“Jaren Washington - 255 pounds!”
The announcement echoed through the hall, and as the powerfully-built heavyweight champion flexed good-naturedly at the crowd amidst raucous cheers, Desirée Watters rose from her seat to applaud her man. The big fight was one night away - a much-anticipated title bout pitting the black champion against a brash, up-and-coming white challenger, and the media were blowing it up with all the coded racial language they could manage without being too explicit. Desirée was loving every second of it, for the intensity of such occasions always excited her. She had learned to navigate the macho atmosphere of mixed martial arts gyms and sports media with the same wicked cunning that had made her the queen of strip clubs from Atlanta to Miami, not to mention an Instagram and Snapchat diva with a million eager apprentices.
There’s something so lit about knowing your boyfriend could kick anyone’s ass , she thought, and bounced up and down and clapped as Jaren gave the crowd a double front bicep pose and cameras flashed. She’d hooked up with plenty of rappers and athletes, but “The Champ” was her current squeeze - a powerful, dominating black male who liked to party when he wasn’t pounding other men into submission with his fists. Desirée loved his physique, his bank account, and the way everyone treated her when she was around him. They formed a true power couple - two people who worked hard with their bodies to amass their fortunes. The only difference between them was that he did his work in a ring, and she did hers on stage and on cam.
Desirée, a fitness model and stripper, was one of the highest-paid female African-American adult performers in the United States, and by looking at her it was easy to see why. The 22-year-old was built like a brick house , and millions of followers on Instagram could attest to the fact that her calling card - a massive ebony ass that could absolutely devour a thong - was without equal. Her twerking videos, the stuff of legend, were hypnotic in the way they depicted waves of thick booty flesh wobbling, accompanied by the percussion of clapping, oiled up, tattooed cheeks, bouncing in slow motion in their heavy roundness, casting off droplets of stray oil and sweat that glistened in the lens. And it wasn’t just this booty content that fueled her fame. It was the way the presented herself, forming a cult of personality around having the biggest ass, the biggest titties, the biggest, plumpest dick-sucker lips, and living a party lifestyle that involved taking on the biggest black cocks she could find.
It was Desirée who pioneered the “measuring tape” forearm tattoo for black women; a way to hold up her arm on her personal snap and show the brutal length and thickness of the latest pussy-stretching, cum-leaking black shaft. The inch-demarcated ink, accompanied by the name Desirée in flowing script and running elbow to hand, quickly became famous as it was featured in photos of her sexual conquests. “ This sprung nigga got 13”was one caption, showing her measuring her arm against a particularly massive black prong, which was too long for the ten inches that her tattoo covered. “ I took it all and tossed that salad too! ” she’d added. Her private Snapchat had the video evidence of her bobbing like a hungrily on that pipe, her straight black hair shining as it waved with the motion of her face, augmented by pink extensions. Admirers said she had the shapely musculature of peak Serena Williams with a bulging ass-size that surpassed Nicki Minaj, while her face was every bit as glamorous and enticing as Beyonce, even if her skin tone was a bit darker than the pop diva. Even that detail was something she flexed to get her props. Light-skinned bitches, she said, didn’t fuck wit’ packin’ niggas like her.
She adorned the Nubian temple of her well-sculpted body with care. Her nipples were pierced with barbells and her clit also featured a glistening bar with diamond studs on two sides. The flowing, scripted messages on her ass and above her pussy were perfectly on brand - “QUEEN” was scrawled just an inch above her pussy, right where the skin began to darken and thicken into puffy, engorged labia. She had “THOT LIFE” on the massive, melon-sized cheeks of her ass, one word per hemispheric, bouncing flesh mound. She was reclaiming the “THOT” moniker, she crowed, in the same way that other African-Americans had reclaimed the the N-word; by referring to herself and her girlfriends by the same label, making it part of the aspiration. Desirée showed a generation that it was okay to be a THOT, to act like a slut, to take pride in your head game and how many inches of pipe you could take in your waxed, well-groomed pussy.
In this way, Desirée was inspiring young black girls to own being a slut and get paid for it. She encouraged them to invest in themselves and get men paying bills and buying automobiles on their behalf. Her monster ass and breast implants, expensive weaves and extensions, and intricate makeup and tattoo work represented capital well-spent, with the return being a gaudy partying lifestyle that she posted to Snapchat and Instagram - twerking on expensive cars, $1,000 bottles of wine being used to hose down her clapping cheeks, champagne-cork pops and sprays of foam to the face like giant cumshots. She developed such a presence in black media that she was shouted out in the songs of aspiring young hip hop artists. “ My girl got a’ ass like ‘Ree, and give head like her too ,” was one such line. Having a bitch like Desirée on the arm was thus seen as just as gangster as moving yayo or popping caps in motherfuckers.
Desirée Watters was one bad black bitch who was totally down to fuck some big cock. She played the part of the queen bee to perfection. She had the biggest implants (fake enough to look fake, but not fake enough to look like a joke), the thiccest thighs (in the gym, she was a squatting machine), and the biggest, thong-swallowing booty. (Fake? Nobody could be quite sure. But she made Kim K look like Ellen Degeneres) Her eyelashes were teased out to inches long and her fat dick-sucker lips were always Botoxed up, glossed pink and ready to slurp some pipe. Men who saw her club hopping in her dazzling high-hemmed cocktail dresses claimed they could feel their dicks hurting just watching her walk by, looking at each other knowingly with the same unspoken thought.
Watch out. That bitch is from the planet Kill-A-Nigga. She’s out to break a dick *off* tonight.
The aspiration to fame and fortune through hard body-sculpting and strategic silicone was like a religion to Desirée and her disciples - young, fierce black female entrepreneurs who wanted to own the room and be the object of desire for wealthy males who, likewise, had come up from nothing and were looking to impress only the most choice ebony women. But Desirée had another side to her brand. Interspersed between star-making oral sex innuendos, makeup tutorials and inspirational messages was one more refrain she shared with her hundreds of thousands of female fans:
White boys ain’t shit.
Another type of post that Desirée often made was a glimpse into her DMs, where white men would pay her pathetic compliments and she would laugh at their thirstiness and unsolicited dick pics. The message was the same each time she would expose them for the pathetic wannabes they were - she would never fuck a white man. She’d made herself famous by chasing the biggest, thickest cocks. Desirée was mostly silent on racial and social issues - she said nothing about police brutality of the inequalities of modern American life. Her ‘black pride’ took on a very specific form - embracing the legacy of black sexual superiority. If ‘white cucks’ were going to say that people with her skin color had the biggest donkey dicks around, who was she to disagree? So she told her million+ followers exactly that.
Fuck white boys. White boys ain’t shit. Niggas are packin’. Get a hung nigga! Get a sprung nigga! Get a nigga with a foot of pipe, who knows how to use that shit!
This proved to be one of her most popular types of post, and “White Boys Ain’t Shit” merch was even created, sometimes featuring the silhouette of a menacing black penis hanging pendulously beside a tiny white dicklette. She thus got a reputation for being a racially prideful black woman when in fact, she was mostly just focused on cock size. And this was one aspect of her persona that wasn’t just performance. Desirée really loved big dicks - the way they looked, the way they made her feel - and she felt a ton of pride that black men, who shared similar backgrounds and experiences to her, seemed to have the biggest ones.
The short text captions on her social media posts told her story.
“I only eat ass if he got over 11 inches”
“Need a nigga who bust like a fire hose”
“I’m fierce - but ya’ll can slap me if you got 11”
“If ya’ll seed is thick, after you nut I’m still gonna be suckin”
“A nigga with inches just make me want to sleep with his dick in my mouth xD”
She had started dating the champ a few months before. Everyone at Jaren’s Black Tiger Gym knew Desirée, and when she walked in to pay her beau a visit during a hard day of sparring, the action slowed to a crawl. A few seconds after the staccato clacking of her dazzling six-inch platform heels announced her arrival, there wasn’t a heavy bag thumping or a speedbag humming. Weights stood unlifted in their cradles. Ropes were unclimbed. And every swinging, sweating black dick in the place decided it was time to take a five minute break and enjoy the show. Each time dozens of hungry young fighters took the time to ogle her every curve; they knew that if they could put a winning streak together, they could have a bad bitch like Desirée on their arm, just like the champ.
But as much as Desirée liked the macho, dick-measuring culture of MMA, and dating a powerful African-American fighter, she absolutely hated his upcoming opponent.
Her cheers turned to boos and downward-turned thumbs as soon as Deacon Dain appeared on stage. The tattooed white up-and-comer was five years younger than Jaren and undefeated; he’d been granted a title shot due to his talent both in the ring and on the microphone, where he acted like the most obnoxious prick possible, belittling opponents and talking endlessly about his sponsorship deals. The night before, at the pre-fight press conference, Deacon had pointed to Desirée in the crowd and told Jaren: “Not only am I going to beat you, but then I’m going to take your girl home and show her what a real man looks like.” The two men had had to be separated by security, and Desirée herself, wearing a sparkling cocktail dress with no panties, had run up on stage to swing a pair of high heels at Deacon’s entourage, resulting in her bare ass and pussy being plastered all over TMZ. Deacon, unscathed, had tossed her a wink and blown a kiss.
“Fuck ya’ll crackers!” she called out to the stage, hoisting her middle finger at Deacon and his entourage. The nail was expertly manicured with a dollar-sign-shaped glitter finish. “You ain’t shit, your momma ain’t shit and your babies ain’t gonna grow up to be shit!” The pageantry and testosterone of MMA always brought out the sharpest edges of her personality. She kept close watch as Deacon weighed in, and the emcee called out Deacon Dane, 248 pounds.
When Deacon turned to the crowd and flexed, she could see he was absolutely ripped, tighter around the waist than Jaren, who was getting a bit older. Deacon had easily made the 265 limit, even weighing in with his shorts on and his warm-up jacket tied around his waist, and looked utterly confident. She felt a twinge of doubt and shooed it away.
Jaren is going to kill that white boy , she reassured herself. But as the cameras flashed, Deacon made eye contact with her and winked again, enraging Desirée anew. “Fuck you!” she squawked, leaning forward over the railing that seperated the seats from the stage and and letting her boobs bounce in her daring halter top. “Catch me outside and I’ll cut your ass!” Her big breasts were barely contained by the scant fabric, and the raised mounds of her nipples were obvious to anyone looking her way. Men who say the way her bright amber eyes were blazing told themselves it would be worth getting cut just for one more searing glimpse of eye contact. Desirée’s eyes were brilliant, bright brown that seemed honey-colored in the reflections of the press-conference lighting rig. A man could get lost in them, and seeing the thirst in her face while she worked their joints, many gifted men had, opening their wallets for thousands, tens of thousands worth of dances and attention on any given night.
Deacon turned black toward Jaren and made an obscene gesture, saying something like “you better keep that black bitch in line!” Jaren made a move toward Deacon. Security, which had been beefed up for the event, jumped into intercede. Members of both entourages began throwing water bottles and tussling. Desirée lifted her legs over the barricade (one at a time, and yes, it was very nice to watch for all in attendance) and bounced toward the stage, ass jiggling, ready to use her designer purse as a bludgeon.
In other words, just your average MMA weigh-in. But Desirée’s night was about to get even more interesting.
When the tussle ended with no serious harm done (except to the stage and a few unlucky trainers), it was another media circus, white reporters asking white commission officials about white problems, and Desirée had no patience for that. She was ready to leave, and quick.
When Desirée took one look at the line of reporters heading out the back way into the garage, and was told she would have to wait for security to exit, she ‘noped’ out and swaggered away, her buttocks bouncing in her low-slung pink leggings. She’d picked her outfit that night with care, knowing there would be plenty of cameras flashing - pink tights slung so low on her hips that half her ass was visible, a thong underneath that, no bra, breasts bouncing and threatening to burst out of a minimal white crop tie, a tie-style with a knot in the front and a smocked rear showing her sculpted shoulders and back. A gold choker and gold hoop earrings, heavy eye-makeup with eyelids done up in a dazzling royal purple. Lips gleaming and puffed up, matching the pink in her hair extensions, ready to work. Good dress for good press.
But this was not good press. All anyone cared about was the possibly cancellation of the fight by the NSAC. Jaren was giving interviews with the head of the organization and told her to go back first and wait for him. She was royally pissed at the way Deacon had acted at the weigh-in, and in no mood to strut in front of a bunch of slack-jawed MMA photographers who were just there to see her man anyway. So she made her way to the maintenance entrance, taking a long, deserted hallway running parallel to the boiler and toward the truck loading bay.
It turned out that black diva Desirée Watters and white challenger Deacon Dain had one thing in common - a desire to quickly get to the parking garage and back to their hotels. As she approached the service entrance she ran face-first into Deacon, who had the same idea, only coming from the other direction. He was looking as annoyingly smug as ever, amused by the unlikely situation as they stared each other down with a scant five feet of space between them. He towered over her by perhaps a foot, even with her platform heels, but Desirée was not in the business of backing down from any man. Especially not from a rude-ass cracker like Deacon Dain, who thought he was the best thing since sliced (white) bread and who had trolled his way to a title eliminator bout against her current beau by making racially insensitive remarks on Twitter.
“Bitch,” he greeted her, smiling with bemused confidence.
“ Cracker ,” she returned, with aggressive sass. “You might as well just keep on walkin’ because I got nuthin’ to say to yo’ punk ass.” She swirled a hand in front of her face like a magic spell and then snapped her fingers and bobbed her neck with trademark African-American sass. Deacon was shirtless, with a towel over his neck and a pair of low-waisted compression pants showing off far too much below; this was the first time she’d gotten a close-up look at his ink. The assortment of borderline, plausibly-deniable white supremacist tattoos was about what she’d expected. Celtic crosses high on the breastbone. Death’s Head insignias on the shoulders. Stars on both elbows and knees. A stylized norse rune was visible, because of his uncomfortably low-slung compression tights, just above where the base of his cock would be.
And there was something else. Deacon had been wearing shorts over his compression tights at the ceremonial weigh in. Now, without the shorts, Desirée saw something - a big, fat bulge in his crotch that was too pronounced to be a trick of the light. The big, curving bulge seemed to suggest a mythically large penis, folded in on itself… but that was impossible. Deacon was a white boy, a country-ass cracker, and besides, nobody - white or black or any color in between - had ever had a penis as large as the bulge suggested.
“You wearing a cup to the weigh-ins?” Desirée snarked, crossing her arms and letting her purse hang from one shoulder. “You that scared I’m going to kick you in the balls? Yo’ rude ass would deserve it, too.”
“Bitch, this isn’t a cup. You know what it is,” Deacon replied. “You wish your man had this on him.”
Desirée snorted out an incredulous breath. Was this white boy serious? He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with. She’d sucked and fucked the biggest, coal-black dicks of the hardest, most down gangsta niggas. This boy was trippin’ . “Man you ain’t about shit,” she responded. “Just runnin’ your rude-ass mouth like always. Why don’t you take that sawed-off pool noodle you stuffed down yo’ pants and shove it in yo’ mouf so I don’t have to hear your time-wastin’ cracker ass?”
Now it was Deacon’s turn to laugh. “You don’t think this is real?” He reached down and gave his fat, spandex-clad bulge a tug, and it shifted like a dead snake. “I’ll bet you whatever you want. Try me.”
Desirée narrowed her eyes. “Man, give it a rest. I ain’t playin’ games with you. And if Jaren saw this shit he would smoke your ass right now, forget about the fight!” She tugged down on her dress and started to walk toward the loading bay door. “I got to get up out of here before I lose my damn mind!”
She had taken three or four bouncing, clacking steps past Deacon when his voice rang out behind her.
“Talking trash and then backing down. Typical nigger shit ,” he taunted. Desirée stopped in her tracks and clenched her teeth, then spun around after taking a deep breath?
“What did you say motherfucker?” she growled, narrowing her eyes. Instagram having a comment section, she was used to all manner of trolling and had a consummate provocateur’s instinct for just how to needle her haters. If it was a woman, she was no doubt hotter and more desired. If it was a man, she probably had more money and her boyfriends were way more hung. But being called a nigger to her face was something different. She was ready to fight; Deacon might be a trained MMA fighter who outweighed her by 125 pounds, but she had some sparkling manicured nails ready to take out his eyeballs if shit went down, not to mention some teeth that would chomp down on whatever they could find.
“Am I wrong?” Deacon replied, and the calmness in his voice was maddening. “You’re bragging and then leaving without proving shit. I’ll make you a deal. If my cock is bigger than any black guy you’ve ever fucked, you have to give me a blowjob, right now.”
Desirée blinked, then laughed viciously as the tension went out of her muscles. “Do you know who you’re talking to, white boy? I’m down with niggas that are hung to the fuckin’ floor. Now take your racist ass up out of my ear.”
“Chickenshit, huh?” Deacon continued on. “I should have known.”
“Motherfucker, it’s a fuckin’ stupid bet,” Desirée sassed. “I’m tired of you wastin’ my time. What do I get if I win? You gonna give me head? I don’t want your trailer-trash face anywhere near my pussy. Why don’t you take your sorry ass home and get ready for the ass-whipping my man is going to put on you tomorrow night?” She crossed her arms over her large breasts expectantly, having sufficiently, by her estimation, told off her enemy. Now all that was left was for him to slink away and save face. She would tell her followers on the ‘gram that he was a rude, racist prick, she decided. See how his ass liked getting fucked with by sponsors dropping him.
But Deacon stood his ground, rubbed his strong, pointed jaw, and offered an alternative. “If you win the bet… I’ll be your slave. You can take a social media photo of you riding me and whipping my naked ass. Or me licking your boots. You can show the world that Deacon Dain is nothing but a bitch… on the night before the biggest fight of your man’s life.”
Surprised, Desirée considered the offer. If she were to utterly emasculate and cuck Deacon Dain via her Instagram and Snapchat, it would no doubt lead to an easy victory for Jaren on fight night. Deacon’s confidence and career would be utterly destroyed and his punches would be as ineffectual as his inferior white dick! But there was something about his irrational confidence that gave her pause. It was a stupid bet for him, so why make it? Why make it… unless he was on some other game and had no intention of paying up.
“You a lyin’ motherfucker,” Desirée assessed.
Deacon shrugged. “I don’t lie. But if you’re too scared-”
Desirée looked at that massive cock bulge. There was no way it could be real. She had seen big dicks, but this was on another level. It looked like a good-sized twelve inch pipe that bulged out, curved in on itself, and then travelled another twelve inches. It was obscenely large - like a nasty joke played at a frat party. In the end, the fact that it couldn’t possibly be real was what made her decide to accept the challenge. Whatever it was - a couple of protective cups in a jockstrap, a joke novelty dildo - whatever it was, and whatever game Deacon was on, she could get her own back by snapping a quick pic and telling the world that Deacon Dain was a pervert who liked exposing himself to black women. Plus, he had called her a nigger… she wasn’t going to let that shit slide!
“Fine, you got a deal,” she said. “Let’s see that tiny white dick and whatever collection of dishtowers and shit you stuffed down there. ‘Cause you’re going to be left with yo’ dick in yo’ hand tomorrow night once my man…”
FLOP.
Desirée’s voice trailed off. Deacon lowered the waistband of his compression tights and his cock didn’t just fall out. It flopped out. It didn’t just hang, it swung . her heart skipped a beat as she realized she was seeing something that was far larger than any cock she’d ever encountered on a black man. And it was real .
“God...damn!” she gasped, in spite of herself, her eyes transfixed. She’d never seen such a heavy, thick, brutal length of bull meat ! Deacon’s cock was thicker than her arm and almost as long. It hung down past his knee, bulging with veins, the head a circumsized, engorged knob that seemed larger than both of her fists put together. On the top of the base was tattooed a another series of Viking runes, those favored emblems of rude peckerwoods the world over; in this context it served as a reminder of the unfolding whiteness that was right in her face.
Desirée, usually never at a loss for words when it came to “white boys”, found herself momentarily speechless. The biggest cock she’d ever fucked belonged to a black porn star; he’d billed himself at fourteen inches and probably had been a legit thirteen. It was clear that Deacon Dain was at nearly twice as long and thick. Any further teasing and sass died in her throat and she fell to her knees with an expression of awe she couldn’t hide. That fucking white cock looked like it belonged on a fucking elephant!
“Told you,” Deacon said, crossing his arms and letting his meat hang. “Your man isn’t equal to me in the ring, or anywhere else.”
“You…” Desirée stammered, and again her voice died in her mouth. She was absolutely cockstruck by the sheer size and brash virility on display, that monster shaft, those huge balls! She’d made a career of dick-measuring and the aspiration of fucking really hung men, and it hadn’t been just a performance for her fans. It was a true reflection of what she wanted and needed. She loved big cocks, and because black men always had the biggest ones, she’d loved black men. But now she felt her pussy soaking itself at the sight of two feet of throbbing Aryan pipe! And on the heels of that, the realization of her promise; the bet she’d never expected in a million years to lose!
I can just renege on that shit , she thought. I can tell him to go fuck himself. That he cheated and used a pump on that motherfucker or injected saline into his balls. Ain’t no contract signed, ain’t no law that says I have to do it.
But he’s so fuckin’ big , said another side of her. You know it’s real, he didn’t cheat. He makes the hardest niggas you’ve been with look like some little young-ass babies by comparison.
She knew that the correct thing to do just laugh, tell Deacon it didn’t matter and Jaren was still going to whip his ass, and then be on her way. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to see with his white friends, pointing and laughing at her, watching him whisper into their ears and reading the words “lying nigger” on his lips. She didn’t want to welsh on the bet. In the end, it was that absurd justification - that he had won the bet, that he somehow deserved what was coming to him - that allowed her to put down her purse and get on her knees in front of him.
“Hurry your ass up before someone sees this shit,” she hissed. But her attitude dissipated again once she found herself staring down the barrel of Deacon’s pipe, right at eye level. Damn, fuckin’ shit is massive , she thought, and was ashamed to feel the excitement inside her. She had always been so into black sexuality; embracing even the more questionable portrayals of black men as hung sex gods. Desirée loved big dicks, and she loved black men in part because they had the biggest ones. He makes the brothas I’ve been with look like some tiny-dick little fucking fags, she marvelled. He’s totally muthafuckin’ packin’! She was ashamed to make this admission, as if she were ‘selling out’ by admitting what was clear - this white bull had a cock more than twice as long and twice as thick as any of her black boyfriends. Three times longer than most of them.
Deacon’s from above was legendary; she was spread-thighed, calves and heels splayed behind her, and down the smoothness of her back he could see the massive ebony globes of her monster ass, wobbling and swaying like two huge, water-filled balloons, split by a scant thong that appeared ready to vanish off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Her leggings, low-waisted as they were, put the top half of her cheeks on full display, and Deacon’s roving eye enjoyed every second of his view as he watched her ass bounce and flex beyond the shining plain of her long, straightened black hair.
Desirée inhaled as if preparing for a tough task, and looked head-on at the massive prick helmet and fat pisshole that was bobbing in front of her face. It seemed cavernous, big enough to take her tongue inside. She couldn’t help imagining how that would feel… poking her agile pink tongue tip against that hole and feeling it slide inside that dickslit, so large she could actually tongue-fuck it. It needed to be big because it was a delivery system for all that nasty cum in those big, white nuts! Desirée licked her lips. Renowned for world-class head and possessed of a glamorous nose and flawless cheekbones and facial structure, her lips were her best and most famous facial feature. Thanks to her use of plumping gloss, regular surgical injections and her natural gifts, Desirée’s face sported not just lips but a pair of barbie-glossed dick-slurpers . Now, her tongue indented these shining cotton-candy-colored pillows as it circled around.
“Get those big nigger lips around my dick,” Deacon growled, wearing an ultra-confident grin. Such a comment would have earned him a kick in the balls and a swift outing on Instagram at any other time, but Desirée’s anger was tempered by her utter cock shock, and she only glared up at him past his throbbing shaft, which was half-hard and bobbing with almost perfectly horizontal tension.
“Fuck you, peckerwood!” Desirée sassed, but when Deacon gripped her shaft and bonked her on the lips with his meat, she made a groaning noise and didn’t resist as he rubbed her lips and nose against his prick helmet, marking her face with the touch of his grapefruit-sized knob. She gasped at how big and spongy the helmet-shaped head was. It gave against her lips, but not too much - there was an insistent firmness beneath the flesh of that knob that was just just enough to allow her lips to press in against the turgid tissues beneath.
“Stretch out your lips and kiss my dick,” Deacon ordered. “Don’t half-ass it now, you owe me. I heard black girls have big lips and now I want to see if that shit is real or just rumor!”
It’s muthafuckin’ Botox you country-dumb cracker , Desirée thought fiercely, but she did as he said, pursing her lips and then making an exaggerated kissing face as he pressed his huge cocktip against her mouth, letting her kiss and suck his pisshole. She could taste him - the pungent flavor of semen was especially strong, stronger than any other man she’d been with. Against her will, this excited her. Botox or not, her moist, cum-lubed cock-slurping lips provided an amazing cushion for cock as he mashed them around her face, dragging them to and fro with his cocktip, tracing around them as if applying lipstick with his leaking prick.
“Fuckin’ nasty-ass white boy!” she moaned, and when she pulled back, her plump lips were smeared with pre-cum, primed to suck dick. Her nostrils were flared, and she felt every tiny detail of her dilation and salivation as if it were happening in slow motion. How many times had people of Deacon’s race tried to degrade her people, talking about big lips and big noses? Yet here she was, puffing out her lips, taking deep breaths, showing her black face off to this white man, giving herself up to his monster cock!
“You look like a fuckin’ slutty black bitch with those fat nigger dicksuckers!” Deacon marveled. “Damn, they’re soft!” He continued to smear his dicktip around her face, dominating her with it, leaking his cum everywhere and glazing her up. “Nnngh!” he grunted, milking a stroke from mid-shaft to tip with his gripping hand. “This is what I call nigger makeup , bitch!”
His piss-pipe bulged and disgorged a hot, nasty rope of chunky cum onto the middle of her forehead, squeezed down the length of his shaft by the tight, milking strokes of his fist. She didn’t get the sense that he was cumming, but rather that his big, fat balls were such cum factories that he had nut to spare! “Fuck! You a quick shot!” Desirée hissed, sounding thirsty, exhaling lustily as he jerked out four or five short, chunky cum-ropes onto her forehead, nose, cheeks and lips. It was such thick nut! It formed bridges between her long eyelashes and her skin, from top lip to bottom lip, it lay on her forehead like a big, albino worm!
“You’re not getting off that easy, bitch,” Deacon said. “That was just pre. You’ve still got a job to do.”
“Oh, shit!” she gasped, again, reaching up to collect a sperm strand and rub it between her fingers. “Even your pre-nut is thick as fuck! You nasty cracker!” Taking some agency, she dragged her face down over the bulbous rim of his glans and encountered the raised, fat cum-pipe on the underside of his shaft. The network of veins carrying blood to his prong seemed to throb under her loose grip, and even that detail excited her. These vessels were as thick as her dainty fingers and she exhaled sharply as she let his shaft fall to the side of her head and looked left to deliver a full-lipped kiss to one of those bulging, lightning-strike vessels. Desirée hated herself for feeling so worshipful, but she was in awe of cock; loved those veins that carried the blood needed to make it hard so she could experience it at full size. The weight of it was amazing. She ran her tongue over her lips again, accentuating them, and arched her back, thrusting her round booty cheeks out, putting them on display.
Damn, why am I showing out like this? Like an old racist-ass cartoon?
She told herself that her lips were big because of her beauty regimen and her ass was big because of surgery and squats, not some sort of racial predisposition. But with that white bull cock in her face, she felt conspicuously black in a way she’d never felt before. She tried to chase away the thoughts, but they came anyway.
I’m just a big-lipped, thick-assed black bitch for dat white cock! I want that shit! I’m showin’ out for that white boy dick!
He was just so fucking big . The size was such that it cancelled any internal questions about self-esteem. The potential consequences of going through with their absurd wager seemed distant, while Deacon’s fat, half-hard fuckmeat was immediate and in her face! She reached out a hand to heft and cup his bulging nutsack; it was smooth and sweat-glistening and oh-so-heavy. The sloshing, churning feeling of his balls, and the way his scrotum spilled over the sides of her palm as she tried to hold it up, the testicles hanging like two fat ostrich eggs, made Desirée’s insides turn to jello.
She had never felt such pure breeding power; and the significance of that word - pure - tingled in the back of her mind. She’d never seen Deacon with a black woman; that meant all of his wriggling, impregnating baby seeds had been spent on his own kind. Putting babies in their bellies. She had heard rumors he was a dog - the fuck’em and leave ‘em type. She’d heard that he had a whole mess of kids with a whole mess of trailer trash baby mamas. But looking at the size and prowess of him… for the first time in her life, she thought that white women were lucky. That they had something better than what black women were allowed to have. Deacons huge white nuts were pumping out seed, day and night, and just like the restrooms and juke joints of yesteryear, they were WHITES ONLY. She imagined a brigade of blonde, blue-eyed sons; the descendents of Deacon, growing up ripped and hung and ready to dominate in the ring and in the bedroom. It made her shudder and the thick lips of her pussy slid against each other with percolating, sinful wetness as she knee-walked forward and took a place beneath his long shaft, getting a close-up of those big, fat cum factories.
“Damn…” she said, unable to hide how impressed she was. “This shit belongs on a horse!”
“Bigger than your black boyfriends?” Deacon taunted, glowering down at her, arms crossed. His body was a marble statue, an icon of unyielding, tattooed muscle.
“Yeah,” she acquiesced, and felt a pang of wounded pride in her chest. But there was no denying it. Just one of Deacon’s balls was as large as the entire sack of any man she’d ever been with. She felt herself drawn to imagining just how much nut those big, pink sperm tanks could produce, and as she did so, she pressed her face forward into the hot, musk-perfumed crevice between his balls, inhaling experimentally and uttering another “Oh, fuck!"
It’s like an animal looking to breed , she thought. The scent is so strong and nasty as fuck! She couldn’t resist burying her face in that sack and taking a deep sniff while her bangle-clad hands, with their dazzling “GET MONEY” dollar-sign nails, held him in place. His pink, hot scrotal skin hung heavily between her fingers, contrasting with her darker skin. She felt dizzy and completely overwhelmed as the nut-stench filled her olfactories and drove her body into a state of frenzy. Desirée was a formidable woman, confident and self-sufficient to the extent that her male admirers were afraid to approach such a sassy, soulful minx. Yet here she was, on her knees, sniffing white balls! Degrading as it was, she couldn’t look away. She loved sex, including the scent of sex, and this was the strongest, most pheromone-loaded sex scent she’d ever taken in!
Goddamn it girl, get a grip , she told herself. Stop this showin’ out. Puffin’ up your lips and suckin’ them nuts, ass twerkin’, nostrils flarin’ wide like you should be in a tribal village with a bone through your nose. Why you coonin’ for this cracker?
It was a question she dared not answer. She felt Deacon’s balls churn against her face, and just knew that his fat cum tanks were brewing up a big load of baby seeds for her; shit, if she had sex with him, his tadpoles would knock up her fertile African eggs instantly! And she knew, just knew,that the resulting baby would be pure white; the sperm coming out of these nuts was so powerful that every trace of her ancestry would be obliterated! That twenty-four inch Caucasian pipe could turn any woman into a white-only baby factory! The feeling of that tar-thick, sloshing load, bubbling in those big nuts, ready to fill her up… it was enough to drive her absolutely wild, and though she was dimly aware that she was erasing her fantasies of black sexual prowess and replacing them with an almost subservient sexual respect for colonizer cock, the moment was too intense for her to pull back. She wanted that white nut down her black throat . Her thick, dusky cunt lips sliding against each other in the front of her tights, showing phat camel toe, producing a conspicuous stain that darkened the pink fabric in a growing circle around her wet cunt!
She started sucking on one fat testicle, blowing it like an ovoid cock, letting her plump, gloss-painted lips spread and contract, spread and contract. She flattened out her talented tongue on her targeted orb and bathed it in spit until it was slick and bubbling, spraying her hot breath onto it, gasping with the arousal of servicing such a sperm-brewing, fist-sized bull nut . She could see the way Deacon’s skin stretched with the sheer weight of his endowment and it drove her wild in a way that no cock of her own skin color ever had. In the moment she became increasingly excited to explore this new Caucasian frontier.
No wonder these crackers always take whatever they damn please. How many Pocahontases were staring down a pipe like this and fell right to they knees and said ‘Come on in’ Mr. White Man, and take all our shit!
“Suck my nuts, nigger bitch,” Deacon chided, lowering a hand into her hair and rubbing her scalp with a thumb, in the way a dog’s owner might reward an obedient animal. Normally Desirée would have clawed out a presumptuous john’s eyes for touching her expertly-styled hair, but she couldn’t muster any outrage in the moment. In her own mind, she was a trophy to be won by only the most successful, dominant, and hung men - and Deacon was the first white man who had been able to knock her on her heels with sheer size. When Deacon turned up the heat with racial slurs’, nobody would have blamed her for standing up and leaving, bet or no bet. She didn’t have to take abuse like that no matter the stakes. Part of her knew that. Knew that if she didn’t leave, she was putting cock size ahead of racial and personal pride. The right thing to do was raise up out of there. But… Desirée didn’t move. That monster white cock was just too much to give up. It had flipped a switch inside her.
She let him rub his sweaty, spit-soaked sack all over her face in a degrading display of ownership, and arched her back as a near-orgasmic tingle scintillated in her belly from the act of being so thoroughly overwhelmed in service to big, white balls! Her oral attentions shifted and became more earnest and less reserved. She took big pulls of scrotal skin and sucked on them with hollowed-out cheeks, looking up at Deacon intensely with mascara that was beginning to smear. She couldn’t get even one testicle in her mouth - they were too large, but she did her best, slurping and gagging and drooling against his sack like a baby, her exhalations making it clear she was enjoying every second of it. Much as she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, her libido was purring and her pussy was on fire.
“Shit!” Desirée gasped, pulling back her mouth and letting glistening bridges of spit connect her thick lips to the bulging sack. “You nasty motherfucker!”
“You talk too much,” Deacon scolded. “Just like every black bitch I know.” And before Desirée could raise up in righteous rage, he grabbed his monster cock and began to slap her face with it, banging the shaft and head off of her lips, nose, cheeks, and forehead. The shaft splattered the split leftover from her ball-sucking and spread it around her face, and she closed her eyes against the assault.
This is some LAPD shit , Desirée thought. He was slapping the fuck out of her black face with his white nightstick, and the blows were stinging but also nasty, reminding her how hard and ready to fuck he was; many times Desirée had banged a cock off her lips or her cheek while looking blazingly up at her man, letting him know that she was willing to get as rough and nasty and off the hook as he wanted. Now, this muscled white man was doing it to her, beating her face and letting her know that her dicksucker lips were nothing but cushions for a white cock slapping! Needing to regain some agency, she reached out and grabbed his shaft, beginning to bang that fat dong against her own face, extending her tongue and slapping it on the pink, moist flat.
“You like ‘dat shit?” she hissed up at him. “Mu’hfuckin’ peckerwood getting off on slappin’ a bitch, huh? Well come on. I ain’t gonna give you head, you ‘gon have to take it! I want to feel that pipe in my stomach, white boy!” Her teeth were clenched, the dickslaps had brought a livid color to her smooth, dark cheeks. Though the sensible part of her wanted it done, and realized she should have never made the bet, Deacon’s size and aggression had brought out the wildcat inside of Desirée Watters - the ebony goddess who had made an Instagram career out of aspiration toward the most excessive sexual feats, was drawn to the act of handling such a monster cock. The bad black bitch who wanted to choke on some fat cock
Her defiant dirty talk seemed to spur Deacon on, and his hand gripped her hair even tighter as she moaned and tilted her head back. He pressed his spongy, leaking cockhead against her mouth. It was an absolute jawbreaker. No woman without extensive experience sucking cock would ever even attempt it, but Desirée was one such woman, having taken on the biggest cocks she could find over the course of her adult life. Even by those standards, this was a new level. She opened up and groaned as the thick white meat began to stretch her lips and burrow into her mouth. Her jaw creaked as he began to open her up, exploiting and pillaging another unclaimed land, but her eyes were fearless. Her teased out lashes sliced in upward crescents as she stared up, unblinking.
Glrruuuuuuuuuuuuurk!
His monster white dick burrowed into her black throat. Desirée’s eyes reddened and her plump, pillowy dick-suckers stretched into a tube shape as the flesh of her cheeks and face was morphed into a tube shape around Deacon’s dominating white fuckpipe. Her amber eyes were wide with effort and surprise as her throat was taken and her neck bulged with the intruding cock shape. Her tight golden choker stretched so much that the clasp broke and it tumbled to the floor. She gurgled like an animal and a torrent of spit burst from the seal of her mouth and splattered onto the shelf of her bulbous black bimbo tits. The sounds she made were of struggle, tension… and arousal.
Desirée had given a thousand blowjobs in her life - she was known for world-class head - and during such encounters she was always in control. She would take every inch of her man, talk dirty to him, control his cock like an experienced pilot working a flight stick. By the end, no matter the size of his cock or his bank account, he would be putty in her hands, dumping cash freely on everything from diamond necklaces to Gucci handbags to island vacations. But this time was different. Deacon was absolutely massive, too much even for her, and instead of her usual nasty dirty talk, all that came out of her mouth when his prick helmet punched into the back of her throat was series of humiliating, wet croaking noises. And he wasn’t even a third of the way in.
Her eyes lost some of their edge and took on docility as she realized she was not in control. He had a grip on her hair and his powerful muscles allowed him to control her face with ease, dragging her up and down the first eight inches of his shaft, soaping up his meat with her spit as she struggled to breathe. Her breasts hung enormous and banged against each other as he made her nothing but a ghetto chickenhead, and her low position left her round, bulging assmeat to jiggle lewdly behind, two globes of nubian flesh absolutely devouring her stringy thong and wobbling lewdly each other with each thrust into her mouth!
Desirée felt something pouring down into her and realized it was Deacon’s pre-cum. He was leaking like a faucet, and even his pre-seed was amazingly thick. Her pussy tingled as she realized he was feeding her that cum, letting it slop down into her stomach whether she wanted it or not. She could feel it sliding out of his yawning pisshole when he would withdraw his prick-helmet to the front of her mouth, it was so nasty and chunky!
Damn! That nut is thicker than any black guy , she thought, and he produces way more of that shit too .
He pulled out of her mouth with an audible “pop!” and spit flew in a sheet down the floor. Desirée gasped, breathing hard from the lack of air, but her eyes never moved from the bulbous, cum-leaking cocktip that was poised just in front or and above her face. Deacon maintained his hand’s grip on her hair and pushed her down lower, making her sink to a spread-kneed, ass-on-calves position, and then stroked his length in front of her, milking himself over her as if her black face were just a cum rag. His hand was large, but still barely able to encircle his own girth. He slid it from mid-shaft to tip, milking himself onto her face, letting a fat, chunky cum worm slide from his fat piss slit before Desirée’s cock-struck eyes.
Look at that nasty shit , she marvelled. And she leaned forward and pursed her glossy, painted lips into a an exaggerated donut shape, and sucked that fat cum worm right out of Deacon’s pisshole like it was a strands of pasta. It piled up on her tongue and she moaned at how strong it tasted and how she would have to chew that mess to swallow it.
“Had enough?” Deacon sneered, bonking her on the nose with his cocktip like a dog owner playing with a pet. “You got almost half of it down your throat. Not bad… for a black bitch.”
Desirée chewed, swallowed, and let Deacon see her throat working to chug that nasty mess, then glared up at him with a spit-glazed chin and vicious amber eyes. “Fuck you, white boy!” she sassed. “You want to fuck my throat? Then fuck it! White boys ain’t shit!”
Deacon’s muscles tensed with a fury that made Desirée’s body tingle with anticipation, and slapped her across the face with an open palm. “Oh, fuck!” Desirée moaned, and a bolt of sizzling submissive energy roiled in her belly. She had been the alpha bitch in every sexual encounter for so long, she barely remembered what it was like to be truly owned by a man. Having talked up twelve and thirteen inch cocks for so long, the truth was that almost all men fell short of that rarified air and left her wanting. And as for their money, even when a man spent heavily to ‘buy’ her affections, she didn’t feel submissive at all, but rather like she was getting over on him. Jaren had been the closest thing to a proper counterpart for her - a black alpha stud who took no shit from his training partners or his girl. But even the champ was prone to spoiling her, and their sex was often tender.
But this white boy-
He just lit my ass up for talkin’ that shit , she marveled. This white boy don’t give a fuck! That’s real alpha shit. He’s not buyin’ me cars or takin’ me out to dinner. He’s treating me like a… like I’m his...
The unspoken thought made her body shudder, and he grabbed her hair, including the expensive extensions (another typical no-no, but Deacon was quickly becoming the exception to many of her rules), and spit directly into her face. She began gasping, utterly overwhelmed as he expectorate splashed her.
“Beg for my cock,” he ordered. “Come on, beg for it, you thick-ass black bitch !”
Gasping, she shook her head, managed to croak out “Fuck you, muh’fucka!” and he peppered her with more sharp, stinging slaps. She was rubbing her thighs together, using that overwhelming sensation of being disciplined and owned and controlled to kindle a climax that would eventually burn out of control. And after a few more slaps she couldn’t resist. She had always loved rough sex, and this was the roughest and most forbidden encounter she’d ever had.
“Okay,” Desirée gasped, a line of spit hanging from her puffy lower lip. Her tits were oiled up with with cum and lube and absolutely bulging like big, fat, black fuckbags, hanging down over her disheveled and disused halter. “Okay!”
“Say it!” Deacon prompted, and pressed his cocktip right against her cheek.
“Please fuck my throat with your fat fuckin’ white cock!” Desirée wailed.
“Whose throat?” Deacon barked.
“ My throat! My black-ass throat! Fuck my muh’fuckin mouf, white boy!” She was absolutely in a tizzy, driven wild with desire and the inappropriateness of her feelings. Desirée hated and loved it at the same time, she felt absolutely out of control and endangered, like she was riding a roller-coaster. There were no brakes, no safe words.
“Not good enough!” Deacon spat again, and Desirée cried out like an animal and inhaled.
“Fuck my nigger face !” she cried, and it was enough - Deacon surged forward, towering over her and drilling his cock back into her mouth, straight down into her guts. He didn’t stop at the back of her throat and her showed her no mercy. He was powerful, muscled, relentless. A heavyweight alpha male who specialized in beating other men unconscious, and now he was using all of his power and aggression on her!
“Fuckin’ take every inch you stupid nigger bitch!” he hissed, clutching her head with two hands and powering down her sucking, spasming throat, coring her down to the guts. All limiters were off as they gasped and choked and groaned together, he was using her face as a cocksleeve and didn’t hesitate to degrade her as he did it - calling her a bitch, a slut, and one word most of all - a nigger. He didn’t stop until he was in her guts - until his fat prick helmet was pummeling her stomach and pissing fat gouts of pre-seed into her belly. The outline of his two-foot rod was visible beneath her skin as it utterly dominated her, and all of Desirée’s fans would have been shocked to see how utterly she was being defeated. She was gagging, her eyes squinting, her cheeks puffing out lewdly and her lips pulled out into a sleeve shape around Deacon’s prong. She made constant gagging and heaving noises like an animal: Hrrrrrrrgh! Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrk! Glrrrrrrrrrrgh! Spit blew out of her dick-sleeve mouth and dripped onto her fat titties, the latticework of white, bubble expectorate contrasting with her black skin. She was being utterly skull-fucked by a monster white cock…
...and she was fucking loving it. Her inner thighs were soaked as her body shuddered to orgasm and she absolutely creamed herself, squirting powerfully right through her tight leggings and making a puddle of the floor. Her hands wrapped around Deacon’s hips and dug into his ass, clutching his muscled glutes and pulling in him, wanting more, wanting to get fucked deeper, harder, more viciously by this white bull! He wrapped two hands around her head, sunk his hands into her dazzling black hair and obliged, digging into her with short, grinding thrusts, scraping and abrading her throat and guts with the veiny, bulging texture of his enormous, two-foot meat.
“Here it comes!” he spat, his breath quickening after a few minutes of ripping up her guts with his pipe. His strained voice seemed to rejoice in verbally abusing her with racially-charged terms, so much so that his orgasm seemed tied to the invective coming from his mouth. “Swallow it all, you fuckin’ nigger bitch !” he hissed through gritted teeth, tossing his head back.
Desirée grabbed his ass tighter and an orgasm tore through her gorgeous ebony body like a sirocco. He began to cum deep inside her, straight into her stomach. Slllrg. Spppprt. Splllllrg! She could feel the powerful, virile ropes of nut as they splattered inside her. She felt less than human, like a receptacle for baby-making Caucasian semen, and in that moment, as her orgasm tore through her body, she felt as dehumanized and enthralled as she ever had. Black cock had been a lifestyle, white cock was a religion. Her groaning, moaning cry of pleasure around Deacon’s brutal fuckpipe was as filled with revelation as any wailing adherent’s come-to-Jesus moment.
That white cock was just.
So.
Big.
She felt his sperm pouring into her, and felt his rock-hard muscles tensing as he marked her insides, spewed his cum into her belly like an alpha-wolf marking his territory. She could feel the hot, boiling weight of it sizzling inside her, unlike anything she’d ever felt, and the pressure of that girthy cock stretching her throat was intense. She knew she must look a sight - straining, face stretched into a cock-shaped tube with plump lips forming the seal around that white dick, eyes watering, mascara running, tits hanging out of her halter in fat globes, loaded with oily spit that was running down her chin in a waterfall. But she didn’t care. White cock was her whole world.
It seemed to last forever, but in reality it was only perhaps twenty seconds of intense spurting before he pulled his still-ejaculating cock from her throat and told her to turn around, get up and turn around and show that ass. And her pride didn’t stop her from scrambling to follow his instructions, standing up to with cum pouring from her mouth and her straight, shining hair whirling with the turn of her shoulders.
“That’s it. Show me what you niggers are known for,” he growled, and with one hand he ripped her tights down her legs as she arched her back and thrust out her booty. He stroking his still-cumming cock and taking aim. “You know you want it!
“You want to cum on my ass?” she croaked, her throat barely functioning, her sassy voice sounding haggard with all the throat-fucking. “You want that shit?”
“Shake it,” he seethed. “Shake that ass, bitch!”
And in spite of the humiliation and the racially-charged abuse, she did. His cock was the key to unlocking her obedience; that size and prowess and brutality had subjugated Desirée in that moment, conquered any misgivings she might have had. She wanted to please that monster dick and the white man it was attached to, she was no longer thinking in terms of pride or decorum but pure service .
He don’t want me to work it like no exotic dancer or no escort , she realized. I ain’t that to him. He wants me to shake my shit like what he sees me as.
He wants me to shake my ass like a fuckin’ *nigger*.
The idea made her shudder in a way she couldn’t understand. Desirée started dipping her hips, and making her thick booty cheeks bounce and jiggle. She started clapping those monster ebony ass-mounds, making the flesh pound together, making sounds like whop-whop-whop-whop. She flexed her cheeks in alternating fashion, lifting the huge ebony hemispheres with uncanny rhythm. That white dick had made her want to do it. “Fuckin’ cum on my ass!” she begged. “Give me that muhfuckin’ white nut! Pump that shit all over me!”
She gasped as she felt the heat of fat ropes of cum shooting out over her cheeks, laying thick lines of gooey sperm vertically along her ass that contrasted in color with her
He grunted mightily as he jerked the last of his load over her cheeks and then stumbled forward, bracing himself against the wall with one hand and leaning over her. Finally, it seemed, he was spent, and Desirée, who had had two orgasms while servicing his white libido, was exhausted as well from the tension, the exertion, the stretching of her throat by that monster. She slumped against the wall as well, turning to face him.
“You nasty motherfucker,” Desirée croaked, rubbing a mix of cum and lube and spit into her tits, greasing them up to gleaming, jiggling orbs and kneading the flesh in her hands, tweaking her own nipples as she looked blazingly up at him. “You musta had a black man in yo’ ****** tree! You were all up in my guts and you fuckin’ covered my ass!” She moved her hands down past her oiled-up tits and rubbed her midsection just above the waist of her tights, as if savoring the memory of having all that white prong plumbing her depths. Her voice was scratchy from the oral assault, and her eyes were red, her face a mask of cum and spit.
Deacon, huffing and puffing, couldn’t help but offer compliment as well. “You’re one crazy bitch,” he gasped. “I can’t believe you took the whole thing. Fuckin’ nasty slut!” Desirée watched Deacon’s cock grow soft and hang down between his muscled thighs. She had indeed taken the whole thing in her throat - twenty-four inches of fat white cock - but it had almost choked her unconscious. A waterfall of spit and throat-slime had poured down her chin and was splattering her huge, dark-complexioned breasts, coating them in a bubbly white mess. She would have to clean up and cover up before making her way to her SUV.
“Not bad,” Deacon admitted, continuing to lean over her against the wall. She could feel his hot breath coming down on her shoulder. He was winded from the exertions of their short but intense encounter. “You’re the only one ever to do that. Guess it’s true what they say about black bitches. You got serious head game.” He made eye contact and she returned it - he looking down, she looking up. His larger body was almost pinning her to the wall, if that was what he had in mind… but he stopped short of touching her. It was almost a tender moment, or one of mutual respect. No white woman had ever handled Deacon’s two-foot fuckmeat, and bombastic trolling and race-baiting aside, Desirée had made him nut faster than anyone else.
“I guess you really are as big as you say, white boy,” Desirée returned, begrudgingly. Though the two were intense rivals and enemies, for the moment, huddled against the cold, painted concrete of the loading hallway wall, they seemed to be at truce.
“So,” Deacon said, his blue eyes meeting her honey-colored ones. “When do I get a piece of that black pussy?”
Whump.
Her knee rose up into his balls with speed that was MMA-worthy, and Deacon immediately made a straining, groaning noise and clutched his enormous testes, turning sideways and doubling over slightly. It hadn’t been a full power shot, but it had been close.
“You… black bitch!” he wheezed, trying to shake it off. Desirée glared at him with arms crossed, managing to look formidable despite her disheveled clothes and cum-covered body.
“Fuck you, cracker!” she sassed. “You ain’t gettin’ no more than you already done got. And you’re lucky I don’t put a case on yo’ punk ass for what you said to me!” She knew she couldn’t let him get over on him like she had and not offer some form of retribution, not if she ever wanted to look at herself in the mirror again. He’d made her wallow in his whiteness, sell him her black sexuality in payment of a bet. In the moment, she’d even taken part in her own humiliation. But now, in the afterglow, coming back to her senses, the sting of that submission was fresh.
“Jaren is going to put a fuckin’ ass-whupping on you tomorrow night,” she went on. “And don’t even think about talking a word of this mess up in his ear. I know you got baby mamas and maybe even a trailer trash wife, and if you get to talkin’, so will I. Understand, white boy?” As she was saying it - cutting off all possible contact between them in the future, Desirée was both sad and relieved. It meant she’d never get another shot at that white cock… but she would also be safe from the way it had made her feel about herself. That monster dick being so superior, the way it made her feel submissive… it had been scary. She had felt like a slave with that white pipe in her face. Best to go their separate ways.
Deacon pulled himself to his feet, gingerly rubbing his wounded balls as he pulled up his compression tights over his softening penis. “Double or nothing,” he said.
Desirée’s golden eyes went wide. “Are you serious?” she wailed. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“Double or nothing,” Deacon said again. “If I beat Jaren for the title… I get you too. You’re my slave for a day and you have to give up that ass. And if I lose-”
“-which you will,” she interjected. Jaren had held the title for 36 months and was in the prime of his career.
“If I lose, well hell… pick a penalty,” Deacon offered. “Whatever fucked up shit you can dream up.” His eyes were still alight with maddening confidence.
Desirée rolled her eyes. She knew it was time she walked away, and stopped playing these games. But that smug expression on this white boy’s cracker face made her want to wipe it off. Knowing he had made her feel the way he had, now that she was coming to her senses, it enraged her. She wanted to see him compromised, servile, obedient… the way she had done for him.
“One million,” Desirée declared. “ When you lose, you bring me one million muthafuckin’ dollars in a suitcase, and present it to me. And I’m gonna record it for my Instagram. And you have to say into my phone, ‘white boys ain’t shit’. And I’m gonna share it with the world.
Desirée felt some satisfaction as Deacon considered it. This wasn’t the crazy confidence he’d shown before, when he’d rigged the bet and knew he was going to win. This time, in order to win, he’d have to beat Jaren “The Manimal” Washington for the heavyweight title. And if he lost, not only would a chunk of his purse be owed to an enemy, but she would make him look like a complete bitch on the ‘gram. There was no way he could take the bet - he was a 3 to 1 underdog in tomorrow’s fight, according to most sportsbooks. She was expecting to savor the sweet taste of timidity as he backed down.
“Alright,” he said. “It’s a bet.”
Desirée’s mouth dropped open with surprise. “Just like that, huh?” she replied. “You one crazy cracker! And I’m about to get paid up in this bitch.”
Deacon offered his hand for a shake. She took it, and the strength of her grip was as formidable as her gaze as they pulled each other close.
“Get that ass ready, nigger,” he seethed into her face. “Once I’m done with you, your gangsta boyfriends won’t each touch the sides.”
“Get my money ready,” she seethed back. “You ofay, whitebread, peckerwood, trailer trash, redneck, honky motherfucker! ” She shoved his chest and he backed off, glaring at each other. Whatever short mutual respect had developed out of sexual prowess was gone, replaced by pure animosity, rekindled anew.
Desirée clacked off in her heels, looking to find a washroom to get herself correct before she made her way out to the car. Deacon left by the loading doors. Unbeknownst to the sports media and the betting world, the stakes for the biggest heavyweight fight in MMA history had just gotten bigger.
Two minutes, thirteen seconds of Round 2. That was the time on the stopped clock when Deacon Dain’s right uppercut crashed into the chin of Jaren Washington and dazed him beyond recovery, leading to a stoppage victory and everyone in the crowd going absolutely apeshit. White boys were climbing over seats, there were riots in the stands. Contingents of hooligans holding flags of historically white European nations, ***** off their asses, celebrating and spilling their beers everywhere.
Desirée had been on the edge of her seat the whole time, finding it impossible to enjoy the fight because of her now-personal stake in it. Normally she was as raucous as any fan but this night she sat stone still, fiddling with the clasp on her purse, biting her lower lip nervously and feeling butterflies assault her stomach anytime there was a flurry of action.
Then, in a flash… it had been over. Black fans threw bottles and trash into the ring as Deacon did a race-baiting interview about being a ‘cerebral fighter’ in there against a ‘big gorilla’ and said that he knew after the uppercut landed that Washington was finished.
Desirée, sitting shellshocked in her third-row seat in a stunning black mini-dress, also felt like she had been finished. She was absolutely still, her face expressionless, while paramedics tended to the recovering Jaren Washington. She wasn’t thinking about consoling her man after the fight (in fact, the loss had taken a lot of shine off of Jaren, in her eyes), but rather the price she had agreed to pay for that loss.
A day as the ‘slave’ of the new champ, Deacon Dain.
“I guess Jaren will have to get back on welfare,” Deacon joked, and the crowd threw more trash. “Before he runs out of yams and collard greens. Look, I won respect tonight, I won the fight, I won the title. But I also won something else. And there’s a lady sitting in the audience who knows exactly what that is. Bitch, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
He dropped the mic with a thump, then looked out into the audience an unerringly found Desirée, staring her down. She looked back at him with anticipatory, knowing tension, and gulped.
She’d made the deal. Now, it seemed there would be hell to pay.
The announcement echoed through the hall, and as the powerfully-built heavyweight champion flexed good-naturedly at the crowd amidst raucous cheers, Desirée Watters rose from her seat to applaud her man. The big fight was one night away - a much-anticipated title bout pitting the black champion against a brash, up-and-coming white challenger, and the media were blowing it up with all the coded racial language they could manage without being too explicit. Desirée was loving every second of it, for the intensity of such occasions always excited her. She had learned to navigate the macho atmosphere of mixed martial arts gyms and sports media with the same wicked cunning that had made her the queen of strip clubs from Atlanta to Miami, not to mention an Instagram and Snapchat diva with a million eager apprentices.
There’s something so lit about knowing your boyfriend could kick anyone’s ass , she thought, and bounced up and down and clapped as Jaren gave the crowd a double front bicep pose and cameras flashed. She’d hooked up with plenty of rappers and athletes, but “The Champ” was her current squeeze - a powerful, dominating black male who liked to party when he wasn’t pounding other men into submission with his fists. Desirée loved his physique, his bank account, and the way everyone treated her when she was around him. They formed a true power couple - two people who worked hard with their bodies to amass their fortunes. The only difference between them was that he did his work in a ring, and she did hers on stage and on cam.
Desirée, a fitness model and stripper, was one of the highest-paid female African-American adult performers in the United States, and by looking at her it was easy to see why. The 22-year-old was built like a brick house , and millions of followers on Instagram could attest to the fact that her calling card - a massive ebony ass that could absolutely devour a thong - was without equal. Her twerking videos, the stuff of legend, were hypnotic in the way they depicted waves of thick booty flesh wobbling, accompanied by the percussion of clapping, oiled up, tattooed cheeks, bouncing in slow motion in their heavy roundness, casting off droplets of stray oil and sweat that glistened in the lens. And it wasn’t just this booty content that fueled her fame. It was the way the presented herself, forming a cult of personality around having the biggest ass, the biggest titties, the biggest, plumpest dick-sucker lips, and living a party lifestyle that involved taking on the biggest black cocks she could find.
It was Desirée who pioneered the “measuring tape” forearm tattoo for black women; a way to hold up her arm on her personal snap and show the brutal length and thickness of the latest pussy-stretching, cum-leaking black shaft. The inch-demarcated ink, accompanied by the name Desirée in flowing script and running elbow to hand, quickly became famous as it was featured in photos of her sexual conquests. “ This sprung nigga got 13”was one caption, showing her measuring her arm against a particularly massive black prong, which was too long for the ten inches that her tattoo covered. “ I took it all and tossed that salad too! ” she’d added. Her private Snapchat had the video evidence of her bobbing like a hungrily on that pipe, her straight black hair shining as it waved with the motion of her face, augmented by pink extensions. Admirers said she had the shapely musculature of peak Serena Williams with a bulging ass-size that surpassed Nicki Minaj, while her face was every bit as glamorous and enticing as Beyonce, even if her skin tone was a bit darker than the pop diva. Even that detail was something she flexed to get her props. Light-skinned bitches, she said, didn’t fuck wit’ packin’ niggas like her.
She adorned the Nubian temple of her well-sculpted body with care. Her nipples were pierced with barbells and her clit also featured a glistening bar with diamond studs on two sides. The flowing, scripted messages on her ass and above her pussy were perfectly on brand - “QUEEN” was scrawled just an inch above her pussy, right where the skin began to darken and thicken into puffy, engorged labia. She had “THOT LIFE” on the massive, melon-sized cheeks of her ass, one word per hemispheric, bouncing flesh mound. She was reclaiming the “THOT” moniker, she crowed, in the same way that other African-Americans had reclaimed the the N-word; by referring to herself and her girlfriends by the same label, making it part of the aspiration. Desirée showed a generation that it was okay to be a THOT, to act like a slut, to take pride in your head game and how many inches of pipe you could take in your waxed, well-groomed pussy.
In this way, Desirée was inspiring young black girls to own being a slut and get paid for it. She encouraged them to invest in themselves and get men paying bills and buying automobiles on their behalf. Her monster ass and breast implants, expensive weaves and extensions, and intricate makeup and tattoo work represented capital well-spent, with the return being a gaudy partying lifestyle that she posted to Snapchat and Instagram - twerking on expensive cars, $1,000 bottles of wine being used to hose down her clapping cheeks, champagne-cork pops and sprays of foam to the face like giant cumshots. She developed such a presence in black media that she was shouted out in the songs of aspiring young hip hop artists. “ My girl got a’ ass like ‘Ree, and give head like her too ,” was one such line. Having a bitch like Desirée on the arm was thus seen as just as gangster as moving yayo or popping caps in motherfuckers.
Desirée Watters was one bad black bitch who was totally down to fuck some big cock. She played the part of the queen bee to perfection. She had the biggest implants (fake enough to look fake, but not fake enough to look like a joke), the thiccest thighs (in the gym, she was a squatting machine), and the biggest, thong-swallowing booty. (Fake? Nobody could be quite sure. But she made Kim K look like Ellen Degeneres) Her eyelashes were teased out to inches long and her fat dick-sucker lips were always Botoxed up, glossed pink and ready to slurp some pipe. Men who saw her club hopping in her dazzling high-hemmed cocktail dresses claimed they could feel their dicks hurting just watching her walk by, looking at each other knowingly with the same unspoken thought.
Watch out. That bitch is from the planet Kill-A-Nigga. She’s out to break a dick *off* tonight.
The aspiration to fame and fortune through hard body-sculpting and strategic silicone was like a religion to Desirée and her disciples - young, fierce black female entrepreneurs who wanted to own the room and be the object of desire for wealthy males who, likewise, had come up from nothing and were looking to impress only the most choice ebony women. But Desirée had another side to her brand. Interspersed between star-making oral sex innuendos, makeup tutorials and inspirational messages was one more refrain she shared with her hundreds of thousands of female fans:
White boys ain’t shit.
Another type of post that Desirée often made was a glimpse into her DMs, where white men would pay her pathetic compliments and she would laugh at their thirstiness and unsolicited dick pics. The message was the same each time she would expose them for the pathetic wannabes they were - she would never fuck a white man. She’d made herself famous by chasing the biggest, thickest cocks. Desirée was mostly silent on racial and social issues - she said nothing about police brutality of the inequalities of modern American life. Her ‘black pride’ took on a very specific form - embracing the legacy of black sexual superiority. If ‘white cucks’ were going to say that people with her skin color had the biggest donkey dicks around, who was she to disagree? So she told her million+ followers exactly that.
Fuck white boys. White boys ain’t shit. Niggas are packin’. Get a hung nigga! Get a sprung nigga! Get a nigga with a foot of pipe, who knows how to use that shit!
This proved to be one of her most popular types of post, and “White Boys Ain’t Shit” merch was even created, sometimes featuring the silhouette of a menacing black penis hanging pendulously beside a tiny white dicklette. She thus got a reputation for being a racially prideful black woman when in fact, she was mostly just focused on cock size. And this was one aspect of her persona that wasn’t just performance. Desirée really loved big dicks - the way they looked, the way they made her feel - and she felt a ton of pride that black men, who shared similar backgrounds and experiences to her, seemed to have the biggest ones.
The short text captions on her social media posts told her story.
“I only eat ass if he got over 11 inches”
“Need a nigga who bust like a fire hose”
“I’m fierce - but ya’ll can slap me if you got 11”
“If ya’ll seed is thick, after you nut I’m still gonna be suckin”
“A nigga with inches just make me want to sleep with his dick in my mouth xD”
She had started dating the champ a few months before. Everyone at Jaren’s Black Tiger Gym knew Desirée, and when she walked in to pay her beau a visit during a hard day of sparring, the action slowed to a crawl. A few seconds after the staccato clacking of her dazzling six-inch platform heels announced her arrival, there wasn’t a heavy bag thumping or a speedbag humming. Weights stood unlifted in their cradles. Ropes were unclimbed. And every swinging, sweating black dick in the place decided it was time to take a five minute break and enjoy the show. Each time dozens of hungry young fighters took the time to ogle her every curve; they knew that if they could put a winning streak together, they could have a bad bitch like Desirée on their arm, just like the champ.
But as much as Desirée liked the macho, dick-measuring culture of MMA, and dating a powerful African-American fighter, she absolutely hated his upcoming opponent.
Her cheers turned to boos and downward-turned thumbs as soon as Deacon Dain appeared on stage. The tattooed white up-and-comer was five years younger than Jaren and undefeated; he’d been granted a title shot due to his talent both in the ring and on the microphone, where he acted like the most obnoxious prick possible, belittling opponents and talking endlessly about his sponsorship deals. The night before, at the pre-fight press conference, Deacon had pointed to Desirée in the crowd and told Jaren: “Not only am I going to beat you, but then I’m going to take your girl home and show her what a real man looks like.” The two men had had to be separated by security, and Desirée herself, wearing a sparkling cocktail dress with no panties, had run up on stage to swing a pair of high heels at Deacon’s entourage, resulting in her bare ass and pussy being plastered all over TMZ. Deacon, unscathed, had tossed her a wink and blown a kiss.
“Fuck ya’ll crackers!” she called out to the stage, hoisting her middle finger at Deacon and his entourage. The nail was expertly manicured with a dollar-sign-shaped glitter finish. “You ain’t shit, your momma ain’t shit and your babies ain’t gonna grow up to be shit!” The pageantry and testosterone of MMA always brought out the sharpest edges of her personality. She kept close watch as Deacon weighed in, and the emcee called out Deacon Dane, 248 pounds.
When Deacon turned to the crowd and flexed, she could see he was absolutely ripped, tighter around the waist than Jaren, who was getting a bit older. Deacon had easily made the 265 limit, even weighing in with his shorts on and his warm-up jacket tied around his waist, and looked utterly confident. She felt a twinge of doubt and shooed it away.
Jaren is going to kill that white boy , she reassured herself. But as the cameras flashed, Deacon made eye contact with her and winked again, enraging Desirée anew. “Fuck you!” she squawked, leaning forward over the railing that seperated the seats from the stage and and letting her boobs bounce in her daring halter top. “Catch me outside and I’ll cut your ass!” Her big breasts were barely contained by the scant fabric, and the raised mounds of her nipples were obvious to anyone looking her way. Men who say the way her bright amber eyes were blazing told themselves it would be worth getting cut just for one more searing glimpse of eye contact. Desirée’s eyes were brilliant, bright brown that seemed honey-colored in the reflections of the press-conference lighting rig. A man could get lost in them, and seeing the thirst in her face while she worked their joints, many gifted men had, opening their wallets for thousands, tens of thousands worth of dances and attention on any given night.
Deacon turned black toward Jaren and made an obscene gesture, saying something like “you better keep that black bitch in line!” Jaren made a move toward Deacon. Security, which had been beefed up for the event, jumped into intercede. Members of both entourages began throwing water bottles and tussling. Desirée lifted her legs over the barricade (one at a time, and yes, it was very nice to watch for all in attendance) and bounced toward the stage, ass jiggling, ready to use her designer purse as a bludgeon.
In other words, just your average MMA weigh-in. But Desirée’s night was about to get even more interesting.
When the tussle ended with no serious harm done (except to the stage and a few unlucky trainers), it was another media circus, white reporters asking white commission officials about white problems, and Desirée had no patience for that. She was ready to leave, and quick.
When Desirée took one look at the line of reporters heading out the back way into the garage, and was told she would have to wait for security to exit, she ‘noped’ out and swaggered away, her buttocks bouncing in her low-slung pink leggings. She’d picked her outfit that night with care, knowing there would be plenty of cameras flashing - pink tights slung so low on her hips that half her ass was visible, a thong underneath that, no bra, breasts bouncing and threatening to burst out of a minimal white crop tie, a tie-style with a knot in the front and a smocked rear showing her sculpted shoulders and back. A gold choker and gold hoop earrings, heavy eye-makeup with eyelids done up in a dazzling royal purple. Lips gleaming and puffed up, matching the pink in her hair extensions, ready to work. Good dress for good press.
But this was not good press. All anyone cared about was the possibly cancellation of the fight by the NSAC. Jaren was giving interviews with the head of the organization and told her to go back first and wait for him. She was royally pissed at the way Deacon had acted at the weigh-in, and in no mood to strut in front of a bunch of slack-jawed MMA photographers who were just there to see her man anyway. So she made her way to the maintenance entrance, taking a long, deserted hallway running parallel to the boiler and toward the truck loading bay.
It turned out that black diva Desirée Watters and white challenger Deacon Dain had one thing in common - a desire to quickly get to the parking garage and back to their hotels. As she approached the service entrance she ran face-first into Deacon, who had the same idea, only coming from the other direction. He was looking as annoyingly smug as ever, amused by the unlikely situation as they stared each other down with a scant five feet of space between them. He towered over her by perhaps a foot, even with her platform heels, but Desirée was not in the business of backing down from any man. Especially not from a rude-ass cracker like Deacon Dain, who thought he was the best thing since sliced (white) bread and who had trolled his way to a title eliminator bout against her current beau by making racially insensitive remarks on Twitter.
“Bitch,” he greeted her, smiling with bemused confidence.
“ Cracker ,” she returned, with aggressive sass. “You might as well just keep on walkin’ because I got nuthin’ to say to yo’ punk ass.” She swirled a hand in front of her face like a magic spell and then snapped her fingers and bobbed her neck with trademark African-American sass. Deacon was shirtless, with a towel over his neck and a pair of low-waisted compression pants showing off far too much below; this was the first time she’d gotten a close-up look at his ink. The assortment of borderline, plausibly-deniable white supremacist tattoos was about what she’d expected. Celtic crosses high on the breastbone. Death’s Head insignias on the shoulders. Stars on both elbows and knees. A stylized norse rune was visible, because of his uncomfortably low-slung compression tights, just above where the base of his cock would be.
And there was something else. Deacon had been wearing shorts over his compression tights at the ceremonial weigh in. Now, without the shorts, Desirée saw something - a big, fat bulge in his crotch that was too pronounced to be a trick of the light. The big, curving bulge seemed to suggest a mythically large penis, folded in on itself… but that was impossible. Deacon was a white boy, a country-ass cracker, and besides, nobody - white or black or any color in between - had ever had a penis as large as the bulge suggested.
“You wearing a cup to the weigh-ins?” Desirée snarked, crossing her arms and letting her purse hang from one shoulder. “You that scared I’m going to kick you in the balls? Yo’ rude ass would deserve it, too.”
“Bitch, this isn’t a cup. You know what it is,” Deacon replied. “You wish your man had this on him.”
Desirée snorted out an incredulous breath. Was this white boy serious? He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with. She’d sucked and fucked the biggest, coal-black dicks of the hardest, most down gangsta niggas. This boy was trippin’ . “Man you ain’t about shit,” she responded. “Just runnin’ your rude-ass mouth like always. Why don’t you take that sawed-off pool noodle you stuffed down yo’ pants and shove it in yo’ mouf so I don’t have to hear your time-wastin’ cracker ass?”
Now it was Deacon’s turn to laugh. “You don’t think this is real?” He reached down and gave his fat, spandex-clad bulge a tug, and it shifted like a dead snake. “I’ll bet you whatever you want. Try me.”
Desirée narrowed her eyes. “Man, give it a rest. I ain’t playin’ games with you. And if Jaren saw this shit he would smoke your ass right now, forget about the fight!” She tugged down on her dress and started to walk toward the loading bay door. “I got to get up out of here before I lose my damn mind!”
She had taken three or four bouncing, clacking steps past Deacon when his voice rang out behind her.
“Talking trash and then backing down. Typical nigger shit ,” he taunted. Desirée stopped in her tracks and clenched her teeth, then spun around after taking a deep breath?
“What did you say motherfucker?” she growled, narrowing her eyes. Instagram having a comment section, she was used to all manner of trolling and had a consummate provocateur’s instinct for just how to needle her haters. If it was a woman, she was no doubt hotter and more desired. If it was a man, she probably had more money and her boyfriends were way more hung. But being called a nigger to her face was something different. She was ready to fight; Deacon might be a trained MMA fighter who outweighed her by 125 pounds, but she had some sparkling manicured nails ready to take out his eyeballs if shit went down, not to mention some teeth that would chomp down on whatever they could find.
“Am I wrong?” Deacon replied, and the calmness in his voice was maddening. “You’re bragging and then leaving without proving shit. I’ll make you a deal. If my cock is bigger than any black guy you’ve ever fucked, you have to give me a blowjob, right now.”
Desirée blinked, then laughed viciously as the tension went out of her muscles. “Do you know who you’re talking to, white boy? I’m down with niggas that are hung to the fuckin’ floor. Now take your racist ass up out of my ear.”
“Chickenshit, huh?” Deacon continued on. “I should have known.”
“Motherfucker, it’s a fuckin’ stupid bet,” Desirée sassed. “I’m tired of you wastin’ my time. What do I get if I win? You gonna give me head? I don’t want your trailer-trash face anywhere near my pussy. Why don’t you take your sorry ass home and get ready for the ass-whipping my man is going to put on you tomorrow night?” She crossed her arms over her large breasts expectantly, having sufficiently, by her estimation, told off her enemy. Now all that was left was for him to slink away and save face. She would tell her followers on the ‘gram that he was a rude, racist prick, she decided. See how his ass liked getting fucked with by sponsors dropping him.
But Deacon stood his ground, rubbed his strong, pointed jaw, and offered an alternative. “If you win the bet… I’ll be your slave. You can take a social media photo of you riding me and whipping my naked ass. Or me licking your boots. You can show the world that Deacon Dain is nothing but a bitch… on the night before the biggest fight of your man’s life.”
Surprised, Desirée considered the offer. If she were to utterly emasculate and cuck Deacon Dain via her Instagram and Snapchat, it would no doubt lead to an easy victory for Jaren on fight night. Deacon’s confidence and career would be utterly destroyed and his punches would be as ineffectual as his inferior white dick! But there was something about his irrational confidence that gave her pause. It was a stupid bet for him, so why make it? Why make it… unless he was on some other game and had no intention of paying up.
“You a lyin’ motherfucker,” Desirée assessed.
Deacon shrugged. “I don’t lie. But if you’re too scared-”
Desirée looked at that massive cock bulge. There was no way it could be real. She had seen big dicks, but this was on another level. It looked like a good-sized twelve inch pipe that bulged out, curved in on itself, and then travelled another twelve inches. It was obscenely large - like a nasty joke played at a frat party. In the end, the fact that it couldn’t possibly be real was what made her decide to accept the challenge. Whatever it was - a couple of protective cups in a jockstrap, a joke novelty dildo - whatever it was, and whatever game Deacon was on, she could get her own back by snapping a quick pic and telling the world that Deacon Dain was a pervert who liked exposing himself to black women. Plus, he had called her a nigger… she wasn’t going to let that shit slide!
“Fine, you got a deal,” she said. “Let’s see that tiny white dick and whatever collection of dishtowers and shit you stuffed down there. ‘Cause you’re going to be left with yo’ dick in yo’ hand tomorrow night once my man…”
FLOP.
Desirée’s voice trailed off. Deacon lowered the waistband of his compression tights and his cock didn’t just fall out. It flopped out. It didn’t just hang, it swung . her heart skipped a beat as she realized she was seeing something that was far larger than any cock she’d ever encountered on a black man. And it was real .
“God...damn!” she gasped, in spite of herself, her eyes transfixed. She’d never seen such a heavy, thick, brutal length of bull meat ! Deacon’s cock was thicker than her arm and almost as long. It hung down past his knee, bulging with veins, the head a circumsized, engorged knob that seemed larger than both of her fists put together. On the top of the base was tattooed a another series of Viking runes, those favored emblems of rude peckerwoods the world over; in this context it served as a reminder of the unfolding whiteness that was right in her face.
Desirée, usually never at a loss for words when it came to “white boys”, found herself momentarily speechless. The biggest cock she’d ever fucked belonged to a black porn star; he’d billed himself at fourteen inches and probably had been a legit thirteen. It was clear that Deacon Dain was at nearly twice as long and thick. Any further teasing and sass died in her throat and she fell to her knees with an expression of awe she couldn’t hide. That fucking white cock looked like it belonged on a fucking elephant!
“Told you,” Deacon said, crossing his arms and letting his meat hang. “Your man isn’t equal to me in the ring, or anywhere else.”
“You…” Desirée stammered, and again her voice died in her mouth. She was absolutely cockstruck by the sheer size and brash virility on display, that monster shaft, those huge balls! She’d made a career of dick-measuring and the aspiration of fucking really hung men, and it hadn’t been just a performance for her fans. It was a true reflection of what she wanted and needed. She loved big cocks, and because black men always had the biggest ones, she’d loved black men. But now she felt her pussy soaking itself at the sight of two feet of throbbing Aryan pipe! And on the heels of that, the realization of her promise; the bet she’d never expected in a million years to lose!
I can just renege on that shit , she thought. I can tell him to go fuck himself. That he cheated and used a pump on that motherfucker or injected saline into his balls. Ain’t no contract signed, ain’t no law that says I have to do it.
But he’s so fuckin’ big , said another side of her. You know it’s real, he didn’t cheat. He makes the hardest niggas you’ve been with look like some little young-ass babies by comparison.
She knew that the correct thing to do just laugh, tell Deacon it didn’t matter and Jaren was still going to whip his ass, and then be on her way. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to see with his white friends, pointing and laughing at her, watching him whisper into their ears and reading the words “lying nigger” on his lips. She didn’t want to welsh on the bet. In the end, it was that absurd justification - that he had won the bet, that he somehow deserved what was coming to him - that allowed her to put down her purse and get on her knees in front of him.
“Hurry your ass up before someone sees this shit,” she hissed. But her attitude dissipated again once she found herself staring down the barrel of Deacon’s pipe, right at eye level. Damn, fuckin’ shit is massive , she thought, and was ashamed to feel the excitement inside her. She had always been so into black sexuality; embracing even the more questionable portrayals of black men as hung sex gods. Desirée loved big dicks, and she loved black men in part because they had the biggest ones. He makes the brothas I’ve been with look like some tiny-dick little fucking fags, she marvelled. He’s totally muthafuckin’ packin’! She was ashamed to make this admission, as if she were ‘selling out’ by admitting what was clear - this white bull had a cock more than twice as long and twice as thick as any of her black boyfriends. Three times longer than most of them.
Deacon’s from above was legendary; she was spread-thighed, calves and heels splayed behind her, and down the smoothness of her back he could see the massive ebony globes of her monster ass, wobbling and swaying like two huge, water-filled balloons, split by a scant thong that appeared ready to vanish off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Her leggings, low-waisted as they were, put the top half of her cheeks on full display, and Deacon’s roving eye enjoyed every second of his view as he watched her ass bounce and flex beyond the shining plain of her long, straightened black hair.
Desirée inhaled as if preparing for a tough task, and looked head-on at the massive prick helmet and fat pisshole that was bobbing in front of her face. It seemed cavernous, big enough to take her tongue inside. She couldn’t help imagining how that would feel… poking her agile pink tongue tip against that hole and feeling it slide inside that dickslit, so large she could actually tongue-fuck it. It needed to be big because it was a delivery system for all that nasty cum in those big, white nuts! Desirée licked her lips. Renowned for world-class head and possessed of a glamorous nose and flawless cheekbones and facial structure, her lips were her best and most famous facial feature. Thanks to her use of plumping gloss, regular surgical injections and her natural gifts, Desirée’s face sported not just lips but a pair of barbie-glossed dick-slurpers . Now, her tongue indented these shining cotton-candy-colored pillows as it circled around.
“Get those big nigger lips around my dick,” Deacon growled, wearing an ultra-confident grin. Such a comment would have earned him a kick in the balls and a swift outing on Instagram at any other time, but Desirée’s anger was tempered by her utter cock shock, and she only glared up at him past his throbbing shaft, which was half-hard and bobbing with almost perfectly horizontal tension.
“Fuck you, peckerwood!” Desirée sassed, but when Deacon gripped her shaft and bonked her on the lips with his meat, she made a groaning noise and didn’t resist as he rubbed her lips and nose against his prick helmet, marking her face with the touch of his grapefruit-sized knob. She gasped at how big and spongy the helmet-shaped head was. It gave against her lips, but not too much - there was an insistent firmness beneath the flesh of that knob that was just just enough to allow her lips to press in against the turgid tissues beneath.
“Stretch out your lips and kiss my dick,” Deacon ordered. “Don’t half-ass it now, you owe me. I heard black girls have big lips and now I want to see if that shit is real or just rumor!”
It’s muthafuckin’ Botox you country-dumb cracker , Desirée thought fiercely, but she did as he said, pursing her lips and then making an exaggerated kissing face as he pressed his huge cocktip against her mouth, letting her kiss and suck his pisshole. She could taste him - the pungent flavor of semen was especially strong, stronger than any other man she’d been with. Against her will, this excited her. Botox or not, her moist, cum-lubed cock-slurping lips provided an amazing cushion for cock as he mashed them around her face, dragging them to and fro with his cocktip, tracing around them as if applying lipstick with his leaking prick.
“Fuckin’ nasty-ass white boy!” she moaned, and when she pulled back, her plump lips were smeared with pre-cum, primed to suck dick. Her nostrils were flared, and she felt every tiny detail of her dilation and salivation as if it were happening in slow motion. How many times had people of Deacon’s race tried to degrade her people, talking about big lips and big noses? Yet here she was, puffing out her lips, taking deep breaths, showing her black face off to this white man, giving herself up to his monster cock!
“You look like a fuckin’ slutty black bitch with those fat nigger dicksuckers!” Deacon marveled. “Damn, they’re soft!” He continued to smear his dicktip around her face, dominating her with it, leaking his cum everywhere and glazing her up. “Nnngh!” he grunted, milking a stroke from mid-shaft to tip with his gripping hand. “This is what I call nigger makeup , bitch!”
His piss-pipe bulged and disgorged a hot, nasty rope of chunky cum onto the middle of her forehead, squeezed down the length of his shaft by the tight, milking strokes of his fist. She didn’t get the sense that he was cumming, but rather that his big, fat balls were such cum factories that he had nut to spare! “Fuck! You a quick shot!” Desirée hissed, sounding thirsty, exhaling lustily as he jerked out four or five short, chunky cum-ropes onto her forehead, nose, cheeks and lips. It was such thick nut! It formed bridges between her long eyelashes and her skin, from top lip to bottom lip, it lay on her forehead like a big, albino worm!
“You’re not getting off that easy, bitch,” Deacon said. “That was just pre. You’ve still got a job to do.”
“Oh, shit!” she gasped, again, reaching up to collect a sperm strand and rub it between her fingers. “Even your pre-nut is thick as fuck! You nasty cracker!” Taking some agency, she dragged her face down over the bulbous rim of his glans and encountered the raised, fat cum-pipe on the underside of his shaft. The network of veins carrying blood to his prong seemed to throb under her loose grip, and even that detail excited her. These vessels were as thick as her dainty fingers and she exhaled sharply as she let his shaft fall to the side of her head and looked left to deliver a full-lipped kiss to one of those bulging, lightning-strike vessels. Desirée hated herself for feeling so worshipful, but she was in awe of cock; loved those veins that carried the blood needed to make it hard so she could experience it at full size. The weight of it was amazing. She ran her tongue over her lips again, accentuating them, and arched her back, thrusting her round booty cheeks out, putting them on display.
Damn, why am I showing out like this? Like an old racist-ass cartoon?
She told herself that her lips were big because of her beauty regimen and her ass was big because of surgery and squats, not some sort of racial predisposition. But with that white bull cock in her face, she felt conspicuously black in a way she’d never felt before. She tried to chase away the thoughts, but they came anyway.
I’m just a big-lipped, thick-assed black bitch for dat white cock! I want that shit! I’m showin’ out for that white boy dick!
He was just so fucking big . The size was such that it cancelled any internal questions about self-esteem. The potential consequences of going through with their absurd wager seemed distant, while Deacon’s fat, half-hard fuckmeat was immediate and in her face! She reached out a hand to heft and cup his bulging nutsack; it was smooth and sweat-glistening and oh-so-heavy. The sloshing, churning feeling of his balls, and the way his scrotum spilled over the sides of her palm as she tried to hold it up, the testicles hanging like two fat ostrich eggs, made Desirée’s insides turn to jello.
She had never felt such pure breeding power; and the significance of that word - pure - tingled in the back of her mind. She’d never seen Deacon with a black woman; that meant all of his wriggling, impregnating baby seeds had been spent on his own kind. Putting babies in their bellies. She had heard rumors he was a dog - the fuck’em and leave ‘em type. She’d heard that he had a whole mess of kids with a whole mess of trailer trash baby mamas. But looking at the size and prowess of him… for the first time in her life, she thought that white women were lucky. That they had something better than what black women were allowed to have. Deacons huge white nuts were pumping out seed, day and night, and just like the restrooms and juke joints of yesteryear, they were WHITES ONLY. She imagined a brigade of blonde, blue-eyed sons; the descendents of Deacon, growing up ripped and hung and ready to dominate in the ring and in the bedroom. It made her shudder and the thick lips of her pussy slid against each other with percolating, sinful wetness as she knee-walked forward and took a place beneath his long shaft, getting a close-up of those big, fat cum factories.
“Damn…” she said, unable to hide how impressed she was. “This shit belongs on a horse!”
“Bigger than your black boyfriends?” Deacon taunted, glowering down at her, arms crossed. His body was a marble statue, an icon of unyielding, tattooed muscle.
“Yeah,” she acquiesced, and felt a pang of wounded pride in her chest. But there was no denying it. Just one of Deacon’s balls was as large as the entire sack of any man she’d ever been with. She felt herself drawn to imagining just how much nut those big, pink sperm tanks could produce, and as she did so, she pressed her face forward into the hot, musk-perfumed crevice between his balls, inhaling experimentally and uttering another “Oh, fuck!"
It’s like an animal looking to breed , she thought. The scent is so strong and nasty as fuck! She couldn’t resist burying her face in that sack and taking a deep sniff while her bangle-clad hands, with their dazzling “GET MONEY” dollar-sign nails, held him in place. His pink, hot scrotal skin hung heavily between her fingers, contrasting with her darker skin. She felt dizzy and completely overwhelmed as the nut-stench filled her olfactories and drove her body into a state of frenzy. Desirée was a formidable woman, confident and self-sufficient to the extent that her male admirers were afraid to approach such a sassy, soulful minx. Yet here she was, on her knees, sniffing white balls! Degrading as it was, she couldn’t look away. She loved sex, including the scent of sex, and this was the strongest, most pheromone-loaded sex scent she’d ever taken in!
Goddamn it girl, get a grip , she told herself. Stop this showin’ out. Puffin’ up your lips and suckin’ them nuts, ass twerkin’, nostrils flarin’ wide like you should be in a tribal village with a bone through your nose. Why you coonin’ for this cracker?
It was a question she dared not answer. She felt Deacon’s balls churn against her face, and just knew that his fat cum tanks were brewing up a big load of baby seeds for her; shit, if she had sex with him, his tadpoles would knock up her fertile African eggs instantly! And she knew, just knew,that the resulting baby would be pure white; the sperm coming out of these nuts was so powerful that every trace of her ancestry would be obliterated! That twenty-four inch Caucasian pipe could turn any woman into a white-only baby factory! The feeling of that tar-thick, sloshing load, bubbling in those big nuts, ready to fill her up… it was enough to drive her absolutely wild, and though she was dimly aware that she was erasing her fantasies of black sexual prowess and replacing them with an almost subservient sexual respect for colonizer cock, the moment was too intense for her to pull back. She wanted that white nut down her black throat . Her thick, dusky cunt lips sliding against each other in the front of her tights, showing phat camel toe, producing a conspicuous stain that darkened the pink fabric in a growing circle around her wet cunt!
She started sucking on one fat testicle, blowing it like an ovoid cock, letting her plump, gloss-painted lips spread and contract, spread and contract. She flattened out her talented tongue on her targeted orb and bathed it in spit until it was slick and bubbling, spraying her hot breath onto it, gasping with the arousal of servicing such a sperm-brewing, fist-sized bull nut . She could see the way Deacon’s skin stretched with the sheer weight of his endowment and it drove her wild in a way that no cock of her own skin color ever had. In the moment she became increasingly excited to explore this new Caucasian frontier.
No wonder these crackers always take whatever they damn please. How many Pocahontases were staring down a pipe like this and fell right to they knees and said ‘Come on in’ Mr. White Man, and take all our shit!
“Suck my nuts, nigger bitch,” Deacon chided, lowering a hand into her hair and rubbing her scalp with a thumb, in the way a dog’s owner might reward an obedient animal. Normally Desirée would have clawed out a presumptuous john’s eyes for touching her expertly-styled hair, but she couldn’t muster any outrage in the moment. In her own mind, she was a trophy to be won by only the most successful, dominant, and hung men - and Deacon was the first white man who had been able to knock her on her heels with sheer size. When Deacon turned up the heat with racial slurs’, nobody would have blamed her for standing up and leaving, bet or no bet. She didn’t have to take abuse like that no matter the stakes. Part of her knew that. Knew that if she didn’t leave, she was putting cock size ahead of racial and personal pride. The right thing to do was raise up out of there. But… Desirée didn’t move. That monster white cock was just too much to give up. It had flipped a switch inside her.
She let him rub his sweaty, spit-soaked sack all over her face in a degrading display of ownership, and arched her back as a near-orgasmic tingle scintillated in her belly from the act of being so thoroughly overwhelmed in service to big, white balls! Her oral attentions shifted and became more earnest and less reserved. She took big pulls of scrotal skin and sucked on them with hollowed-out cheeks, looking up at Deacon intensely with mascara that was beginning to smear. She couldn’t get even one testicle in her mouth - they were too large, but she did her best, slurping and gagging and drooling against his sack like a baby, her exhalations making it clear she was enjoying every second of it. Much as she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, her libido was purring and her pussy was on fire.
“Shit!” Desirée gasped, pulling back her mouth and letting glistening bridges of spit connect her thick lips to the bulging sack. “You nasty motherfucker!”
“You talk too much,” Deacon scolded. “Just like every black bitch I know.” And before Desirée could raise up in righteous rage, he grabbed his monster cock and began to slap her face with it, banging the shaft and head off of her lips, nose, cheeks, and forehead. The shaft splattered the split leftover from her ball-sucking and spread it around her face, and she closed her eyes against the assault.
This is some LAPD shit , Desirée thought. He was slapping the fuck out of her black face with his white nightstick, and the blows were stinging but also nasty, reminding her how hard and ready to fuck he was; many times Desirée had banged a cock off her lips or her cheek while looking blazingly up at her man, letting him know that she was willing to get as rough and nasty and off the hook as he wanted. Now, this muscled white man was doing it to her, beating her face and letting her know that her dicksucker lips were nothing but cushions for a white cock slapping! Needing to regain some agency, she reached out and grabbed his shaft, beginning to bang that fat dong against her own face, extending her tongue and slapping it on the pink, moist flat.
“You like ‘dat shit?” she hissed up at him. “Mu’hfuckin’ peckerwood getting off on slappin’ a bitch, huh? Well come on. I ain’t gonna give you head, you ‘gon have to take it! I want to feel that pipe in my stomach, white boy!” Her teeth were clenched, the dickslaps had brought a livid color to her smooth, dark cheeks. Though the sensible part of her wanted it done, and realized she should have never made the bet, Deacon’s size and aggression had brought out the wildcat inside of Desirée Watters - the ebony goddess who had made an Instagram career out of aspiration toward the most excessive sexual feats, was drawn to the act of handling such a monster cock. The bad black bitch who wanted to choke on some fat cock
Her defiant dirty talk seemed to spur Deacon on, and his hand gripped her hair even tighter as she moaned and tilted her head back. He pressed his spongy, leaking cockhead against her mouth. It was an absolute jawbreaker. No woman without extensive experience sucking cock would ever even attempt it, but Desirée was one such woman, having taken on the biggest cocks she could find over the course of her adult life. Even by those standards, this was a new level. She opened up and groaned as the thick white meat began to stretch her lips and burrow into her mouth. Her jaw creaked as he began to open her up, exploiting and pillaging another unclaimed land, but her eyes were fearless. Her teased out lashes sliced in upward crescents as she stared up, unblinking.
Glrruuuuuuuuuuuuurk!
His monster white dick burrowed into her black throat. Desirée’s eyes reddened and her plump, pillowy dick-suckers stretched into a tube shape as the flesh of her cheeks and face was morphed into a tube shape around Deacon’s dominating white fuckpipe. Her amber eyes were wide with effort and surprise as her throat was taken and her neck bulged with the intruding cock shape. Her tight golden choker stretched so much that the clasp broke and it tumbled to the floor. She gurgled like an animal and a torrent of spit burst from the seal of her mouth and splattered onto the shelf of her bulbous black bimbo tits. The sounds she made were of struggle, tension… and arousal.
Desirée had given a thousand blowjobs in her life - she was known for world-class head - and during such encounters she was always in control. She would take every inch of her man, talk dirty to him, control his cock like an experienced pilot working a flight stick. By the end, no matter the size of his cock or his bank account, he would be putty in her hands, dumping cash freely on everything from diamond necklaces to Gucci handbags to island vacations. But this time was different. Deacon was absolutely massive, too much even for her, and instead of her usual nasty dirty talk, all that came out of her mouth when his prick helmet punched into the back of her throat was series of humiliating, wet croaking noises. And he wasn’t even a third of the way in.
Her eyes lost some of their edge and took on docility as she realized she was not in control. He had a grip on her hair and his powerful muscles allowed him to control her face with ease, dragging her up and down the first eight inches of his shaft, soaping up his meat with her spit as she struggled to breathe. Her breasts hung enormous and banged against each other as he made her nothing but a ghetto chickenhead, and her low position left her round, bulging assmeat to jiggle lewdly behind, two globes of nubian flesh absolutely devouring her stringy thong and wobbling lewdly each other with each thrust into her mouth!
Desirée felt something pouring down into her and realized it was Deacon’s pre-cum. He was leaking like a faucet, and even his pre-seed was amazingly thick. Her pussy tingled as she realized he was feeding her that cum, letting it slop down into her stomach whether she wanted it or not. She could feel it sliding out of his yawning pisshole when he would withdraw his prick-helmet to the front of her mouth, it was so nasty and chunky!
Damn! That nut is thicker than any black guy , she thought, and he produces way more of that shit too .
He pulled out of her mouth with an audible “pop!” and spit flew in a sheet down the floor. Desirée gasped, breathing hard from the lack of air, but her eyes never moved from the bulbous, cum-leaking cocktip that was poised just in front or and above her face. Deacon maintained his hand’s grip on her hair and pushed her down lower, making her sink to a spread-kneed, ass-on-calves position, and then stroked his length in front of her, milking himself over her as if her black face were just a cum rag. His hand was large, but still barely able to encircle his own girth. He slid it from mid-shaft to tip, milking himself onto her face, letting a fat, chunky cum worm slide from his fat piss slit before Desirée’s cock-struck eyes.
Look at that nasty shit , she marvelled. And she leaned forward and pursed her glossy, painted lips into a an exaggerated donut shape, and sucked that fat cum worm right out of Deacon’s pisshole like it was a strands of pasta. It piled up on her tongue and she moaned at how strong it tasted and how she would have to chew that mess to swallow it.
“Had enough?” Deacon sneered, bonking her on the nose with his cocktip like a dog owner playing with a pet. “You got almost half of it down your throat. Not bad… for a black bitch.”
Desirée chewed, swallowed, and let Deacon see her throat working to chug that nasty mess, then glared up at him with a spit-glazed chin and vicious amber eyes. “Fuck you, white boy!” she sassed. “You want to fuck my throat? Then fuck it! White boys ain’t shit!”
Deacon’s muscles tensed with a fury that made Desirée’s body tingle with anticipation, and slapped her across the face with an open palm. “Oh, fuck!” Desirée moaned, and a bolt of sizzling submissive energy roiled in her belly. She had been the alpha bitch in every sexual encounter for so long, she barely remembered what it was like to be truly owned by a man. Having talked up twelve and thirteen inch cocks for so long, the truth was that almost all men fell short of that rarified air and left her wanting. And as for their money, even when a man spent heavily to ‘buy’ her affections, she didn’t feel submissive at all, but rather like she was getting over on him. Jaren had been the closest thing to a proper counterpart for her - a black alpha stud who took no shit from his training partners or his girl. But even the champ was prone to spoiling her, and their sex was often tender.
But this white boy-
He just lit my ass up for talkin’ that shit , she marveled. This white boy don’t give a fuck! That’s real alpha shit. He’s not buyin’ me cars or takin’ me out to dinner. He’s treating me like a… like I’m his...
The unspoken thought made her body shudder, and he grabbed her hair, including the expensive extensions (another typical no-no, but Deacon was quickly becoming the exception to many of her rules), and spit directly into her face. She began gasping, utterly overwhelmed as he expectorate splashed her.
“Beg for my cock,” he ordered. “Come on, beg for it, you thick-ass black bitch !”
Gasping, she shook her head, managed to croak out “Fuck you, muh’fucka!” and he peppered her with more sharp, stinging slaps. She was rubbing her thighs together, using that overwhelming sensation of being disciplined and owned and controlled to kindle a climax that would eventually burn out of control. And after a few more slaps she couldn’t resist. She had always loved rough sex, and this was the roughest and most forbidden encounter she’d ever had.
“Okay,” Desirée gasped, a line of spit hanging from her puffy lower lip. Her tits were oiled up with with cum and lube and absolutely bulging like big, fat, black fuckbags, hanging down over her disheveled and disused halter. “Okay!”
“Say it!” Deacon prompted, and pressed his cocktip right against her cheek.
“Please fuck my throat with your fat fuckin’ white cock!” Desirée wailed.
“Whose throat?” Deacon barked.
“ My throat! My black-ass throat! Fuck my muh’fuckin mouf, white boy!” She was absolutely in a tizzy, driven wild with desire and the inappropriateness of her feelings. Desirée hated and loved it at the same time, she felt absolutely out of control and endangered, like she was riding a roller-coaster. There were no brakes, no safe words.
“Not good enough!” Deacon spat again, and Desirée cried out like an animal and inhaled.
“Fuck my nigger face !” she cried, and it was enough - Deacon surged forward, towering over her and drilling his cock back into her mouth, straight down into her guts. He didn’t stop at the back of her throat and her showed her no mercy. He was powerful, muscled, relentless. A heavyweight alpha male who specialized in beating other men unconscious, and now he was using all of his power and aggression on her!
“Fuckin’ take every inch you stupid nigger bitch!” he hissed, clutching her head with two hands and powering down her sucking, spasming throat, coring her down to the guts. All limiters were off as they gasped and choked and groaned together, he was using her face as a cocksleeve and didn’t hesitate to degrade her as he did it - calling her a bitch, a slut, and one word most of all - a nigger. He didn’t stop until he was in her guts - until his fat prick helmet was pummeling her stomach and pissing fat gouts of pre-seed into her belly. The outline of his two-foot rod was visible beneath her skin as it utterly dominated her, and all of Desirée’s fans would have been shocked to see how utterly she was being defeated. She was gagging, her eyes squinting, her cheeks puffing out lewdly and her lips pulled out into a sleeve shape around Deacon’s prong. She made constant gagging and heaving noises like an animal: Hrrrrrrrgh! Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrk! Glrrrrrrrrrrgh! Spit blew out of her dick-sleeve mouth and dripped onto her fat titties, the latticework of white, bubble expectorate contrasting with her black skin. She was being utterly skull-fucked by a monster white cock…
...and she was fucking loving it. Her inner thighs were soaked as her body shuddered to orgasm and she absolutely creamed herself, squirting powerfully right through her tight leggings and making a puddle of the floor. Her hands wrapped around Deacon’s hips and dug into his ass, clutching his muscled glutes and pulling in him, wanting more, wanting to get fucked deeper, harder, more viciously by this white bull! He wrapped two hands around her head, sunk his hands into her dazzling black hair and obliged, digging into her with short, grinding thrusts, scraping and abrading her throat and guts with the veiny, bulging texture of his enormous, two-foot meat.
“Here it comes!” he spat, his breath quickening after a few minutes of ripping up her guts with his pipe. His strained voice seemed to rejoice in verbally abusing her with racially-charged terms, so much so that his orgasm seemed tied to the invective coming from his mouth. “Swallow it all, you fuckin’ nigger bitch !” he hissed through gritted teeth, tossing his head back.
Desirée grabbed his ass tighter and an orgasm tore through her gorgeous ebony body like a sirocco. He began to cum deep inside her, straight into her stomach. Slllrg. Spppprt. Splllllrg! She could feel the powerful, virile ropes of nut as they splattered inside her. She felt less than human, like a receptacle for baby-making Caucasian semen, and in that moment, as her orgasm tore through her body, she felt as dehumanized and enthralled as she ever had. Black cock had been a lifestyle, white cock was a religion. Her groaning, moaning cry of pleasure around Deacon’s brutal fuckpipe was as filled with revelation as any wailing adherent’s come-to-Jesus moment.
That white cock was just.
So.
Big.
She felt his sperm pouring into her, and felt his rock-hard muscles tensing as he marked her insides, spewed his cum into her belly like an alpha-wolf marking his territory. She could feel the hot, boiling weight of it sizzling inside her, unlike anything she’d ever felt, and the pressure of that girthy cock stretching her throat was intense. She knew she must look a sight - straining, face stretched into a cock-shaped tube with plump lips forming the seal around that white dick, eyes watering, mascara running, tits hanging out of her halter in fat globes, loaded with oily spit that was running down her chin in a waterfall. But she didn’t care. White cock was her whole world.
It seemed to last forever, but in reality it was only perhaps twenty seconds of intense spurting before he pulled his still-ejaculating cock from her throat and told her to turn around, get up and turn around and show that ass. And her pride didn’t stop her from scrambling to follow his instructions, standing up to with cum pouring from her mouth and her straight, shining hair whirling with the turn of her shoulders.
“That’s it. Show me what you niggers are known for,” he growled, and with one hand he ripped her tights down her legs as she arched her back and thrust out her booty. He stroking his still-cumming cock and taking aim. “You know you want it!
“You want to cum on my ass?” she croaked, her throat barely functioning, her sassy voice sounding haggard with all the throat-fucking. “You want that shit?”
“Shake it,” he seethed. “Shake that ass, bitch!”
And in spite of the humiliation and the racially-charged abuse, she did. His cock was the key to unlocking her obedience; that size and prowess and brutality had subjugated Desirée in that moment, conquered any misgivings she might have had. She wanted to please that monster dick and the white man it was attached to, she was no longer thinking in terms of pride or decorum but pure service .
He don’t want me to work it like no exotic dancer or no escort , she realized. I ain’t that to him. He wants me to shake my shit like what he sees me as.
He wants me to shake my ass like a fuckin’ *nigger*.
The idea made her shudder in a way she couldn’t understand. Desirée started dipping her hips, and making her thick booty cheeks bounce and jiggle. She started clapping those monster ebony ass-mounds, making the flesh pound together, making sounds like whop-whop-whop-whop. She flexed her cheeks in alternating fashion, lifting the huge ebony hemispheres with uncanny rhythm. That white dick had made her want to do it. “Fuckin’ cum on my ass!” she begged. “Give me that muhfuckin’ white nut! Pump that shit all over me!”
She gasped as she felt the heat of fat ropes of cum shooting out over her cheeks, laying thick lines of gooey sperm vertically along her ass that contrasted in color with her
He grunted mightily as he jerked the last of his load over her cheeks and then stumbled forward, bracing himself against the wall with one hand and leaning over her. Finally, it seemed, he was spent, and Desirée, who had had two orgasms while servicing his white libido, was exhausted as well from the tension, the exertion, the stretching of her throat by that monster. She slumped against the wall as well, turning to face him.
“You nasty motherfucker,” Desirée croaked, rubbing a mix of cum and lube and spit into her tits, greasing them up to gleaming, jiggling orbs and kneading the flesh in her hands, tweaking her own nipples as she looked blazingly up at him. “You musta had a black man in yo’ ****** tree! You were all up in my guts and you fuckin’ covered my ass!” She moved her hands down past her oiled-up tits and rubbed her midsection just above the waist of her tights, as if savoring the memory of having all that white prong plumbing her depths. Her voice was scratchy from the oral assault, and her eyes were red, her face a mask of cum and spit.
Deacon, huffing and puffing, couldn’t help but offer compliment as well. “You’re one crazy bitch,” he gasped. “I can’t believe you took the whole thing. Fuckin’ nasty slut!” Desirée watched Deacon’s cock grow soft and hang down between his muscled thighs. She had indeed taken the whole thing in her throat - twenty-four inches of fat white cock - but it had almost choked her unconscious. A waterfall of spit and throat-slime had poured down her chin and was splattering her huge, dark-complexioned breasts, coating them in a bubbly white mess. She would have to clean up and cover up before making her way to her SUV.
“Not bad,” Deacon admitted, continuing to lean over her against the wall. She could feel his hot breath coming down on her shoulder. He was winded from the exertions of their short but intense encounter. “You’re the only one ever to do that. Guess it’s true what they say about black bitches. You got serious head game.” He made eye contact and she returned it - he looking down, she looking up. His larger body was almost pinning her to the wall, if that was what he had in mind… but he stopped short of touching her. It was almost a tender moment, or one of mutual respect. No white woman had ever handled Deacon’s two-foot fuckmeat, and bombastic trolling and race-baiting aside, Desirée had made him nut faster than anyone else.
“I guess you really are as big as you say, white boy,” Desirée returned, begrudgingly. Though the two were intense rivals and enemies, for the moment, huddled against the cold, painted concrete of the loading hallway wall, they seemed to be at truce.
“So,” Deacon said, his blue eyes meeting her honey-colored ones. “When do I get a piece of that black pussy?”
Whump.
Her knee rose up into his balls with speed that was MMA-worthy, and Deacon immediately made a straining, groaning noise and clutched his enormous testes, turning sideways and doubling over slightly. It hadn’t been a full power shot, but it had been close.
“You… black bitch!” he wheezed, trying to shake it off. Desirée glared at him with arms crossed, managing to look formidable despite her disheveled clothes and cum-covered body.
“Fuck you, cracker!” she sassed. “You ain’t gettin’ no more than you already done got. And you’re lucky I don’t put a case on yo’ punk ass for what you said to me!” She knew she couldn’t let him get over on him like she had and not offer some form of retribution, not if she ever wanted to look at herself in the mirror again. He’d made her wallow in his whiteness, sell him her black sexuality in payment of a bet. In the moment, she’d even taken part in her own humiliation. But now, in the afterglow, coming back to her senses, the sting of that submission was fresh.
“Jaren is going to put a fuckin’ ass-whupping on you tomorrow night,” she went on. “And don’t even think about talking a word of this mess up in his ear. I know you got baby mamas and maybe even a trailer trash wife, and if you get to talkin’, so will I. Understand, white boy?” As she was saying it - cutting off all possible contact between them in the future, Desirée was both sad and relieved. It meant she’d never get another shot at that white cock… but she would also be safe from the way it had made her feel about herself. That monster dick being so superior, the way it made her feel submissive… it had been scary. She had felt like a slave with that white pipe in her face. Best to go their separate ways.
Deacon pulled himself to his feet, gingerly rubbing his wounded balls as he pulled up his compression tights over his softening penis. “Double or nothing,” he said.
Desirée’s golden eyes went wide. “Are you serious?” she wailed. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“Double or nothing,” Deacon said again. “If I beat Jaren for the title… I get you too. You’re my slave for a day and you have to give up that ass. And if I lose-”
“-which you will,” she interjected. Jaren had held the title for 36 months and was in the prime of his career.
“If I lose, well hell… pick a penalty,” Deacon offered. “Whatever fucked up shit you can dream up.” His eyes were still alight with maddening confidence.
Desirée rolled her eyes. She knew it was time she walked away, and stopped playing these games. But that smug expression on this white boy’s cracker face made her want to wipe it off. Knowing he had made her feel the way he had, now that she was coming to her senses, it enraged her. She wanted to see him compromised, servile, obedient… the way she had done for him.
“One million,” Desirée declared. “ When you lose, you bring me one million muthafuckin’ dollars in a suitcase, and present it to me. And I’m gonna record it for my Instagram. And you have to say into my phone, ‘white boys ain’t shit’. And I’m gonna share it with the world.
Desirée felt some satisfaction as Deacon considered it. This wasn’t the crazy confidence he’d shown before, when he’d rigged the bet and knew he was going to win. This time, in order to win, he’d have to beat Jaren “The Manimal” Washington for the heavyweight title. And if he lost, not only would a chunk of his purse be owed to an enemy, but she would make him look like a complete bitch on the ‘gram. There was no way he could take the bet - he was a 3 to 1 underdog in tomorrow’s fight, according to most sportsbooks. She was expecting to savor the sweet taste of timidity as he backed down.
“Alright,” he said. “It’s a bet.”
Desirée’s mouth dropped open with surprise. “Just like that, huh?” she replied. “You one crazy cracker! And I’m about to get paid up in this bitch.”
Deacon offered his hand for a shake. She took it, and the strength of her grip was as formidable as her gaze as they pulled each other close.
“Get that ass ready, nigger,” he seethed into her face. “Once I’m done with you, your gangsta boyfriends won’t each touch the sides.”
“Get my money ready,” she seethed back. “You ofay, whitebread, peckerwood, trailer trash, redneck, honky motherfucker! ” She shoved his chest and he backed off, glaring at each other. Whatever short mutual respect had developed out of sexual prowess was gone, replaced by pure animosity, rekindled anew.
Desirée clacked off in her heels, looking to find a washroom to get herself correct before she made her way out to the car. Deacon left by the loading doors. Unbeknownst to the sports media and the betting world, the stakes for the biggest heavyweight fight in MMA history had just gotten bigger.
Two minutes, thirteen seconds of Round 2. That was the time on the stopped clock when Deacon Dain’s right uppercut crashed into the chin of Jaren Washington and dazed him beyond recovery, leading to a stoppage victory and everyone in the crowd going absolutely apeshit. White boys were climbing over seats, there were riots in the stands. Contingents of hooligans holding flags of historically white European nations, ***** off their asses, celebrating and spilling their beers everywhere.
Desirée had been on the edge of her seat the whole time, finding it impossible to enjoy the fight because of her now-personal stake in it. Normally she was as raucous as any fan but this night she sat stone still, fiddling with the clasp on her purse, biting her lower lip nervously and feeling butterflies assault her stomach anytime there was a flurry of action.
Then, in a flash… it had been over. Black fans threw bottles and trash into the ring as Deacon did a race-baiting interview about being a ‘cerebral fighter’ in there against a ‘big gorilla’ and said that he knew after the uppercut landed that Washington was finished.
Desirée, sitting shellshocked in her third-row seat in a stunning black mini-dress, also felt like she had been finished. She was absolutely still, her face expressionless, while paramedics tended to the recovering Jaren Washington. She wasn’t thinking about consoling her man after the fight (in fact, the loss had taken a lot of shine off of Jaren, in her eyes), but rather the price she had agreed to pay for that loss.
A day as the ‘slave’ of the new champ, Deacon Dain.
“I guess Jaren will have to get back on welfare,” Deacon joked, and the crowd threw more trash. “Before he runs out of yams and collard greens. Look, I won respect tonight, I won the fight, I won the title. But I also won something else. And there’s a lady sitting in the audience who knows exactly what that is. Bitch, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
He dropped the mic with a thump, then looked out into the audience an unerringly found Desirée, staring her down. She looked back at him with anticipatory, knowing tension, and gulped.
She’d made the deal. Now, it seemed there would be hell to pay.
