BBC Love And Understanding

Mistress Samara chuckled at that, and gave my nipples a few sympathetic tweaks.

"Learn something new today, Riley?" she asked coyly.

I nodded and smiled. Those glasses really did look great on her.

"Hair," I continued. My brow furrowed. "I can't see it. Dark, maybe. Short, maybe. I don't know."

"That's okay, honey," Mistress Samara said. "Not everybody's fantasy is complete. People care about different things."

I nodded again.

"Tell me about your relationship," she said. "I think you know what I mean. I know it seems a little strange, but you can say it. You're so close. I can fire up my holos and start finding you dates."

I took a few deep breaths and mustered up my courage. She was right. I was so close, which meant I'd already come so far. Why hesitate?

I could hardly believe it, but I was also 'so close' in another way.

"She trains me," I said, rambling again. "She trains me to take big black cocks. I help her too. I'm over her knee. She trains my hole. I present myself. Face down, ass up. She claims me. She fucks me. Strapon. Big, black strapon cock."

I remembered my girlfriend from last year.

"She... queens me," I said, finding the word, still unsure if it was technically correct. It felt good to say, though. It was poetic.

"I worship her pussy. I worship her asshole," I said.

"That's good, Riley," Mistress Samara said. She gave me more stimulation. I couldn't believe I wasn't numb. Maybe I was, and she was just powering through somehow.

"We... we both get fucked," I admitted.

"Fucked by whom?" she demanded.

"By black men," I said. "With big, black cocks. Both of us. Together. She watches me. I watch her. I serve them with my mouth, my ass. They go in all of her holes. I lick her afterwards. I nurse her breasts. They all love me. They're all proud of me. They tell me I'm a pretty little whiteboi, and that I serve big, black cocks so well. I clean up my queen's holes so well. I take so much cum."

"What kind of cum?" she asked.

"Superior black cum," I answered immediately. But then I added: "and my own. They watch me eat that too."

The pleasure in my ass and on my nipples increased again.

"And what does your cum taste like, Riley?" she asked.

"Sweet," I said. "I'm a sweet little whiteboi."

"Very good," Mistress Samara said. "I like that. We can definitely make that happen."

"Thank you, mistress," I said.

"So," she continued, "it sounds you're interested in some very special double dates with your queen."

I nodded into the pillow. My face flushed. I shook my head, trying to will the embarrassment away. It was that one last lingering shred of stupid masculinity in me. My girlfriend -- maybe my future wife -- was going to have sex with other men, and I was going to let it happen. I was going to help. I wanted it so badly, but the deepest of instincts cried out that it was wrong.

"Oh come now, Riley," Mistress Samara said. "None of that. We know you're not looking to be humiliated, so don't do it to yourself. There's nothing to be ashamed of.

"You want to be a white couple that loves big, black cocks. You live together, love together, train together, and build a wonderful life together. She's not cuckolding you. You're no sooner cuckqueaning her. You're in it together. You're a package deal. You're a submissive whiteboi bottom, and she's your dominant top queen of spades."

"Yes," I moaned. I let my mistress's authority overwhelm those stupid, primitive instincts. She was dominant. I was submissive. She was a strong, professional black woman. I was a dumb, young whiteboi. She was right. My instincts were wrong.

"And when you go out on your double dates," she mused, "everyone has a place. She worships superior black cocks, and you worship both them and her. Everybody gets to cum. Everybody loves everybody else, but then you always go home with your queen.

"You go to your home that you've built together," she continued. "You eat together. You bathe together. You give each other cleansing enemas, or maybe you decide to keep some superior black cum in your holes. She gives you a light spanking, then lubes you up and inserts your nighttime plug. You worship her asshole before she inserts hers. You fall asleep suckling on her beautiful, shapely breast."

She painted that picture for me - of a life that I could have. It was perfect, and it wasn't just an idle fantasy. It was a real possibility. My mistress was so capable. She could help me get there.

"Yeeeeeees," I groaned -- because I was also cumming again.

Mistress Samara had managed to coax another one from me. The emotions -- hope, especially - pushed me over the edge. It was like she'd found a way to milk an orgasm from the deepest parts of my brain. That's where it came from. It traveled into my nipples. It traveled down my spine. It reached my stretched hole and my prostate. It drafted the rest of my body into a shuddering, overwhelming release. All of them joined together and pushed the orgasm through my little white penis.

The orgasm was physically weaker. It produced less fluid. That didn't matter at all. It was the most intense and intimate moment of the most intense and intimate day of my life.

Well, of my life up to that point.

I collapsed completely onto my mistress's lap. I felt the dampness of all my weak whiteboi cum on the towel below me. Mistress Samara withdrew from me and then shifted a bit. I couldn't see what she was doing.

When the plug tip touched my well-stretched hole, well, then I knew. It slid in easily. I took it with a feminine huff.

"Okay Riley," Mistress Samara said. "Time to change positions."

She snapped off the glove and then helped me up. She handed me the towel, and I found a dry spot on it to wipe myself off. She kissed me on my forehead and cheek, but also swatted my bum several times.

"It's just to wake you up a little, whiteboi," she said, "and to get you tighter around that plug. It's not a punishment. Now, come on over to my desk, near the chair. I think you'll know where to go from there."

I was wobbly, and it took some effort to keep the plug in. I managed to follow her to the desk. She pulled the chair away, and I saw a fresh towel and pillow nearby. I sank to my knees. She petted me.

"Good whiteboi," she said. It made me feel happy.

Mistress Samara pulled down her black hipster panties and stepped out of them. She turned, got in the chair, and wheeled it back towards me and the desk. It was a sleek, modern job. It was also clearly designed to facilitate my next task.

"Okay, whiteboi," she said. "I'm going to find you your first date. While I do that, you're going to worship my hairy black pussy."

She spread her legs and leaned back. I gazed into her mound. It was already damp. Her bush was an expertly tended garden whose walls cordoned off her lips and clit hood, and extended to suggest a wide, upside-down triangle. Within those walls, the hair grew freely. I was a bit surprised by how straight it was.

"Curious?" she asked. She'd already opened her various holo interfaces, and seemed barely focused on me anymore.

"My lovers like smooth skin," she said, "so I do that for them everywhere else. I keep the bush for me. I think it sends a good message to whitebois, white girls, white sissies and the like. It reinforces their places in the hierarchy."

I nodded my agreement. "You're beautiful, mistress," I said.

"Mmm, well, compliments are always welcome," she replied. She got back to work, and clearly wanted me to get to mine.

I moved in to begin my worship. Her unique womanly scent finally hit my nostrils. Before, the strange non-smell of aggressively-sanitized office air had hidden even her perfume from me, let alone her natural musk. I inhaled deeply.

I licked her once, tentatively. She tasted as good as she smelled. Hints of cinnamon, saffron, cocoa, and even mild spicy heat danced on my tongue. I dove in, then, and let the scents and flavors flood into me.

Her noises were confusing at first, though all of them were positive. Some were about her work, while others were about my performance. She refused to tell me which were which. I think she enjoyed the game.

She casually talked to me -- or to herself, really -- about databases, parameters, and her own well-honed instincts for matchmaking. She seemed very confident. Hope swelled in my chest.

I did score a point of my own in her little game. After about ten minutes, her hand came down and grasped my hair. She directed me towards her orgasm. She controlled my head while I kept moving my tongue.

"Mmmm," she said afterwards, flushed with satisfaction. She petted my head again. "Good little whiteboi."

Every time she said the word, it became a little more familiar. Every time she paired it with praise, I felt better and better. It reminded me of my place. Just like Mistress Samara said: everyone should be happy in their place. The Coastal Alliance gave you the freedom to pick out your place for yourself, and it made sure all of your neighbors accepted your truth. That was its magic. The agency-clinics took it from there, and used science to match sex-friends and lovers -- maybe even spouses.

Mistress Samara pressed a few buttons on her chair, and I pulled back in surprise as it tilted and shifted into a new position. She was leaned back even more, but that didn't halt her work. She expertly pulled and tilted the holo-displays to match her new line of sight.

"Now you can worship my asshole until I finish up," she said casually. The U-shaped seat's two ends lifted independently, bringing her puckered brown treasure into view.

I moved back in, breathed deeply, and happily obeyed. I found that I could grip the supports below her armrests with my hands, and lean forward thanks to that U-shaped seat. It made the experience easier and more pleasant for the submissive -- for me. Sometimes, it's the little things.

Five minutes later, I had a date with a girl named Daphne. It was scheduled for one week later. I wasn't allowed to see her picture, because, as Mistress Samara argued, "that's a magic moment for a first date." I nodded along. It made sense, in a way. The agency-clinic worked hard to tilt the odds towards attraction and away from disappointment. Science made the magic happen more often. It let the clients enjoy a little mystery without nearly as much danger.

The agency assigned me a new set of cages and plugs. They retained control of a master key for the former. The first new one did stay off for awhile longer, though, because apparently I was scheduled for a spa day from the future, right there at the clinic.

My body was fully dipped while a beautician worked on my face, ensuring that my hair in both places wouldn't return unless I got a reversal treatment. That same chemical solution moisturized my skin and removed all of my blemishes. My eyebrows were sculpted to perfection and would require almost no maintenance from that day forward. A laser tattoo artist gave me semi-permanent fake freckles, just where and how I'd always imagined them to be.

I had my first hormone treatment too. To my surprise and delight, John and the mystery nurse administered it in the form of a high colonic. They were gentle and loving. John rubbed my bottom and kissed my cheek while I held it. The mystery nurse let me suckle her beautiful brown breast. I actually fell asleep for a while, and awoke already on the toilet, ready for another quick and comfortable emptying.

* * * * * *

Before the week was over, I'd graduated two plug sizes and been demoted one cage size. My whiteboi titties were little more than a swell, but my nipples were already more sensitive -- and in the best way. My voice had just started to change; the nurses had told me that that was the one that would take the longest. It wasn't the hormones in my miraculous enemas that were changing it. It was something else in the mix, and it had to work slowly. I stuck with the enemas, of course, rather than switch to pills or patches. Every time I visited the clinic for one, I made sure to show Mistress Samara my gratitude. Somehow, she was never too busy to accept it.

She agreed that my usual tomgirl clothes would be fine for the date; Daphne wasn't interested in a hyper-fem crossdressing bombshell. On my mistress's advice, however, I finally stopped being a cliché and dyed my hair a single color. It was a honey blonde, and I loved it.

The stylist at the clinic took care of that for me, actually, and she turned out to be a miracle worker in general. My sleepy-student bedhead became a demure, submissive pixie cut that would reassure my date that she was the real woman between us, and that she was in charge.

I looked in the mirror before my date, and I cried. They were tears of joy. I was so much more myself. My hair, my skin, and even my new freckles were all wonderful, but it was the stuff I couldn't even see that made me feel complete.

My shrunken white dicklet was happily limp inside its smaller cage, and my new cum-catcher attachment was affixed to collect all of my leakage. My developing boi-hole was pleasantly full, enjoying the pressure of a top-of-the-line UltraSyn plug. Even though the powerful black invader didn't target my B-spot specifically, it practically guaranteed that some sticky juice would drip out into the catcher. When I squeezed and flexed my muscles around it, I felt all manner of brand new sensations; some of them made me ache with horniness, while others were already strong enough to give me pleasure outright. Both my cage and the plug base were covered up by a pair of lacy purple panties. Everything, and everyone, was in its place.

I suppose I should mention one last thing. Upon my thin, purple public collar, I'd placed a new, tiny charm, dangling from the side. According to the CA's guidelines, it didn't actually mean anything. To me, it meant the world.

Three guesses. No peeking.

Daphne was going to have one on hers, too.