From the moment that she opened the box Monica understood the message she was being sent. The objects inside were blatant, the significance of one particularly obvious. It was for her to choose whether to take the path indicated.
Monica understood. In ‘real life’ she was Heather Cameron, the sole daughter of extremely wealthy parents. She was a trust-funded academic researcher and her success was not entirely down to the money behind her. She had an intelligent, seeking, mind and that fact did not change during those, increasingly prevalent, times when she became Monica. When she was able to be the woman that she was becoming ever more aware that she truly was.
As an illustration the old Heather could not have done what she was going to do tonight. It would not only have been unthinkable it would have been impossible. Only now that she was also Monica could she explore her true self.
She picked up the object again. Not for one moment did she even consider declining its implications. She performed shows on the TKB network and the boss of that network, Harley, had caused that box to be delivered to her. It might well have been his idea – Harley was a man who seemed able to look into her very soul. They had made love but they were not lovers. Her experience on the Island with Harley had not made them a couple but it had left her wanting more. Since her return he had been in her dreams, he and the other man. They had been very different except, of course, that they had both been Black, they had both wanted her and they had left her craving more. A craving that could not be satisfied even by that large sex-toy modelled, accurately she could testify, on the Big Black Cock of the porn-star Julius Flint.
It was a dangerous thing. Not so very long ago Heather Cameron might have had desires but the possibility of ever acting upon them had seemed impossible. Not because she could not have done so but because she would never have thought of doing so. That barrier had been collapsing even before she had gone on her trip with Harley. The last fragments had collapsed into nothingness as Harley’s Black cock had claimed her very willing white pussy. Maybe even before that.
Had she thought that experience would be enough? She doubted that, that would have been foolish beyond belief. She had already been aware that it was proverbially a step that you could not retreat from. Now she knew the truth of that. There really was no going back. When she had felt her Black lover, her Black lovers, claiming her body and planting their seed deep within her it had changed her. Heather no longer had to play a part as Monica. Now, it often seemed, it was Monica who had to play a part on those occassions when she had to be the old Heather.
Most of all, the hunger had not been assuaged. The need to feel that same thing again, to see his dark cock enter her pale body, to sense his power and know his desire for her. To experience that rush, that intense rush, that only being Blacked could give her.
Monica paused and articulated those words to herself.
‘That intense rush.’
She knew what context those words were usually used in. The association with drugs, the ‘high’ of a user. Drugs, users, addiction – loss of control. She picked up that particular object from the box again and thoughtfully examined it. It would take her further down the road, would tie her ever more tightly into the path that she had chosen. She knew that, all of that, but it never crossed her mind to reject it.
***
Harley was not there. He watched from his home base in another State. This was a show that he would not have missed for the world. That rarest of things for the TKB Network – a show unavailable to the hundreds of African-American Members or the many thousands of white boy subscribers. This was a little private pleasure just for himself and for Izeye. It was really Izeye’s party. That man had a fine eye for female talent and he had noticed Monica from the first.
That shouldn’t have been difficult. She really was a beautiful young woman. That long, vivid, red hair cascading down over her shoulders, the well-defined, symmetrical features of her face, the pale unmarked skin of her body. The fine lines of her back down to a real fine phat ass like most white girls couldn’t even dream of sporting. That whooty alone would have made her the biggest star on his Network but it wasn’t what he found most desirable about her.
No – that was her deep green eyes. He had seen a lot of blue-eyed and brown-eyed white girls, even some with green eyes, but none with eyes quite like hers. They radiated intelligence, they told you this fine piece of ass wasn’t an everyday slut or money-chasing whore. She was something else. Not the first time he had ‘developed’ a girl like her but it was always special and unique. It was what kept him in the game. He didn’t need the money – though he also didn’t turn it away!
His opinion seemed to be shared by the Network’s Members and subs. Even a regulation show by Monica drew heavy traffic. Subs had to put their names and money down early Taksim travesti to even have a chance of seeing her Challenge shows. He could already charge twice the usual rate – as things progressed that mark-up would increase rapidly if he was right about just how great a prospect this girl was.
Tonight’s little audition would tell them a lot. He had left the details to Izeye – the man was a master in his field. Devising the show and also, as a true craftsman, manufacturing what was required.
The countdown began on his screen. Harley made himself comfortable in his deep leather armchair and took a taste of his fine cognac. He enjoyed the finer things in life.
***
Monica had carefully read the instructions provided. She had examined all of the objects provided for her use. She detected the hand of the notorious Izeye in both the objects and the orders. She detected that he, like Harley, was a man who could take her to places that she had never explored before. The objects laid out before her were, she knew, only a beginning if she followed that path.
Her instructions had started simply if a little ominously. ‘Always have someone with you in case of difficulties. Always have a safe word. Yours is ‘whitebread’.’
The first part was not difficult. That had been arranged for her. George, her college’s African-American porter and her regular helper in these shows, was watching the game in the other room. A shout or a hand knocking on the connecting wall would bring him at the run.
The safe word was, of course, very carefully chosen. Monica was well aware of her background as a blue-blooded New Englander. She had lived her life as Heather Cameron knowing that her fellow students, her tutors, her friends, they all knew just exactly who she was and what lay behind her name. It had made it impossible to be sure that what you achieved was actually down to your own efforts, to be sure that people were with you for who you were rather than for what they could get out of you. As Monica only Harley and George knew what her old, or was it really her previous, identity was. As Monica she was making her own way and on her own merits. She had seen the members’ chats and knew the significance of ‘whitebread’. That was a white girl who was fronting, out of her depth, claiming to be what she was not.
Whatever happened – she stressed the ‘whatever’ in her mind – Monica was never going to be ‘whitebread’. That much she was determined about.
Not that such thoughts were in her mind now. From the moment she had opened the box Monica had known that this was perfect, it was exactly what she needed to do.
She set the countdown on her computer and knew that the cameras would start automatically in ten seconds. She pulled the sheet of paper and the box over to her couch and took a seat in the middle of the cameras’ framing.
She read her instructions again and found the appropriate item. It was a round cuff of leather, beautifully smooth and finished. A silver hoop extended out from one side and opposite it were fastenings. She pulled the cuff onto her wrist and fastened it, the leather was comfortable but also tight. She found the matching item and attached it to her other wrist. She experimented by moving her arms and found that the cuffs stayed snug against her skin, their weight noticeable but again not uncomfortable.
Next was that first item that she had seen when she opened the package. Again it was in black leather but this time it was a collar. She experimented placing it against her neck and found where it felt comfortable. Then she moved her fingers together and felt the click of he collar’s fasteners snapping into place. Again the leather was left snug against her skin but this time there was an extra frisson added to her body’s reaction to its touch. On the outside of the collar was silver lettering and it would now be blatantly obvious to anyone seeing her. She knew what those letters spelled out and what they would mean.
She had wondered about her clothing. Now she decided what she wanted. She pulled her short-sleeved top up and over her head. Scanning the rest of her instructions she also realised that it would be better if she stripped off her footwear and her designer jeans now. That left her naked save for the leather items and her panties. She thought about the latter but decided to keep them on.
Next were another pair of leather cuffs similar to the others but larger and not intended for her slim wrists. She pulled the first of these cuffs up her right leg until it was snug against her thigh just above her knee. Its silver ring was obvious against the black leather on the outside of her thigh. Once more she repeated the process on her other leg.
Next out of the box was the largest item. It was a slim but very strong metal rod of about two feet in length with a leather cuff on each end. Clearly manufactured by the same skilled hands. She attached the first cuff to her right ankle as instructed and fastened it in place. She aligned the metal rod up to her left ankle and then fitted Taksim travestileri its other cuff into place snugly.
The result was interesting to say the least. Her feet were kept apart and while that did not prevent her bringing her knees together that did not make it a particularly comfortable position. It was much more natural feeling to leave her knees apart and that meant her legs were also wide apart. It would have been an intensely vulnerable position anyway but wearing this collar and having George just next door only magnified that sensation. Monica licked her lips which all of a sudden seemed a little dry. She knew the feelings flooding through her body and she recognized them. No fear, no concern, no regret – only excitement, anticipation, desire.
However, she was new to all of this and now it could get awkward. She found the next item and carefully examined it. It seemed rather more mass-produced than the cuffs but she was relieved to see that it seemed to be brand new. She put the item up to her mouth and experimented. The ball on the device was sizeable and felt uncomfortable on her lips and against her teeth. She opened her mouth and let the ball slip inside adjusting it until it seemed to find its appropriate location. It held her mouth open but also filled it. There were a couple of holes drilled thorough the ball and she found she could still breath through her mouth if necessary.
With that reassurance she pulled the leather strap attached to each side of the ball and stretched it round behind her head. Now it really was getting very tricky. She had to manoeuvre her fingers behind her head to pull the strap snug and then fasten it. After a couple of tries she managed it and the strap’s clip behind her head fitted smoothly into place. After a moment she thought about adjusting it but found that the clip had fixed into a position from which she couldn’t move it. She moved her jaw and found the ball fitted tightly into her mouth.
She tried to say, ‘Oh that’s just great isn’t it,’ but found only a muffled noise emerged.
There was only one instruction left and frankly she had come so far that there was no point in chickening out now. Besides, her naturally competitive nature kicked in. She knew that there were eyes on her – gauging her reactions and her performance. She would complete the task and she would be the best.
The last items were two small padlocks and a single key. As per the instructions she checked the key and found it smoothly undid each of the locks. then she took the first of the padlocks and used it to connect the metal ring on her right wrist cuff to the metal ring on the outside of her right thigh.
She tried to exhale a deep breath but the ball-gag didn’t help much. She was feeling it now for sure. There was one more lock there and once that was in place she would be going nowhere without assistance. Also, she would be in this position until someone chose to release her. An intensely vulnerable position and naked except for a rather delicate piece of underwear. It was not a position she had ever expected to find herself in. She couldn’t have said what her reaction would be. However, she knew now. Her heart was beating fast, she felt beads of perspiration on her forehead, the feeling of the leather cuffs on her wrists, ankles and thighs was comfortable but implacable.
The word for it was intense. She knew that the act of fastening the last lock would ratchet the intensity up even more. She knew that fact and she understood implicitly that she wanted to experience it. The practicalities were a little difficult and she was pleased that her body had the suppleness of a dancer. Even so it was a slight stretch to reach with the lock and click it firmly into place.
She tested her wrists and found that they were firmly held in position. She wasn’t going to be breaking free on her own any time soon, maybe not any time ever. She looked at the key where it lay on the bed. Just out of reach – that might not have been sensible. Just as well then that she wasn’t minded to be sensible. Ever since she had seen that collar she had known exactly what she wanted to do and sensible came a very distant second to that knowledge.
She lay on the bed and felt the intensity of her reaction crest and peak. As her rational brain resumed a degree of control it struck her that she wouldn’t be able to get George to help her. She couldn’t call out and she couldn’t reach over to tap on the wall. Even if she tried she could hear the TV from where she was and no muffled calls for help were going to be heard above that. For just one moment Monica wondered if this had been such a good idea.
A second later the doubt was washed away by a flood of excitement and anticipation. The cause was simple – she heard the ring-tone of George’s phone above the noise of the basketball on the TV. Her reaction was Pavlovian – just like the old Russian scientist’s animals her body automatically reacted to the stimulus, to the knowledge that she would soon be getting what she wanted and needed. She knew Travesti taksim who was ringing and she knew why.
It seemed an age but it could only have been a few seconds later that she saw the door to her room open. George came into view, his phone still to his ear, but he paused as soon as he came through the door. She saw his eyes take in every part of her from her head to her toes, saw him put his tongue into his cheek and then slowly nod his head. He spoke into his phone.
“I see it but I’m not sure I believe it. I’m thinking I’ll have to get her word for it.” He tapped on his phone, put it away in his pocket and then slowly approached Monica.
“Well, well, well – seems you got yourself in quite a predicament there girl. You know what it says on that there collar – all nice and bright and clear?”
“Hmmppff,” said Monica into her ball-gag. She then nodded her head rather more comprehensibly.
“You sure there, because you do need to be sure.” George ran three of his coal-black fingers across her naked white belly. The man watched her eyes as they followed the fingers, sensed the quiver in her body at his touch.
“Hmmmmpppff,” said Monica. Her green eyes met his brown ones, sensed the amusement and the pleasure in them. She felt a reciprocal warmth run through her own. She and George had shared her secret for so long, they had worked together on so many shows and this man had never let her down. She wanted to reward him and from the moment she had seen that collar she had known how.
George let a finger drift down to her panties, traced a line across the thin cotton that separated him from her pussy. All the time his eyes did not leave hers. Even when she glanced down his were waiting for her when she returned. Re-establishing that deep connection between the two of them, two people who were so different and yet had become so close.
He seemed to come to a decision. He reached up and behind Monica’s head. A slight fumble and then the ball-gag slipped free from her mouth.
“Tell me what it says on that collar Monica?”
“It says, ‘Fuck Me George’.” Her mouth felt dry, the words barely escaped her lips.
George shook his head. “What’s that girl? You’re going to have to talk up so as this old Black man can be sure what you’re saying.”
She swallowed and tried again, her voice nice and clear for him. “It says, ‘FUCK ME GEORGE’.”
“Now I did think that was what it said. So tell me Monica just what is it that you want from me? You want me to take off that collar and use that key there?”
“No – I want you to fuck me George – I want you to fuck me now.”
George paused and raised his eye brows, he gave every impression of thinking it over. “I’m a little disappointed in a well brought-up girl like you Monica. Ain’t you forgetting a little word there?”
For a moment she had actually wondered if he would just let her go. George had helped her so far but she knew that he was a man with his own code of behaviour. She worried that she had gone too far for him. Now she rejoiced to see the humour in his eyes and she knew what he meant.
“Please fuck me George – please.”
Now he smiled and she saw the tip of his tongue between his lips. He said no more but only reached back behind her head. Two easy movements and the ball-gag was fastened back in place.
He looked at her and that smile was still on his lips but his eyes were serious. “Here’s the thing girl – like I’ve told you before. If you playing these games you got to know we ain’t fooling. If we’re talking the talk then we gonna be walking the walk.” As he spoke George had been undoing the buttons of his shirt and he now took it off and placed it on a chair. “You gotta be sure you know what you want because its going to take you places where you is going to be expected to match up to expectations. You can’t be frontin’ and crying off.” He leaned down to remove his shoes and socks and then carefully went round the two cameras and turned them off.
Then and only then George undid his belt and his pants, letting them fall to the floor. A moment later and his shorts had joined them. His cock was hard, standing straight up against the curve of his belly. “So between us Miss Heather Cameron you want this old Black man to fuck you. Like you see we ain’t playing games – there ain’t no frontin’ here – you nod that pretty head of yours and I’m taking that fine white pussy. Making it Blacked for sure and for keeps. So what’s it to be?”
“Hmmmpppff,” said Monica or Heather, was there really any difference between them after this moment, as she very purposefully nodded her head.
“Because you need to understand where you are going with this.” He moved close to her and his hand cupped her breast. “When a premium-grade fine-assed white girl is gonna offer herself up then any real man, which we both know means any Black man, is gonna take her up on that. He’s gonna own that sweet white mouth, he’s gonna own these perky little white titties, he’s gonna own that phat white ass and most of all he’s gonna own that fine white pussy. He’s gonna make you his play-thing, his fuck-toy. That’s for sure and maybe, just maybe, he’s gonna decide to breed his little white bitch and own this white belly too.” Once more his fingers, calloused by a lifetime of hard work, moved with amazing delicacy over the smooth, pale skin of her stomach.