A meeting surrounding the plot details of a brand-new movie took place on a chilly November night. The film agency building was one of the many that lit up the streets of the city. In one of the conference rooms sat a dozen individuals, most looking pretty much the exact same: old, white, male.
One person sticks out among the rest, however. The gorgeous Margot Robbie is clad in all black; black heels, black pants, a black top, and even a black turtleneck that she strangely chose not to remove for the meeting. Her legs were crossed, her head resting against her hand, bored, her focus fading away. She groaned at the thought of doing this film. Pure Oscar bait, not testing her extraordinary talents in the slightest. May get her a nomination, but a win seems near impossible at this point in her career, having lost many deserved awards. Worse, her role is pretty much confined to being the love interest of the lead.
She turned her head to her co-star and sneered. That's what her recent roles have all been: the love interest of boring guy after boring guy. "Boring" as in played by an actor that she decides isn't up to her standards due to some, ahem,
external
qualities.
She felt her phone vibrate and opened it to see who it was. It was from one of her closest friends, Emilia Clarke.
Will you be here tonight? Alex and I might get started without you
, the text read.
Margot quickly responds.
I'm going no matter what. I need some type of therapy after this fucking meeting
.
Hehe, well, the therapy we offer always seems to do the trick. I'll see you there love
. Emilia caps off her text with a kissing emoji, which Margot reciprocated. When she was about to put the phone back in her bag, she felt it vibrate again. She opened it and nearly yelped. What was attached was a selfie of the Game of Thrones star, featuring
something
belonging to
someone
else. Her face flushed red, and she started getting a particularly stimulating feeling somewhere in her lower body, but she was able to keep everything under wrap.
After what felt like an eternity, the meeting was adjourned. Margot stood up immediately, picking up her purse and bolting out the door. Her co-star tried catching up to her, calling her out and halting her from getting to where she so desperately needed to be. He clearly wanted to ask her out, but she only gave him a look that said "really?" before turning around and strutting out of the building like he never existed.
Exiting the building, she removed the garment that covered her neck, revealing a necklace that held a black spade.
Music blared, drinks were spilled, and bodies were groped. The Celebrity Snowbunny Club was thriving, attracting more and more of Hollywood's hottest eye candy with each passing day. Women of all colours, but most prominently white, were having the time of their lives on the dance floor. Dressed in a variety of skimpy outfits, they took the opportunity to dip their toes in the club's main attraction: the black men.
They roamed around like they owned the place. Only some wore tank tops at most; the rest bearing their mouth-watering body for everyone's viewing pleasure. But even 8-packs paled in comparison to what the women were really after. While they all wore boxers or speedos, a pair of eyes could still see that they were packing something big from miles away.
The girls were groping their muscles, making out with them and grinding on their bulges; it was a miracle that they didn't just whip their cocks out right on the dance floor. At least, they resisted doing so, before dropping everything and taking leave to one of the private rooms.
But what made the club special, apart from the taboo nature of the clients, is right in the name. The female guests weren't just normal chicks with jungle fever; they were celebrities. Women that countless young girls look up to, and just as much young boys masturbate to, all gather in this club to fool around with ebony studs.
Over at the lounge, Tiktok star Addison Rae was giving a rather dapper gentleman a twerking lap dance, all the while recording it on her phone. At the bar, publicly-admitted snowbunny pornstar Kendra Sunderland was surrounded by half a dozen men doing body shots off her 32G tits.
But the main show at that moment was on stage. Strutting across the walkway with all the confidence in the world was one of the world's most desired women: Hollywood star Alexandra Daddario. She wore not an inch of fabric, baring it all to those watching, which was pretty much everyone in the club. She grabbed the pole and swung, letting whatever preemptive actions she had in mind take control. At every movement, her breasts recoiled; bouncing around so much that it was like a game to keep their eyes on it. But as hypnotizing as they were, somehow her eyes still stole the show. She always he'd eye contact with one of her viewers, transfixing them and selling the possibility that they might be the lucky ones tonight.
She took her legendary tits in her hands and squeezed them around the pole as she slid down, giving the men in the audience an idea of what a session with her would be like. When she hit the floor, she jumped to her feet and ran, sliding on her knees to the edge of the stage. She leaned forward and shook her tits on the face of a lucky stud who, obviously, thoroughly enjoyed the action. The crowd cheered and he had the balls to reach up to try to feel them himself, but he was met with a slap in the face. Alexandra pulled back and glared, gesturing down toward her chest. The man was reminded of what was tattooed on both of her luscious jugs: a black spade with a q embedded in it.
Alexandra was not just one of the many sluts that frequented the club; she was one of the queens. The three queens founded this lovely establishment, and so they held the most power, along with their chosen kings. Every individual who walks past those revolving doors must hold them with the utmost respect, meaning they cannot lay a finger on them unless they allow it.
Alex was the life of the party, the one that people loved, the one that entertained others and herself by doing so. As she danced the night away giving her audience hard-ons, another queen sat in the dark, away from all the noise.
Emilia Clarke, the mother of dragons herself, downed a shot of bourbon with a lit cigarette between her fingers. She turned her head at the uproar and smiled. She can't say she shared her friend's constant desire for attention and partying, why would she when she already commanded it, but she enjoyed the energy she brought.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a smug voice to her right.
"Hey good looking," a patron said, taking a seat on the stool next to her. "You looking for a place to crash tonight? Don't see your man around."
Emilia narrowed her eyes at the man, sneering in disgust. "He's doing some very important business here right now," she responded. "Helping one of the newbies get used to... people like you."
She looked down at the bulge in his pants, then back up, giving him a mischievous, seductive look. "You know, you really shouldn't be directing such loose language at one of the queens of the club, unless you think you're a king." She uncrossed her legs while taking a sip of her drink, flashing her pussy at him.
"I hope you know, I am when one of three in charge of this place. That means I have more power over you. That means my bull has more power over you." Emilia gets up and slowly walks over to him. "If I want to fuck you, I'll have you fuck me. If I don't, don't even think of putting a finger on me." She looks down at him sitting on the stool, he looks up at her, a bit intimidated, but can still see a bit of lust in her eyes.
"Everything good?" Emilia's bull, Godfrey, comes by, immediately putting his arm around her waist. He was a big, brutish, and of course, black man, and gave the other and threatening glare.
