuckin’ rude-ass white boy,” Desirée snapped, reaching behind herself to unfasten the scant strings of her black bikini top. It fell away, revealing her huge caramel-colored tits with their raised, dark nipples. “If you didn’t lay down that cash-”
“You owe me,” said Deacon. “You’re not a hooker, you’re a slave. Just like we said.”
“Well you a john!” Desirée snapped back, and she slid up onto his lap, hooking her legs over his and pressing his mammoth meat into the channel formed by her big jugs. “You a muh’fuckin’ bill payer! Not no king , not no massuh!”
Did you just say ‘massuh’? Girl, you sound like a muh’fuckin’ pickaninny-ass slave. What’s wrong with you?
And on the heels of that thought, his hand went to her perfumed hair and took fist, yanking her head back and to the side. It was an aggressive move, and Desirée gasped as she made desperate eye control.
“Wrong,” Deacon growled. Their faces were only a few inches apart. “The money makes no fucking difference. Because here’s what I’m buying with it.” He reached around and took a groping, dominating handful of her right ass-cheek, kneading it and compressing the flesh between his strong fingers until it burst out from between each digit like a loaf of rising bread. “$2,500 of that $10,000 is for that. What is that?”
“My ass!” Desirée gasped. Being manhandled by him, thrown around by him, by a white man, was turning her knees to jelly and making her pussy tingle shamefully.
“Wrong. It’s meat. Tell me what it is!” He tightened his grip and her neck bent back even more.
“Meat! It’s muh’fuckin meat!” she wailed. Her body was in fire. He was so strong, so uncompromising, and he didn’t give a shit what she thought - all traits that she now considered to be white .
“What kind of meat?”
“B-Black!” Desirée gasped. His opposite hand came up and fucking lit her up , smacking her across the face and making her groan with a combination of humiliated pleasure and sorrow.
“Wrong,” Deacon seethed. “Wrong again. What kinda is it?”
Desirée made eye contact with him and tears came to her eyes. Her pussy quivered as, against her instincts of pride, the submission poured out of her soul. She knew what he wanted to hear. “Nigger!” she moaned, desperately, swallowing and then adding: “It’s nigger meat. My muh’fuckin nigger ass-meat .”
“Yes,” Deacon said, pulling her head fiercely. “And when a man buys that , he isn’t a fucking john, is he?”
Desirée shook her head.
“What is he?”
“A m-master,” she breathed, her throat nearly swallowing the words. He spun her around roughly, lifting and turning her with a firm arm around her waist, settling her rear end down on his cock. Her big, round cheeks pinned the now-hard length against his chest, it emerged from the cavern of flesh to extend further up and hover between her shoulders. She gasped as she felt her asshole twitching against his size . The fat cum tube of his urethra thrummed with virile energy on her most sensitive place. Her pussy, betraying her arousal, was sinfully wet, her labia separated as they nestled against his pipe and left a foamy mess of wetness behind as he adjusted her.
“Now this what I’m talkin’ about,” Deacon asserted, and he pulled her ass tight against his chest as she adjusted her wobbling, heel-clad feet to be outside his thighs on the booth’s cushioned seat, then released his grip to allow her to rise. Now, in a thigh-spread half-squat and with his penis jutting straight up, her bubble ass was in the perfect position to serve was a furrow for that meat.
“Spread your fuckin’ ass, nigger,” he growled. Desirée felt her tummy quiver and reached behind herself to pull apart her enormous black bubble butt as lewdly as she could. It was an amazing sight, her delicate, small hands fighting against the mounds of glazed, tattooed chocolate flesh that threatened to spill out every turn. Her hips were explosive and her butt too generous to be held back.
Deacon grunted and reached up to grip her fishnets, tearing them open with muted snaps, fully exposing her. “Present yourself,” he ordered. His voice did sound a bit thick with anticipation, and he had a grip on the base of his cock, keeping it menacingly upright, the tip less than six inches from her pussy and asshole. “Tell me what I’m buying!”
“It’s… it’s my big nigger ass!” Desirée gasped, exhaling and biting her bottom lip as she continued to spread herself in front of him and make her cheeks bulge and pour through her fingers.
God, that big white monster is just inches from my pussy and asshole, she thought. He could pull me down onto it right now if he wanted. That big muhfuckin’ white donkey dick would be in my *guts*! The most packin’ homeboys on my contact list wouldn’t even touch the fuckin’ sides after, if he made me take the whole thing.
“Move that ass!” Deacon ordered, and in spite of her humiliation, Desirée snapped into action with swiftness that alarmed her, demonstrating that her ability to deny this man, this white man, had grown paper thin. She didn’t even think twice before dropping her hips and twerking that massive ass right in his face, showing off her pussy, her asshole, every detail of her inked, bulging butt-globes being presented for his inspection.
Her mind whirled with images of women of her skin color, in chains, bending over on plank board stages while white slave masters took a big handful of their dark-skinned asses, assessing how much they could breed, assessing how much work those big nigger buttocks could put in in the cotton fields and in their bedrooms. And who were the ones who got to live in the big house and enjoy the luxuries while the field negros were busy at work? The ones who could take care of master’s dick, that’s who. The ones willing to sell their souls and take some big white cock!
That’s you, her mind accused. That’s you, that’s you, shakin’ yo’ ass for that slave mastuh! Shakin’ yo ass! Coonin for that monster dick! You a slave, girl. A slave to that *white pipe*!
“Fuck!” she groaned, as her wet pussy brushed against the jutting tip of Deacon’s cock, making her clit sing and throb like an unexploded munition. “Fuck, that goddamn fuckin’ dick! Why did yo’ dick have to be so big, you crazy cracker?” She dropped her hips lower still and her pussy mashed against that swollen tip. Spreading her puffy outer labia, dilating her hole slowly, achingly. It was as thick as a mahogany bedpost and just as unyielding. Desirée felt her body wanting to give into it. His hands went to her hips, gripping roughly, and began to guide her down.
“Now I finally get to feel that black cunt of yours,” Deacon hissed. And Desirée was past the point of a ‘ fuck you, cracker’ or ‘ eat shit, peckerwood’. She only uttered a whimper as she felt the tender flesh of her pussy giving way to his leaking, softball-sized prick helmet. Instead of uttering an insult, she simply gasped and gritted her teeth. Her stance was totally lewd and animalistic - grunting, squatting, twerking over that jutting spire of meat, with her ass-cheeks right in the face of her enemy as if on display - and she mirrored it with animalistic groans and grunts as the enormous tip of Deacon’s cock filled the entrance to her pussy and then slid inside, with her wet labia sliding slightly closed to envelop his whole cockhead.
Of course, they couldn’t close much more than a little - his shaft was too thick for that. It curved up from his muscled pelvis like a scimitar. Desirée cried out at the feeling of having her pussy stretched wider than it ever had been. There was a feeling of throbbing, brutal fullness - she could feelhis blood pulsing and his fat cum pipe spasming and leaking into her. She allowed her leg muscles to settle and another two inches of meat slid inside with a wet, churning sound.
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” Desirée cried. Her mouth opened and she sprayed out harsh breaths, like a woman in labor. Her panting only made the scene more animalistic. The text scrawled above her shaved pussy - “QUEEN” - seemed to be pushed up and out by an invading cylinder shape. Rivulets of her wetness were leaking down Deacon’s shaft; and lucky for her, too - for without so much lubrication, the cock inside her would have been doing even more damage. As it was, her clit was pressed up and out like a pea emerging from its pod. Her pee-hole and its membrane were being mashed flat by the size of that white meat, and her insides were gripping the invader like a second skin. It felt…
Amazing. Overwhelming.
My pussy is being stretched. It’s being *fucked up*. It’s changing into shape of this muh’fuckin white monster dick. If I cum now I’m gonna lose my mind. If I cum now-
Deacon pulled down on her hips guiding her. There was the wet sound of sex-meat sliding through a wet, hot passage. The bulge in Desirée’s pelvis moved up to just below her belly-button, and she cried out like an animal in heat.
There was absolutely no restraint in her cry, no pride, no grasping for the last vestiges of dignity. Her knees went weak and for the first time her unfettered sexual arousal came to the forefront. The intensity of the penetration was such that Desirée did not consider how much she disliked Deacon’s personality, or how little she wanted to give him the satisfaction of having an advantage over her. Seven inches of his bicep-thick fuckmeat were inside her pussy and the pleasure overwhelmed the pain and came pouring out like a tsunami over a flood wall.
Her eyes rolled. She moaned like a wild beast. Her pelvis muscles began spasming and her toes curled, causing her ankles to wobble in their stiletto platforms. She was cumming. Cumming harder than she ever had in her life, all over that white cock. Instead of hunching forward she collapsed backward against Deacon’s chest, crying out as she laid her head in the crook of his neck, supporting herself with her hands behind her. She squirted powerfully, spraying a hot explosion of lube halfway across the room, leaving a gleaming splatter line across the floor.
“You were such a sassy black bitch but now you’re cumming like a slut all over this white cock,” Deacon growled into her ear. “You really love that cock, huh? Let me hear you say it.”
Desirée panted and gasped. Deacon pulled her down another three inches. His fat cock-crown was reaching her belly-button now. Desirée tensed and squirted again, this time all the way to the door, a long, unbroken line of lube as she orgasmed powerfully. “Yes! Yes, I fuckin’... love it!” she wailed, her amber eyes looking overwhelmed and exhausted from the pleasure and pressure of having so much meat inside her. “I fuckin’ love this big white dick!”
Deacon thrust his hips up, pressing his cock in until the leaking, spasming pisshole pressed against her cervix. Desirée cried out again. Her mind was spinning. That white dick was right up against her womb, leaking that pre-nut into her most sacred, life-giving place, colonizing it. She had taken dicks this deep, but never one even half as thick. She felt her hips creaking and an emanating pressure, pleasure and pain that combined to be explosive, and could only be released by having a massive, degrading orgasm all over that white cock!
“What are you?” Deacon hissed, reaching around her cheek to wrap a hand around her throat.
She thought of black slavegirls bending down in front of white masters, fair-skinned bull studs with cocks down to their knees. Black girls, black women like her, being turned into baby-factories for mulatto, mixed-race kids. Reaching behind themselves to spread their thick asses and expose their dusky, white-owned cunts. Their bonnets and dresses strewn on the floor, their cum-soaked, white-worshiping lives unfolding into the eons ahead.
“I’m a f-fucking… nigger !” Desirée wailed. It was her final surrender.
Deacon’s cocktip stretched open her cervix and invaded her womb, filling and pressing against the back wall, forcing it up into her guts. He began to thrust. He was more then two-thirds inside now, stirring up Desirée’s guts, making her taut, toned midsection undulate around his unyielding pipe. “Oh my fuckin’ gawwwd… I’m getting… fucked up by this white monster cock!” Desirée moaned, and she tilted her head back into the crook of his neck again, washing her perfumed hair over his chin and chest. “It’s in my fuckin’ womb!”
Much as she’d resisted the idea, it was hard to argue that her bombastic black bimbo body wasn’t tailor made to take on Deacon’s savage white horse cock and look good doing it. Her ass-cheeks pillowed against his abs as he held her in place with a firm arm around the waist and tunneled into her; her massive tits, spritzed with sweat and gleaming in all of their chocolate glory, also bounced up and down hypnotically.
“Look at how much of this cock you’re taking, you fucking nigger whore!” Deacon hissed into her ear. “Just like you took the whole thing… nnngh… down your fucking throat! This shit comes natural to you, doesn’t it? Well you can’t just lay there - I know your black ass can do more than that! You need to earn that cum! You need to work that dick!”
“Fuuuuu-u-u-u-u-uck!” Desirée wailed, in time with his speeding thrusts. He was jamming more and more into her, reshaping her, churning her guts. What had been two-thirds insertion became eighteen inches, then twenty. She began to move in time with his thrusts, moving her hips with the instincts of a vixen on the mating prowl, not thinking but just doing it. “Y-yes! I’m just a muh’fuckin nasty nigguh bitch for your white cock! Get that fuckin’ monster all up in my guts! Fuck my shit uuuuu-u-u-uu-p!” She was a cock-frenzy, and braced her platform heels on the bench in order to raise her pussy up until Deacon’s knob was on the verge of popping out.
Then, Desirée Watters went to work .
The difference between simply getting fucked and working a cock became apparent as she grabbed her ankles, thrust out her round ass and began to lift and drop her hips with big, knee
Bending dips. Her pussy painted up and down Deacon’s shaft, from inch one to inch twenty-four, with every athletic dip. The effect on him as immediate.
“Oh fuck!” he gasped. “You fuckin’ nasty nigger whore! Take that fucking cock! You know how to work it, don’t you?”
“That’s right!” Desirée gasped, popping that ass up and down his cock with long, exaggerated hip motions, again and again and again. “Nastiest bitch you’ll ever meet!” It was an amazing sight, watching that pussy-slick white pole disappear into her body and then emerge again, time after time. Deacon had been driving the action before, but now Desirée was doing all the work, wrapping her pussy around Deacon’s jutting, monster spike and milking that shit, showing him what a slutty, dick-taking black Barbie she really was. It was like her pussy was bottomless, the way she took inch after inch of white pipe into her sopping, churning guts.
Soon, they were fucking in earnest, him thrusting back into her, their hips meeting with en explosive bang as his hands groped and squeezed her ass, her tits, every part of her body that seemed enticing. Her ass-mounds slapped against his thighs and her breasts poured through his fingers. “I’m workin’ your cock like a fuckin’ nigger,” Desirée seethed back at him as he grabbed her neck and his hand closed around her throat. “This nigger bitch wants your seeds. I want that fuckin’ white nut. I want that fuckin’ cum in my nigger pussy! Breed me, white boy! Breed me like a fuckin’ nigger sla-a-a-a-a-ave!”
Desirée’s final forbidden word became a warbling, yodeling shriek as Deacon buried himself to the balls. A cockhead-shaped bulge was protruding up and out above Desirée’s navel… she’d managed to take every inch of that two-foot monster, and unable to travel any further up into her stomach, heart and lungs it curved out and up; her belly was nothing more than a dick-sleeve. Her uterus was totally stuffed with white dick and her vaginal canal would no doubt never be the same after such a brutal Caucasian resizing. Her arms and legs went limp and spasmed as she had the most humiliating orgasm yet; an eye-rolling, inglorious, nostril flaring, tongue-wagging, spine-bending cumquake . A fountain of squirt hosed across the room and splattered all over Deacon’s heavy ballsack, which was positioned right below Desirée’s straining, swollen labia.
Every muscle on her gorgeous, fit black body stood out in a rictus. Sculpted shoulders, slender, graceful, balletic arms and calves, all the same caramel brown color. Sweat danced on her skin. Her breasts bounced and draped over Deacon’s gripping forearm like wobbling meat sacks, the dark nipples painfully erect and raised. And as ever, her ass-mounds, those two bubbly hemispheres that were her calling card her entire adult life, compressed against Deacon’s pelvis, bulging out.
“Take my cum,” Deacon growled. “Fuckin’ nigger bitch!”
He growled and orgasmed with her, and her mouth gasped silently at the sensation; she could feel him cumming, bloating her womb with fat spurts of jizz from that twenty-four inch sperm cannon, drowning her most sacred place in a tar-thick reservoir of white reproductive material. It was so hot and heavy and thick! She could fill it inflating her womb, filling her oviducts, pouring back out of her pussy. With each twitch of Deacon’s cock, a nasty, chowdery splurt of semen was ejected from the tight seal her pussy made around the base of his cock, slopping down onto his balls and the booth seat.
Desirée’s switch had been hit. The brutal, soul-evaculating orgasms had more intense than anything she had ever felt. She looked down at her own midsection with glazed, spent eyes and looked at the bulging dick-shape that was pushing up on her skin with pure awe, as if she was looking on the face of god for the first time. In a way, she was. Deacon’s cock had reshaped her body, but it had done the same to her mind. The admission that she loved Deacon’s two-foot pussy destroyer no longer came with a sting to her pride. Her desire for it was pure.
“Thank me,” Deacon growled into her ear.
“Thank you, daddy.” The response was immediate and natural. She did not hesitate or have any second thoughts. It felt right . Deacon’s brutal white cock had resized her pussy and tamed her black soul. She knew it, and he knew it. He decided to test his control.
“You talked a lot of shit, but you’re nothing but a worthless nigger cumdump, aren’t you?”
Desirée leaned her face into Deacon’s neck like an obedient pet and licked up his jawline. “Yes, daddy. I’m such a stupid nigger whore.” She kissed him with an idolator’s reverence. “Your cock is so fucking big. You own my pussy now. I need a white daddy.” Her voice had an infantile quality that added to the utter tawdriness of her submission. She had been utterly defeated, and in the aftershocks of her many orgasms, was apologizing to the true dominant force in their strange and twisted relationship.
Another sluice of hot creampied cum slid from her pussy and over Deacon’s balls as she continued to whisper to him. “I need a white bull to own me. Please say you’ll do that, Daddy. I want to fuck and suck your superior 24-inch god cock while you slap my face and call me a fucking nigger .” It was the same voice that had flashed him so much African-American sass, but desperate to the point of weeping. She wanted him to use that word and nothing else. It had a talismanic power that illustrated the difference between them succinctly and shockingly. It reminded her of her place, constantly. It was the distillation of her relationship with his godlike 24-inch fuckmeat.
“You’re my property from now on, nigger,” Deacon hissed in her ear. His hand moved around to grope one of her breasts roughly. Desirée’s face softened and took on a smile utter satisfaction. She loved massive white cocks and she loved being called a nigger by white men.
Desirée Watters had been totally whitewashed.
In the months that followed, it was clear that Desirée had “changed teams”. In terms of theatrics and personality, she hadn’t really changed at all. The same forceful, say-anything sass that had effortlessly turned sex into prosperity and prestige was still present. She was still on social media, still preaching that young black women should keep their bodies and booties looking right so they could score some serious dick. The difference was in the details.
Instead of videos titled “WHITE BOYS AIN’T SHIT”, making fun of white men who bombarded her DMs with dick pics, the script was flipped. Posts reading “BLACK MEN VS. THE WHITE TRUTH”, comparing the penises of hopeful black admirers to the almighty cock of Deacon Dane, became the norm. She posted a picture of her face absolutely plastered with cum and captioned it “how a black girl does makeup for her white daddy”. She reposted images of Civil Rights-era signs from shops, reading “Whites Only!” or “No Service For Negros” with captions about they would make good tattoos for black women to slap on their asses or above their pussies. She and her followers exhibited a growing fascination with objects and styles of dress that reflected the times of slavery and Jim Crow. She shared dozens of pictures on such subjects. She even had a name for it - Slave Couture .
The premise of the lifestyle was simple: A black women didn’t need anything for fulfillment other than to be kept in cars, clothing and jewels by a white slave master. Any white man with a cock over ten inches would do, but of course, larger was better. Slave Couture was, simply, the style needed to attract a dominant white man. A big ass was needed. Big tits too. Big, fat dicksucker lips. And, of course, the willingness and desire to be treated like a piece of property. Black girls into the lifestyle got tattoos declaring they were “white owned”, usually on their thick, bouncing black ass cheeks, and specialized in “showing out”; acting slutty and submissive for the pleasure of their white masters.
In one twelve minute video on a private account only serious tribute payers and fans, Desirée demonstrated this. She walked into a room and knelt in front of a low-angled camera wearing black sports lingerie with white piping that is lettered with the words “BLEACHED”. Her manicure was still impeccable and her makeup flawless, but her facial expression was somehow softer, and unfamiliar, much like her surroundings. She was no longer broadcasting from her fancy apartment, with all its pieces of African art, but rather from the carpet of a sparsely-decorated room in a mansion owned by Deacon Dane. It was one of several he owned; he hadn’t bothered to decorate much, and kept Desirée like a pet in this one, much to her satisfaction.
“Hey ya’ll,” she said, looking into the camera with beautiful amber eyes. “Welcome back to another episode of Slave Couture with Ree. For all ya’ll homegirls that love bein’ white-owned, this is the spot.” At this point a shadow moved around the edge of the camera and it became apparent that someone else was in the room, someone whose simple movement demanded Desirée’s strict attention. She broke off what she was saying and listened to the voice of the second figure, showing obedience that seemed directly counter to the sass and personality of her previous vids, snaps and Instagram postings.
“Yes, God?” Desirée said earnestly, to the off-camera figure, then listened to some words not picked up by the microphone. She nodded obediently and then turned back to the camera. “Today I want to tell ya’ll ‘bout scarification. Ya’ll know back in the day, white slave-masters used to whip on niggas and leave ‘em all with lashes on they backs… and I think that’s hot as fuck!” Her face filled with a dreamy sort of euphoria. “Ain’t no better to show your master that you love receiving his white justice! So ask your tattoo artist about it, ya’ll - oh, shit!”
Her voice broke off and her eyes shifted sideways as a massive Caucasian cocktip, circumcised and flared, appeared on the right side of the frame. It was as large as a good-sized grapefruit and a powerful hand was fisting it lazily, disrespectfully, dominantly, right in Desirée’s gorgeous black face! She couldn’t take her eyes off it, and delivered more of her monologue while keeping eye contact with the fat prong tip as opposed to the view.
“Shit… it’s so fuckin’ big… white men really have the biggest cocks!” A powerful hand appeared and moved to her head. Her eyes tilted upward, obviously making contact with the unseen white man. He gripped her shining, straight black hair roughly and jerked her head to an upward angle. The cocktip moved forward to prod and mash her fat, swollen dick-sucker lips around her face as she uttered an animalistic groan as chunky wads of sperm burst from his large pisshole and onto her mouth.
“Thanks for blessing my big nigger lips with your cum, God,” she moaned, and then gasped out a breath as the cocktip continued to mash her mouth and slide against her lips and cheeks. The man’s hand jacked fat curds of pre-cum out of his prick with a slow, milking motion, drawing them like shoelaces over Desirée’s nose, upper lip, and chin. She shuddered and her breathing picked up, making it obvious that she was fingering herself out of frame. Her huge tits hung like boulders in the “BLEACHED” lingerie sports bra.
The cock withdrew after marking her sufficiently, and Desirée looked back into the camera with a degrading cum glaze on her mouth, even using her tongue to push and spread the jizz coating around and play with the thicker strands. “Life is so much easier with a white bull to keep me in my place. I love eating his thick, nasty white cum !” There is no sign that she is joking, her shining eyes seem utterly, totally earnest. “And,” she adds, “If you need those lips to swell a little, ask your white God to give you the muh’fuckin’ business !”
SLAP!
The hand returned to frame and slapped Desirée across the mouth with an open-hand blow as she moaned with pleasure. “Oh, fuck! Thank you, God!” She put the back of her hand to the corner of her mouth and soothed the stinging pain… but when she removed it there is no doubt her already-luscious, glossed lips were even puffier. She licked around the edges lewdly, playing with the cum glaze some more and making lewd expressions at the camera.
“I never knew how great my life could be until I had a hung white daddy to fuck me and call me a fucking nigger,” Desirée confided, speaking conspiratorially to viewer. The huge penis, Deacon Dane’s huge penis, appeared at the side of the frame again, hanging from above Desirée’s head nearly to her navel as she squats. She nearly swooned as she observed the length and caressed it with two worshipful hands. “I know a talked a whole mess before about that black pride shit, but now I know - no black woman can be right in her soul unless she’s on her muh’fuckin knees in front of a hung white bull. It’s out destiny, yo. We were made for this shit!”
She leaned in to plant a reverent kiss on the flopping, dangling cockshaft, pressing her cum-covered lips together with a smack and inhaling the scent of dick with an exaggerated breath before looking up and out of frame with childlike enthusiasm. Then she raised her eyes up at the cock’s owner and spoke again. “It’s so fuckin’ big! Master, may I have the honor of having my worthless nigger ass split open by your white godhood?”
Desirée must have received the answer she wanted from off-screen, for she immediately slid her designer “BLEACHED” underwear down over her explosive hips and leaned forward onto all fours, staring into the camera in a doggy position while letting her tits hang in their bra and making her ass-mounds clap hypnotically - two big, fat moon-shaped globes jiggling outward and then clapping back in.
“I love it when Master pulls apart my nigger assmeat and fucks me like a dog!” she confided sinfully as she waited for the disgraceful penetration that was forthcoming. “I always keep my ass lookin’ right. I want my white bull to be able to grab a handful any time he wants, and feel how big and round it is, like he was back at the muh’fuckin’ slave auction waitin’ to buy a piece!” Her eyes rolled back with joy as she let her buttocks bounce against each other, showing out that black booty for her ‘master’.
Her muscled white ‘owner’ - who could only be Deacon Dane - moved into position behind her. His massive cock bounced half-hard like an elephant’s trunk as he got on his knees and grabbed two giant handfuls of Desirée’s ass, groping it, squeezing it, pulling her cheeks lewdly apart and making the flesh spill through his fingers. Her “THOT LIFE” tattoo is nearly obscured by his palms as he kneads her buns like a buyer testing the quality of meat at a butcher shop. He lets his cock slide between her cheeks and onto her back, where it sprayed a hot rope of chunky white precum between her shoulder blades and made her squeal.
“Oh, fuck! Master is such a muh’fuckin stud!” Desirée gasped, still making eye contact with the camera. “I love taking his huge loads!” Deacon pulled his hips back and entered her without regard for her comfort, and it was clear from her face that this is just the way Desirée expected and desired to be treated. His massive white pole drilled into her bowels, stretching them, turning her intestinal tract into dick sleeve and making her ass-cheeks split around his him. He began to withdraw and thrust, and Desirée was ragdolled helplessly, her toes curling, her flesh bouncing with the sordid, moist impact of his pelvis. The sound of her guts being churned was audible to every viewer of the sordid video.
“Yes… thank you, white God…” she groaned, her voice stuttering with each impact. Her face became a mask of orgasmic bliss as her bowels were abraded by foot after foot of white cock and her pussy slapped by Deacon’s big, swinging ballsack. He made her work that dick, withdrawing all the day and pounding back in as she thrust her hips back at him. Each time his long, white shaft was in the open air, pussy juice sprayed off the length in a fine haze.
“I got… two feet of fuckin’... white… cock… up in my guts!” Desirée rasped, huffing at the camera. Her huge tits were piled on the ground in the “BLEACHED” bra, showing a canyon of cleavage and her straight black hair fell about her shoulders. “Unnnfff… fuck… so fuckin’... big! I’m… I’m… I want to be a white man’s property! Hnnng! F-fuck! I want… I need… white cock!”
“Tell them what you want,” Deacon prompted. It was the first time his voice was audible in the video. Desirée, panting and gasping, immediately obeyed.
“I want your superior white nut up my muh’fuckin nigger ass!” she wailed. “Pump me full of that nasty shit! I’m yo’ nigger. Nnnngh! I’m just a nigger cumdump for my white god!” Deacon lifted her hind legs up into what was almost a wheelbarrow position, standing Desirée nearly on her head as he drove forward and down.
SLLRRGH. SLLLLCH. Meaty sounds were heard as Deacon’s softball-sized cocktip cleaved through Desirée’s guts. With her legs at a higher angle her bouncing ass-globes were more prominent, wobbling back and forth with each long thrust and recession, bouncing like big caramel moons, but prevented from clapping shut because of the thick hose of white meat drilled into her asshole. The thrusts continued for three or four more minutes, Desirée shuddering and climaxing the entire time, moaning about white cock and she wanted that nut, that cracker cream, that nasty-ass thick cum from her master’s huge balls.
He hilted himself at last and grunted; that he was emptying his white cock inside the dark vessel of Desirée’s asshole was obvious. Again audible sounds were heard as hot lances of thick cum hosed down Desirée’s spasming, dick-gripping asspipe and pooled deep in her guts. She brought a hand to her belly and rubbed the spot where Deacon’s cocktip was bulging beneath her skin, caressing herself reverently in that location as it expanded slightly with the massive load of semen inside, showing how much she cared about that load; that she worshiped not just her master’s white cock but his huge cum load as well.
When she fell forward and sideways, onto one hip, showing the camera her neck, her back, and the landscape view of her hips curving up into her explosive ass, one tattooed, sweat-glazed brown cheek stacked on top of the other. Though turned away, Desirée could still be heard to groan and rub a hand over her belly. “Fuck! You shot about a gallon of nut into my fuckin’ guts!” she said, breathily, and her tone was one of struggling awe. No doubt her bowels were churning with cum and her asshole was on fire from being stretched so wide.
“Show everyone,” came the order.
Desirée reached down and lifted her topmost cheek, showing the cum-leaking ruin of her asshole - the dark, raised, roughly triangular orifice that so many men had dreamed about fucking. She spread herself obediently and disgracefully, lifting the meat of her buttock high, showing off how much sperm was leaking out of her resized shitter. As she did this, a spurt off porridge-thick sperm blew out of her asshole and down mountainous side of her lower cheek, piling on the floor. She was shaky and sweaty with post-orgasmic aftershocks, but still held up her opposite hand and waved to the camera. Deacon’s hand came into frame and started running through her hair and she craned her neck up to start kissing and sucking his fingers.
“Thank you for fucking this worthless nigger, God,” she moaned, breathily, before beginning to fellate his middle and index fingers. Then, as the video began to fade out, held his softening cock up against her face and she began to make out with the pisshole.
“I love you, God,” she whispered, barely audible on the recording. “Can I please lick your asshole and suck your balls now? You taste so muh’fuckin good!” Another massive, chunky, degrading cum fart blew out of her ass and over her cum-splattered butt cheek.
Deacon gave her the nod. And as Desirée got in position to do the deed, the video faded, appropriately, to white.
The Oriental had three raised walkways and poles rimmed with neon lights, extending from the center of the main floor to the edges. On a Friday night it was packed with *****, rich men waving their blackjack and backgammon winnings in unsteady hands, eager to see a lineup of twelve African-American dancers of which Desirée was the featured attraction. After a successful tour that had taken her through Texas and back up to her stomping grounds of Atlanta (where she had taken nearly $80,000 in tips out of up-and-coming musicians in Bankhead), she had accepted a $10,000 downside fee to be the marquee dancer for the evening.
“Get up near the stage,” the DJ bellowed overtop the kinetics of his club banger. “It’s time for the booty-poppin’ contest! And ya’ll know how to choose the winners - make it rain on them bitches!” A cheer went up from the crowd and dozens of men pulled out billfolds and rolls of cash from the pockets.
This was Desirée’s moment to shine. She commanded an entire corner of the dressing room to herself and applied a new layer of pale pink plumping gloss to her puffy, moist dick-sucker lips as the other girls gave her a distrustful side eye. Desirée being present meant a lot of money at the club… but it also meant less money for them. They pulled on wigs, pulled up thongs between sweat-glistening black ass-cheeks and adjusted their multi-colored weaves while burning with jealousy. They had names like Destiny, Preciousness, Neesi, Perfection. They were veterans of the strip club circuit in Vegas and they knew how to take down tourists and fill a businessman’s drunken face with clapping, bouncing black ass while they rooted around in his wallet. They were bad bitches . But even with the finest implants and ass-enhancements their wads of 10’s and 20’s could buy, none of them had a body like Desirée.
“For real, I’m feelin’ a lot of heat comin’ up of you bitches,” Desirée said, casting a glance backward via her makeup mirror. “Don’t hate just because I’m the only one here who knows how to make money."
“Greedy-ass ‘ho!” came a hiss from the room, as a dancer named Golden Delicious ran a chrome gold lip gloss over her mouth and managed to speak sideways at the same time. “Every time ya’ll come here none of us regular girls can get any food in they mouf!”
“Bitch I will snatch that weave off your nappy-ass head!” Desirée returned, and finished her makeup, rising from her seat. Her ass-meat didn’t just bounce in the loose fishnet leggings that were her only clothing below the waist, it dropped and rebounded with each step. While many of the other girls had prodigious asses - some tight, some phat like a bowl of oatmeal and showing that light hint of cellulite around the edges that made the thicc-seekers swoon - none could compare to Desirée’s massive ass globes . Her thighs were toned and powerful and then exploded outward into big, burnished brown hemispheres that were almost perfectly round. Each cheek was easily the size of a basketball, flawlessly complexioned and hinting at a dick-aching mix of bounce-a-dime-off-it muscle beneath a layer of marshmallow softness that a man could bury his splayed fingers into. Was it implants? Fat injections? A gift from god? Some said all three. But the fact remained that no girl present could touch Desirée’s physique. She was the alpha bitch in the room and they all knew it. She had the phattest bank account, the flyest ink, she was Gucci, Fendi, Maserati while they were Wal-Mart.
This might have made Desirée vulnerable to their jealous undermining, but she backed it up with intensity and toughness. Cross Desirée once, the saying went, and a girl might find herself relegated to the “C” stage for the entire night, grinding for what singles she could pry from the fingers of busters and drunks. “If Jay-Z comes in tonight you better get your muh’fuckin binoculars because that’s the only way you’re going to see that nigga’s money,” as Desirée put it. Cross her twice and a girl better hope she hadn’t paid much for her extensions because that shit was getting ripped out. Desirée was not to be fucked with, and that was why the girls always backed down. She was the biggest, baddest, hottest black queen bee anyone could imagine. Adept at turning girls against each other or taking them on herself.
“Two minutes, girls,” said a bouncer, knocking on the dressing room door frame. “Time to get that money.” Desirée put the finishing touches on her outfit and made sure she was correct. No panties, no bottoms of any kind - just those fishnet leggings that seemed to barely hold her buttocks, the diamond-shaped spaces large enough to slide fingers into, letting her ass-meat bulge out in a waffle-iron pattern and clearly showing off her shaved pussy. Her clit glittered with a golden ring that was a smaller version of the big hoops in her ears. She wore a gold choker around her neck reminiscent of an African queen. Shining black platform stiletto heels, six-inches high, made her toned, athletic legs look even longer. She wore a gossamer gold belly chain and a golden stud in her navel. The only piece of true clothing on her body was a black silk bikini top with small triangular cups that didn’t even cover her large, porous areolas, let alone her huge breasts, which were the perfect mix between plausibly huge and lewdly fake. Each was easily the size of a man’s head.
Desirée spritzed some gold sparkles on herself and walked toward the door, heels clacking. Her straightened, silky black hair cascaded down her back, nearly to the top of her hips. One streak of hair was bright gold, the only detectable piece of artifice in an otherwise majestic, regal flow. “Let me show you how it’s done, bitches,” she taunted, and walked out on stage to the roars of the crowd. Tits flopping. Ass-mounds clapping. Puffy lips of her shaved pussy unhidden by the barely-there leggings and her big, protruding nipples tenting the black cups of her straining bikini top, in which her heavy breasts hung enormous, causing the strings to strain.
As the DJ busted into the traditional music for main event of the evening - “Tip Drill” by Nelly, Desirée led the other strutting, sinfully-dressed African-American dancers out on triple walkway, where three poles were waiting and customers were lining the edges. The cops had been given a kickback to look the other way when it came to Las Vegas’ sexual touching laws, both on stage and in the “champagne rooms” in the back, and when Desirée walked out and swung around the pole before opening her thighs and squatting down to pop that pussy in their faces, a dozen desperate eyes and grasping hands reached out with money at the ready. As she favored them with a sultry stare and licked her luscious lips, they blew geysers of folding cash all over her inner thighs like it was cum. Tens, twenties, even a few Benjamins began piling up beneath her feet, and every wannabe playboy and gangsta in the joint had his roll out to peel off some notes in tribute.
“Fuckin’ ass meat !” growled one gruff dark-skinned suitor as Desirée turned around, getting to her knees and making her booty twerk, first lifting one cheek, then the other, then bouncing them against each other and making the spritz of water and sweat on her skin fly off in a haze. Bills were stuffed into her tights. “How ‘bout I take you in the back and pay off that car? Or buy you a new one?” he continued, and Desirée took his cash and then pie-faced him away.
“Muh’fucka I got that car for free from a buster like you,” she hissed. The Desirée of two months ago might have been on the prowl for a black man who seemed to be packing some serious heat between his legs, but since the incident with Deacon, Desirée found that such things interested her less. She found the pick up lines and come-ons of black men more annoying than potentially fruitful, and she found their urban charms more tiresome and tacky than libido-stoking. She tried not to think too much about why this was, though the question nipped at her more and more lately as she plied her trade.
A drunken white businessman reached out and slapped her rear end, he had his tie undone and looked like he’d been chaining cocktails all night. The bouncers were on him immediately, taking him down with the force of a police arrest. Desirée stood up and took a step over to the pole, bending over, shaking her tits side to side and letting the metal pipe slide between her round, bubbly ass-cheeks, showing how much pipe those ass-mounds could make disappear. A cheer went up and she smiled enticingly. But inside she her stomach was in knots. That white slob had reached out and slapped her ass like she was a piece of meat… and her mind had immediately ventured back to that encounter with Deacon after the weigh-in. He, too, had been a white man who hadn’t thought twice about taking what he wanted. And the bet they had made was still outstanding. He had not come to collect. In fact, she hadn’t seen Deacon since fight night.
“Stuck up ‘ho!” came a catcall from the side of the stage. The man she had pie-faced, a African-American in his 20’s with the fashion and flash of a musician or athlete, was addressing her with a grave expression. “I done spent $400 in drinks, $500 in tips and dropped another $500 in paper on that ass! And this is how you goin’ to do me? I was going to put in my music video girl - make you famous!”
“Man, fuck you and fuck your tired-ass mixed tape,” Desirée spat back, bending over and twerking toward the other side of the stage. “Ashy-looking muh’fucka!” Even she realized that this was uncharacteristic of her. Even when she didn’t feel like flirting with men, she tended not to spurn them hard when there was money to be made. Yet something about this man had her more upset than she’d been before. He was black - like her - and she just found that… boring.
She thought again about how that white customer had just smacked her black ass without a second thought and her pussy turned to liquid.
Damn , she thought. Why am I getting worked up thinking about some rude cracker? Was it the way he just smacked me like he owned my black ass? Her stomach trembled like cold water had been poured inside. No, no. He was just *****. Just ***** and grabby. Come on, get it together, ‘Ree!
She spun down onto the stage and crawled, knee and elbow, toward the front, making sure to let her huge tits press and compact against the black, neon-reflective lacquered surface while her twin ass-globes bounced and wobbled above her arched back. She licked her lips and made sultry eye contact with the first person she saw at stage front, who also happened to be white. Her moist lips parted in a way that made it clear she wanted to suck some cock. That she was the sort of bitch who wanted a man to get behind her and fuck that ass. That she wanted to get her wet, shaved, puffy pussy pumped by some big dick! The pose might as well have been called woman in heat . The cash flowed like water. The bouncers had to take down two more men who wanted to reach out and get a touch, and through the corner of her eye, Desirée’ saw the black man who had catcalled her walking out the front door with his boys. She had treated him so shabbily, he was bouncing and going to another club. A pang of guilty satisfaction shot through her heart.
Get gone, busta-ass nigga. She didn’t know why it felt so satisfying to turn away a man of her own race… while she hadn’t reacted to any of the white men who were taking far more liberties. Or perhaps she did, and simply didn’t want to admit that the brothers no longer revved her motor as they once had. Ten inches? Twelve inches? Thirteen inches? The biggest, blackest cocks she’d ever had seemed so inadequate compared to what she’d seen and felt between the legs of the new, white heavyweight champ of the world, Deacon Dane.
As she finished out the song, and her performance, it was white cock, not black, that was on her mind.
Desirée was still collecting paper money from her bra and fishnets when one of the servers poked her head into the dressing area.
“White boy askin’ for you, Ree,” she said, popping some bubblegum between neon-painted lips that glowed in the blacklights cast by the club’s ceiling. “Good tipper but fuckin’ ruuuuude.” She waved a fresh hundred dollar bill and put it down on her tray before gesturing with her head. “In the back.”
The back was the remotest of the Oriental’s private rooms, a plushly furnished place for lap dances and intimate moments between dancers and ‘special’ customers who paid handsomely for the privilege. On nights when celebrities gathered, like fight nights, musicians, movie stars and athletes of all ethnicities could be found there, having their dicks sucked by a hot, willing African-American dancer who was sure to make at least $1000 for the night’s work.
Desirée walked out of the dressing room and along the side of the stage, with every table waving money and calling to her along the way. One broad-shouldered African-American man was showing a gold money clip with a thick wad of cash in it; obviously offering it for her time, some lap-dances, and perhaps more. It would be a good score - by the look of his gator-leather pants he was packing some serious meat - and he was even a little handsome.
Take that score Ree , a voice inside her said. Why you trippin’ and going to dance for some white boy when you got a real sprung nigga on deck for at least three grand? She ignored it and kept walking, not wanting to think about it or decipher what it might mean, only knowing that she was interested in the mystery man in the champagne room, not the known commodity on the floor. She didn’t even turn her head.
“Rude-ass bitch,” the man catcalled after her, his voice a deep bass.
“Fuck you, nigga!” she spat back, not even turning her head, and made her way down the hall. The room was closed and a sign hanging on the doorknob read “Private - No Service Unless Requested”. She opened it, not knowing quite what she would see but knowing this john would be arrogant and white, not knowing why she was looking forward in some strange way to dealing with that. She stepped inside the room and shut the door, muffling the thumping club music, and when she turned toward the plush booth on the back wall, stopped in her tracks and stared.
It was him .
Deacon Dane had cleaned up in the two months following his heavyweight title victory. Instead of loose jock athletic gear he wore a smart grey double-breasted suit tailored to his lean, athletic physique, complete with a vest. His wild blonde hair spilled down to his collar. Yet even beneath this facade he had a trashy gaudiness. His shoes were snakeskin and gem encrusted rings decorated two fingers of his left hand. He had a new Norse rune tattooed between thumb and forefinger on the same hand. He had the appearance of class but it was only skin deep.
He nodded at her and his mouth drew into an arrogant smile. “Bitch,” he said. It was more greeting than insult.
“Cracker,” she shot back, crossing her arms beneath her huge, bikini-constrained tits. They formed sweat-spritzed mountains above her slender wrists.
“Didn't think I was going to show up, did you?” Deacon went on, reclining regally against the cushioned back of the booth. “You thought you were off the hook.”
“I didn’t even think twice about yo’ punk ass,” Desirée shot back, but it was a lie and they both knew it.
“That hurts my feelings,” Deacon said, chuckling in his way, the way that said he was totally in charge and nothing she could say or do could affect him in the least. “I thought you’d be counting the days until I came to take what was owed.”
Desirée simply stared at him, and Deacon produced a wad of bills from his suit jacket. Beneath it, his muscles bulged underneath a shirt and suspenders. “Maybe this will make it easier,” he said, rolling his eyes, as if Desirée was just wasting his time by playing coy. “Let’s pretend for now that I’m just a customer.”
“A customer, huh?”
“Yeah,” Deacon confirmed, slapping down a wad of bills on the small circular table next to the booth. “A paying customer. Now bend over and show me that big, black ass!”
Desirée’s eyes seemed to widen and her nostrils flared as if she was ready to burst out at Deacon, telling him what she thought of his skin color, his ridiculous suit, his high-handed attitude, his money, and his momma. But after a moment, the look of concealed rage vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she walked to the table with a perturbed expression, thighs flexing and buttocks bouncing as her heels clicked on the room’s hardwood floor. She stopped just short of Deacon and looked at the stack of banknotes… and down to the crotch of his tailored slacks.
What she saw made her belly turn to ice water. A huge, captive tube-like bulge leading down one of his legs, all the way to his knee. Her mind flashed back, unbidden, to the time in the loading area, after the weigh-ins. She’d had that fucking monster right in her face! Two feet of throbbingwhite meat.
“Just a customer,” she said, making eye contact with him. “Just another randy-ass white boy, huh?” Her manicured fingers traced over the stack of cash and fanned it with a thumb. It was a fresh $10,000 band of perfectly uniform hundreds. Shit, it even smelled like a bank.
“Yeah,” Deacon said. “And that means you’re just a dancer! And I know the black girls here like it a little rough!” Before she could react he reached out and took her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. Desirée was built, graceful and powerful, but he was a larger, explosive athlete, and drew her wasp-waist into him without much effort. Her buttocks washed over his thighs in two big, bouncy drifts.
“Oh, fuck!” Desirée cried. She could feel that meat pipe pressing against her ass. “Fuckin’ white boy, I could snap my fingers and get the bouncers-”
“I could beat the shit out of the fucking bouncers and you know it,” Deacon hissed, bringing one hand to his necktie and loosening it before moving one by one down the buttons of his suit jacket releasing each. “Don’t let this suit fool you. I’m not the respectable type.” He seemed to flex his thigh and the fat meat pole bulging in his pants leg surged against Desirée’s round ass, causing her gasp.
“Yeah I know,” she snapped. “You jus’ a fuckin’ nasty white boy!” Already her voice had started to change; Desirée had one tone and register for dealing with the public, if she was in line at the bank or at the car dealership, or an upscale boutique. But now the other Desirée was coming out - the more urban, hoot rat Desirée.
Why do I want to sound more black for him , she thought. I sound like a little pickaninny girl with a basket full of cotton .
Deacon tossed his jacket on the corner of the booth and unbuttoned his shirt as well. Her toned, sculpted back pressed against his bare chest and their sweat sizzled together. “And you’re just a nasty black bitch,” he growled, pulling her waist harder against him. Her ass was grinding right on top of his throbbing dick bulge, which was growing in size and trapped in the leg of his pants. He brought her hand to his belt. “Now, take out my cock and get to work.”
Desirée felt panic inside her. This is it , she thought. Gotta stop it now. Gotta shut him down and tell him it was all just bullshit and he ain’t getting none of this pussy.
She raised her voice and began to read him the riot act. “White muh’fucka I ain’t takin’ shit out-’
His hand slid down between her legs instantly, powerfully, and two of his fingers slid probed powerfully against her puffy labia, dividing them and sliding against the moist honeypot beneath. Desirée’s voice cut off with a gasp and her amber eyes went newly wide as she blew out a hot breath.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked!” Deacon crowed, and then posted his arm to tilt Desirée off his lap for a moment. A wet spot had appeared on his thigh where the pipe-like dick bulge was running. “You try to play hard to get but you’re creaming for this cock, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you!” Desirée sassed, but he yanked her back down and shoved his two fingers in deeper than before. Her pussy was molten. There was no denying the effect it had on her to be grinding her ass against that monster cock! She could object, she could sass, she could insult, but she couldn’t hide how wet her pussy was, and when he slapped one of her big, black ass cheeks her cry sounded more like pleasure than pain.
“Get my dick out,” he ordered again.
“No!” Desirée cried. She wiggled her hips and it only turned her on more as she felt that meat beneath her pillowy round ass.
Deacon began to rub up inside her slit, finding her G-spot, that rise of flesh inside her vaginal canal. At the same time he put his mouth right next to her air, breathing in sweat and perfume and hair product, and growled his ultimate command:
“Get on your knees and take my big white cock out, nigger .”
Desirée bit her bottom lip and her pelvis surged upward into his fingers while her ass-globes rubbed all over his thighs. Hearing that forbidden word catalyzed something in her that she couldn’t understand and couldn’t admit. This muscled, hung white stud had come to her place, pulled her onto his lap, started finger-banging her wet, tight pussy… and had called her a fucking nigger while he was doing it. He was treating her like a piece of black sexmeat !
“Oh...f-fuuuuuck you nasty muh’fuckin cracker!” she gasped, wailing out as her body began spasming and shuddering in the throes of a humiliating orgasm. Deacon’s strong fingers had rubbed her to climax, helped in no small part by the intensity of his physical control and the brutality of his words. “You fuckin’… white bastard!” She moaned and gyrated against him, riding out her climax, and then when her breathing finally stopped hitching and gasping, he removed his fingers and she slid to the floor in front of the booth, landing knock-kneed on all fours between his manspread thighs. His right pantleg looked like it was housing an intercontinental ballistic missile.
“You just came from being called a fuckin’ nigger,” he prompted, his face devilish and teasing. “You love that shit, don’t you? You act like a tough black bitch but all you really want is a white man who will call you a nigger right to your fucking face!” He laughed at Desirée’s seething expression. “Now stop playing games. Take it out and get to work.”
“Fuckin’ nasty fucker!” Desirée spat back, her eyes intense with frustration and dislike, but her body moved nonetheless, and she crawled forward and began to fumble with his belt buckle, undoing it with a jingle, then undoing the buttons of his fly and tugging down on his pants and boxer briefs. The base of Deacon’s tree-trunk cock, decorated by a trim triangle blonde pubic hair, came into view. She reached down and gripped it with two dark hands, her dazzling golden fingernails barely touching on the opposite side as she tried to encircle it with her hands and haul that hogout of his pants leg.
What a fuckin’ white horse cock , she thought. God, I can’t even get my fingers around it! It’s thick as a log in a rail fence! Her fingers rubbed over the bulge made by Deacon’s urethra - it was as prominent as two of her digits put together, and some of the fat veins running across the top seemed to outside her pinky. And it was so heavy! A real slab of fuckmeat , so much larger than the coal black pipes she’d sucked and fucked with such abandon for so many years.
She drew it from his pants leg like a sword from a scabbard, watching as the slacks bulge gradually disappeared and the shaft entered the open air. It was like a magic trick or an optical illusion - just when she thought there was no way he could have any more dick in his pants, Deacon seemed to have a couple more inches. When it finally popped out of the waistband of his underwear, half-hard, it flopped back against his chest like a sleeping anaconda.
“Oh my fuckin’ gawwwwd,” Desirée moaned, and her voice was filled with dismay. Dismay because she didn’t want to like it. Her mind, her pride, wanted her to rise up send this white boy packing, with a heeled foot in his hindquarters for good measure. But that dick. That big, thick, nasty white dick! It was like something that belonged on a horse. It made all of her previous black boyfriends, hookups and johns look like a joke .
“Bigger than any black cock you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” Deacon prompted, and Desirée looked at him fiercely for a moment… and then, deflated, her shoulders slumping. She nodded her head meekly, reluctantly. There was no use arguing, no use denying. The pure, white truth was right in her face… and to say otherwise would just be a lie. She leaned in, tugging Deacon’s fly open further, letting his big, round nuts emerge and hang down onto the booth’s red leather seat. God, they were fucking huge . Each one looked as big as a coconuts to her eyes, and she could almost sense them churning up wad after wad of dominating, conquering, bitch-breeding sperm. It was an in-your-face display of white dominance . And her recently finger-fucked pussy was soaked.
“Bet you’ve been waiting on me, coming to collect,” Deacon teased, his voice always with the same maddening, superior tone. “Bet you’ve been counting the days.”
“Fuck no,” Desirée said, turning her head to the side to hide her blushing. “Yo’ ass got lucky one night. I haven’t even wasted my time on it.” But that was a lie. For the first few days after the big fight, she’d been dreading running into him, wondering what would happen. Even in the following weeks, when Deacon failed to appear, it had never been far from her mind. She took bookings at clubs, keeping herself busy on the circuit, but the spectre of the outstanding bet haunted her. As with this evening at the Oriental, for the past two months she’d found herself foregoing lap dances with rich black men to concentrate on white johns… and she let them touch and take liberties that she never had before.
At such times she would ask herself, why you doin’ this, Ree? Why are you showing out for white boys and giving the cold shoulder to the brothas? Even her demeanor and patterns of speech changed. With the black men she was as sassy as ever, using her body and practiced cock-pleasing skills to milk them for every dollar. And if they got belligerent about the cost or tried to get over on her for free gropes, she set them straight quick. The Desirée of old didn’t take any shit. But in these last eight weeks, it had been different with white men. She tended to gravitate toward them in the clubs and her voice and speech took on a more submissive tone. And that wasn’t all. The words she used, the way she said things, had an anachronistic quality that was right off the plantation.
“You gonna show this black girl a good time, mistuh?”
“That’s it honey, you grab that ass. You in charge.”
And one time an especially ***** businessman, upon being told that a club was closing up, had literally shoved a wad of cash into her mouth. “Here you go, black ,” he’d said, in a gruff Australian accent, spitting the final words from his mouth as if it disgusted him. Had she slapped? Eye gouged? Hit him in the balls? No.
Desirée, the fiercest black bitch in town had simply pulled the money from her mouth and said: “Thank you, baby!” Later that night she had replayed the scenario in bed, scolding herself for not reacting more strongly and showing that arrogant, rude peckerwood that nobody treated Ree that shabbily. Why had she allowed him to get away with it?
The answer was Deacon. Ever since seeing his enormous cock and feeling it pumping cum down her throat, she hadn’t been able to look at any white man the same way. She had considered them pay pigs and worms. Now, she saw them as bulls . Dominating, brutal white bulls with a taste for black flesh. But she couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. She had based so much of her adult life on the premise that black men were superior. She had formed a cult of personality around being the baddest bitch, untouchable by white men.
“Get those tits around my cock,” Deacon ordered. “Stop stalling. Or are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?”
“Muh’fuckin’ rude-ass white boy,” Desirée snapped, reaching behind herself to unfasten the scant strings of her black bikini top. It fell away, revealing her huge caramel-colored tits with their raised, dark nipples. “If you didn’t lay down that cash-”
“You owe me,” said Deacon. “You’re not a hooker, you’re a slave. Just like we said.”
“Well you a john!” Desirée snapped back, and she slid up onto his lap, hooking her legs over his and pressing his mammoth meat into the channel formed by her big jugs. “You a muh’fuckin’ bill payer! Not no king , not no massuh!”
Did you just say ‘massuh’? Girl, you sound like a muh’fuckin’ pickaninny-ass slave. What’s wrong with you?
And on the heels of that thought, his hand went to her perfumed hair and took fist, yanking her head back and to the side. It was an aggressive move, and Desirée gasped as she made desperate eye control.
“Wrong,” Deacon growled. Their faces were only a few inches apart. “The money makes no fucking difference. Because here’s what I’m buying with it.” He reached around and took a groping, dominating handful of her right ass-cheek, kneading it and compressing the flesh between his strong fingers until it burst out from between each digit like a loaf of rising bread. “$2,500 of that $10,000 is for that. What is that?”
“My ass!” Desirée gasped. Being manhandled by him, thrown around by him, by a white man, was turning her knees to jelly and making her pussy tingle shamefully.
“Wrong. It’s meat. Tell me what it is!” He tightened his grip and her neck bent back even more.
“Meat! It’s muh’fuckin meat!” she wailed. Her body was in fire. He was so strong, so uncompromising, and he didn’t give a shit what she thought - all traits that she now considered to be white .
“What kind of meat?”
“B-Black!” Desirée gasped. His opposite hand came up and fucking lit her up , smacking her across the face and making her groan with a combination of humiliated pleasure and sorrow.
“Wrong,” Deacon seethed. “Wrong again. What kinda is it?”
Desirée made eye contact with him and tears came to her eyes. Her pussy quivered as, against her instincts of pride, the submission poured out of her soul. She knew what he wanted to hear. “Nigger!” she moaned, desperately, swallowing and then adding: “It’s nigger meat. My muh’fuckin nigger ass-meat .”
“Yes,” Deacon said, pulling her head fiercely. “And when a man buys that , he isn’t a fucking john, is he?”
Desirée shook her head.
“What is he?”
“A m-master,” she breathed, her throat nearly swallowing the words. He spun her around roughly, lifting and turning her with a firm arm around her waist, settling her rear end down on his cock. Her big, round cheeks pinned the now-hard length against his chest, it emerged from the cavern of flesh to extend further up and hover between her shoulders. She gasped as she felt her asshole twitching against his size . The fat cum tube of his urethra thrummed with virile energy on her most sensitive place. Her pussy, betraying her arousal, was sinfully wet, her labia separated as they nestled against his pipe and left a foamy mess of wetness behind as he adjusted her.
“Now this what I’m talkin’ about,” Deacon asserted, and he pulled her ass tight against his chest as she adjusted her wobbling, heel-clad feet to be outside his thighs on the booth’s cushioned seat, then released his grip to allow her to rise. Now, in a thigh-spread half-squat and with his penis jutting straight up, her bubble ass was in the perfect position to serve was a furrow for that meat.
“Spread your fuckin’ ass, nigger,” he growled. Desirée felt her tummy quiver and reached behind herself to pull apart her enormous black bubble butt as lewdly as she could. It was an amazing sight, her delicate, small hands fighting against the mounds of glazed, tattooed chocolate flesh that threatened to spill out every turn. Her hips were explosive and her butt too generous to be held back.
Deacon grunted and reached up to grip her fishnets, tearing them open with muted snaps, fully exposing her. “Present yourself,” he ordered. His voice did sound a bit thick with anticipation, and he had a grip on the base of his cock, keeping it menacingly upright, the tip less than six inches from her pussy and asshole. “Tell me what I’m buying!”
“It’s… it’s my big nigger ass!” Desirée gasped, exhaling and biting her bottom lip as she continued to spread herself in front of him and make her cheeks bulge and pour through her fingers.
God, that big white monster is just inches from my pussy and asshole, she thought. He could pull me down onto it right now if he wanted. That big muhfuckin’ white donkey dick would be in my *guts*! The most packin’ homeboys on my contact list wouldn’t even touch the fuckin’ sides after, if he made me take the whole thing.
“Move that ass!” Deacon ordered, and in spite of her humiliation, Desirée snapped into action with swiftness that alarmed her, demonstrating that her ability to deny this man, this white man, had grown paper thin. She didn’t even think twice before dropping her hips and twerking that massive ass right in his face, showing off her pussy, her asshole, every detail of her inked, bulging butt-globes being presented for his inspection.
Her mind whirled with images of women of her skin color, in chains, bending over on plank board stages while white slave masters took a big handful of their dark-skinned asses, assessing how much they could breed, assessing how much work those big nigger buttocks could put in in the cotton fields and in their bedrooms. And who were the ones who got to live in the big house and enjoy the luxuries while the field negros were busy at work? The ones who could take care of master’s dick, that’s who. The ones willing to sell their souls and take some big white cock!
That’s you, her mind accused. That’s you, that’s you, shakin’ yo’ ass for that slave mastuh! Shakin’ yo ass! Coonin for that monster dick! You a slave, girl. A slave to that *white pipe*!
“Fuck!” she groaned, as her wet pussy brushed against the jutting tip of Deacon’s cock, making her clit sing and throb like an unexploded munition. “Fuck, that goddamn fuckin’ dick! Why did yo’ dick have to be so big, you crazy cracker?” She dropped her hips lower still and her pussy mashed against that swollen tip. Spreading her puffy outer labia, dilating her hole slowly, achingly. It was as thick as a mahogany bedpost and just as unyielding. Desirée felt her body wanting to give into it. His hands went to her hips, gripping roughly, and began to guide her down.
“Now I finally get to feel that black cunt of yours,” Deacon hissed. And Desirée was past the point of a ‘ fuck you, cracker’ or ‘ eat shit, peckerwood’. She only uttered a whimper as she felt the tender flesh of her pussy giving way to his leaking, softball-sized prick helmet. Instead of uttering an insult, she simply gasped and gritted her teeth. Her stance was totally lewd and animalistic - grunting, squatting, twerking over that jutting spire of meat, with her ass-cheeks right in the face of her enemy as if on display - and she mirrored it with animalistic groans and grunts as the enormous tip of Deacon’s cock filled the entrance to her pussy and then slid inside, with her wet labia sliding slightly closed to envelop his whole cockhead.
Of course, they couldn’t close much more than a little - his shaft was too thick for that. It curved up from his muscled pelvis like a scimitar. Desirée cried out at the feeling of having her pussy stretched wider than it ever had been. There was a feeling of throbbing, brutal fullness - she could feelhis blood pulsing and his fat cum pipe spasming and leaking into her. She allowed her leg muscles to settle and another two inches of meat slid inside with a wet, churning sound.
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” Desirée cried. Her mouth opened and she sprayed out harsh breaths, like a woman in labor. Her panting only made the scene more animalistic. The text scrawled above her shaved pussy - “QUEEN” - seemed to be pushed up and out by an invading cylinder shape. Rivulets of her wetness were leaking down Deacon’s shaft; and lucky for her, too - for without so much lubrication, the cock inside her would have been doing even more damage. As it was, her clit was pressed up and out like a pea emerging from its pod. Her pee-hole and its membrane were being mashed flat by the size of that white meat, and her insides were gripping the invader like a second skin. It felt…
Amazing. Overwhelming.
My pussy is being stretched. It’s being *fucked up*. It’s changing into shape of this muh’fuckin white monster dick. If I cum now I’m gonna lose my mind. If I cum now-
Deacon pulled down on her hips guiding her. There was the wet sound of sex-meat sliding through a wet, hot passage. The bulge in Desirée’s pelvis moved up to just below her belly-button, and she cried out like an animal in heat.
There was absolutely no restraint in her cry, no pride, no grasping for the last vestiges of dignity. Her knees went weak and for the first time her unfettered sexual arousal came to the forefront. The intensity of the penetration was such that Desirée did not consider how much she disliked Deacon’s personality, or how little she wanted to give him the satisfaction of having an advantage over her. Seven inches of his bicep-thick fuckmeat were inside her pussy and the pleasure overwhelmed the pain and came pouring out like a tsunami over a flood wall.
Her eyes rolled. She moaned like a wild beast. Her pelvis muscles began spasming and her toes curled, causing her ankles to wobble in their stiletto platforms. She was cumming. Cumming harder than she ever had in her life, all over that white cock. Instead of hunching forward she collapsed backward against Deacon’s chest, crying out as she laid her head in the crook of his neck, supporting herself with her hands behind her. She squirted powerfully, spraying a hot explosion of lube halfway across the room, leaving a gleaming splatter line across the floor.
“You were such a sassy black bitch but now you’re cumming like a slut all over this white cock,” Deacon growled into her ear. “You really love that cock, huh? Let me hear you say it.”
Desirée panted and gasped. Deacon pulled her down another three inches. His fat cock-crown was reaching her belly-button now. Desirée tensed and squirted again, this time all the way to the door, a long, unbroken line of lube as she orgasmed powerfully. “Yes! Yes, I fuckin’... love it!” she wailed, her amber eyes looking overwhelmed and exhausted from the pleasure and pressure of having so much meat inside her. “I fuckin’ love this big white dick!”
Deacon thrust his hips up, pressing his cock in until the leaking, spasming pisshole pressed against her cervix. Desirée cried out again. Her mind was spinning. That white dick was right up against her womb, leaking that pre-nut into her most sacred, life-giving place, colonizing it. She had taken dicks this deep, but never one even half as thick. She felt her hips creaking and an emanating pressure, pleasure and pain that combined to be explosive, and could only be released by having a massive, degrading orgasm all over that white cock!
“What are you?” Deacon hissed, reaching around her cheek to wrap a hand around her throat.
She thought of black slavegirls bending down in front of white masters, fair-skinned bull studs with cocks down to their knees. Black girls, black women like her, being turned into baby-factories for mulatto, mixed-race kids. Reaching behind themselves to spread their thick asses and expose their dusky, white-owned cunts. Their bonnets and dresses strewn on the floor, their cum-soaked, white-worshiping lives unfolding into the eons ahead.
“I’m a f-fucking… nigger !” Desirée wailed. It was her final surrender.
Deacon’s cocktip stretched open her cervix and invaded her womb, filling and pressing against the back wall, forcing it up into her guts. He began to thrust. He was more then two-thirds inside now, stirring up Desirée’s guts, making her taut, toned midsection undulate around his unyielding pipe. “Oh my fuckin’ gawwwd… I’m getting… fucked up by this white monster cock!” Desirée moaned, and she tilted her head back into the crook of his neck again, washing her perfumed hair over his chin and chest. “It’s in my fuckin’ womb!”
Much as she’d resisted the idea, it was hard to argue that her bombastic black bimbo body wasn’t tailor made to take on Deacon’s savage white horse cock and look good doing it. Her ass-cheeks pillowed against his abs as he held her in place with a firm arm around the waist and tunneled into her; her massive tits, spritzed with sweat and gleaming in all of their chocolate glory, also bounced up and down hypnotically.
“Look at how much of this cock you’re taking, you fucking nigger whore!” Deacon hissed into her ear. “Just like you took the whole thing… nnngh… down your fucking throat! This shit comes natural to you, doesn’t it? Well you can’t just lay there - I know your black ass can do more than that! You need to earn that cum! You need to work that dick!”
“Fuuuuu-u-u-u-u-uck!” Desirée wailed, in time with his speeding thrusts. He was jamming more and more into her, reshaping her, churning her guts. What had been two-thirds insertion became eighteen inches, then twenty. She began to move in time with his thrusts, moving her hips with the instincts of a vixen on the mating prowl, not thinking but just doing it. “Y-yes! I’m just a muh’fuckin nasty nigguh bitch for your white cock! Get that fuckin’ monster all up in my guts! Fuck my shit uuuuu-u-u-uu-p!” She was a cock-frenzy, and braced her platform heels on the bench in order to raise her pussy up until Deacon’s knob was on the verge of popping out.
Then, Desirée Watters went to work .
The difference between simply getting fucked and working a cock became apparent as she grabbed her ankles, thrust out her round ass and began to lift and drop her hips with big, knee
Bending dips. Her pussy painted up and down Deacon’s shaft, from inch one to inch twenty-four, with every athletic dip. The effect on him as immediate.
“Oh fuck!” he gasped. “You fuckin’ nasty nigger whore! Take that fucking cock! You know how to work it, don’t you?”
“That’s right!” Desirée gasped, popping that ass up and down his cock with long, exaggerated hip motions, again and again and again. “Nastiest bitch you’ll ever meet!” It was an amazing sight, watching that pussy-slick white pole disappear into her body and then emerge again, time after time. Deacon had been driving the action before, but now Desirée was doing all the work, wrapping her pussy around Deacon’s jutting, monster spike and milking that shit, showing him what a slutty, dick-taking black Barbie she really was. It was like her pussy was bottomless, the way she took inch after inch of white pipe into her sopping, churning guts.
Soon, they were fucking in earnest, him thrusting back into her, their hips meeting with en explosive bang as his hands groped and squeezed her ass, her tits, every part of her body that seemed enticing. Her ass-mounds slapped against his thighs and her breasts poured through his fingers. “I’m workin’ your cock like a fuckin’ nigger,” Desirée seethed back at him as he grabbed her neck and his hand closed around her throat. “This nigger bitch wants your seeds. I want that fuckin’ white nut. I want that fuckin’ cum in my nigger pussy! Breed me, white boy! Breed me like a fuckin’ nigger sla-a-a-a-a-ave!”
Desirée’s final forbidden word became a warbling, yodeling shriek as Deacon buried himself to the balls. A cockhead-shaped bulge was protruding up and out above Desirée’s navel… she’d managed to take every inch of that two-foot monster, and unable to travel any further up into her stomach, heart and lungs it curved out and up; her belly was nothing more than a dick-sleeve. Her uterus was totally stuffed with white dick and her vaginal canal would no doubt never be the same after such a brutal Caucasian resizing. Her arms and legs went limp and spasmed as she had the most humiliating orgasm yet; an eye-rolling, inglorious, nostril flaring, tongue-wagging, spine-bending cumquake . A fountain of squirt hosed across the room and splattered all over Deacon’s heavy ballsack, which was positioned right below Desirée’s straining, swollen labia.
Every muscle on her gorgeous, fit black body stood out in a rictus. Sculpted shoulders, slender, graceful, balletic arms and calves, all the same caramel brown color. Sweat danced on her skin. Her breasts bounced and draped over Deacon’s gripping forearm like wobbling meat sacks, the dark nipples painfully erect and raised. And as ever, her ass-mounds, those two bubbly hemispheres that were her calling card her entire adult life, compressed against Deacon’s pelvis, bulging out.
“Take my cum,” Deacon growled. “Fuckin’ nigger bitch!”
He growled and orgasmed with her, and her mouth gasped silently at the sensation; she could feel him cumming, bloating her womb with fat spurts of jizz from that twenty-four inch sperm cannon, drowning her most sacred place in a tar-thick reservoir of white reproductive material. It was so hot and heavy and thick! She could fill it inflating her womb, filling her oviducts, pouring back out of her pussy. With each twitch of Deacon’s cock, a nasty, chowdery splurt of semen was ejected from the tight seal her pussy made around the base of his cock, slopping down onto his balls and the booth seat.
Desirée’s switch had been hit. The brutal, soul-evaculating orgasms had more intense than anything she had ever felt. She looked down at her own midsection with glazed, spent eyes and looked at the bulging dick-shape that was pushing up on her skin with pure awe, as if she was looking on the face of god for the first time. In a way, she was. Deacon’s cock had reshaped her body, but it had done the same to her mind. The admission that she loved Deacon’s two-foot pussy destroyer no longer came with a sting to her pride. Her desire for it was pure.
“Thank me,” Deacon growled into her ear.
“Thank you, daddy.” The response was immediate and natural. She did not hesitate or have any second thoughts. It felt right . Deacon’s brutal white cock had resized her pussy and tamed her black soul. She knew it, and he knew it. He decided to test his control.
“You talked a lot of shit, but you’re nothing but a worthless nigger cumdump, aren’t you?”
Desirée leaned her face into Deacon’s neck like an obedient pet and licked up his jawline. “Yes, daddy. I’m such a stupid nigger whore.” She kissed him with an idolator’s reverence. “Your cock is so fucking big. You own my pussy now. I need a white daddy.” Her voice had an infantile quality that added to the utter tawdriness of her submission. She had been utterly defeated, and in the aftershocks of her many orgasms, was apologizing to the true dominant force in their strange and twisted relationship.
Another sluice of hot creampied cum slid from her pussy and over Deacon’s balls as she continued to whisper to him. “I need a white bull to own me. Please say you’ll do that, Daddy. I want to fuck and suck your superior 24-inch god cock while you slap my face and call me a fucking nigger .” It was the same voice that had flashed him so much African-American sass, but desperate to the point of weeping. She wanted him to use that word and nothing else. It had a talismanic power that illustrated the difference between them succinctly and shockingly. It reminded her of her place, constantly. It was the distillation of her relationship with his godlike 24-inch fuckmeat.
“You’re my property from now on, nigger,” Deacon hissed in her ear. His hand moved around to grope one of her breasts roughly. Desirée’s face softened and took on a smile utter satisfaction. She loved massive white cocks and she loved being called a nigger by white men.
Desirée Watters had been totally whitewashed.
In the months that followed, it was clear that Desirée had “changed teams”. In terms of theatrics and personality, she hadn’t really changed at all. The same forceful, say-anything sass that had effortlessly turned sex into prosperity and prestige was still present. She was still on social media, still preaching that young black women should keep their bodies and booties looking right so they could score some serious dick. The difference was in the details.
Instead of videos titled “WHITE BOYS AIN’T SHIT”, making fun of white men who bombarded her DMs with dick pics, the script was flipped. Posts reading “BLACK MEN VS. THE WHITE TRUTH”, comparing the penises of hopeful black admirers to the almighty cock of Deacon Dane, became the norm. She posted a picture of her face absolutely plastered with cum and captioned it “how a black girl does makeup for her white daddy”. She reposted images of Civil Rights-era signs from shops, reading “Whites Only!” or “No Service For Negros” with captions about they would make good tattoos for black women to slap on their asses or above their pussies. She and her followers exhibited a growing fascination with objects and styles of dress that reflected the times of slavery and Jim Crow. She shared dozens of pictures on such subjects. She even had a name for it - Slave Couture .
The premise of the lifestyle was simple: A black women didn’t need anything for fulfillment other than to be kept in cars, clothing and jewels by a white slave master. Any white man with a cock over ten inches would do, but of course, larger was better. Slave Couture was, simply, the style needed to attract a dominant white man. A big ass was needed. Big tits too. Big, fat dicksucker lips. And, of course, the willingness and desire to be treated like a piece of property. Black girls into the lifestyle got tattoos declaring they were “white owned”, usually on their thick, bouncing black ass cheeks, and specialized in “showing out”; acting slutty and submissive for the pleasure of their white masters.
In one twelve minute video on a private account only serious tribute payers and fans, Desirée demonstrated this. She walked into a room and knelt in front of a low-angled camera wearing black sports lingerie with white piping that is lettered with the words “BLEACHED”. Her manicure was still impeccable and her makeup flawless, but her facial expression was somehow softer, and unfamiliar, much like her surroundings. She was no longer broadcasting from her fancy apartment, with all its pieces of African art, but rather from the carpet of a sparsely-decorated room in a mansion owned by Deacon Dane. It was one of several he owned; he hadn’t bothered to decorate much, and kept Desirée like a pet in this one, much to her satisfaction.
“Hey ya’ll,” she said, looking into the camera with beautiful amber eyes. “Welcome back to another episode of Slave Couture with Ree. For all ya’ll homegirls that love bein’ white-owned, this is the spot.” At this point a shadow moved around the edge of the camera and it became apparent that someone else was in the room, someone whose simple movement demanded Desirée’s strict attention. She broke off what she was saying and listened to the voice of the second figure, showing obedience that seemed directly counter to the sass and personality of her previous vids, snaps and Instagram postings.
“Yes, God?” Desirée said earnestly, to the off-camera figure, then listened to some words not picked up by the microphone. She nodded obediently and then turned back to the camera. “Today I want to tell ya’ll ‘bout scarification. Ya’ll know back in the day, white slave-masters used to whip on niggas and leave ‘em all with lashes on they backs… and I think that’s hot as fuck!” Her face filled with a dreamy sort of euphoria. “Ain’t no better to show your master that you love receiving his white justice! So ask your tattoo artist about it, ya’ll - oh, shit!”
Her voice broke off and her eyes shifted sideways as a massive Caucasian cocktip, circumcised and flared, appeared on the right side of the frame. It was as large as a good-sized grapefruit and a powerful hand was fisting it lazily, disrespectfully, dominantly, right in Desirée’s gorgeous black face! She couldn’t take her eyes off it, and delivered more of her monologue while keeping eye contact with the fat prong tip as opposed to the view.
“Shit… it’s so fuckin’ big… white men really have the biggest cocks!” A powerful hand appeared and moved to her head. Her eyes tilted upward, obviously making contact with the unseen white man. He gripped her shining, straight black hair roughly and jerked her head to an upward angle. The cocktip moved forward to prod and mash her fat, swollen dick-sucker lips around her face as she uttered an animalistic groan as chunky wads of sperm burst from his large pisshole and onto her mouth.
“Thanks for blessing my big nigger lips with your cum, God,” she moaned, and then gasped out a breath as the cocktip continued to mash her mouth and slide against her lips and cheeks. The man’s hand jacked fat curds of pre-cum out of his prick with a slow, milking motion, drawing them like shoelaces over Desirée’s nose, upper lip, and chin. She shuddered and her breathing picked up, making it obvious that she was fingering herself out of frame. Her huge tits hung like boulders in the “BLEACHED” lingerie sports bra.
The cock withdrew after marking her sufficiently, and Desirée looked back into the camera with a degrading cum glaze on her mouth, even using her tongue to push and spread the jizz coating around and play with the thicker strands. “Life is so much easier with a white bull to keep me in my place. I love eating his thick, nasty white cum !” There is no sign that she is joking, her shining eyes seem utterly, totally earnest. “And,” she adds, “If you need those lips to swell a little, ask your white God to give you the muh’fuckin’ business !”
SLAP!
The hand returned to frame and slapped Desirée across the mouth with an open-hand blow as she moaned with pleasure. “Oh, fuck! Thank you, God!” She put the back of her hand to the corner of her mouth and soothed the stinging pain… but when she removed it there is no doubt her already-luscious, glossed lips were even puffier. She licked around the edges lewdly, playing with the cum glaze some more and making lewd expressions at the camera.
“I never knew how great my life could be until I had a hung white daddy to fuck me and call me a fucking nigger,” Desirée confided, speaking conspiratorially to viewer. The huge penis, Deacon Dane’s huge penis, appeared at the side of the frame again, hanging from above Desirée’s head nearly to her navel as she squats. She nearly swooned as she observed the length and caressed it with two worshipful hands. “I know a talked a whole mess before about that black pride shit, but now I know - no black woman can be right in her soul unless she’s on her muh’fuckin knees in front of a hung white bull. It’s out destiny, yo. We were made for this shit!”
She leaned in to plant a reverent kiss on the flopping, dangling cockshaft, pressing her cum-covered lips together with a smack and inhaling the scent of dick with an exaggerated breath before looking up and out of frame with childlike enthusiasm. Then she raised her eyes up at the cock’s owner and spoke again. “It’s so fuckin’ big! Master, may I have the honor of having my worthless nigger ass split open by your white godhood?”
Desirée must have received the answer she wanted from off-screen, for she immediately slid her designer “BLEACHED” underwear down over her explosive hips and leaned forward onto all fours, staring into the camera in a doggy position while letting her tits hang in their bra and making her ass-mounds clap hypnotically - two big, fat moon-shaped globes jiggling outward and then clapping back in.
“I love it when Master pulls apart my nigger assmeat and fucks me like a dog!” she confided sinfully as she waited for the disgraceful penetration that was forthcoming. “I always keep my ass lookin’ right. I want my white bull to be able to grab a handful any time he wants, and feel how big and round it is, like he was back at the muh’fuckin’ slave auction waitin’ to buy a piece!” Her eyes rolled back with joy as she let her buttocks bounce against each other, showing out that black booty for her ‘master’.
Her muscled white ‘owner’ - who could only be Deacon Dane - moved into position behind her. His massive cock bounced half-hard like an elephant’s trunk as he got on his knees and grabbed two giant handfuls of Desirée’s ass, groping it, squeezing it, pulling her cheeks lewdly apart and making the flesh spill through his fingers. Her “THOT LIFE” tattoo is nearly obscured by his palms as he kneads her buns like a buyer testing the quality of meat at a butcher shop. He lets his cock slide between her cheeks and onto her back, where it sprayed a hot rope of chunky white precum between her shoulder blades and made her squeal.
“Oh, fuck! Master is such a muh’fuckin stud!” Desirée gasped, still making eye contact with the camera. “I love taking his huge loads!” Deacon pulled his hips back and entered her without regard for her comfort, and it was clear from her face that this is just the way Desirée expected and desired to be treated. His massive white pole drilled into her bowels, stretching them, turning her intestinal tract into dick sleeve and making her ass-cheeks split around his him. He began to withdraw and thrust, and Desirée was ragdolled helplessly, her toes curling, her flesh bouncing with the sordid, moist impact of his pelvis. The sound of her guts being churned was audible to every viewer of the sordid video.
“Yes… thank you, white God…” she groaned, her voice stuttering with each impact. Her face became a mask of orgasmic bliss as her bowels were abraded by foot after foot of white cock and her pussy slapped by Deacon’s big, swinging ballsack. He made her work that dick, withdrawing all the day and pounding back in as she thrust her hips back at him. Each time his long, white shaft was in the open air, pussy juice sprayed off the length in a fine haze.
“I got… two feet of fuckin’... white… cock… up in my guts!” Desirée rasped, huffing at the camera. Her huge tits were piled on the ground in the “BLEACHED” bra, showing a canyon of cleavage and her straight black hair fell about her shoulders. “Unnnfff… fuck… so fuckin’... big! I’m… I’m… I want to be a white man’s property! Hnnng! F-fuck! I want… I need… white cock!”
“Tell them what you want,” Deacon prompted. It was the first time his voice was audible in the video. Desirée, panting and gasping, immediately obeyed.
“I want your superior white nut up my muh’fuckin nigger ass!” she wailed. “Pump me full of that nasty shit! I’m yo’ nigger. Nnnngh! I’m just a nigger cumdump for my white god!” Deacon lifted her hind legs up into what was almost a wheelbarrow position, standing Desirée nearly on her head as he drove forward and down.
SLLRRGH. SLLLLCH. Meaty sounds were heard as Deacon’s softball-sized cocktip cleaved through Desirée’s guts. With her legs at a higher angle her bouncing ass-globes were more prominent, wobbling back and forth with each long thrust and recession, bouncing like big caramel moons, but prevented from clapping shut because of the thick hose of white meat drilled into her asshole. The thrusts continued for three or four more minutes, Desirée shuddering and climaxing the entire time, moaning about white cock and she wanted that nut, that cracker cream, that nasty-ass thick cum from her master’s huge balls.
He hilted himself at last and grunted; that he was emptying his white cock inside the dark vessel of Desirée’s asshole was obvious. Again audible sounds were heard as hot lances of thick cum hosed down Desirée’s spasming, dick-gripping asspipe and pooled deep in her guts. She brought a hand to her belly and rubbed the spot where Deacon’s cocktip was bulging beneath her skin, caressing herself reverently in that location as it expanded slightly with the massive load of semen inside, showing how much she cared about that load; that she worshiped not just her master’s white cock but his huge cum load as well.
When she fell forward and sideways, onto one hip, showing the camera her neck, her back, and the landscape view of her hips curving up into her explosive ass, one tattooed, sweat-glazed brown cheek stacked on top of the other. Though turned away, Desirée could still be heard to groan and rub a hand over her belly. “Fuck! You shot about a gallon of nut into my fuckin’ guts!” she said, breathily, and her tone was one of struggling awe. No doubt her bowels were churning with cum and her asshole was on fire from being stretched so wide.
“Show everyone,” came the order.
Desirée reached down and lifted her topmost cheek, showing the cum-leaking ruin of her asshole - the dark, raised, roughly triangular orifice that so many men had dreamed about fucking. She spread herself obediently and disgracefully, lifting the meat of her buttock high, showing off how much sperm was leaking out of her resized shitter. As she did this, a spurt off porridge-thick sperm blew out of her asshole and down mountainous side of her lower cheek, piling on the floor. She was shaky and sweaty with post-orgasmic aftershocks, but still held up her opposite hand and waved to the camera. Deacon’s hand came into frame and started running through her hair and she craned her neck up to start kissing and sucking his fingers.
“Thank you for fucking this worthless nigger, God,” she moaned, breathily, before beginning to fellate his middle and index fingers. Then, as the video began to fade out, held his softening cock up against her face and she began to make out with the pisshole.
“I love you, God,” she whispered, barely audible on the recording. “Can I please lick your asshole and suck your balls now? You taste so muh’fuckin good!” Another massive, chunky, degrading cum fart blew out of her ass and over her cum-splattered butt cheek.
Deacon gave her the nod. And as Desirée got in position to do the deed, the video faded, appropriately, to white.
