Heather Cameron stirred in her bed and slowly emerged into wakefulness. She moved to get out of bed and felt a slight tingle. That was as good as a calendar to tell her what day it was. Each week George Fitch, the college's African-American night porter, came over to give her a 'lesson' and the next morning she woke feeling the same sensations.
George had never hidden the fact that he loved 'white girl titties' and he certainly enjoyed demonstrating the fact. Looking down she could just see the faint five marks left by his fingers when he had gripped her right breast just a little too hard. Not that it had felt bad at the time - quite the contrary. Not that it felt bad now - it was just a constant reminder of what she had got up to yesterday. The same as the tingling in her nipples where George's teeth and tongue had played with them. She felt a small but undeniable residual frisson of excitement at the memory.
She smiled to herself. She supposed that this counted as discomfort but it was that most peculiar of feelings, a welcome discomfort. Like holding a hot cup of coffee in the morning and feeling the heat on your fingers. It told you that you were alive, it reminded you of past pleasures and pleasures yet to be enjoyed. It reminded her of who she was. Not just Heather Cameron but also and equally Monica, the camgirl who performed for her audience on the TKB network. The girl who gave old George Fitch a blow-job every week as payment for bringing over her weekly parcel of new props for the show.
She was very pleased with George. He had proved a really patient tutor - telling her just what a man liked and what a man maybe didn't go for so much. How to use her tongue, how not to neglect the shaft or the balls, how to combine her mouth and hand. How not to think the teeth were a good idea ever - unless the man was a kinky sort and asked for it of course. How to use her eyes to build the connection with her man, how to keep things warm and wet and feeling good. All advice from the male, receiving, perspective of course but that didn't worry Monica too much. Monica knew that the idea of a blow job was for a woman to please her man. All very sexist of course but she found that she took great pleasure in pleasing George. Hearing his little gasp when she did something just right or feeling his fingers tighten in her hair. She craved those moments, loved the reaction her own body would give to these little proofs that she was satisfying her man.
George Fitch was not her lover or her boyfriend. However, at those moments he most definitely was her man. Despite the fact he was African-American, despite the fact he was a hard-working man on probably little more than minimum wage, despite the fact he was well over twice her age. When she was on her knees in front of him and when she had that beautiful Black cock of his in her mouth then he was her man and she wanted to please him more than anything else in the world.
Next year she would be twenty-five. On her birthday her sizable portion of the Cameron Trust Fund would be released to her. However, she knew that even her annual allowance dwarfed George's earnings. The profits of wise investment of the millions made via the ruthless operation and prudent sale of the old Cameron mills. The return from years of labor by hard-working men like George Fitch. The huge returns from her grand-father's usually less than ethical land and property deals. She had grown up knowing all of that, well except perhaps for some details of the scale of the latter aspect.
She had known all of that but not really known who she was. She had seemed perfectly happy growing into a dedicated and studious post-graduate researcher. There was the vacuum of her love-life of course but she had come to understand that. The boys who showed interest in her had known who she was, had really been interested in that Trust Fund rather than in her. Her two relationships had ended in their cheating, in their betrayal. Shallow young white men who already had more money than they could ever spend but who had still lied to her and toyed with her. It had hurt but she had healed stronger.
Which was when she had met Harley, the man behind TKB. When she had gone with him and his white girlfriend Allie to H-Town. The trip that had changed everything. Where she had finally understood, or allowed herself to understand, her true desires and her true self. The person she could be when she was Monica.
Her researches had included a great deal of psychology. She was aware that a rich and privileged white girl on her knees pleasuring a Black working man had certain symbolic implications. She was just as aware of the fact that she didn't care. She knew that it felt right, it felt good to bring pleasure to George, that it also felt good and right to 'entertain' her Black members on the TKB Network. It made her feel alive, it allowed her to feel her true self.
Only two issues had worried her. First, Harley had been paying her profits from her shows into a bank account she had set up for the purpose. It wasn't a massive amount of money from a Cameron perspective but it had quickly passed five figures and it continued to grow quite rapidly. Had the money come from her Members then she might have tried to return it somehow. However, their assumption was that she was a student needing to pay off her loans and she wanted it to stay that way. Letting people know her real financial position tended to ruin, or at least change, everything. When they talked to Monica she knew people were talking to her as a woman and not as the representative of figures on a balance-sheet. She would still have felt guilty but for the fact that Harley had explained that TKB was funded by its subscribers and her own sponsors. These were white men who paid healthy sums to watch her shows and support her cam 'career'. If the money came from them she had no reason to feel guilty. She could find it a worthy home in due course and meanwhile they were apparently satisfied with the arrangement since her 'earnings' continued to rise so quickly. Not least since she had begun the Challenge.
Second, she was concerned about George. Was she exploiting him? Using him for her own purposes? She was reassured when she looked in the mirror or read the comments of her members during her shows. She was an attractive young woman and if George was being 'used' he seemed very happy with the arrangement! Certainly she had been lucky to find him. Since her official transfer to the Oxford program she had few worries about her activities becoming known at the College. However, she was very aware that George was the one man on TKB who knew her real background. He had always struck her as a good man, a man of his word. Once she had trusted him with parcels and messages, now she trusted him with secrets. Their recent, more intimate, association had not changed her mind about George. She felt sure that she could rely on him
She glanced at her phone and winced. Spending all her time thinking about her shows was getting to be too much of a habit. While she retained library privileges at the College she need to make the most of it. There was an important paper on post-apartheid South African economic patterns of realignment that she really needed to read.
***
"Do you have a pen George?"
The words were couched as a question but she knew that he did. It was right there in full view and about one step and a gentle reach over to her left.
Except she wasn't going to take that one step of course. George Fitch had been around long enough to know that much. She was going to wait for him to stop what he was doing, get up and cross the length of his office so as he could hand it to her. All part of life's rich tapestry. He crossed the room and handed her the pen.
She took it and signed for her package. No 'Thank you George,' no smile of gratitude, no nothing. George's face was impassive as he took the pen back and replaced it. He'd been around long enough to know not to let little things like that get to you. He had work to get back to and he didn't need his concentration being trashed by no stuck-up student about a third of his age.
Sometimes it did rankle though. Maybe because it was just an asshole feeling they needed to assert their supremacy for some stupid reason of their own devising. That didn't usually get to him though. He'd seen enough of that in the services. Little men needing to prove they had the rank. Any Officer who was any good got their respect as a matter of course and not by manufacturing it.
No, what really got under his skin was someone like that girl who'd just been in, Josephine. To her he was just a convenience, like a car or that pen she'd used. He existed solely to make her life easier. Like on those games the kids played nowadays. The characters that just existed to move the game long but weren't actually players. What did they call them? Who the fuck cared? Round here there were plenty that called one of them 'George'.
Pure privilege. Not 'white privilege' like he sometimes heard about. This thing could be based on that but it didn't need to be. He'd been treated like crap by all races, genders and creeds. He'd also been treated right by all races, genders and creeds. It was just that when some folks got some green they got to feeling like everyone else was shit under their shoe. When they was born into it they maybe didn't even realise you were human at all. You were just like them images on their screens. Usable and disposable - if you thought about them at all.
George grunted to himself as he looked at the Principal's memo for the third time and found himself still unable to concentrate on the script. It annoyed him how much Josephine's rudeness had got to him. Hadn't it happened ten thousand times before? Just the student's face and the circumstances changing a little. It was life but sometimes it was a bitch.
***
Stage One of the Challenge which was called 'Audition' had, as Harley had suggested, proved simple. The three cards she had drawn had represented 'Perform a Cam show', 'Twerk in a thong' and 'Shave your pussy'. Nothing too challenging there since she had done them all already. Harley had told her it was a formality but she still felt nerves waiting for their reaction. You had to win the approval of a majority of both audiences. The Members showed it via voting their approval, the Subs via donations.
Harley, as usual, turned out to know what he was talking about. They had the required 150 approvals within a few minutes of the show ending. The donations didn't take ten minutes longer. She didn't know what figure had been required but apparently it hadn't been difficult to find.
Level Two was 'Training' and again the couple of cards were actually aspects of previous shows. She had merely needed to hone her performance, to make it as good for her Members as she possibly could. The third and fourth cards gave her assignments. The first was to find ten online profiles of men she desired by the next show. As soon as she chose that card she had got a private message.
'H - Take some care on this. It helps down the road.'
That was Harley and she had learned that it was always wise to take his advice. She had spent an evening going through various sites and checking out profiles. Instead of swiping left or right she collected screen-shots. She tried to be objective and just to go with her instincts and she stopped collecting when she had thirty that had caught her eye.
Some things were obvious. Twenty-nine of her selections were African-American and most were dark-sinned, just like Harley and George. Their ages varied but most were in their thirties or early forties. They all shared a certain something, an obvious self-confidence that showed in their photos or their profiles or both. Lastly there did not appear to be too many investment bankers in her selection. One was an athlete and two wore business suits but the rest were blue-collar. Builders, plumbers, maintenance men, bus drivers, an engineer and a few who didn't declare an occupation but did seem to have money. This was fantasy after all.
That left the difficult part - narrowing it down to ten. She remembered what Harley had said and considered it. It had certain implications but she didn't find herself inclined to worry about that just now, other than to make sure she kept her options fairly open. So she made sure to include a confident young man of twenty-three as well as a cabbie in his fifties who had the most beautiful smile. She also made room for the athlete who was posing in a tight-fitting gym outfit. Shallow of her but well...
She had tried to be objective but it didn't surprise her that all ten of her final choices were dark-skinned African Americans. The sole white guy of her original selection had the most beautiful blue eyes and was a Harvard graduate in her field but, well, we were talking raw sexual attraction here and he just couldn't match up on that score.
