Dangerous Liasons
"I trust the numbers are looking good for our latest recruit?"
For a man with such natural, room-filling presence, he certainly could take a person by surprise.
She swivelled round in the chair, looking up to see him gazing intently at the screens, studying the latest analytics. Those eyes of his, though; she almost felt like she was falling as she stared into them, before the man smiled, breaking the spell.
"Very good, sir," she said, regaining her composure, "very good indeed. The second highest we've seen."
He kept looking at the screen, still smiling to himself; reminiscing.
"Yeah, she was a tough act to follow."
It was a high bar indeed.
She'd never met her - the woman had left before she'd joined - but she'd certainly seen the videos. And, by God, were they hot. The brunette was a gorgeous specimen, her dark hair and big dark eyes offset by those lovely dimples. She looked like a real cutie, an innocent. But the things she'd done to tape...
The pinnacle, the one that no one had since topped, well, she knew it very well. Intimately, you could say. She'd cum to it countless times.
It wasn't a sex video - it was a debauched, hour long instructional video on how to permanently rewire a white girl forever. There she was, the gorgeous petite beauty on all fours, being air-tighted by three of the biggest, meanest motherfuckers the club had to offer. She swallowed their cum, she took them in all her tight holes, she rimmed them and begged them to break her, to ruin her forever. The men had not shrunk from the challenge.
By the end, she'd been used as thoroughly as it was possible for a woman to be used. She was a crying, sweating, multi-orgasmic fucktoy, existing for the sole purpose of pleasing her black masters. She'd gone from the demure, elegant beauty who'd first walked into the shot, to the most debased creature it was possible to imagine. And she'd thanked them all the way through.
But the thing that really made it pop, the real clincher... Well, it had been the woman's idea, apparently. Unlike almost all the other things on the site, this one hadn't been shot at the club. This one had been shot in her home. Their home. When the men had finally left, each one pumping their seed deep inside her, breeding her, she'd been left laying on the bed in what was obviously the master bedroom. On the little bedside tables, and in a large picture hung on one wall, were images of the woman and her fiancé, a tall blond man in fine horn-rimmed glasses. She just lay amongst it all, thoroughly used up as images of herself and her fiancé smiled down upon her.
She knew how it had happened. Everyone did. It was a legend within the club, a tale of how a white man could ruin his own life. The woman's fiancé, a man of power, like so many powerful white men before him - like so many still to come - he'd been the one who'd talked her into it. He'd suggested the club. He was used to being in charge, in control. He thought he could watch his fantasy played out in real life, see his gorgeous fiancée blacked, and still be the one calling the shots.
But you play with fire, your fingers get burnt. The man couldn't take it. He'd watched that first time, watched her be taken by a powerful black stud, watched her melt and give herself more completely to a stranger than she ever had to him. And something had snapped inside him. He'd realised he wasn't enough - would never be enough - and he'd told her to stop. What an idiot. How could any person in their right mind expect a woman who'd tried it, tasted the forbidden fruit, how could they expect them to give it up? Pandora's box was best left unopened for a reason.
He'd begged her, he'd pleaded with her, he'd even threatened her. From what she'd heard, the woman had even wavered. But then he'd hit her. Not a slap, in the heat of moment; no, not something recoverable. Something more vile, more violent - a breaking of any chance of a bond ever existing between them again. A betrayal.
That betrayal had been met in kind. Tenfold. That was how a powerful white man drove his fiancée to film her own black gang breeding in their master bedroom.
The sigh from the man stood watching the screens snapped her out of her reverie.
She'd been doing this work for several months now, in the club most weekdays and even some weekends, cutting the video, cleaning it up, tweaking it before posting. She should have been used to him by now; she wasn't. There wasn't anything that stood out, that made it clear just why he had the effect he did on her. But boy, what an effect. She felt like a little girl in his presence, not a highly qualified videographer. She even felt a little scared too, if she was being honest with herself - she knew all about him, his reputation. But most of all, she felt like she wanted to get down on her knees and take his fat black cock into her mouth, to thank him, to please him. To be his.
His eyes shifted from the screen, looking down at her belly, her midriff exposed by the small top. She felt a little shiver of excitement shoot through her as he smiled, taking obvious pleasure in her tattoo. Then a jolt of electricity as his hand reached down, gently stroking her belly.
"You've taken the test?"
"Yes sir - positive!"
She could barely contain her excitement. It was really going to happen. Like the woman in the video.
"Good girl. On the site?"
"Yes sir. My boyfriend was the one who read out the result."
She felt so lucky she had a man who understood her, who knew what she needed, who knew he wasn't enough.
The man nodded, as if acknowledging the world bending to his will, becoming what he wanted it to be.
"Excellent. Another white boy gonna be raising a strong black baby. The way things should be. Another nine months and that tatt's not gonna be a promise - it's going to be a reality."
She looked down at his hand, his dark index finger slowly tracing out the black letters, as the man spelt it out across her pale white skin.
"'Black Baby Maker'. It suits you."
"Thank you, sir."
It made her deeply happy that she could please this man, knowing that he took great pleasure in what she was undertaking.
"And now, I think, now you're earned yourself a reward, white girl."
Amy felt her pussy flood as Mr Clayton unzipped his fly.
****
This was not a good idea. This was really not a good idea at all. If she thought back to just a week ago, this was not something she would ever have even considered - she would have thought it crazy, reckless, dangerous even.
And it was, it was all those things. She knew that. But that was a week ago. A girl's priorities could change a lot in a week and Emma's had undergone a complete 360 transformation. The itch just had to be scratched.
Her phone chimed; Jodie. Again.
"Where are you at, girl? Been calling."
She'd get back to her later. She had business to take care of first.
Putting the phone back into the glove box, she pulled off the leggings then squeezed herself into the black booty shorts she'd worn on the march, pairing them with the same fake leather thigh-high black boots. She stripped off her casual top and bra, swapping them for just the same white half-cut crop-top she'd worn at the demo, the thing still proclaiming in all its glory exactly what she wanted, what she needed. What she hoped to get today, here and now.
