Sissy Headhunters
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Sissy Headhunters free porn video
SISSY HEADHUNTERS
by Kimmie Holland and Meeah Mackenzie
**One**
Andy tried not to be obvious about it: but it was hard not to notice
that there wasn't another white person in the entire restaurant. He'd
let Mr. Asad pick the place of their lunch meeting. Maybe that was a
mistake. But he wanted to make sure everything was to the black man's
liking. Andy hadn't landed an account in months so when he'd been
contacted by a corporate "headhunter" he'd been surprised -- and
relieved. As the fiscal year was drawing to a close, Andy suspected
that his boss Mr. Baumgarten was about to cut division losses by
giving Andy the axe.
So here he was, the only white person in a swank downtown African
restaurant being courted by a high-powered business team. Very cool,
he thought. He'd couldn't wait to tell his girlfriend Alison about
it. She'd been on his case lately about not having any ambition to
make something out of himself. She was very success-oriented, Andy
frowned, thinking about his sleek, rich, country-club girlfriend. If
he didn't show some potential real soon, Andy sensed that she'd be
giving him the axe, as well.
"Is something wrong Andy," Mr. Asad asked, draping his arm over
Andy's shoulders, like they were already old pals. An alpha-male
thing, no doubt. "You looked sad, all of a sudden."
"Oh no no...not at all," Andy chased away thoughts of his women
troubles, and smiled brightly. He had to pay attention to the
business at hand; he couldn't let this golden opportunity slip away.
"I was just trying to figure out what to order. The menu...well, its
written in a foreign language."
The black man threw back his head and laughed. "Don't worry your
pretty little head about a thing. I'll order what you need."
Andy laughed, too, not knowing what it was he said that was so
funny. Mr. Asad's English was quite good, but there were times that
Andy wondered if they were both understanding each other completely.
"Pretty little head..." indeed! Clearly, Mr. Asad hadn't grasped what
the phrase meant in English, that it was inappropriate to use for a
man...
Enough.
For now, he had to concentrate all his attention on the proposition
at hand. Mr. Asad had brought along two of his partners, Mr. Ikamau
and Mr. Tedros. Like Mr. Asad, they were both tall, well-muscled men
with sleek blue-black skin. Andy was completely outclassed during the
racquetball game they'd insisted on playing before lunch. And it was
only worse in the shower afterwards. Andy felt tiny and soft among
their hard, large, black bodies. Andy was trying not to peek at the
other men, all three of them had openly appraised Andy's naked body.
He figured it was either the difference between their two cultures or
some kind of intimidation tactic; if it were the latter, then it had
definitely worked. Under their unnerving scrutiny, which included a
fairly intense conversation in their African language that seemed to
specifically refer to aspects of his naked body, Andy had blushed a
bright pink from the blond roots of his scalp all the way down to his
bare pink toes.
He hoped he could do better to get a handle on the interview here at
lunch.
Now, he stared at the menu written in some indecipherable African
dialect and looked up helplessly at Mr. Asad. More intimidation?
All three black men laughed at Andy's obvious bewilderment and Mr.
Asad, as he'd promised, ordered for him. Then the three men once gain
conversed in African amongst themselves, all but ignoring Andy
entirely. Once in a while, one of the men would point at Andy, and
make a comment to one of the others. Just like in the shower. Then
they would all laugh again, or make low whistling noises or gestures
that struck Andy as quite obscene. Smiling along, as if he knew what
they were saying, Andy nodded his head in agreement, and that would
make them laugh even more.
God, he thought, the things we do for money! As interviews went, it
sure may have been the strangest, but at least it seemed to be going
well. He doubted they'd take him out to eat if they weren't
interested in him.
And they did seem interested in him.
Andy wondered if it were some old tribal custom of assessing his
worth as a prospective member of the tribe the way the black men had
squeezed his arms and thighs in the shower, or how they'd grabbed his
ass, turning him this way and that, examining him from every angle.
They'd made him bend down and grab his ankles. They'd made him stand
with his hands behind his head. They'd tweaked his nipples. They
examined his mouth, pulled out his tongue, felt his balls. They made
him kneel down under the shower head with his hands clasped behind
his back, his eyes closed, and his face turned up to the spray.
And the whole time they spoke to each other as if evaluating him, as
if they were testing him. The warm water suddenly felt about ten
degrees warmer and, though Andy didn't dare open his eyes since he'd
been told to keep them closed, he couldn't help thinking that for all
he knew the three black men were each, one by one, holding their
cocks over Andy and pissing in his upturned face. Jesus! What would
even make him think of such a thing? And, having thought of such a
humiliating image, why had it caused his cock to spontaneously and
embarrassingly grow erect right there in front of the three men? And
were they laughing at the fact that he was sporting a hard-on,
kneeling there in front of him in the shower, or was it because that,
even flaccid, their cocks were nearly twice the size of his fully
erect?
He was only trying to land a job, Andy thought, nothing more. His
was not to reason why...
As they continued to put him through his paces in the shower, Andy
kept telling himself that the African men had different customs,
different attitudes, and that to refuse any of their commands was to
run the risk of insulting them and throwing away a golden
opportunity. So Andy unquestioningly obeyed his three prospective
black bosses with a docile demeanor and a demure smile that he hoped
was pleasing to them. They were in a position superior to his own,
they called the shots, and, somehow, the fact that they were so big,
so black, so in effortlessly in control, his total obedience seemed
perfectly natural.
Andy felt himself flush again and hardly realizing it a tiny pearl
of precum was decorating the tip of his returning erection...
The food had arrived -- or rather, only Andy's had arrived: it was a
small plate that he figured was an appetizer. Mr. Asad insisted that
Andy begin eating. Mr. Ikamau and Mr. Tedros watched with great
interest. Andy figured it was another rite of passage: see if the
white boy can stomach real African food. Probably some kind of gross
delicacy like musk ox intestine or broiled grubs, Andy thought. He
poked around with his fork a little to find something that looked
reasonably safe. Oh well, he thought, here goes nothing.
He smiled at the black men and daintily ate a morsel. Within seconds
the spicy food caused Andy to break out in a sweat. The black men
exchanged a few words and Mr. Asad motioned impatiently for Andy to
keep eating.
Andy took a few more small bites and he now began sweating
profusely. He muttered an apology and looked for his water glass, but
his vision seemed all screwed up somehow. Even worse, he was
beginning to have difficulty breathing. Act normal, act normal, Andy
told himself. He should excuse himself and go to the men's room until
whatever it was passed. But somehow he didn't seem to be able to get
himself to move. He was trying to act normally, but he was panting
and sweating and feeling chilled. He'd begun to tremble all over.
What was the matter with him? An allergy? Food poisoning? He tried to
ask Mr. Asad where the men's room might be. But the black man was
nodding his approval, patting Andy's forehead with a napkin, and
grinning.
As if reading his mind, Mr. Asad held up a glass of water and held
it to Andy's lips as he sipped. It tasted rather funny...
Andy felt very strange by now -- as if he had to remember that he
was inside his body. His fingers suddenly went numb and he dropped
the fork he'd been holding without even realizing it and the numbness
spread up his arms to his shoulders. He panicked. Could he be having
a heart attack? He was too young to have a heart attack...wasn't he?
He tried to say something to Mr. Asad but the black man told him to
be calm. He tried one last time to get to his feet but Mr. Asad laid
a strong black hand on his shoulder and gently forced Andy to remain
in his seat. He found he was too weak to try again. Andy saw Mr.
Ikamau calmly take out his cell phone. He spoke in African, quick,
hard, efficient words. He wasn't smiling, anymore. None of the black
men were.
Andy understood only three words that Mr. Ikamau said: 9-1-1
**Two**
In the ambulance, Andy felt his clothes being cut from his body. He
tried to tell the black woman that he was wearing his one good suit --
the one he wore especially to interviews -- but she shocked him by
telling him to shut the fuck up. "You're not going to be needing your
old clothes anymore bitch," she sneered. She dumped his cut-to-
ribbons suit, along with the rest of his clothes, his shoes, socks,
underwear, all of it, into a bag marked in big block letters:
"WASTE."
Why were his clothes suddenly garbage? What was happening to him?
He tried to get someone to explain, but no one would listen.
Everyone in the back of the ambulance was moving quickly and super-
efficiently. From the way they were acting, Andy could only assume it
really was serious. Something bad must have happened to him. But
other than a slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and a
bit of dizziness left over from his fainting spell back at the
restaurant, he really didn't feel that badly. Andy wanted to tell
someone he was feeling much better, but no one was listening to him.
The black doctor who seemed to be in charge told one of the all-black
EMT staff to prep him.
Prep him -- for what?
They'd strapped him down to a gurney back in the restaurant. Now
they began sticking needles into his arms. He saw his legs being
raised and spread. Someone gave him an injection in his spine.
Everything below his waist went cold and weak. Something huge was
inserted into his asshole, stretching him out. Andy moaned. He tried
to tell them to stop, but the a pretty, mocha-skinned nurse was
determined to get whatever it was stuffed all the way inside him.
Andy started crying.
Mr. Asad knelt beside Andy's gurney. His chiseled ebony face looked
cool and impersonal. Like an African mask above a sacrificial altar.
"Am I -- am I dying?" Andy sobbed. He hardly dared asked the
question for fear of the answer. He felt dizzy and disoriented.
They'd stuck needles into his chest and he felt a terrible pressure
slowly building up there, like he was being filled with air or water
or something...
"Listen to me carefully bitch," Mr. Asad said.
Why were they being so mean to him, why did they keep calling him
bitch...?
"Who are you? What are you doing to me? You aren't a headhunter, are
you?"
"I am a headhunter alright, but perhaps not the kind you were hoping
for?" the black man smiled, showing his teeth. "I'm employed for an
outfit that supplies African men and women of distinction with white
slave sissies, such as yourself."
Andy tried to interrupt. Mr. Asad had it wrong. He wasn't a sissy.
They didn't tell him that this was the position they were looking to
fill. No, this wasn't the job for him.
The black man cut him off before Andy could say a word.
"I'm a professional. I can spot a prospect a mile away. You have
sissy written all over you. The potential is obvious. I'm only
surprised you haven't been captured already. My good fortune, eh?"
The smile Andy had seen early once again spread across Mr. Asad's
handsome black face, but it didn't seem nearly so friendly anymore.
"You'll fetch a nice commission." He turned to the nurse monitoring
the tubes attached to Andy's chest. "Make them bigger. We've got a
client with a breast fetish." He looked back at Andy and saw the
anguished confusion in the young sissy's face. He laughed. "I don't
expect you to understand much of this right now. But believe me,
you'll understand soon enough. By then, it'll be too late to change
anything. In the meantime, I suggest you try to relax and let what
happens happen."
No, Andy thought, I won't let it happen. This is madness. If this
was some kind of kidnaping, they'd taken the wrong person. His family
didn't have any money and his girlfriend's family didn't think he was
good enough to be dating their daughter in the first place. It was
his need to gain their approval -- and Alison's respect -- that he'd
gone on this interview in the first place! They would never pay a
dime to get him back. They'd be only too glad he was out of the
picture.
Was it possible...no, it couldn't be true that they'd paid to get
rid of him, could it? Andy felt a hopeless paralyzing terror. What if
it were? Why go through all this trouble? Why not just pay someone to
kill him, make it look like a mugging...
What Mr. Asad was saying...it just didn't make any sense. These
sorts of things just didn't happen in real life! Andy tried to follow
the surreal explanation the black man was giving him for his
abduction.
"Normally we like to bring a sissy like you along nice and slowly
with behavior and body modification," Mr. Asad was saying. "But I'm
afraid in this instance we have no time for all that. We've had an
unfortunate... erm, accident... with the processing and preparation
of one of our sissy slaves just prior to her delivery. She needs to
be replaced a.s.a.p since we need to fill an order quickly. A very
V.I.P. client. Impossible to disappoint. We need an emergency sissy,
and, you my dear, are it. You fit the type our client specified,
little bitch, and with some quick alterations, you should do just
fine. Now we're going to have to operate on you right now. We need to
get started on your prep immediately. But not to worry, we'll finish
you up when we get you overseas and this particular client doesn't
expect you to be fully functional anyway..."
Andy felt something cold grasp his testicles, holding them up with
an impersonal and mechanical precision. he looked down between his
legs to see his balls pulled up and away from his body, held in a
pair of long-nosed surgical forceps wielded by a heavy-set black man
in pale-green scrubs. Meanwhile, the pretty mocha-colored nurse
stepped forward with a length of surgical cord. Without a word, she
bent down and began the process of tying off Andy's ball-sack close
to the root of his penis. Andy wanted to tell her that she was tying
it too tightly but the sickening sensation in the pit of his tummy
made it impossible to speak; it was all he could do, it seemed, to
keep from vomiting. He heard the angry buzz of an industrial strength
electric razor. He made on last effort to free himself and when that
failed he tried to thrash around in the vain attempt to hold off the
inevitable just a few seconds longer but he was bound too tightly. He
felt a thick cold foul-smelling jelly being spread over his groin,
over his tummy, down to his knees...
"Please please please," he moaned, "don't do this, don't do this to
me...."
A tall very beautiful black woman in a surgical mask appeared at the
foot of his gurney; she stood imperiously, like a high-priestess,
between his painfully spread knees. She nodded to the tech holding
Andy's tied-off scrotum in the steel forceps. The color of his
swollen ball sack was already alarming. The baby-pink flesh had
turned an ominous shade of purple. It was all becoming clear what was
about to happen, but Andy still didn't want to believe it, didn't
want to see the scalpel in the beautiful doctor's hand. Andy turned
to Mr. Asad for help but knew that it was hopeless. He screamed but
no one seemed to care. The scalpel slit through Andy's numb sac with
startling ease. The black woman's two gloved fingers pried free his
left testicle. Once again Andy thought he'd vomit.
The doctor, called for a scissors. The mocha-colored nurse handed
them to her. The doctor held the scissors up to the light as much for
her own inspection as for Andy to see and fully grasp what was about
to happen; she slowly opened and closed the scissors twice, testing
them. They snicked together with a flawless exactitude. With the
scissors in one hand and his bluish-red testicle extracted and held
between the gloved fingers of the other, the doctor looked Andy
coldly in the eye for the first and last time, ignoring his mute
appeal, like a snake about to strike a cowering, trembling mouse.
Without a word, she quickly and efficiently snipped the testicles
free. Andy felt himself falling into a faint. Mr. Asad was talking to
someone on the other side of the gurney upon which Andy's naked,
bound, and now half-neutered body lay helpless. The black headhunter
was telling whoever it was to make Andy's tits even bigger. The
sissy's new owners wanted a real big-titted white slut. Meanwhile,
Andy decided to take Mr. Asad's advice and try to relax and let
whatever happened happen. There was nothing he could do about it now;
it was out of his hands. The doctor slit his other ball sack, pulled
free his remaining testicle, and snipped it free. It didn't seem
possible, that his life could be changed just like that, with a
couple of snips of a scissors. But lives quickly changed suddenly all
the time. A car accident, a street mugging, an interview with a
prospective employer...
The tech and nurse were grinning down at him now. Mr. Asad looked
pleased. Andy felt his empty ball sack fall against his plugged
asshole. The doctor held up the steel surgical tray where his bloody
testicles lay for Andy to see. She picked up one, rolled it between
her gloved finger, and gave an order to the pretty mocha-colored
nurse, who removed the doctor's mask. She put the testicle into her
mouth, first the one and then the other, and she very slowly chewed
it. Her cold level gaze never once left the bewildered sissy's face;
her unblinking eyes fixed in primal triumph on the glazed-over eyes
of the newly neutered slave.
**Three**
His name is now Adrianna and not even his own mother would recognize
him, let alone his ex-girlfriend Alison, although he'll never see
either of them, or anyone else from his old life ever again. He's a
braceleted and collared slave in the large house of a wealthy African
couple in Uganda. It is now quite fashionable for the African elite
to own white shemale slaves, a status symbol that flaunts the
complete reversal of social stations, from the time when white males
were considered at the top of the pyramid.
Adrianna's hair is a long golden mane which frames a kewpie doll
face whose wide blue eyes and hear-shaped pink pout seem to be always
begging for a fucking. In accordance with the wishes of his owners,
he's been given a pair of tits rather too large for his slight frame -
- one of Master's favorite deviations being to slide his big black
pole between the oiled globes of Adrianna's pale tit meat and to
shoot his thick load into the sissy's open mouth.
Adrianna's entire wardrobe consists of nothing more than a complex
web of thin chains that form a kind of tiny bikini fixed in place by
the multiple piercings that now adorn her soft, waifish body. A pair
of severely-arched, ultra-high heels are locked onto his slender feet
-- all other times, he is kept barefoot. In addition, his sissypuss
is always plugged with a replica in rubber of his Master's cock. His
ankle is tattooed with the designs that mark him as property of his
Master and Mistress's house. The penalty for attempted escape is
severe: death by public crucifixion.
There is no escape, of course.
And a slave like Adriana doesn't even consider it. "Fixed," the way
he is now, he could no longer survive in the world outside the
compound of his Master and Mistress. He is not only a slave for life
but slavery is now what keeps him alive.
As a personal slave to his Mistress, Adrianna performs all manner of
services befitting his lowly position -- attending to his Mistress's
most intimate toilet; from pedicures to vaginal douches, from her
makeup to wiping her ass after a bowel movement, these are duties
that Adrianna has come to see as the most important in his life.
Mistress will sometimes request a foot massage or even amuse herself
by having her slave suck on her long brown toes after an afternoon of
shopping -- even in public or in front of friends. Adrianna has been
well-trained, some might even say tortured, to carry out commands
without any hesitation or outward show of shame.
Only very rarely does Mistress utilize Adrianna for any form of
sexual pleasure. Only her slave's tongue would be of use, anyway, and
Mistress much prefers the penetration of a real man, an act, which,
naturally, the castrated shemale neuter can no longer perform. What
remains of Adrianna's former sex is now no more than a limp pee-tube
of soft white meat; it is as useless sexually as an earlobe and, like
an earlobe, it's been pierced and decorated in order to make it look
pretty.
To his Mistress -- a strong woman who naturally enjoys the company
of a strong man -- a creature such as Adrianna is beneath contempt.
Not a man, not a woman, but a non-human, an "it". She would no more
think of having sex with something like Adrianna than she would a
lamp: the difference being you could turn a lamp on.
It was primarily his Master who required Adrianna's sexual services.
Tall, broad-shouldered, black as a wet tar, with the naturally
imposing presence and authentically dominant nature of the big-
bellied African chieftains from whom he had directly descended,
Adrianna's Master was in the prime of his manly life and had a sex
drive every bit as prodigious as his heavy-balled, thick, ten-inch
penis would lead one to believe. It was to satisfy this voracious and
seemingly never fully sated appetite for all the variations of the
entire sexual banquet Adriana found himself put to service.
Any and all of the practices that his Mistress deemed too disgusting
or demeaning for a queenly woman such as herself to submit to
satisfying, were Adrianna's responsibility to perform. Oral and anal
sex were merely the beginning for Adrianna's Master enjoyed placing
his slave in various forms of extended bondage, shitting in
Adrianna's mouth, beating him with a bamboo stick on the ass, the
tits, or the bottoms of his pale feet, having his prize-winning
Rhodesian Ridgebacks fuck Adrianna in the ass, etc. There was
mummification, breath-play, electric shock and other dangerous
fetishes that could, either accidentally or by design, cost Adrianna
his life. But this was one of the hazards of being a slave and
Adrianna strove hard to please so that his Master would continue to
consider his sissy a greater source of pleasure alive than dead.
So this is Adrianna's life from now until it ends. It's not the life
he chose, or the one he thought he'd have; nor is it where he ever
imagined he'd end up when he was contacted by those headhunters what
now seems ages and ages ago. And yet how many among us can say that
our life has turned out exactly as we planned it? Very few of us
dream of becoming the castrated she-male sex slave of a wealthy
African couple. And even fewer of us ever actually see our dream come
true.
Adrianna did. Perhaps -- whether he believes himself to be or not --
we should consider him lucky?
--the end--
Jeannie
- 11.01.2021
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