Whitegirls Like You Ch 06

Whitegirls Like You

Chapter 6 - Black Takeover

For the first few minutes, neither Millie nor Trisha said anything.

Millie kept glancing at her mother, watching her stare out the window, her perfectly styled blonde hair now slightly disheveled, her manicured nails tapping absently against her lap.

She looked... unsettled.

Not in the usual haughty, dramatic way that Trisha always played up when something didn't go her way.

No, this was different.

Finally, Trisha inhaled sharply, her voice shaky in a way Millie had never heard before.

"I was wrong," she whispered.

Millie's brows lifted, eyes flicking to her mother for a second before focusing back on the road. "...About what, exactly?"

Trisha swallowed hard. "About... well, not everything, but... about getting in your way."

Millie stayed quiet, letting her mother continue.

"I've spent my whole life in this―this bubble," Trisha admitted, rubbing her temple as if exhausted by her own thoughts. "I've always thought of the world in a very specific way―what's proper, what's acceptable, what's expected." She let out a humorless laugh. "And I never thought about what that meant for other people."

Millie kept driving, but her grip on the wheel loosened slightly.

She had never heard her mother speak like this.

"I saw those people tonight," Trisha continued, shaking her head. "And I realized―I've never had to fight for anything. I've never had to feel unsafe, or unwelcome, or like I had to prove that I deserved basic respect. And I―" Her voice cracked slightly. "I've ignored that suffering my entire life, because it was never my problem."

Millie let out a slow breath, processing her mother's words.

She wasn't sure what she had expected from Trisha after the rally―defensiveness, excuses, maybe even more racist bullshit disguised as concern.

But this?

This was new.

This was genuine.

Trisha turned to her, eyes glassy but determined. "And you. I've treated you like you were―" She stopped herself, pressing a hand to her chest before exhaling shakily. "Like you were just... an extension of me."

Millie's hands tightened on the wheel.

She wasn't wrong.

"I never thought about what you wanted," Trisha admitted. "Not really. I just wanted you to be perfect, to fit into the image I had in my head. And that wasn't fair."

Millie let out a breath, shaking her head slightly. "No, it wasn't."

Trisha hesitated, then reached over, placing a gentle hand on Millie's thigh. "Can you... forgive me?"

Millie's heart skipped.

She had spent years resenting her mother, fighting against her control, feeling like she would never understand.

And now?

Now Trisha was begging for forgiveness. The world had turned upside down and shook all the crazy loose.

Millie stayed quiet for a moment, weighing her emotions carefully.

"I... I appreciate what you're saying," she admitted finally. "And I want to believe you." She gave her mother a sideways glance. "I just... can't help but wonder if this is happening a little fast."

Trisha let out a soft laugh―a tired, self-deprecating one. "You and me both. I don't know how to explain it, but something changed for me today. It's like my eyes have opened for the first time. But I know words aren't enough, not for the damage I've done. Can you... just give me some time to show you?"

Millie nodded. "I'm not going anywhere, mom. Not yet anyway."

They pulled into the driveway of the Lucas estate, the towering white mansion looking just as pristine and untouchable as ever.

As they stepped out of the car, Trisha turned to Millie, her expression firm.

"I won't fight you anymore," she vowed. "Whatever you choose to do, I won't stand in your way."

Millie studied her, searching for any sign of insincerity.

She didn't find any.

Then, Trisha squared her shoulders, as if bracing herself.

"I need to find a way to make amends for the past," she murmured. "For how I treated you... and for everything I've ignored." She exhaled, her expression hardening with resolve. "I don't know how yet. But I will."

Millie watched as her mother turned and disappeared into the house, leaving her standing alone in the warm Tennessee night.

She had gotten everything she wanted.

Her mother's support.

Her mother's understanding.

Her first real taste of

Black

cock and

Black

seed.

As Millie made her way up to her bedroom and prepared for bed, she could still taste the residual salty cream in her mouth. She had always assumed cum would have an unpleasant flavor, but the reality had been surprising. The way it had coated her tongue and throat had been oddly addictive, leaving her craving more even now.

Crawling under the covers, Millie closed her eyes, replaying the events of the evening in her mind. The memories immediately forced her lips into a blissful smile as she thought about how good of a white ally she had been. She had felt so alive, like she did whenever she was on stage. Except it was also different, a darker, more intoxicating energy. Surrounded by those powerful, commanding

Black

men, she had been both wanted and needed in a way she had rarely experienced. The way they had talked to her, the way they had used her, had flamed the fire that had been steadily growing deep within her. She felt like she was finally discovering who she truly was, and it was a person she liked.

Her hand wandered down her body, tracing the path where the cum splatters had pooled and trickled down her face to her chest, her stomach, and down to the apex of her thighs. Her breath hitched as she touched her still-damp panties. The memory of their rough hands, their gruff whispers of praise, had her body reacting with barely any touch necessary from herself. Her cheeks flushed with heat as she thought about how much she had enjoyed being their canvas.

With a soft sigh, she slipped her hand inside her panties, her fingers finding her swollen clit. As she touched herself, she couldn't help but imagine what it would have felt like to have one of them inside her, filling her up. Her heart raced at the thought of losing her virginity to a

Black

man, of being bred by a

Black

cock, the contrast as she imagined one entering her pale body was so different it felt erotic just to picture it. The idea thrilled and scared her in equal measure, but she knew that was the direction her desires were pulling her in. If Reggie hadn't come and stopped those men, Millie wasn't sure she would have even tried to.

The sensations grew more intense, her breath quickening as she explored herself. Her thoughts turned to Markus, the man who had started her on this journey of submission to

Black

men. She had no idea why his music had become so entwined into her every thought now, but she was so grateful that it had, and she couldn't wait to show him her appreciation in person. Ever since the concert, she had felt a connection with him that went beyond the music, a pull that she couldn't explain. As she climaxed, her body arching into the touch, she whispered his name into the darkness.

The same way she did every night.

The next afternoon, Millie sat in Tytus' sleek executive suite. She had worn heels and a short pink skirt over

Black

leggings, her form-fitting, white T-shirt with

Black Lives Matter

proudly on display as the fabric stretched tightly over her breasts. While this was a business meeting, Millie had been feeling emboldened by her experience yesterday, and more than a little eager for attention from a

Black

man like Tytus.

But now she was nursing an iced coffee while regretting her choice of attire, trying not to feel disgusted by the conversation they were having. This meeting was about Bob, and the more Tytus explained, the more Millie felt her skin crawl. He'd caught wind that Bob was embezzling, hoping to get out while the game was still good.

"I hate to say it, but Bob's been doing this for years," Tytus said, trying to console her. "We won't know how much he's skimmed until we can take a look at the records."

Just after Millie had confided in him about the rally and what had happened there, Tytus had dropped this bombshell. In his efforts to handle Bob, he'd discovered that Bob was stealing from

White Hot Pop

, and especially, from Millie's own earnings. He just didn't have enough proof yet.

Bob Harrison.

Whatever else Millie had thought about the man, she hadn't thought he was a thief.

Tytus leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling a whiskey glass between his fingers, his sharp brown eyes locked onto hers. He was scheming. She could always tell when he was scheming. It was one of his best traits, something she found absolutely hot about him. Well, aside from him being a

Black

man, anyway.

Even so, she knew he was right about Bob. Scheming or not, Tytus wouldn't lie to her, not about this.

"So," she said, arching a brow. "You said you had a plan."

Tytus exhaled. "I've already tried a few things."

Millie leaned forward. "And?"

He sighed, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it down. "I tried turning the other executives on him―didn't work. He's been around forever, and they're too scared to push him out unless there's real dirt."

Millie frowned. "Okay... so get dirt."

Tytus smirked ruefully. "Oh, believe me, I tried. Hired a guy to do some digging. Looked into his finances, his past deals, even his ex-wife." He shook his head. "Nada. He's a dinosaur, but he's careful. Whatever skeletons he has? He's kept them buried deep. All I could hold onto was straws pointing at strawmen, but added up, it all goes back to him."

Millie exhaled, drumming her nails against the coffee table. "So what now?"

Tytus sighed. "Fortunately, Helen's been on friendly terms with a lady in accounts payable for awhile now. Susan loves to gossip about Bob when he's not around, so we already know which invoices to pull for an audit. At my suggestion, Helen nabbed a copy of the key to her office so we can get at the files. Problem is, there's no way to get in during business hours without getting caught, and the place is locked down tight after hours."

Tytus tilted his head, watching her carefully. Measuring. Calculating.

Then, he said, way too casually, "There is one more option."

Millie narrowed her eyes. "...Why do I already hate it?"

Tytus smirked. "Because it requires you to do something unpleasant."

Millie groaned. "Just say it."

"There's a gala for the new exhibit opening at the National Museum of African American Music tomorrow afternoon, real ritzy, and it's during business hours, so the office will still be open," Tytus explained. "I've got tickets already, with me taking Susan as my plus one. You tell Bob that you're attending, and get him to go with you. Then Helen can slip in and get what we need."

"I'm not exactly Bob's favorite person right now, and this is a gala for

Black

musicians," Millie sighed. "What makes you think he'll agree?"

"Bob's a predictable man, Millie. He's a power guy―likes to feel in control, likes to think he's still got it despite looking like he sweats gravy." Tytus exhaled dramatically. "So, we give him the illusion of control. You just have to do a little... harmless flirting. Flash him some skin," he smirked. "Get him comfortable and off-guard. He'll think you're buttering him up to make amends for our partnership proposal."

Millie nearly choked on her coffee. "Are you insane?!"

Tytus grinned. "Maybe a little."

"No." She shook her head, crossing her arms. "Absolutely not. That's just... so gross. That man is old enough to be my father, and frankly, he's been more like one then my non-existent bio dad ever was."

Tytus chuckled. "I'm not asking you to sleep with him, princess. Just... play the game. Like it or not, he sees you as a woman now. Lean in when he talks, laugh at his dumb jokes, maybe―" He made a vague gesture. "Give him a light touch on the arm."

Millie visibly cringed. "I feel violated just hearing this."

Tytus sighed, pushing off the counter and walking toward her. "Look, I get it. It's gross. But Bob is an ego-driven idiot. You think he'd ever expect you to be the one setting him up?"

Millie stared at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

She hated this. Every part of her screamed against it.

But...

If she pulled this off, if they got a hold of something really damning, he'd be gone.

No more obstacles. No more fights.

Just freedom. Freedom to be with Markus. Sing with him, dance with him, and...

Tytus must have seen the shift in her expression, because he smirked. "You're considering it."

Millie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Tytus said, way too pleased with himself. "You love that I'm a genius."

Millie sighed deeply. He

was

a genius. A hot,

Black

genius of a man. She bit her lip.

"...Fine. I'll do it."

Tytus clinked his whiskey glass against her coffee cup. "Atta girl."

"Ready to go, kid?" Bob asked, reaching a hand out to Millie. She sighed, her nose wrinkling slightly as she grasped his meaty paw and allowed herself to be pulled from her seat.

Millie stepped out of the black luxury car, her heels clicking against the marble driveway of The Hermitage Hotel, one of Nashville's most exclusive venues.

She hated these events.

The endless small talk, the fake smiles, the overpriced champagne―it was all so painfully boring. She had spent most of her career avoiding these kinds of gatherings, letting her mother and Bob handle the schmoozing while she focused on actually making music.

But this time?

This time, she had a mission.

She smoothed her hand over the silky black fabric of her dress, the plunging neckline just bold enough to catch attention but still on-brand for her girl-next-door appeal. Tytus had told her to dress strategically, to keep Bob distracted. It was certainly working. The dressed-up producer had barely taken his eyes off her cleavage the whole ride over while she forced herself to laugh at his outdated jokes.

She hated that she was playing this game.

But if it got Bob out of her way?

She was willing to play dirty.

The concourse was decorated lavishly, illuminated with soft, glowing lights and decorated with floral arrangements that probably cost more than a college tuition. A crowd of mostly executives, music producers, and a sprinkling of celebrities from all over Nashville filled the space, sipping champagne and trading gossip like it was currency.

Still forced to clutch Bob's arm, Millie scanned the crowd until she spotted Tytus.

He stood near the bar, effortlessly cool in a tailored black suit, a whiskey glass in hand as he spoke with a small group of industry execs, with Susan right by his side. She was a mousy

Black

girl only a few years older than Millie, her dark hair in tight ringlets, wearing a sleek, silver satin gown.

As Bob deposited Millie beside them to take a trip to the bar, Susan was laughing at one of Tytus' jokes, playfully swatting at his arm.

Lucky bitch

, Millie fumed.

Then Tytus walked over by Bob to get a refresher on his glass, forcing Millie to plaster a smile on her face as Susan turned to gush at her.

"I just have to say, you're still one of my all-time favorites," Susan said, letting her inner fangirl show. "But is it true that you plan to partner up with Markus Khan Kwaest?"

"Yeah, I do," Millie said defensively.

"Right on, girl!" Susan squealed, surprising Millie. "The two of you would be fire together."

"Well, thanks," Millie smiled. "Maybe I can sneak you in when we do a recording?"

"Ohmigod, yes!" Susan giggled.

In short order, Millie found herself chatting exclusively with Susan, and the two wandered closer to the exhibits, taking in the history and drama of

Black

performers from decades passed. In a quiet moment, Millie noticed Susan's energy shift as she prepared to ask a more somber question, and Millie wondered what was on her mind.

"Okay, real talk," Susan said, pointing her champagne flute at a glossy black-and-white photo of Chuck Berry mid-guitar solo. "How wild is it that white guys basically stole rock and roll, turned it into 'classic American music,' and now nobody talks about where it actually came from?"

Millie choked on her drink. "Damn, we're really just jumping into this, huh? That your idea of an ice breaker with a new white friend?"

Susan grinned. "You seem like you can handle it."

Millie laughed despite herself. "I mean... yeah, I guess I knew that, but when you see it like this?" She gestured around at the exhibits, at the legends staring back at them from the walls―Little Richard, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, The Supremes, James Brown. "It makes you feel kinda... I don't know. Guilty?"

Susan gave her a look. "White guilt? Cute."

A memory of her in the alley flashed through Millie's mind and she groaned. "Ugh, I mean yeah, a little. You think that sounds awful?"

"Nah, white guilt is real―or should be," Susan shrugged. "I get it. It's weird realizing how much the music industry has been built off

Black

talent while pushing actual

Black

artists to the side. But, hey, better late than never, right?"

Millie glanced over at a display about Motown and bit her lip. "Yeah. That's kinda why I want to work with Markus."

Susan nudged her playfully. "Look at you, having a moral awakening at a gala."

Millie rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, make fun of me."

Susan smirked. "Oh, I will. But seriously, that's dope. Just promise me one thing?"

"What?"

Susan gave her a knowing look. "If you're gonna do this, do it right. No fake activism. No 'look how progressive I am' branding crap. If you're in, be all the way in."

Millie held her gaze for a long moment before nodding, still thinking about her service to those

Black

men.

"I'm in."

Susan studied her, then finally grinned and clinked her glass against Millie's.

"Alright, pop princess. I'll be watching your moves, so let's see what you got."

Millie smirked, taking a sip of her champagne.

The pair continued chatting about music, Markus, and other mutual interests. Much to her chagrin, Millie decided that Susan wasn't so bad after all. Even more, her validation from Susan made her feel even more sure that she was making the right move in partnering up with Markus.

Some time later, Millie caught sight of Bob staggering toward her, pausing to chat when he noticed a familiar face. Even from across the room, Millie could tell he was already drunk.

His face was red, his tie was slightly loosened, and he was gesturing too wildly as he spoke, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Millie took a slow breath, straightened her shoulders, and headed toward him. This was Bob, drunk and unfiltered.

"―and I told the guy," Bob was saying loudly as Millie approached, "you think you're gonna get radio play with that garbage? Please. Back in my day, you had to actually have talent to sell records."

The men around him chuckled, some nodding, others clearly just entertaining his rant. But then Bob's phone buzzed, and Millie saw some of the color drain from his cheeks as he looked over a message.

Millie's first thought was of Helen. What if someone had just alerted Bob to her presence?

Millie glanced at Tytus, who had just caught sight of Bob's reaction. His expression said, "Just keep going."

So, Millie took a breath, tucked a loose blonde curl behind her ear, and stepped closer, resisting the urge to shudder.

Whatever was on Bob's phone, Millie needed to keep him here and distracted. Time to up her flirting game.

Millie approached Bob with a sultry sway to her hips, her eyes shimmering with a forced warmth. "Hey, Bob," she said sweetly, her voice a coy purr. "You ever coming back for me, or are you too busy getting slammed to give a girl some attention?"