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GONE CLUBBING by Throne I couldn't believe what Marva had done to me. The sexy Black girl, who had lured me to an afterhours club and then slipped a date rape drug into my drink, must have had access to those super hormones I've heard about, the ones that get sold to trannies on the street. They're fine for guys who want to be women, but she had given them to me, Dean Davis, a straight guy who just wanted to sample some Black pussy. I got off the cot, stood in the dimly lit room, and looked down at my nakedness. My skin was smooth and hairless all over. I felt my face and there was no sign of beard growth or even eyebrows. My hands went higher and found I had somehow not lost the hair on my scalp, which was blond and fell to my collar, or where a collar would be if I still had my shirt. But the worst shock was what had happened to my body. I had a pair of breasts. Big and soft and round, the size of ripe cantaloupes, with wide areolas and prominent nipples. My tummy was still flat and my waist narrow, but below that my hips flared out and my thighs were very full. I reached around behind to check my bottom, fearing more bad news. My strongest misgivings were realized as my hands found a pair of jutting hemispheres, a big booty like Marva's, the kind that would attract male attention from a block away. I closed my eyes. Horrified at what I might discover, I hadn't yet checked between my legs. I was desperate to find out that they hadn't given me a pussy. Surely even the newest and most radical hormones couldn't achieve that. My fingers groped around and I touched the root of my penis. Thank goodness. At least that was still intact. But as I felt further I was alarmed to discover that the root was almost all there was. And it was much too slender. There was about an inch of dick, including the head. Beneath that was a scrotum that was drastically shrunken and contained two testicles that felt like grapes. My knees got weak. Couldn't whoever did this at least have left me with my full-size male genitals? That was when the door opened. There was more light on the other side, which dramatically backlit my captor, Marva. As she stepped inside, her wide and full-lipped mouth grinned and she laughed out loud. "Damn, boy. You sure did get a new look real quick. Is this the cool style for white boys? Is this supposed to help you get that Black pussy you were so hot for a few days ago, when you hit on me? When you were so rude and disrespectful. With that little pink worm you got now, ain't no woman, Black OR white, going to want you inside her. But those boom-boom boobs and that phat boot are going to be boy-bait for the brothers. You know how those Black dudes go for girls with plenty of junk in the trunk. Heh, heh." My mouth had fallen open. I made myself close it, swallowed with difficulty, and licked my lips. "You can't do this to me." "Already did, honey." "I didn't do anything to you." My voice, I noticed, had become higher and softer. "Only cause I didn't give you a chance. Guys like you be thinking us sisters are there for the taking." She held up an index finger and wagged it at me. "No, no, no." "But this isn't fair. This... punishment... is too much for the crime. Not that I committed any crime. Or even intended to." I couldn't make my voice regain its former maleness. "Tell it to the judge, sweetness." She paused thoughtfully. "Oh, wait a minute. The judge is me. Judge Marva. And the sentence is that you got to go ghetto if you want me to even think about turning you back to what you were. You got to act all hip hop, Miss Lily White." "You mean...?" "Talking Black. Dancing Black. Showing that Black attitude. And for sure being in the house with hip hop. You know what I'm saying?" "I understand," I replied uncertainly, just wanting to placate her. "No, girl. I'm asking if you know what time it is. If the message is getting through. Do... you... understand... the... words... coming... from... my... mouth?" "I..." It struck me what she expected. "I got you. Word." She snickered. "That's a start. Now let's do something with that hair and give you some schooling in what-it-is in the hood." Two weeks later she declared me to be done with my lessons. It had become second nature for me to walk with a butt-swinging swagger, stand with one hip stuck out to the side, move my hands in certain ways when I spoke, and even enhance my words by how I showed my fingers. According to what I wanted to convey, I might also put my hands on my flaring hips, thrust out my impressive chest, or cross my arms under that weighty bust. Marva had personally put my hair into tight cornrows which I quickly came to accept. "Time for your 'coming out party', like they say in white high society." She gave me a crooked smile. "But first you got to get the look. That hair's okay. You just need the face to go with it. And then the proper at-tire . I want to see my new girl styling." Up until then she had been letting me wear only short belted robes, terrycloth ones that I couldn't keep fully closed over my pumped-up... I mean large and attractive... breasts. And those robes didn't go low enough to cover the lower half of my bumpers... that is, my overgrown buttocks. The robes also weren't adequate to hide my shamefully diminished male parts, which provided endless opportunities for Marva to make nasty comments. "Yo, girl. What's that peeking out down there? Kind of big for a clitty but way too small for a dick." She loved to see my pale white face blush bright pink. Sometimes she would even touch my miniaturized penis to get me aroused. Then she would finger my prominent nipples, which were incredibly sensitive. She might tell me to play with my dick and, as overwhelmed as I was by need, I did it. When erect it was barely over two inches long. It only required a thumb and one finger to stroke it. Masturbating in front of her was unthinkably mortifying. To add to my upset, I found that I couldn't make myself ejaculate. Whatever had reduced my genitals had robbed me of that ability. The combination of being easily stimulated and driven half out of my mind with the urge for relief, along with the inability to gain that relief, was devastating. To her, however, it was wildly amusing. But I digress. She was ready to give me the right appearance for what she had planned. Marva sat me down at a vanity and did a quick painting of my finger and toenails with a rapid-drying polish in garish magenta. Then she went to work on my face. There was an adjustable mirror in front of me, which she turned so I could no longer see my reflection. She used plenty of cosmetics on my eyes, did something above them, applied some sort of brush-on shading on my cheeks, and then fussed with a liner pencil, lipstick, and gloss on my mouth. She finished up with a touch of something under my lower lip. After she had stepped away to one side to get a better view of her handiwork, she nodded approval. When she moved back and returned the mirror to its former position, I almost thought I was seeing someone else. Looking back at me were eyes that were boldly outlined in black, with tails extending from the outer corner of each, Cleopatra style. The lids were colored with blended shades of blue. Above them, where my original blond eyebrows had vanished from, were high dark ones, expertly drawn, that added a bizarre touch. The shading on either side of my face suggested strong cheekbones. But the real showpiece was my mouth. It had been outlined to make it look larger. Then it had been colored bright pink. The overlay of gloss made it glisten, drawing even more attention. And that final bit of shading underneath made my lower lip seem fuller, as if in a perpetual pout. OMG. If she had wanted to make me look like a sophisticated slut, an anything-goes party girl, she had succeeded. Combined with the cornrows, those exotic eyes and enlarged-by-illusion mouth made me resemble a white girl trying to go Black. "Now," Marva said, sending an air kiss in my direction, let's get you dressed for the ball, princess. Something real sharp. And just the right accessories. Lots of bling, snowflake. Lots and lots." "Please," I said, unable to keep myself from sounding whiney. "Don't make this any worse." "Worse? Are you saying the way my homey sisters put it out there is bad? And I don't mean 'bad' like 'Damn, girl, you looking bad'. I mean 'bad' like -- " She held up one hand, let her wrist go limp, and extended her pinky finger. In a voice intended to sound like a snooty white woman she intoned, " -- Darling, did you see that absolutely horrid outfit that Miss Money-Bucks Paleface was wearing? It was SO last season. Ghastly. What was the poor thing thinking? It was just bad." She laughed at her own cleverness. To me she said, "If you think our way of looking is bad, then I'll give it to you super-bad." With that declaration she got me a pink thong and a pair of smoky stockings from the dresser, then went to the closet and picked through several dress options. Her choice was a slinky yellow clubbing dress with a glitzy belt attached. First I had to step into the thong and pull it up my smooth hairless legs. The tiny cloth triangle easily contained my diminutive genitals and the narrow strip in back went far in between my buttocks. I sat on the edge of the bed and, following instructions from Marva, rolled the stockings up my rather shapely legs. Looking down at myself I saw nothing masculine to identify my true gender. The dress was unzipped and I was able to step into it so she could pull it up and adjust it, then zip it shut. Marva took me by the arm and walked me to a full length mirror. I didn't need any more unwelcome surprises, but I certainly got one. Gawking back at me was a very female image, massive milk bags without a bra showing more than just cleavage in the front and plenty of side-boob too, left and right. With the belt fastened, the slimness of my waist was highlighted, which in turn emphasized the extreme contours of my mammary assets and dramatic hips. The hem was at mid-thigh, so that my stocking-clad legs were well presented. She had me turn around and look back at the reflection of my well-upholstered rear end, to which the dress was lewdly molded. From a jewelry box the size of a small treasure chest, Marva took a pair of plastic hoops, thick and as big around as saucers. I didn't understand what the colorful striped objects were until she began fiddling with my earlobes. I felt her fitting slim metal posts through piercings I wasn't even aware I had been given. Those wide hoops were earrings, and they hung so low that they almost brushed my shoulders. With every move of my head, no matter how slight, they swayed and I could feel their movement. Then Marva fastened a series of chains around my neck. They were of various lengths and featured a variety of trinkets attached to them, all of them in gold. I spied a baby pacifier, dollar sign, clock face, and outline of the continent of Africa, among others. But the largest, a big pendant, featured a circle in the middle of which was a black symbol I recognized from decks of playing cards -- the spade. Marva also gave me a chunky plastic bracelet on one wrist, and a half dozen clinking metal ones on the other. She even had an ankle bracelet which she handed over and told me to put on. I bent forward, my fulsome bosom almost spilling from my inadequate dress. I had to put one forearm against my knockers to keep them contained. When I squatted down the dress rode up until a hint of my thong must surely have been visible to anyone facing me. I got my breasts settled and looked more closely at the anklet, from which hung a charm that also showed the spade symbol. I carefully hooked it around my ankle and stood once more, aware again of the weight and mobility of my generous bust. Marva had me walk around in my stocking feet, earrings swinging, metal bracelets clinking, big boobs shifting, wide ass rolling. "Damn, girl," she assured me, "you are going to be the belle of the ball. In fact, let's give you a bell." She rummaged in the jewelry box again and came out with a tiny jingling bell on a long hook. It turned out that there were other piercings, higher up on my ears. She fastened the tinkling item to the lowest of those on my right ear, followed by multiple flashy studs through all the other openings. The next time she had me walk, all my other distractions were joined by the sound of the little bell that was so close to my ear. Finally, my captor had me step into a pair of woman's shoes. They were clear plastic with glitter and fake jewels embedded inside the material, and had open toes and three inch, boxy heels. I took a few experimental steps and felt like I should be on a street corner in the inner city, selling my body. "Look at them shoes," she said gleefully. "Bedazzled on the insides. The perfect finishing touch for the new you, Mr. Davis. But let's not be formal. I can call you Dean. Except that you don't look like no Dean no more. You need a name that fits. You got to walk the walk and be called by some right name. How about, instead of Dean, you can be... Deanna. Ha! That's a good one. Kind of like your boy name, but not. Now let's get you to the club." "You mean you're taking me outside like this?" "Not exactly, my vanilla creampuff. We been in the club all along, only way down underneath. But they got an elevator, just like a place with money. Because they got money. This ain't no slum club, girl. This is a hip hop show spot. A lot of top rappers been on their stage. You just remember how I taught you to stand and walk and talk and dance. You'll do great, Deanna. For a white girl who's hot for Black." She led me to the elevator. With those shoes on, I had to pay attention to where I was putting my feet. That footwear also shaped my exposed legs, making them closer to a female ideal. I followed Marva, my eyes often flicking to her wide shapely rear end, which gave special meaning to the term 'perpetual motion'. I found myself wondering how favorably my posterior compared to hers when in motion. Why was I thinking that? When we entered the elevator it was quiet, but when we emerged we were in a club, the name of which I didn't even know. There I stood, in my showy outfit, my exaggerated curves well displayed, cornrow hair, club dress, gaudy shoes, and flashy jewelry all declaring me to be a white bimbo in search of Black male companionship. But what would happen after I met a Black guy? Or two? Or more? Marva had, after all, done all this to me as part of some twisted plan for revenge. As I stepped into the noisy crowded room, my training went to work at full strength. I was suddenly Deanna, prowling the floor with a hip- swishing saunter. Marva dropped away behind me, but stayed close enough to observe. Heads turned as I passed and young men and women eyed me with interest. I noticed that all of the men were Black and most of the women white. The spade symbol that I wore in several places also appeared on many of the females. Some even had it tattooed on their bodies. Belatedly, I noticed a few white men, small guys who were pressed against the back wall and looked very uneasy to be there. One of the white girls, a busty one in a dress as attention-getting as my own, went toward them on the arm of a tall muscular Black man. He had on a stylish sport coat, tailored blue shirt, and neatly pressed slacks, along with glossily shined black shoes that looked imported. I drifted toward them to see what was happening. The white girl zeroed in one on of the men, whose reaction showed that he obviously knew her. She went to him and by then I was close enough to hear what was said. She told the little guy, "Hey, Harvey, aren't you glad you brought me here tonight?" He glanced nervously at her Black companion before saying, "You said you wanted to come, so I was just trying to make you happy. But maybe we shouldn't stay because..." At that the Black figure crowded in on him and looked down contemptuously. "Listen up, midget. Your fianc? here is bored with you. She wants a real man. Now how about you loan me some money to finance her fun? I mean, you're not giving the green to ME. It's for HER. Right?" The overawed white guy fumbled his wallet out of his pants, opened it, and didn't even bother to remove the bills. He just held out the wallet. The Black guy who was with his bride-to-be reached down and took out all the cash, which vanished into the inner pocket of his jacket. The girl laughed and said, "One more thing, Harvey. I want you to understand why this is happening." Several dark-skinned women, attracted by the curious confrontation, gathered on either side of her. "What you need to do, Harvey, is open your fly and take out your pecker." "I can't do that," Harvey said with faltering conviction. The tall Black man told him, "You sure as hell can. So just do it." With a dozen interested Black girls, all of them sexy, looking on, the frightened white guy undid his trousers, lowered his fly, and fished his penis out of his white jockey shorts. It was small and pale. "You see," the girl who had come there with him said. "That's not even a cock. It's a pecker. Or a pickle. The albino gherkin." "Truth," seconded the Black man who she would be leaving with, probably to spend the night together. "Ain't no dick there at all. Why don't you tell everyone that, Hard-Vee?" "Tell...? You mean...?" Disgraced and terrified, he tried to find words that would placate his ebony tormentor. "I guess... I mean... my penis... my dick... is small." When that obviously didn't satisfy anyone, he went on, "My dick is tiny. Every girl who has ever seen it just laughed at me. None of them have let me have sex. They make me do things for them... with my mouth." He looked at the girl who he had arrived with. "Sierra, do you think... you know... that size matters?" She howled with laughter. "Of course, you chump. That's why I'm leaving with Tyrese. What he's got, you can't even come close to. But thanks for the engagement ring and paying my rent for the last year and everything else. Too bad you're going to have to add me to that list of girls who never put out for you. When I kept saying I was saving myself, I didn't mean for you. I meant for Black cocks, which I've been getting the whole time we were dating. That funny taste you got, when you were licking my pussy? That was Black men's cream. And thanks for sharing your secret with me, about how you're a virgin. That's pitiful but funny. I'll think about that while in bed with this real man later on. Maybe one or two of these fine girls will take a liking to you... especially because, like I can testify, the one thing you're good for, besides paying bills and handing out money, is eating pussy. Any takers, ladies?" There was a stir among the Black females. Several made remarks. "Sure ain't interested in him for his baby dick. You could just about fit it into a shot glass." "My pinky finger bigger than his pink dick." Two big girls stepped forward. They were tall, stunningly busty and big- butted, with evil grins. "I take care of you, little man," said one. "My name's Jasmine." "She's my friend," added the other, "so I'll go along to make sure you don't, like, get rough with her, you and your puny white sprout. My name is Charlene." They got alongside him and each looped an arm through one of his. With them holding him that way, he couldn't reach down to put his pathetic penis back into his pants. The girls chuckled at his plight as they led him toward the bar, talking about how he could use his credit card to buy them drinks and a few bottles for when they took him home with them... for the rest of the weekend. Witnessing that, and fearful that something equally bad might happen to me, I tried to become inconspicuous. But then I saw Marva nearby, watching me with a critical eye. That triggered my conditioning and I was suddenly striking an inviting pose, trying to gain the attention of Black guys. It was terrible because that was the last thing my male self wanted. But something in the lessons I'd been given, and maybe in the hormones, was driving me. I moved toward the dance floor and got there just as a hip hop number began to play over the sound system. The beat drew me forward. I got among the animated dancers, recognizing some of the moves Marva had taught me and duplicating them. I didn't dance alone for long. A guy wearing a black tank top and loose camo pants, with designer running shoes, put himself in front of me. He was taking in my curves with hungry eyes. Before the song was over he had put his hands on my hips and kept them there. When the music stopped he got an arm around my waist and steered me to a dark corner. "Yo, white flower. I know what you come here looking for. And I'm packing. Bet." His arms were well developed without being musclebound. He had a hard face with a squared-off patch of hair under his thick lower lip. He stood so close to me that we were touching slightly. Specifically, the fronts of my overgrown boobs were against his solid chest. I wanted to tell him I had to leave, even though that would be a bad idea since I had no money, ID, keys or male clothing. Instead, under Marva's influence, I told him, "That's right. You know why I'm here. I didn't come out to be alone." I pivoted halfway around, so that my bulging bottom was against the front of his pants. I could feel his impressively large cock through our clothes. The music started up again and I caught the beat. All at once I was twerking, bumping my backside suggestively against his front side. When I turned around, he was leering at me and the bulge between his legs had grown considerably. I was startled enough by his penis dimensions to shake off my training for a moment. My voice was still soft and lilting as I told him, "You seem nice but..." I went blank for a second and then found my Deanna persona reasserting itself. I cocked my head to the side. "So what you want?" "What you think, bitch? I want to bust my nut." With a will of its own, my hand went to his bicep and my fingers gave the muscle a slight squeeze. My body was undulating in slow motion, sending signals my male self wanted to cancel out. But it kept on, me performing the moves of a white girl trying to act Black, attempting to seduce someone I'd just met. I asked him, "You going to tell me your name, or do I just call you Jones?" Suiting my action to those words, I grabbed his cock or, in Black parlance, his Jones. His reaction was controlled and smug. Instead of being caught off guard, he unhurriedly took hold of my wrist and kept my hand where it was. Still in the mindset of Deanna, I tightened my hold fractionally and loosened it, repeating that several times, sending an unmistakable message of willingness. He let go and I didn't stop. His dark hands came up and pawed my breasts, at first through the thin dress and then slipping inside to feel satiny skin. I tensed but only for a second. Deanna wanted this. I rolled my shoulders, finally unhanded his cock, and fiddled flirtingly with my cornrows. My lips puckered. I did my best to look seductively insolent. He was too cool to react visibly. Instead, he just curled his lip, as if he was thinking about my overtures. At last he told me he was called Game. His arm went around my shoulders and he guided me to a shadowed alcove. In the dimness I could see an overstuffed couch. There was a couple on one end of it, Black guy and white girl, and they were kissing passionately, the guy's hands roving freely over the girl's snowy skin and fondling her through her expensive mini-dress. Game pushed me down onto my wide bottom. As I landed, my balloon tits gave a bounce. The back strip of my thong rubbed against my rear tightness. I was very aware of my body as he sat alongside me and put a hand on my thigh, above the top of the stocking. "Now here's the deal, cupcake," he said arrogantly. "Ain't no place in here to jam you. Too bad, 'cause I know that's what you want. But there's plenty of space for you to get down on your knees and suck my Black dong. So how about you get busy?" My hand went involuntarily to his crotch again. What was I doing? Was Marva's training capable of making me perform fellatio? I kept telling myself that I'm not gay. I wanted to tell Game too, but revealing that I was a man would probably earn me a beat-down. Without conscious thought I slid off the couch and knelt before him, eyes turned up worshipfully. My fingers went to his pants to open them and lower his fly. I reached in and felt his cock. He had gone commando, with no underwear, possibly in anticipation of this exact scenario. The music changed again and I heard a tune I knew from my time with Marva, titled PARK IT IN THE BACK. I even knew the artist was B-Bang, and that his name was short for Booty Bang. My body began to sway to the compelling rhythm. I heard the lyric, "It's big and black/And I'll park it in the back". I had a terrible vision of Game finding a secluded place and parking something chocolate-colored and large, somewhere that would cause me pain. With that for motivation, I began to stroke his member, which was seven thick inches soft. It began to grow. Something in my conditioning made me sigh and flick the tip of the stiffening organ with the end of my tongue. I looked at him and said, "I'm your bitch." He snarled at me, "Then get your hoe mouth on my crank." Instead of revolting me, his words acted like an aphrodisiac. I caught the end of his now tumescent tool between my painted lips, savoring how it filled my mouth, my pale fingers wrapping around his rigid shaft. He had grown to an enviable nine thick inches. That made me think of how Marva had reduced my penis to almost nothing. I was attempting to hold onto my male ego but felt it slipping away. As I took several more inches of meat in, giving him a fantastic blow-job became my reason for existing. I purred around the tool in my mouth and swallowed more, getting it past my gag reflex and into my throat. I had a dim memory of Marva teaching me that with a black dildo. Greedily sucking, I got the entire length down and was rewarded with by feeling his balls against my chin. I was so proud. I had become that white girl who craved Black cock to the point of obsession. Even as I began bobbing my head on his superior endowment, I envisioned myself happily maintaining my identity as Deanna, hunting for Black men, and pleasuring them this way. There was even a flash of a mental image, of me sacrificing my anal virginity to feed my need. And while I did all that I would continue to immerse myself in hip hop, Black slang, and every outward sign of the life that implied. Keeping only the swollen knob of Game's cock in my mouth, I lovingly pumped the stalk with both hands. Sounds of pleasure were issuing from my throat non-stop. "Pop it, white bitch," Game urged me. "Suck that joint and make it shoot." My tongue took a few swirls around his cockhead, I gave him some more deep-throat, and then returned to having my lips fastened just below the head while I double-handed that black bludgeon. My efforts paid off as he blasted his cream into my mouth, all over my eager tongue, and down my accepting throat. It was as if I was becoming instantly addicted to the taste and slimy slipperiness of it. I gulped down the entire load and wished there could be more. As he was relaxing and I was selfishly keeping the business end of his tool in my mouth, slowing my breathing back down through my nose, someone came and sat alongside him. It was Marva, wearing a devilish smile. She leaned closer to me and whispered too softly for Game to hear. "Well, well, Deanna. Guess you ain't going back to being Mr. Davis. Or even just plain Dean. You loving this too much to stop now. Looks like you stuck being Deanna. White girl who plays at being Black, and if she can't be Black, she'll suck Black. And maybe take Black cock someplace else too, pretty soon." I reluctantly freed Game's cock with a wet sound. Not wanting to lose it completely, I pressed my soft beardless cheek against it and mewled. Marva snickered at my obsessive behavior. With an effort, I summoned up what was left of my male self. I asked softly, "But now that you've taught me a lesson, can't I just go home? Won't you give me back my male clothes? And my wallet, with my money and charge cards and ID? And how about my car keys?" She chortled. "Damn, Deanna. That car got reported stolen a couple weeks back. It's long gone now. Shit happens to expensive cars when stupid white guys drive them into a bad neighbor hood, hunting for Black snatch. Your clothes went to some thrift shop here in the hood. The profits will go to a good cause, I'm sure. But your personal things is safe, back at my place, minus the cash and those credit cards that got used at a few local businesses before they were thrown away. So you ain't got nothing to go back to -- except some unpaid charge card bills -- especially not looking like you do now. And after missing work for more than two weeks. No, you better off this way. Got a new goal in life now. To see how much Black cock you can score." "But... I'm still a guy. I mean inside." "And that's where the guy part will stay. Inside. Them super hormones I filled you up with, they gave you a jacked-up, girl-type sex drive, and made it super easy for me to fill your head with my training. In the end, which ain't too far away, you gone be totally hooked on being Deanna and looking for Black cock. Then you get even more desperate. And the crazier you get for it, the more you'll be offering to do all kinds of slutty stuff for guys. Squeezing dicks between them big tits. Dancing naked for brothers. Begging them to plug your butt. Somewhere in there, it'll get spread around that you ain't got no pussy. You get a rep for being a kinky sissy with a killer shape, and the most perverted dudes, they come looking for this white super-freak they hear about, who wants to get her mouth on a guy's ass or maybe have him take her into the lavatory for what they call water games or golden cocktails or whatever. Twisted stuff." "That's impossible. Isn't it?" My voice was disturbingly high and wispy. "To make me want to do all that? Besides, didn't you tell me that you could undo the changes you caused to my body? And restore my penis?" "Yeah, I might have kind of misled you right there. What I should have said was that, once you get to a certain point, there's no getting rid of those big fun-bags and that bodacious booty. Or ever getting your dick bigger than a cigar butt again. You're just stuck. Sucks to be you. And you'll suck now every chance you get." "But where will I live? What will I do?" "You going to live in a building close to here. Owned by the folks whose club this is. You won't even have to pay rent. Course, you will have to keep Lester and Luke happy. They the maintainence men. Big Black guys. Kind of on the heavy side. Sweaty. But just keep their cocks satisfied and won't be no troubles. Plus, the owners, your owners now, might be sending some customers up to your tiny apartment to visit you for the same deal. Maybe more than that. Like for some special treats with tying you up and all. And hey, you'll finally get that Black pussy you wanted, what started all this. Except, with your dick being mostly gone, you'll only be eating that pussy." "No. Please. Get me out of here. I'll do anything for you." "For sure you will. I got full privileges for using you. All access pass. Me be working to get you addicted to pussy and cream pies and giving sweaty Black chicks tongue bathes. You'll be a full service tramp, doing sisters and brothers both. I'll be pumping you ass with a strap-on. You'll love it. Not at first, but soon. And the old Dean will still be inside, whining and crying, not wanting to do any of it. Pretty damn funny, ain't it?" "No. It's... unthinkable." "And you won't be getting out of here tonight until closing time. You going to be a regular in this place. Might even get a private room where you can entertain, especially after you start wanting to do that way-out stuff I was saying about. Drawing in lots of customers for the place. This is going to be your second home, Deanna girl." "I... I'll find some way to control myself." That didn't sound as convincing as I meant it to be. "Whatever you say. If you don't want to do no more of that sex stuff, just put it out of your mind. That should be easy. Right? Like, just don't look at that mahogany daddy coming this way. Don't think about what he's got in his pants. And how much you want it in your sissy mouth." She got up and left. I realized belatedly that I had surrendered Game's cock and he had departed while I was distracted. The new interested man moved closer. He could see what I had just done by the spunk clinging to the corner of my mouth, and that I was still in the right position to do it again. He came the rest of the way, turned and swung one leg over my head, and sat with his parted thighs on either side of me. He had on expensive club clothes and plenty of bling. His dark face was split by a wolfish grin as he said, "We got to talk, angel-food. Looks like you got a appetite for some devil-food." I turned my face up to him and put on a cocky, cock-hungry expression. I heard myself say, "Truth, dog. But how can I talk when my mouth is full of you? We better just get to getting." My hands went to his crotch and massaged him through his pants. I was thrilled to feel him grow huge under my ministrations. As I spontaneously salivated, I worked his bone free and popped it into my warm wet mouth. Just as Marva had warned me, I was hating every second of it inwardly, but relishing every minute of it outwardly. And I would continue to do that for a long, long time.