BBC Love And Understanding

Special thanks to Belphe, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

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My name is Riley Madison. I'm just about twenty years old, and I'm a proud citizen of the Coastal Alliance.

I'm also a happily caged, plugged, feminized whiteboi. I'm engaged to a gorgeous queen of spades, and I'm giddy with excitement for the future we're going to share together.

This is the story of how we met -- or rather, how our meeting was expertly arranged by one of the Coastal Alliance's amazing agency-clinics.

There's not much to say about my life before I turned eighteen. I've always kind of known what I wanted to look like, sound like, and act like, even if I didn't fully know what I wanted from future partners. I know it's hard for folks from other countries to believe, but The Coastal Alliance actually does a great job of helping parents or guardians raise their kids. I had a good childhood. My folks were cool. My extended family and neighbors were cool. Heck, school was cool -- certainly cool enough that I decided to set my sights on a top-level university program.

All of those people and things are still cool, by the way - save for the occasional post-cen relative or neighbor who died - but they were, too.

In our country, the age of eighteen is unofficially known as 'hands-off year'. For that one year, you still can't go to a clinic and start changing anything and everything about yourself, but you're allowed to explore the wonderfully diverse worlds of identity, sex, and even kink. Anything you can buy in a store without a prescription -- including lots of sex toys -- is fair game.

I did exactly that, and I learned a lot. I lost the body hair, accentuated my femininity, tweaked my wardrobe, and went on a bit of a sex toy shopping spree. I also dyed the hair on my head multiple colors, because college kids still do stupid shit like that even when they don't have the talent or experience to do it right. I did it myself, and I did not do it right.

You're probably more interested in the sex toys. I don't blame you.

The spree was an unqualified success. I quickly learned that my smooth, white little penis belonged in a cage. I also learned that I really liked having a plug in my ass. As you might have guessed, it always felt better and more natural when it was black. Panties or other feminine underwear became a must unless I was going commando. They just felt right.

One of my girlfriends that year -- a tall white girl on the basketball team - sat on my face, rode my tongue to orgasm, and had me lick her asshole. All the while, she told me how cute my hairless caged little penis was, and how great it was that I knew it was useless for pleasing a woman. When I saw her out partying with a pair of black guys from the upper-division team, I felt butterflies in my stomach and tingles in my plugged ass. I was just about to go over and introduce myself, but a few moments of hesitation and distraction pulled them out of reach.

One of my boyfriends that year, meanwhile -- a really ripped Asian guy who was looking to major in romance languages - took me over his knee, slid down my panties, and lightly spanked my perky little femboy butt. Then, after sliding my black plug out, he gave me my first prostate massage -- well, you know, the first one I hadn't given myself. It was way, way better, and being so vulnerable to him was a huge turn-on too.

What meant the most to me, though, was that he always called me pretty. When I submitted to his touch and served his penis with my hands or mouth, he made sure I knew that he valued me as a sex partner. I was almost ready to let him take my ass, but he went away for winter break and then our schedules fell completely out of sync.

Even though I missed him, I still knew that that relationship wasn't exactly what I needed. Meanwhile, the near-misses kept piling up. It was tragedy and comedy. Despite there being no shortage of black people on campus or in town -- along with every other color, shape, and freak-flag you can think of -- somehow I just never ended up hooking up with one. My friends were sympathetic at first, but after the sixth blown opportunity, it became a running joke.

They were a good group, but it was difficult not to be envious. Two of them had discovered a mutual love of furry suits; from all the noises I heard in the dorm and even at parties, they were fucking like rabbits for half the year while dressed as a fox and a hound. They seemed so happy and so fulfilled. I wanted that -- well, you know, I wanted my version of that.

Those suits really are comfortable, though. Science is making everything better, even the stuff you're not into.

Suffice it to say, I could not wait for my nineteenth birthday. A few taps on my university-issued holopad took me to the hub of exactly the kind of agency-clinic I knew I wanted to visit. Miraculously, I secured an appointment for just five days after my 'hands off year' officially ended.

What followed was one of the most intense and intimate experiences of my young life.

I walked through the auto door and was greeted by a real-live person at an old-timey front desk, both of which announced money and class. In a world of miniaturized supercomputers and holotech, the personal touch still elevates some places above the rest.

It only took a moment for me to realize that the receptionist was an ultra-feminized sissy. She would've passed as a girl, but her penis cage was fully exposed by her hyper-feminine lingerie set. Multiple black spade tattoos on her perfectly pale skin immediately drew my eyes. Her work collar was thick and pink, with a black spade pattern all around it. Even the large, shiny ownership tag dangling from the collar's center was fashioned into that same symbol. Out in public it would have seemed overkill, unless perhaps she was being led around on a leash by some cartoonishly imposing black master or mistress. Branding is branding though. The white sissy's getup sure told me I was in the right place.

She confirmed my name, birthday, and appointment slot, and had me give my bio-print to half a dozen forms. I'll admit I didn't really read them. The sissy -- whose name was pronounced 'Nadia,' and I'll spare you the idiotic spelling on the tag -- certainly didn't press the issue. After I'd signed away who-knows-what to God-knows-who, she then stood up to daintily shake my hand. She looked me in dead the eye and gave me an over-the-top wink.

"You're going to love it here," she said.

I have to admit, I got a little nervous. It was how she spelled her name. Seriously. That's what made me start to sweat. I wasn't looking to be a cartoon.

Two medical staff walked out through sliding doors. They were wearing crisp, formal uniforms. One was a man, and the other was a woman. They were both black, and they both looked like they could lift me off my feet and sweep me away.

They didn't do that literally, but they may as well have. Before I even knew it, I was in a full-suite medical office, being subjected to an extraordinarily thorough physical exam. Their gloved hands were everywhere, removing every article of clothing from my body, including my thin public collar -- the collar that lets everyone know exactly what's allowed with your body while you're out and about, and also what you might be looking for more seriously. I prefer the thin ones, because, well, I really like getting kissed on the neck.

One of the nurses found my key in my shorts pocket and removed my cage. The plug was next. I was bent over the exam table, told to spread my legs, and then given a soothing back rub as the big, strong male nurse expertly eased it out.

"Mmm, good choice," he said in his deep voice, and I knew he meant the color.

I stood back up, and the female nurse saw my little white erection. She smiled and giggled at it, which gave me butterflies in my stomach. She then put on the fakest professional demeanor I'd ever seen and ordered me to lay flat on the table and spread my legs. I blushed, which she seemed to like too. Then I hopped up and assumed the new position.

The nurse leaned over and started near the top, at my nipples. I gasped when she touched them. She gave an approving noise, and I heard the male nurse tap something into his wrist-holo behind and above me. The female nurse's gloved fingers drifted down, checking -- or pretending to check -- my various organs. Clearly, the next important stop was my pulsing little stiffy. My breathing changed when she touched it, and my mouth parted a bit when she reached my smooth balls. When she got to my asshole, I let out a feminine coo, and she smiled again. She made sure to inspect that part of me for another few seconds.

I heard her snap off the gloves and put on another pair. Then she was beside me, placing an authoritative hand on my chest.

"Riley, you seem a bit agitated," she said. "Would it be okay if we gave you something to relax?"

I turned and looked deeply into her eyes. I knew she wanted me to say yes, and I knew I wanted to please her.

"Yes, please," I said. I felt the male nurse approach me from the other side.

"Okay, honey, we're just going to get you over on your side then," she said.

The male nurse helped me into the position effortlessly.

"Have you ever had an enema before, Riley?" the nurse asked.

My penis and asshole both twitched. The memory that prompted those twitches is... not available for discussion.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. My voice quavered.

She smiled and walked away. Moments later she returned with a long black nozzle, sporting two inflatable seals. She showed it off for me. My eyes followed it everywhere.

"Now, this is our smallest one," she said. "Do you think you could take anything bigger?"

I gulped, and shook my head 'no.'

Surprisingly, both she and the male nurse behind me seemed to like my answer.

"That's just fine, honey," she said, and she moved behind me to get to work.

I could've sworn she whispered "plenty of time" as she passed by my head.

I felt very vulnerable not being able to see either of them. They somehow managed to chat with each other without me being able to understand anything. I couldn't tell you if that was another minor scientific miracle, or just me getting too anxious to focus properly. The next thing I felt was two reassuring hands - one on my shoulder and one reaching around to the center of my chest, right above my soft, flat tummy.

I felt someone's lips close to my ear. My whole face flushed.

"John's going to give you some more lube, now, Riley," the female nurse whispered to me. "We've got you. Relax and hold still. He's very gentle."

I whimpered and nodded.

"That's a good boy," she said, and the words traveled straight from my ear to my penis and asshole.

John's warm, wet finger was already there, and he felt the spasm. He chuckled.

"Relax, now," he repeated. It was much more of a command, and I very much wanted to obey.

I did my best, though it hardly mattered. Science has made strides everywhere. We talk the most about the hydrocell cars, the holotech, and the designer synthetic hormones, but we sometimes forget to appreciate the little things. An agency like this could afford top-quality lube. It was warm and soothing on my pink little hole, and in only a few moments it helped John's gloved finger glide on in.

I gasped and cooed again. His finger felt so wonderful. It felt like it belonged there. My complete vulnerability brought back memories of that prostate massage over Don's knee.

"That's a good boy," the female nurse said again.

In one of those dumb, random human moments, it occurred to me I didn't know her name. It didn't really seem like the time to ask.

John lubed up my hole quickly and professionally, and didn't make any effort to tease my prostate. I was actually a little frustrated, and I think they both could tell.

"Oh, don't you worry, Riley," the female nurse said. "Plenty of time, plenty of time."

The nozzle came next, and that penetration elicited an even louder, longer moan from me. It couldn't compare to a human finger in terms of intimacy, but it was bigger. The lube made it go in easily and painlessly, but it sure did go deeper. The inflatable seals missed my prostate again, but I didn't have any time to express disappointment. The warm solution started as a trickle, then became a steady stream. It was so soothing.

"See?" the female nurse whispered. "John knows exactly what you need, honey. Let him fill you up. Let John fill up your pretty white bum."

Whatever was in that enema, it worked quickly. I felt myself falling into some kind of a haze. I felt warm, safe, and protected by these two beautiful black nurses. The image the woman had just whispered in my ear took root, and it had me moaning and sighing. My hips started thrusting a little bit, and I almost got part of the nozzle to hit my spot. Even as I started to feel full, it wasn't uncomfortable, really. The female nurse lowered her hand and began rubbing my tummy, too.

Time slipped away from me. I was certainly relaxed, but it was so much more than that. I was filled, and not just physically. I belonged to the two nurses. I wanted them to control me, inside and out. I knew they'd take good care of me forever.

Sometime later, they helped me to the toilet. Between the two of them, I barely had to do anything to get there, and the enema alone made me feel as though I'd floated over to it. The four strong arms and hands felt more like they were hugging me than lifting or carrying me.

Science once again made everybody's lives better; the nozzle deflated and came out, and then the toilet took over. It had its own warming, soothing and vibrating functions that made emptying out a pleasure -- and, so far as I could tell, a very efficient one. The auto-bidet did its work, and then John gently dabbed and wiped my rear dry with a silky-smooth cloth. I smiled at him with dreamy gratitude. He smiled back. It was wonderful.

I stood up. Surprisingly, I didn't need any help to stay upright. I was still mostly floating, and more relaxed than I'd ever been in my life, but I'd found some kind of equilibrium. It was enough to follow simple commands, at least. I remember staring down at my-still erect little penis and chuckling at the thought that it was the only thing about me that was stiff.

"Just walk on through to the next room, honey," the female nurse said.

Completely naked, uncaged, unplugged, and profoundly unburdened, I did just that. Before I got to the doors, I actually turned and waved goodbye to them both. The female nurse folded her arms under her chest and smiled coyly. John waved back, and his smile was just plain friendly. That made me feel happy.

The next room was equally large, but very different. I took in a few details here and there, but the enema had me feeling too relaxed to really even care where I was. Over the next hour or so, I eventually got a better sense of it. There was a large, comfy-looking couch along one wall. Near the adjoining one, there was a big, properly-futuristic desk with all the usual high-end holo stuff that important businesspeople use. The chair nearby looked about as expensive as the desk. That was the room's motif, for the most part: high-end business. The couch was a little out of place, I supposed, and the walls weren't glass like some skyscraper's corner suite. That last one was probably for the best.

Finally, I looked straight ahead and found something to really care about.

A tall, powerful, brown-skinned woman with long, jet-black hair was walking towards me. Her attire matched the room's motif; she looked like the CEO of all sexy librarians, pulling down a million euros a year to be a student's fantasy's boss's boss's boss. I heard the dull thud of her flats on the SofTile floor. I looked into her bespectacled brown eyes and was overwhelmed. I sank down to my knees. She walked right up to me, and gently placed her hand on my short, blonde-and-red-streaked hair.

I really can't stress it enough; my hair was a disaster. This powerful black woman was a saint for not saying anything about it.

"Such a good boy," she said as she petted me. I turned my head to sink into her powerful thighs, though her pencil skirt didn't let me get between them.

"Hello there Riley," she said. It was gentle, but also authoritative. "My name is Samara Washington. You may address me as 'ma'am' or 'mistress.'"

"Yes, mistress," I answered. It felt right.

"I need to talk with you for just a minute, Riley," she said, "so I need you to stand up and look at me."

My body obeyed her instantly. I didn't even have to think about it. I tilted my head up -- she had about six centimeters on me -- and looked into her beautiful brown eyes again. I fell in love with her. She knew. She caressed my face, forgiving me for being such a foolish boy.

"We're going to have a talk about what we can do for you, Riley," she said, "and it's going to be very... in-depth."

Her voice got coy at the end, and a little predatory. I didn't mind. As far as I was concerned, she'd already snatched me up.

"I do need to ask you two very important questions first, though," she said, "and alas, they need to be pre-interview."

"Yes, mistress," I replied.

Her gaze became very stern. I knew she wanted me to take this seriously. I shook my head and shrugged a little bit, trying to dispel some more of that wonderful haze. I didn't exactly want to, but I also wanted to please and obey this beautiful black woman.

"Do you like pain, Riley?" she asked. The question shocked me a little more awake.

"Does it excite you?" she pressed. "Do you fantasize about it? Do you masturbate to it? Do you do it to yourself to help you achieve orgasm?"

I squirmed a bit. "I mean..." I began, with a classic feminine equivocation.

Her gaze got colder. I sobered up yet more.

"No, mistress," I said. "I've enjoyed some light spanking in the past, but I've never really wanted pain."

She nodded curtly. "Very good, Riley," she said. "That's important for deciding how the interview itself will go. Most importantly for you, it means we're going to be keeping your cage off. I know you feel more yourself with it on, but it's just for today, I assure you. We don't want any mixed signals during the interview."

I had no idea what that meant, so I just nodded.

"The next question is a little more open-ended," she said, "so take your time with it. The only right answer is the one that's in your heart. I know it's so hard to be honest about these things sometimes. I just need you to be brave one more time."

I nodded again. "I'll try, mistress," I said.

Her gaze warmed considerably, and she caressed my face. I melted into it. She leaned down to get her mouth right next to my ear.

"What are you?" she asked. Her hot breath made me shiver.

My entire body blushed, I'm sure. The heat of her breath seemed to travel everywhere else in my body. Even with that wonderful enema still working some magic, I felt my chest tighten and quiver. I finally understood why they'd given it to me. Mistress Samara wanted my soul, and there were so many defenses in the way. I was glad I'd taken the treatment, though, and not just because of John's wonderful finger. I wanted to do this. I'd come here to do this.

My voice quavered. My throat felt dry.

"I'm a whiteboi," I finally said.

My whole body shook. Even after nineteen years of living in the most open, tolerant, sexually-liberated nation in the entire world, I still felt as though I had just let go of a secret that weighed a million kilos. Those million kilos, crushing as they were, had protected a piece of me from everyone else. Without it, I was completely vulnerable. It made no sense at all, but I felt as though Mistress Samara could destroy me with a word.