Pharaoh

Chapter 2: Black Pharaoh

The economic boom began about week three and the town went crazy all over again. The Governor announced a new highway, then a new rail terminal, then an airport expansion. Plans were unveiled for a luxury hotel on the site of our dilapidated white projects. One of the big banks was relocating here, a pro basketball team began talks about a new stadium. New parks were laid out along the river. A new golf course planned for the outskirts of town. There were rumors of a huge new development on the undeveloped land at North Porter Reeks. Everything happening all at once.

The town auditor projected an increase in tax revenue of 246% for the next year and 550% three years out. Two new schools were planned. Property values soared.

Everyone going nuts.

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We weren't stupid, the guys in town. Some of the new lovemaking was spontaneous and fun and sexy and meant for us. The blowjob that first night certainly was. Some other times too.

But most? You could figure it. The girls were in training now. Most couples we knew, including ourselves, made love once or twice a week. Hardly preparation for what the winners of the competition might be in for. It made the girls nervous, and we understood that.

Two weeks after the announcement, Alicia came to me blushing and stuttering and fumbled out a request. I guess I sort of enjoyed her like that, for which I am sorry. But you should see how pretty she is when she blushes. Anyway, would I mind using the dildo, the black one, on her sometimes? You know? At least maybe sometimes? Maybe not like every single time, so it can be just about us, but, you know, maybe a few times?

Her idea was that after we fucked, we would rest. Then when she was ready I'd fuck her again with the dildo, practice her getting off on cock. Like I said, training.

And, like I said, she's a good girl, and very modest, and it makes her uncomfortable to have to talk about sex that way. Which is why I shouldn't have been enjoying it. She's too sweet for me to take advantage like that.

We got the dildo for our wedding, a gift to us from her Mom and Dad. And at first I was really pretty good with it if I do say so myself. The honeymoon and the weeks after I was on top of things. But you know what it's like. After a while the couple falls into a rut and the husband starts to forget that there's more to making love than just his own pleasure. Even, sometimes, the girl forgets that she wants it.

I was totally fine with her idea — to be honest, more than fine. I was embarrassed that she had to ask. Plus the obvious. All this making love. Now being able to make love with her a second time using the dildo. It gave me two chances at night to caress and please and enjoy her naked body, and at least one good chance to see her cum. A no brainer.

She was so adorably shy about asking. Blushing and stuttering like I said, with her eyes down on the carpet. So cute, so modest and wonderful. Ladylike. A real old school North Porter lady.

"I know this is hard on you," she said.

I wiggled my eyebrows at her in appreciation. But she wasn't joking. "I'm serious Jeff. All us girls are feeling for you guys. We want to be sensitive to your needs too."

"We know that."

"But at the same time we have to practice. You know? I know I'm not going to win. But on the off, off, off, off, off chance that somehow I do get selected, then I need to be ready."

I spoke up then. "Honey, you're obsessing about nothing. I'm fine with you training, believe me. Hell, the guys in this town have never been so happy. Me especially, cause of you. I never got to make love with my wife so often."

Her eyes were moist believe it or not. Sweet natural unadorned beauty.

So I went on, "We all just want you girls to succeed. I just want to be part of your team, to help however I can. We know how important this is. For you, for the whole town. It's an honor for us guys too."

She sniffled at that and broke a crooked smile. "You're so wonderful to me." She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and we hugged a while. Those breasts! They never fail.

She leaned back, serious again. "Should we start tonight?"

"Hell, we can start now if you're in the mood." It was 2 in the afternoon.

Alicia freed herself from my arms and fake punched me in the chest. "You old horn dog! Keep your dirty mitts off of me for now. I'm due over Janie's house. We're going to model for each other and pick the best outfits."

"Best lingerie too?" I asked with a leer.

She didn't see the leer and answered seriously. "Yes, that too. Course we still don't have a clue if it's better to wear panties or not. I guess it depends on the Pharaoh we would get — if any of us gets that far. You know? Depends on what he likes. And how on earth are we supposed to figure that out?"

Sam showed up twenty minutes later. She looked lovely in a lacy little frock, long dark hair reaching the top of her boobs. Pretty obviously no bra. Medium tits sort of like Alicia's, but not as perky or nice. Darker panties than she probably wanted for a dress like that. But who was I to complain? She had best friend status despite being a little dimwitted. But lovely.

We did some small talk, Sam's husband Arnie is a good friend. He just bought a new riding mower. I should go check it out while they were at Janie's. But once the girls left I didn't feel like visiting. I wanted to clean the dildo for later.

I'd like to clear up one thing right here. The fake cock wasn't massive. Wasn't like some gargantuan freak penis. We'd been taught in school that the old myth of superior black cock was just that — a racist myth. All it amounted to was: We know we can't compete but please stay away from white women. As if the upper blacks had no rights at all. As if our white girls had no rights. Racist. Sexist too.

Not that it matters, but I'm no slouch in the size department myself. Really. Almost 7 inches fully erect and sort of thick. Maybe not as thick as I would like, but thick enough. None of the girls I'd been with, which was two, Alicia and one night with a slut in college, had ever complained.

The dildo was a tad bigger than me and ebony black. Probably seven and a half inches. A little thicker too but nothing ridiculous. Her Mom would never have bought us some disgusting thing. Two good sized balls were attached, bigger than mine but more or less in the same range.

It was a pleasure to shine him up for her, and I probably did it longer than was strictly necessary. But I enjoyed the work. I even enjoyed doing my multiplication tables to keep from getting hard. Cause I was picturing him sliding into her cum slick cunt. I washed and dried him and did it again and then I polished him up just the way she would want. He was gleaming when I laid him carefully in our night table drawer.

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We took about 300 photos for her to choose from. The first was her in a short, pleated blue skirt, a Peter Pan blouse and a string of faux pearls, hair tucked behind her ears, looking down modestly, hands together in front as if cradling a delicate flowers. She was standing in front of a rose bush in the yard and I shot up the slope to emphasize her pretty legs. The second she was in our bedroom in a beautifully subtle orange crepe de chine dress that emphasized her tiny waist and naturally perky tits. A gorgeous, welcoming smile with a pretty note of submission in her eyes. The third she was in the blue/black bikini on the beach in the DR last summer, the one that really showed her boobs the best. Alicia was all set to register.

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Yesterday at work I wandered by the office reserved for the Assistant Regional Sales Manager. No one was around — it was lunch time — so I was able to pop my head in and take a good look. Pretty nice. It even had a small window out to the courtyard.

The office had been empty for two months. Old Roger was certainly taking his time making a decision.

I went in and tried to open the window, air the place out a little. Then I remembered that two Assistant Regional Sales Managers earlier, when the job belonged to Arnold Messignier, he had nailed the window shut. Said he thought ants were getting in.

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I worked for Roger for most of my college life, almost full time too. At first it was mainly scut work for the sales team, filing, copying, getting vehicles ready for a test drive and so forth. But I was learning more there than in school, picking up the sales game, learning it by the end better than most of the regulars. I became a full fledged sales guy the day after I graduated.

On Wednesday evenings Roger closes the doors promptly at 5. Everyone scatters to Pharaoh pregame rituals. Mine were with my roommate Ed Fitts and a few other college buddies. We, like pretty much all of America, faithfully watched the first three seasons of Black Pharaoh. Once in a while we'd get lucky and some girls from the dorm would join us. We considered this very, very cool and were always eager to see the girl's reactions. Which did not disappoint.

Everyone knew it just as Pharaoh, and the introduction each week is burned in the memory of my generation:

A thousand years before Pharaohs ruled Egypt there was another, the first Pharaoh, in the central African kingdom of Kinbote, Through warfare and conquest Kinbote had grown to a third of that massive continent. Pharaoh had tens of millions of subjects and millions upon millions of enslaved men and women. On festival days Pharaoh would call on his women to go among the people, slave and free, and find the three most enchanting, unplucked girls. In an elaborate ceremony he would pick one to be his lover and consort for a month.

Now we celebrate a new age of Kinbote and a new Pharaoh. Tonight three lucky girls will be interviewed. But only one can advance to Pharaoh's bed.

This is Black Pharaoh.

We couldn't quite make sense of the whole thing — except that it was incredibly exciting. More exciting when we had girls to watch with. We'd all watch quietly, respectfully, attentively. It would be rude to chat while either Pharaoh or the girls were speaking. The guys would try not to get hard in front of the others. The girls would try not to squirm too much.

We spent hours after each episode dissecting every question, every answer, and the Pharaoh's selection. The guys were generally supportive of his choice. The girls would often dissent, shy but pointed in their thoughts, critiquing both Pharaoh's questioning and his decision. That's girls for you. They were careful never to go too far.

On stage was a divider between the girls and that week's Pharaoh. He couldn't see the girls. The audience, the live one and the TV audience, could of course. Pharaoh would proceed round robin with questions. Her looks, body type, measurements, face, hair, her likes, dislikes, personality, education, artistic interests, hobbies, clothing style, lingerie, sense of humor, her goals, her family and friends. What she was wearing right now, down to the last stitch. Was she single or married? Was her boyfriend or husband enthusiastic about her serving Pharaoh? Were her parents supportive?

Anything it seemed except — and this was the kicker — anything except her sexual history or practices or willingness or preferences. To satisfy the censors, we were lead to believe, there could be no questions about the kinds of sex acts she enjoyed or loved or welcomed or hated or tolerated. No questions about frequency, positions or style, no questions about orgasm. No questions about her first blowjob or the last time she got fucked. Nothing.

Pharaoh might get a pretty good mental picture of what a girl looked like, but he couldn't see her and could judge her sexuality only indirectly. Maybe by the sound and tone and pleasingness of her voice. The hints of submission and obedience. And of course by the live audience reaction to answers.

Unlike the good old days in Kinbote, the girls were not uniformly unplucked. In fact a minority of them, maybe one every two or three shows, was a virgin. She might be single and 18 with her parents permission, or 19 and pure with a nice boyfriend's permission. Some Pharaohs preferred these girls. And a single girl who gets Pharaohed is exempt from her Virginity Certificate, so the girl doesn't suffer and can still get married.

But the majority of contestants were eager young married women, all middles (no lows or ups), all competing with a husband's permission. They would have had sex, maybe plenty of sex. But he couldn't ask. Had to figure it out best he could. The producers had determined that most Pharaohs wouldn't want to start a girl's training from scratch. That they'd want a girl to hit the ground running, so to speak. Made sense.

Somehow it not only worked, it worked so well that the entire country went crazy, glued to those 90 minutes every Wednesday night.

Crazy like once, but only once, one of the dorm girls, a sophomore named Verice, a pudgy little white slut with nice tits, got so excited I was able to walk her down the hallway after Pharaoh talk and fuck her in her bed. Told you it was cool.

The audience was split in five sections. Front center, the largest group was for uppers and upper uppers; these were our VIPs, leaders in government, business, the arts, academia, and so forth. Friends of the Pharaoh, no more than 20 of them, occupied the smaller front left and right sections. The girls were given rear left, center and right assigned by lot. Each girl got 50 tickets for her cheering section of family, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, schoolmates and any others she knew who happened to have a loud voice.

The host of the show, Joey Chernesky, came in at the beginning to introduce Pharaoh and each of the girls. At their introductions, and later at the close of the show, each girl's followers could go crazy cheering for her. But once the questioning began these cheering sections were kept strictly silent. By Security. To keep things fair. The only live reactions would be from uppers and Pharaoh's handpicked followers.

Black Pharaoh was heavily promoted and regularly pulled in an 85% share of audience. During the last ten minutes of the show, when Pharaoh announced his selection and the cameras were all over him and the three crying girls, that share sometimes would reach 96%. The show was followed by hours of analysis from panels of experts. The next day's press would provide more detailed coverage and analysis, and would include full color photo spreads as an insert. Some people considered them art collectibles. Discussion of the show would peak on Thursday and Friday and level off by Sunday. Monday and Tuesday were generally devoted to speculation about the coming episode.

Photos and footage of the Pharaoh-girl's submission trip, her "Pharaoh-honeymoon," were not released until a month after its completion. Which started an entire second industry of analysis. Did he like her? renew her? treat her kindly? use her well and often? dress her well or not at all? lend her to other men? teach her to eat pussy? use all of her holes? Did she behave appropriately? serve well? grow in submisson and obedience? Adult only (18+) photos of her service were a much more expensive collectible item.

Black Pharaoh was ubiquitous. It became a bedrock, some said the bedrock, of our culture. Each girl, and especially each Pharaoh, would bask in fame for years after their show was aired. Many of the men, and even some of the girls, were able to leverage their fame into new careers as speakers, product endorsers, government spokespeople and the like. Pharaoh's, and sometimes even a Pharaoh-girl, would become quite wealthy.

Like I said. It was bedrock.

And then it fell apart.

I was done with college, working full time for Roger, and quick as that, Pharaoh was gone. On the night of the season four premier, with 100's of millions of us glued to a screen, viewing devices went black for a full minute. All over the country men and women went crazy trying to figure out what had gone wrong with their signal. Then a message appeared that Pharaoh was on hiatus. It was over.

In its place they showed a documentary on bird sanctuaries.

The entire nation was up in arms. What did it mean? What's a hiatus? Why a hiatus? How long a hiatus? Who was responsible? Someone had really, really screwed up, had let the entire nation down. It was hurtful at a deeply personal level. People wept openly in the streets, at home, in the office, at their places of worship. Everywhere. But no answers were given either by the show's producers or by the government.

Our local leaders fumed and swore to get to the bottom of things. Nothing. The press went crazy. Nothing. Titans of industry met and issued manifestos. Nothing. Ministers and congregations prayed on it. Nothing. Even when a committee of upper uppers demanded an explanation, nothing.

And then, after eight months of darkness, just as suddenly it was back. On a warm May evening phones started to ring and buzz all over the country. Guys called guys, girls called their moms and boyfriends, sisters called brothers, dads called their kids. It was back! Oh Sweet Frederick! It was back, we had it back!

Back, same as ever with one exception — the host had been replaced by his brother Eddie Chernesky. No one cared about that. No explanation for the hiatus was ever given. None was needed. It was back. No one cared any longer. It was back. No one ever saw Joey C. again.

That all happened just 18 months ago. Alicia and I had been able to enjoy one and one half seasons together at home as a married couple. Which greatly added to my satisfaction — and hers too I hope. Greatly, if you catch my drift.

Alicia had watched the first three seasons at home with her parents and brother. Still in high school. We hadn't yet met. Her Mom once let it slip that Alicia would sometimes invite her boyfriend, a kid named Eric. Which was cool. But now I had her, and instead of discussing each episode with some guys and a few remote girls, I could lay in bed, snuggle and discuss it with the nicest and prettiest and wonderfulest girl in the world.

We owned the season 1 to 3 box set on DVR, a wedding gift from my brother-in-law. Of course it was always available via streaming, but we, like lots of other people, liked having our own copy. At night now, if she wasn't too tired after making love, we'd watch one or even two episodes. We could discuss strategies, what had worked for the girls, what had not. Alicia would do more of the talking: "That cutsie blouse was definitely not for her", or "Pharaoh was the most handsome one yet", or "Duh! you think she didn't know the audience could see her little beaver up that skirt?" or "The uppers hated her — I can see why" or "I loved her purple panties, she did it just right" or "He would have picked the redhead only her cheering section sucked" or "Her nipples are lovely". Or even, playfully, with that gleam in her eye, "Why don't they let the girls ask some of the questions." And so forth.

Course she had an advantage cause she was also watching with her girlfriends in the afternoon while I was at work. The gym was running the episodes nonstop for the girls while they worked on the treadmill. Alicia already knew each one in detail, but it was a great learning experience for me.

And now? Now it might be her. Might be Alicia. Be one of the top three girls on White Girl Pride Day and she was on the show. It would be us heading for Cleveland. And then? Oh, then she might leave Cleveland with a Pharaoh, that's all. Might. I hated even to say it to myself, alone in bed, while I waited for her. Didn't want to jinx us.