Challenge 03 - Monica Unmasked

Heather Cameron stirred in her bed and slowly emerged into wakefulness. She moved to get out of bed and felt a slight tingle. That was as good as a calendar to tell her what day it was. Each week George Fitch, the college's African-American night porter, came over to give her a 'lesson' and the next morning she woke feeling the same sensations.

George had never hidden the fact that he loved 'white girl titties' and he certainly enjoyed demonstrating the fact. Looking down she could just see the faint five marks left by his fingers when he had gripped her right breast just a little too hard. Not that it had felt bad at the time - quite the contrary. Not that it felt bad now - it was just a constant reminder of what she had got up to yesterday. The same as the tingling in her nipples where George's teeth and tongue had played with them. She felt a small but undeniable residual frisson of excitement at the memory.

She smiled to herself. She supposed that this counted as discomfort but it was that most peculiar of feelings, a welcome discomfort. Like holding a hot cup of coffee in the morning and feeling the heat on your fingers. It told you that you were alive, it reminded you of past pleasures and pleasures yet to be enjoyed. It reminded her of who she was. Not just Heather Cameron but also and equally Monica, the camgirl who performed for her audience on the TKB network. The girl who gave old George Fitch a blow-job every week as payment for bringing over her weekly parcel of new props for the show.

She was very pleased with George. He had proved a really patient tutor - telling her just what a man liked and what a man maybe didn't go for so much. How to use her tongue, how not to neglect the shaft or the balls, how to combine her mouth and hand. How not to think the teeth were a good idea ever - unless the man was a kinky sort and asked for it of course. How to use her eyes to build the connection with her man, how to keep things warm and wet and feeling good. All advice from the male, receiving, perspective of course but that didn't worry Monica too much. Monica knew that the idea of a blow job was for a woman to please her man. All very sexist of course but she found that she took great pleasure in pleasing George. Hearing his little gasp when she did something just right or feeling his fingers tighten in her hair. She craved those moments, loved the reaction her own body would give to these little proofs that she was satisfying her man.

George Fitch was not her lover or her boyfriend. However, at those moments he most definitely was her man. Despite the fact he was African-American, despite the fact he was a hard-working man on probably little more than minimum wage, despite the fact he was well over twice her age. When she was on her knees in front of him and when she had that beautiful Black cock of his in her mouth then he was her man and she wanted to please him more than anything else in the world.

Next year she would be twenty-five. On her birthday her sizable portion of the Cameron Trust Fund would be released to her. However, she knew that even her annual allowance dwarfed George's earnings. The profits of wise investment of the millions made via the ruthless operation and prudent sale of the old Cameron mills. The return from years of labor by hard-working men like George Fitch. The huge returns from her grand-father's usually less than ethical land and property deals. She had grown up knowing all of that, well except perhaps for some details of the scale of the latter aspect.

She had known all of that but not really known who she was. She had seemed perfectly happy growing into a dedicated and studious post-graduate researcher. There was the vacuum of her love-life of course but she had come to understand that. The boys who showed interest in her had known who she was, had really been interested in that Trust Fund rather than in her. Her two relationships had ended in their cheating, in their betrayal. Shallow young white men who already had more money than they could ever spend but who had still lied to her and toyed with her. It had hurt but she had healed stronger.

Which was when she had met Harley, the man behind TKB. When she had gone with him and his white girlfriend Allie to H-Town. The trip that had changed everything. Where she had finally understood, or allowed herself to understand, her true desires and her true self. The person she could be when she was Monica.

Her researches had included a great deal of psychology. She was aware that a rich and privileged white girl on her knees pleasuring a Black working man had certain symbolic implications. She was just as aware of the fact that she didn't care. She knew that it felt right, it felt good to bring pleasure to George, that it also felt good and right to 'entertain' her Black members on the TKB Network. It made her feel alive, it allowed her to feel her true self.

Only two issues had worried her. First, Harley had been paying her profits from her shows into a bank account she had set up for the purpose. It wasn't a massive amount of money from a Cameron perspective but it had quickly passed five figures and it continued to grow quite rapidly. Had the money come from her Members then she might have tried to return it somehow. However, their assumption was that she was a student needing to pay off her loans and she wanted it to stay that way. Letting people know her real financial position tended to ruin, or at least change, everything. When they talked to Monica she knew people were talking to her as a woman and not as the representative of figures on a balance-sheet. She would still have felt guilty but for the fact that Harley had explained that TKB was funded by its subscribers and her own sponsors. These were white men who paid healthy sums to watch her shows and support her cam 'career'. If the money came from them she had no reason to feel guilty. She could find it a worthy home in due course and meanwhile they were apparently satisfied with the arrangement since her 'earnings' continued to rise so quickly. Not least since she had begun the Challenge.

Second, she was concerned about George. Was she exploiting him? Using him for her own purposes? She was reassured when she looked in the mirror or read the comments of her members during her shows. She was an attractive young woman and if George was being 'used' he seemed very happy with the arrangement! Certainly she had been lucky to find him. Since her official transfer to the Oxford program she had few worries about her activities becoming known at the College. However, she was very aware that George was the one man on TKB who knew her real background. He had always struck her as a good man, a man of his word. Once she had trusted him with parcels and messages, now she trusted him with secrets. Their recent, more intimate, association had not changed her mind about George. She felt sure that she could rely on him

She glanced at her phone and winced. Spending all her time thinking about her shows was getting to be too much of a habit. While she retained library privileges at the College she need to make the most of it. There was an important paper on post-apartheid South African economic patterns of realignment that she really needed to read.

***

"Do you have a pen George?"

The words were couched as a question but she knew that he did. It was right there in full view and about one step and a gentle reach over to her left.

Except she wasn't going to take that one step of course. George Fitch had been around long enough to know that much. She was going to wait for him to stop what he was doing, get up and cross the length of his office so as he could hand it to her. All part of life's rich tapestry. He crossed the room and handed her the pen.

She took it and signed for her package. No 'Thank you George,' no smile of gratitude, no nothing. George's face was impassive as he took the pen back and replaced it. He'd been around long enough to know not to let little things like that get to you. He had work to get back to and he didn't need his concentration being trashed by no stuck-up student about a third of his age.

Sometimes it did rankle though. Maybe because it was just an asshole feeling they needed to assert their supremacy for some stupid reason of their own devising. That didn't usually get to him though. He'd seen enough of that in the services. Little men needing to prove they had the rank. Any Officer who was any good got their respect as a matter of course and not by manufacturing it.

No, what really got under his skin was someone like that girl who'd just been in, Josephine. To her he was just a convenience, like a car or that pen she'd used. He existed solely to make her life easier. Like on those games the kids played nowadays. The characters that just existed to move the game long but weren't actually players. What did they call them? Who the fuck cared? Round here there were plenty that called one of them 'George'.

Pure privilege. Not 'white privilege' like he sometimes heard about. This thing could be based on that but it didn't need to be. He'd been treated like crap by all races, genders and creeds. He'd also been treated right by all races, genders and creeds. It was just that when some folks got some green they got to feeling like everyone else was shit under their shoe. When they was born into it they maybe didn't even realise you were human at all. You were just like them images on their screens. Usable and disposable - if you thought about them at all.

George grunted to himself as he looked at the Principal's memo for the third time and found himself still unable to concentrate on the script. It annoyed him how much Josephine's rudeness had got to him. Hadn't it happened ten thousand times before? Just the student's face and the circumstances changing a little. It was life but sometimes it was a bitch.

***

Stage One of the Challenge which was called 'Audition' had, as Harley had suggested, proved simple. The three cards she had drawn had represented 'Perform a Cam show', 'Twerk in a thong' and 'Shave your pussy'. Nothing too challenging there since she had done them all already. Harley had told her it was a formality but she still felt nerves waiting for their reaction. You had to win the approval of a majority of both audiences. The Members showed it via voting their approval, the Subs via donations.

Harley, as usual, turned out to know what he was talking about. They had the required 150 approvals within a few minutes of the show ending. The donations didn't take ten minutes longer. She didn't know what figure had been required but apparently it hadn't been difficult to find.

Level Two was 'Training' and again the couple of cards were actually aspects of previous shows. She had merely needed to hone her performance, to make it as good for her Members as she possibly could. The third and fourth cards gave her assignments. The first was to find ten online profiles of men she desired by the next show. As soon as she chose that card she had got a private message.

'H - Take some care on this. It helps down the road.'

That was Harley and she had learned that it was always wise to take his advice. She had spent an evening going through various sites and checking out profiles. Instead of swiping left or right she collected screen-shots. She tried to be objective and just to go with her instincts and she stopped collecting when she had thirty that had caught her eye.

Some things were obvious. Twenty-nine of her selections were African-American and most were dark-sinned, just like Harley and George. Their ages varied but most were in their thirties or early forties. They all shared a certain something, an obvious self-confidence that showed in their photos or their profiles or both. Lastly there did not appear to be too many investment bankers in her selection. One was an athlete and two wore business suits but the rest were blue-collar. Builders, plumbers, maintenance men, bus drivers, an engineer and a few who didn't declare an occupation but did seem to have money. This was fantasy after all.

That left the difficult part - narrowing it down to ten. She remembered what Harley had said and considered it. It had certain implications but she didn't find herself inclined to worry about that just now, other than to make sure she kept her options fairly open. So she made sure to include a confident young man of twenty-three as well as a cabbie in his fifties who had the most beautiful smile. She also made room for the athlete who was posing in a tight-fitting gym outfit. Shallow of her but well...

She had tried to be objective but it didn't surprise her that all ten of her final choices were dark-skinned African Americans. The sole white guy of her original selection had the most beautiful blue eyes and was a Harvard graduate in her field but, well, we were talking raw sexual attraction here and he just couldn't match up on that score.

She had revealed her selection on cam and received a new task. 'Read these ten stories and rank them in order of interest.' Over the following few days she had read them and done her best. A couple were rather raunchy 'Harlequin' style stories that held little interest. Another had some themes that she really didn't like. She was very fond of her father but certainly not in that way. There was a story about a girl in bondage who was then ravished by five men. Intense but something was missing. There was another about a girl whipping men and jacking them off. Perhaps not for her. Number six was written from the perspective of a husband whose wife was having an affair. She remembered Harley had talked about 'cucks' and the story was OK but the narrator got in the way and once the wife's boyfriend was revealed to be an Italian the fire went out of it a bit.

Number Seven was similar but written from the wife's perspective after she had started an affair with her Black personal trainer. It escalated into some pretty vivid sex scenes and descriptions of her husband's willing and eager humiliation. She liked that but again she found herself skipping through the bits with the husband. Story Eight had a woman whose husband had piled up debts with a Black bookmaker. To save her husband she had given herself to the bookmaker and had found that the sex was far better than anything her white husband could provide. There had been lots of interracial imagery, lots of sex and the husband was dumped at the end. She became the bookmaker's mistress. That was more like it.

Story Nine had a white teacher who after a series of adventures ended up leaving her husband and son to live with a Black guy who was at the very least an ex-criminal but every inch the perfect alpha male. In the story she had sex with several Black men and ended up pregnant by one when already another one's baby-momma. Very intense and certainly it had caused her to get out her trusty little pink vibe. Hardly very realistic however. At least she thought so until she remembered Allie and the other women back at Cassius's club in H-Town. The club-owner had been pretty open about his desire to 'knock them up' and at least one seemed very willing to let him do it. Before Harley had taken her there would she have believed clubs and people like that existed? Cue the little pink vibe again.

The last story was not so long as the one about the teacher. It featured a businesswoman who was sexually unfulfilled by her husband. She went to a party and met a man. A confident alpha male who claimed her and made her his mistress. He was dominant and became her 'Master'. He had her tattooed with his name, tied her up in bondage and made her his willing slave for sexual activity with him and his friends. At points it got very graphic in its descriptions of rough anal and group sex. The woman discovered her true love of being submissive and it ended with her Master shaving her head and making her his 'whore'. She placed that one fifth but with a note that if the 'Master' had been more her 'type of man' (hint hint) she might have moved it up a place or two. Naturally the story about the teacher came top and the woman paying her husband's debts to the bookmaker came second.

It had been interesting reading the stories - a side of erotica that she really hadn't considered before. Some of it had surprised her - head shaving? Some of it had been difficult to read. Other aspects had engaged with her, sometimes to a surprising degree. However, she was slightly relieved when her next task didn't involve any homework. Her schedule of shows now that she was undertaking the Challenge had been trimmed to two shows a week instead of three but nevertheless the story task had taken up a lot of her free time. On this occassion she had selected the three of hearts - 'wear cheeky T-shirts on cam.' That raised an issue but by the time of her next week's show a parcel had duly been delivered by George.

Prior to her weekly practical in sucking Black cock George had sat down and helped her select a few T-shirts. First up had been a 'Bad Bad Girl' T-shirt and it had gone down well.

'You the best. Look so sweet but we know you a fly little slut.'

'Thass a good type o' bad from where I'm looking.'

'Not bad enough yet but we soon changing that.'

A quick off-camera change and next up was a shirt with the words, 'B My Black Daddy.'

'Yes please - got my hand up here.'

'Got my dick up and want it up and in that sweet little mouth of hers.'

'Ain't you already got a Black Daddy - what happened to Grandpa from the other times.'

She couldn't help laughing at that one especially when she considered George was probably watching. She leaned into her microphone and tried a husky whisper. "Sir isn't my Daddy - he's my Teacher. Giving me lessons in a few things and, who knows, if I'm as bad as you all say maybe he should get to spank me too."

'Give you lessons in sucking my Black cock!'

'Needs to be on the schedule real fast and we all ready to give some free tuition.'

'Look at the little slut grinning - put her over my knee and make that fine booty glow!'

'Can think of better things to do than just spanking it.'

'H - Your teacher there today?'

She had an idea. She reached into her draw and found her big Black dildo that she had been sent, the one supposedly based on the cock of a porn star, Julius Flint. She said, "I wonder if he's here," and then carefully introduced the tip of the toy into the camera's field of vision from one side. She kissed the tip and then quickly withdrew the toy before winking at the camera and biting her lower lip as she watched their reaction.

'That for real - at fucking last!'

'I knew she was properly Blacktized.'

'Get him on - let's have a real show.'

'DREinH' burst their bubble. 'Nah that wasn't no for real cock. That was a toy. I'd swear to it. No frontin you little cracka slut. Show them all that Dre is right.'

Well that only seemed fair so she had flourished the big toy in front of the camera before going out of shot and putting on the last T-shirt. She hadn't been sure which to choose up until that moment but in the circumstances it seemed obvious which was most appropriate.

A bright yellow T-shirt with the silhouette of a black cockerel front and center. Above it were the words 'So I suck' and below it the words '...so what?'

She kept that shirt on for the rest of her show.

***

George Fitch stepped back and checked out his handiwork. He moved forward and tested the contact for a final time. That was fine. It wasn't going anywhere. He spoke over his shoulder to the attractive young woman who was watching him.

"This is what we call a training device Monica. Believe me you gonna find your task a whole lot easier for putting the work in. What's that they say - fail to prepare and you prepare to fail? Some crap like that anyway."