I’M A BLACK MAN’S BIMBO! By Throne (70 Pages) (Patreon)

I’M A BLACK MAN’S BIMBO!

By Throne

(Concept by Devin Dickie)

© 2019-2020 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to ​Devinwhitegurl@gmail.com 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

***DEVIN DICKIE NOTE***

All characters are OVER 18 years of AGE! This is a bullying fantasy and not real.  The acts in the following written work are only consensual  sexual choices and fantasy humiliation scenarios.

Bullying is NOT OKAY and If you or someone you know is being bullied, please alert the authorities. 

I AM A BLACK MAN'S BIMBO

by Throne

It started innocently enough.  My job at a major consulting company involved a lot of liaison work, creating and maintaining connections with other firms which we did publicity and other work for.  So, when I was assigned to deal with Black Artistic Productions I didn't think it would be anything different.  As usual I did some research and discovered that the entire enterprise had been started and was run by one man, Roland March.  In every picture I saw of him on-line he was impressive.  Tall, handsome, well dressed, and visibly confident.  The kind of man who goes after what he wants and always gets it.  His history confirmed what his appearance suggested.  He had built an entertainment empire that spanned television, movies and music, with side projects in the Art world. 

I was curious to learn how someone else might react to him, so I called my wife Pamela over to the computer.  She's more of a woman than I deserve.  A short quiet guy like me doesn't usually end up with a tall, buxom blond like her, but when we met something just clicked.  I was smitten with her good looks and outgoing personality and she was attracted to my worshipful attitude and, to be honest, how easy I was to manipulate.  She even overlooked the embarrassing fact that I'm not good in bed.  I wanted sex all the time but couldn't satisfy her with my admittedly small penis, lack of technique, and premature ejaculations.  I suspected that she had intentionally used foreplay and dirty talk to make my orgasms come even quicker.  Still, the end result was overwhelming pleasure for me, if not for her.

Anyway, I was sitting at the computer with her standing behind me.  She leaned over and one of her big round breasts pressed against my back.  Its warmth and softness thrilled me.  My little dick began to demand attention at once.  Her hand rested on my shoulder and I could smell the fresh scent of her skin, as well as a hint of her favorite perfume, a very expensive one that I was happy to indulge her in by encouraging its purchase.  After all, I earned good money and wanted to show my devotion to her.  I explained that I would be meeting with Mr. March and that I wanted her input on him.  Pamela has an intuitive understanding of people and can read them quickly, with impressive accuracy.  More than once her perceptions have helped me to land clients.

"Hmm," she began, her lips close to my ear.  "This is interesting, Gary.  He exudes self-assurance.  Let me see some more pictures.  Ah.  But he's also deferential to people.  That's a great combination.  It would be easy for him to intimidate others, but he shows himself as being open and available."

"Wow.  You really see a lot.  How do you think I should approach him?"

"Your usual attitude would be a good start.  Show him plenty of respect.  Act like you're equals but in this case demonstrate that you're willing to let him take the lead.  Compromise but don't be forceful about getting what you want."

"That sounds right.  I'll just be careful to make him give in on a few points."

"Well, I wouldn't oppose him too much.  Think of his account as being one you'll make less on from day to day, but have for a long time."

I considered that.  "Let me turn it over in my mind a few times.  It sounds workable but I don't want him to let him take the lead too much."

She gave my cheek a playful pinch.  "He could certainly run things if he wanted to.  But I think he'd play fair.  So definitely give him what he wants."

"Anything else?"

"He operates in the rarified upper reaches of show business.  It would be a plus if you established a more personal relationship with him.  Maybe -- I don't know -- take him out for a nice meal.  Or even something less in the public eye.  He keeps a low profile, it appears .  In fact, this is the first time I've actually seen what he looks like.  So yeah, something that would take him away from all the hustle and bustle and put him in a very relaxed environment."

"Maybe a restaurant that's upscale but small and discrete.  Except it might be too obvious what I'm doing.  Don't want to put him off.  Or I could..."  An idea was forming in my mind.  "Hey, would it be all right if I brought him here?  I don't normally do that, but from what you're saying it would be the perfect solution.  I could hire someone to come and cook for us."

"No, a cook would be too showy.  Let me put together something.  Just a modest menu.  I think that will do the trick."

"So you don't mind him coming here?"

"Not at all.  In fact, it could turn out to be a lot of fun."

Keeping Pamela's astute analysis in mind, I set up a meeting with Roland March.  His BAP company had recently established a small office in our city, so I suggested we have it there.  That would be a simple way to enact my wife's idea that I should let him run things as much as possible.  The space was modern and well furnished.  He was borrowing a corner office usually occupied by the woman who ran this branch.  I got a glimpse of her.  She was tall and disarmingly attractive, with skin like milk chocolate and dark flashing eyes.  In person Roland was even more striking than his pictures.  He towered over me.  When we shook, his large hand enfolded my much smaller one, and was firm yet controlled.  He sat behind a wide desk and I took a chair on the other side of it.  The power dynamic was clear but it also played into my strategy. 

After some introductory chit-chat he came to the point.  "I'm planning on shooting my next feature film here.  We intend to use a lot of locations and want to form some bonds with the community.  I figure that, if you reach out to some of the residents, accompanied by one of my top people, we can smooth the path and that will benefit everyone.  Of course, I want your company -- the folks you work for -- to handle all the permits and such.  I have staff back in my headquarters who could do that, but not in this area yet."

He was being smart, giving us that added work and with it some extra profits.  I hadn't missed that he'd specified that I worked for a company whereas, without him staying it directly, he owned his.  Fine.  Establish our relative roles right away.  Not a bad move on his part.  I asked a few questions and he had one or two of his own.  I offered to have some contracts written up for his approval.  Then he called in Ms. Beryl Band, whose office we were occupying, to take over for him.  She was the stunning woman I had seen earlier.  As I stood to take her hand I couldn't miss that she was almost as tall as her employer.  We were so close to each other that her thrusting boobs were nearly touching me.  From her hair, worn natural and short, to her hoop earrings, tailored skirt suit, and red stiletto heels, she was mouthwateringly enticing.  She had high cheekbones and an invitingly full mouth. 

I was so distracted that I forgot to extend the personal invitation that Pamela had offered to make happen.  March stepped out.  Ms. Band got behind her desk and we worked out most of the details.  Her voice was like warm honey.  I assured her that the paperwork would be in front of her before the end of the day, delivered via messenger.  She gave me an alluring look and asked if I could bring it myself.  Her logic was that there might be some details we would have to amend, and both our initials would be required for that. 

"Mr. March does want to make this happen as soon as possible," she reminded me.  "He already has someone scouting locations.  And I'll be following them up on some of those."

"Sure.  I understand.  Time is money."

"Especially when you're making movies.  For myself, I prefer creating Art on a much smaller scale."

"Oh.  Do you paint?"

"I started out with that but now I'm doing in-depth involvement works and performance pieces."

"I see."  But honestly I didn't, having only a dim idea of what she was referencing.  "I'd love to see some of them sometime."

"Good.  I'll be exhibiting here in the city pretty soon.  Let me send you an invitation.  It will be an exclusive event so I'll make for... two?"

"Oh, yes.  My wife and I.  Pamela will probably love your work."

"I imagine she'll enjoy what I'm planning."

"Great." 

At least it would be a night out.  And another chance to see Beryl, perhaps in something less formal than she was wearing then.  Mentioning Pamela reminded me of that undelivered invitation.  When Beryl and I wrapped up our conversation I asked her where I could find Roland.  I was eager to emphasize being on a first name basis with him.  She said he should be on the floor, checking into some of the cubicles.  I found him talking to a young Black guy and discussing high tech computer uses... and misuses.  He broke away to find out what I wanted. 

Once outside the workspace he said, "Young Andre there is a real programming whiz.  One of those types who could hack into some sensitive and secure system just to prove he could do it.  But what can I do for you, Gary?"

I told him I'd love it if he could come around for dinner one evening.  Maybe on Wednesday?  He said that would be fine and got my home address.  Roland also wanted to know what we'd be having, so he could bring an appropriate wine.  I told him my wife was still planning something, so he said he's just get one each of white and red.  Or maybe simply champagne to celebrate our deal, which he reminded me would be very lucrative for my people.  The unstated implication was that it would also put money in my pocket.  We shook hands again, his grip firmer this time, and I headed back to my office to get those contracts put together.  It took about two hours and then I was ready to take them back to Beryl.  Making sure my blond hair fell neatly across my forehead and laid just right over the tops of my ears, I declared myself ready for a second encounter with the desirable Beryl Band. 

When I got there she had her jacket off and her sizable bust was even more mesmerizing, approximately as large as my wife's but somehow different, maybe wider.  I could picture her in a bikini, showing plenty of side-boob.  Refocusing my attention on the work at hand, I showed her the contracts, ran over a few relevant points, and gave her time to read them in detail.  There were only two and they were both short.  She had the authority to sign them on March's behalf and that's what she did.  I was impressed by her smooth competence.  She gave me back my copies and got a thoughtful look.

"Would you be willing to help me out on something I have to do?"

"Sure."

"I need to check out one of the locations we're considering and it has to be today.  I'd like a second set of eyes on it and, since you're going to be interacting with the community anyway, you'd be the perfect person."

This was no time to be difficult, not when everything was moving forward so well.  Besides which, I would be happy to spend more time with Beryl.  So I said yes and offered to drive, but she said she was already planning to take her car.  So I cheerfully agreed and we were soon in the parking garage, getting into her sleek, low slung, little two-door.  As we started off she talked about what she was driving, but I'm not a car buff so I just nodded and muttered agreement.  Then we headed out of the center of the city and into a less prosperous residential area.  I had assumed we would be checking some nearby public building and so grew increasingly uneasy as we went further from my familiar environment.  Soon we were on a street lined with three-story brick apartment houses.  She pulled up to the curb and parked.  As Beryl got out, I hesitated.

She gave me a sunny smile and said, "Don't worry, Gary.  I'll protect you."

I managed to laugh.  Colored people who I meet in my work don't bother me, but the ones I saw on this sidewalk and the stoops were a different breed.  There were fat women in stained housedresses, slim men drinking from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, and worst of all, some thug types, with sneering expressions and arrogant body language.  We had to pass a trio of the latter as we went up the steps to enter.  I followed Beryl and was so distracted by the three loungers that I stopped admiring her rolling ass. 

One of them said to her, "Moving in, pretty Mama?  Rich girl coming back to the hood?"

"Not if you live here, I'm not," she shot back without missing a beat.  Her voice was calmly superior, not at all threatened. 

He laughed.  "You get interested in some home cooking, I'll be around." 

That earned him her smile.  "Not going to happen, little man.  But it's nice to see you got good taste."

His buddies laughed at that.  He started to say something else but we were already passing through the front door.  There were clustered mailboxes set into the wall and then a second door, for which Beryl produced a key from her jacket pocket.  We had to climb two flights of steps, which elevated her body heat and made her natural scent and the faint perfumed one that accompanied it, probably from just soap and shampoo, stronger.  I inhaled the mingled odors greedily.  Even though this was just business, her proximity was having a powerful effect on me. 

She also had the key to an apartment.  Inside it was furnished, though rather shabbily.  She explained that someone had vacated it in a hurry, leaving a setting perfect for two scenes that had to be filmed.  We went from room to room as she noted details that were fine the way they were, and others that would have to be changed.  Our last stop was the bedroom.  She sat on the edge of the mattress.

Beryl asked me, "How do you think right here would be, as a camera angle for when somebody comes through that door?"

She patted a spot directly next to her.  I sat, acutely aware of being so near to such a tempting female.  She adjusted her position and our thighs touched.

Making a small, throat-clearing sound, I said -- wanting to prolong the moment -- "What does the scene involve?"

The Black woman told me, "The girl is already here and the guy is coming to have sex with her.  Hey, do this for me.  Step out and then come back in, so I can see how it would look.  I'm not sure about what's outside that doorway, the wallpaper and that framed picture.  You be the guy and I'll check how it looks when you come in here to get busy with me."

I went into the hallway, feeling warmer than the apartment's temperature.  She was making this playacting rather personal.  I came in and she had shed her jacket again.  The top two buttons of her blouse were undone, letting me see the merest hint of cleavage.  I licked my lips without meaning to.  She was a toothsome sight.  Beryl laughed softly, musically.  When I got to her she reached up and unbuttoned my shirt halfway down.

"Got to get the feel for the scene," she explained. 

Her full lips turned up in a seductive smile.  This time when she indicated the spot next to her, I put myself as close as we had been before, after she had snuggled nearer to me.  Beryl didn't object.  Instead, she put an arm around my shoulders and drew my upper body close as well.

"I like you, Gary," she said in a smoky voice.  "And I think you like me.  You do, don't you?"

I swallowed drily.  "You're very attractive."  I almost called her Ms. Band but at the last second mentally corrected myself and substituted, "Beryl."

"Then how about just a quick kiss."

As I brought my mouth closer to hers, intending to limit myself to what she had said, she took my face between her dark hands and locked lips with me.  Suddenly her tongue was on mine, moving nonstop inside my mouth.  Her hands moved lower and she dug her nails into my upper arms.  I gasped at her aggressiveness. 

She told me, "Why don't you get down on your knees.  I want to kiss you with me up here and you down there.  Do it, Gary."

I wasn't sure what exactly she was thinking but didn't want to ruin the mood.  So I got down on my knees.  She undid another two buttons and leaned far forward.  Beryl wasn't wearing a bra so I got to see much more of what she had.  I thought of Pamela's similarly generous breasts and experienced a momentary pang of guilt, but my dick was stiff and not about to be reasoned with.  Her hands held my cheeks again and those plush lips met mine once more.  Her tongue pushed against mine.  It was less two people sharing a kiss than it was one -- her -- forcefully doing it to the other -- me.  She bent my head back till it hurt the rear of my neck.  Her nails pressed hard again, this time behind the hinges of my jaw.  It was intensely erotic and I moaned into her hungry mouth. 

Beryl released me.  Her words fairly steamed as she said, "I'm not wearing any panties.  How would you like to eat my pussy?  It's delicious."

That wasn't good.  I stammered out, "I'm sorry.  I don't do that.  Not even... ever.  It just doesn't work for me."

She chuckled.  "Poor baby.  You don't know what you're missing."  Not sounding upset at all, she decided, "Then you should stretch out up here and I'll do something nice for you."

Whoa.  Was she going to give me a blowjob?  After the way she kissed, I definitely was ready for that.  And it would be less like cheating than if we went all the way.  Any sort of infidelity would infuriate my wife.  I had never even thought of acting on my frequent fantasies.  Of course not.  When I'd been single, my undersized penis, along with near absence of pubic hair, had ruined every occasion when I'd gotten as far with a girl as undressing.  If she saw my below average dimensions her interest would  drop to around zero.  If I had the lights dimmed and the inevitable discovery was delayed until she touched me between the legs, the woman tended to react worse, as if me hiding my shortcoming was a greater betrayal of her trust.  My deep aversion to performing cunnilingus didn't help.  Sometimes a girl would grant me pity sex, but usually accompanied my a stream of disappointed criticism. Once it had turned into outright invective.  Sometimes they simply told me to back off and that left me with sore balls and long-lasting shame.   The worst was a girl named Irene, whose huge tits had gotten me drooling.  She made me get out of bed and stand there, forbidden from covering my crotch, while she lambasted me with a stream of insults.

"I've seen a lot of cocks but never one that small.  I mean, it doesn't even deserve to be called a cock.  More like a dicky or a doodle or something.  And you have almost no hair down there.  I'll bet no girl has ever been able to finish from having that little spout inside her.  It's nothing more than a... a... puppy dick.  You couldn't even use that tiny thing for a tongue depressor.  It wouldn't reach far enough." 

So with all that in my personal history, I was anxious about how Beryl might react.  I didn't know if I could take the rejection.  Even so, with the desperate hope that everything would go okay, I laid back on the bed.  She pulled the halves of her blouse aside to give me a better look at her flawless chest.  The aureoles were wide and dark, nipples firm and protruding.  She smiled slyly as she sat next to me and put a hand on my thigh. 

"Let's get those pants down so I can take care of you, Gary."

She undid my belt and unfastened my trousers, lowered my fly and tugged down.  I lifted my bottom enough that she could drag them to my knees.  Now only jockey shorts were covering my essentials.  She lightly brushed her fingers over the noticeably small bump in the front of my underwear, still not seeming to have a problem with my size.  Then she hooked both forefingers under the elastic and lowered them slowly... slowly.  My immature looking dick popped up.  There was a moment of silence as she looked at it.  I held my breath.

Beryl said, "Aw, so cute."  She flicked it with her pinky.  "I just want to play with it." 

That wasn't the best reaction I could have asked for, but also not the worst.  She wasn't mocking it, just finding it... as she said next... adorable.  She licked her thumb and used it under the head, on that particularly sensitive spot, making miniature circles that had me moaning and twitching my hips.  The sexy Black girl laughed deep in her throat.  It still sounded like a positive reaction, not approving exactly, but willing to accept what I had to offer.  She made a tight ring of her thumb and first finger around the base and rode it up and down at an overly relaxed pace.  My whole body was alive with erotic energy and my concerns were fading.  She squeezed and relaxed the two digits several times.  I was afraid I might finish way too soon. 

"So pretty," she said as she released me, only to start rubbing my balls.  "Just like a real cock, only it's fun size." 

She tickled me behind my scrotum.  I shivered.  If she had gone any faster, been more consistent in where and how she was touching, I would have probably lost control by then.  Instead she ran two fingers up and down the underside until I was making strange strangled sounds and rocking my hips. 

"Does Gary want to cum?" she asked impishly.  "Hmmm?  Does this dirty boy want to shoot his shot?"

"Y... yes," I said between deep breaths.

"Then Gary has to ask very nicely.  Can Gary do that?"

Why was she using that maddening baby talk?   Of course I wanted to be taken all the way.  Even if it didn't turn from a hand job into a blowjob.  It was all I could think of.  Because I needed it so much, I was willing to play along with her.

"Yes, Beryl.  Please.  I really want to come."

"Now call me Ms. Beryl.  And talk about yourself like, 'Gary wants to cum'.  Let me hear it."

"OMG, Gary wants to cum.  Please, Ms. Beryl."

"No, no.  I want hear little Gary."  She used a petulant child's voice to demonstrate with, "Gary wants Beryl to touch him."

When she pulled away her hand and held it up high, like a mean schoolgirl playing keep-away with some boy's lunch, I knew I had to obey.  It didn't matter how humiliating it was to beg in that whiney voice.

"Gary wants to cum," I said in the required way.   "He'll be a good boy if you help him finish.  Gary doesn't want to go home with blue balls, Ms. Beryl."

She laughed.  "Perfect.  A real work of Art."

Beryl used the front and back of her hand to lightly slap my erection and flick it back and forth until I was ready to scream from frustration.  Then she wrapped her fingers around it, gave a mere three pumps, made me ready to ejaculate, and then pulled away her hand again.  Cum oozed out.  I was finishing but not as hard as I was used to.  And it ran down the sides of my penis.  I started to droop.  It was getting messier. 

Beryl wanted to know, "What happened, baby boy?"

I answered miserably, "Gary lost control.   And Beryl spoiled his finish."

"Well, we have to get out of here.  Pull up your pants, Speedy G.  You can clean up at home.  I got everything I needed."

I couldn't figure what she meant she had wanted to get, other then a look at the place.  Did she enjoy giving manual quickies?   And I didn't like the idea of riding back to the parking garage with spunk in my shorts.  But I cooperated anyway.  The whole situation had gotten too strange for me.  We drove back to my car with a minimum of conversation, mostly from her, and largely about what a great guy Roland March was.   When I got home, I hurried to the bathroom and cleaned myself up as discretely as I could.   Perhaps Pamela was relieved when I didn't want sex later on, I thought with wry amusement.

The next day I went over some more paperwork from Black Artistic Productions, got a call from Beryl and found myself tongue-tied, and made some calls about locations they wanted to use.  That last job was closer to my usual work, finding the right people to talk to and getting jobs done.  When I got home from work Pamela was excited.  Tickets had been sent overnight to an Art exhibit by Beryl Band.  They arrived in a BAP envelope and she wanted to know if I was familiar with the artist.  Despite my sexual interaction with Beryl, I only said I was working with her professionally.  My wife was looking forward to the art gallery visit.  I didn't want to be with her and Beryl in the same room but didn't see any way to avoid it without raising suspicions.  Besides, I didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize my new and potentially very lucrative account. 

Then came Wednesday night and Roland's visit to our home.  He arrived promptly at eight, carrying a striped  plastic bag with handles, that held two chilled bottles of wine.  I introduce him to Pamela and he gave her a winning smile.  She returned it and I thought I saw her eyelashes flutter at him.  I took the bottles to the fridge while she showed him to the living room.  When I came back they were chatting in subdued voices.  I was pleased that they had hit it off well.  I brought up business but Roland waved the topic away. 

He said, "Let's talk about other things.  Did you folks get the invitations to Beryl's show?"

Pamela said, "We certainly did.  I can't wait.  What type of Art does she do?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy about the details," he said jokingly.  "But I can tell you that it's a video installation."

Pamela excused herself to check the oven.  She was baking some sort of fish topped with almonds, was cooking handmade pasta from an Italian specialty shop she favored, and would be steaming French cut green beans.  There was also some sort of fancy dessert from a bakery she loved.  Roland insisted on opening and pouring the white wine himself.  He made a few remarks about vintages and wineries.  The meal went well.   Dessert turned out to be small pastries that weren't overly sweet.  Pamela listened raptly to anything Roland had to say.  By the time he was ready to leave I figured that this part of the plan had gone perfectly.  We had formed a personal bond with the head of the company whose account I had acquired.

The next day in work Roland showed up to check on my progress with locations.  I told him everything was going smoothly.  It surprised me that he hadn't simply phoned.  But then he turned serious. 

"I have to say I envy you, having such a progressive marriage."

"Well, thanks.  But how do you mean?"

"I've seen some of the footage Beryl has of you and her in that beat up apartment.  I mean, it's sheer pornography.  Or at least kink."

"I don't understand."

"Didn't Beryl tell you she had spy cameras there?  And that you were going to be the star of her video installation?"

For a moment I couldn't find words.  Then I croaked out, "No.  If Pamela sees what happened there, she'll never be able to forgive me.  I'll be ruined with her."

"Damn," he said levelly.  "Beryl did it on the sly.  And there's nothing that can be done to stop her exhibit."

"What do you mean?  She can't show that video.  I'll take her to court."

"You could do that afterwards.  But right now it just looks like you were a willing participant.  The only thing you'd get from going in front of a judge would be endless publicity.  That might be good for her work, but not for your job.  Or home life."

"What am I going to do?"  I was ready to fall apart.

"Look, why don't we try this?  You call Pamela tomorrow and tell her you're working late.  Okay?  And that I'm stopping by with, let's say, a bottle of champagne to celebrate our business dealings.  But you'll be a while and can she keep me entertained until you get there."

"And then what?"

"While it's just the two of us I'll explain the situation.  Put the best face I can on it.  And call Beryl so she can make excuses for you.  Take some of the blame on herself."

"Can't she just cancel the show?"

"No.  It includes her photography, too, and she's been working for months to get everything set up."

"Then she just has to get rid of the video," I suggested hopefully.

"Not going to happen.  That's the big draw.  Something new and shocking from Beryl Band."  He shrugged.  "No way around it.  But let me talk to your wife.  And hook her up with Beryl on the phone.  There has to be some way to work it out."

"I don't know," I said doubtfully.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"I could flee to Brazil."

He laughed and gave my shoulder a comforting pat.  "Leave it up to me.  I think we can make this work."

So the next afternoon I called Pamela and, somehow managing to keep from having a breakdown on the phone, I set up the scene Roland wanted.  If he could get me out of this fix I would be endlessly indebted to him.  Not a good position while we were doing business together, but preferable to the alternative.  I got done at five and had said I wouldn't be home until eight.  There actually was some paperwork for my other accounts, which I had neglected to deal with BAP business.  The time dragged until it was at last late enough for me to leave.  I got ahead of schedule and had to drive around my own neighborhood to use up another ten minutes.  At last I pulled up in front of our home, behind a dark red town car that had to be Roland's.  I got out and went up the front walk with heavy legs, like a man going to his own execution. 

When I got inside I was pleasantly surprised to hear the two of them gabbing like old friends.  When I came into the living room they were drinking champagne out of tall flutes, sitting close together on the couch.  Pamela's cheeks were prettily pinked and her hair was slightly tousled, I supposed from helping to nearly empty the bottle they had within easy reach.  Had Roland worked a miracle on my behalf? 

"Hello, husband dearest," Pamela said, just a bit reprovingly. 

I swallowed drily and said, "Hello, darling.  You two have been... talking?"

"Oh yes.  About your adventure with that hot lady and how you became part of her modern Art project."

"I can explain."

She held up her hand.  "No need to.  Roland already gave me all the sordid details.  I can't wait to see the video."

My face grew warm and I knew I was blushing deeply.  "I'm awfully sorry, Pamela."

"Apologies won't do it.  I spoke to Beryl and she took some of the heat off you.  So she and I cut a deal.  You will go along with the rest of what she decided to do at the gallery, if you want to be forgiven."

"Okay.  Whatever it is.  I mean, I don't want to be in another intimate situation with her."

"Don't worry about that.  She told me how she'll do it.  And even Roland doesn't know, so don't bother asking him.  Though you do owe him a ginormous thank you for coming to your defense."

"I... sure."  To the Black man I said, for Pamela to hear, "I appreciate you offering to help me out.  And explain it all."

"Well, I pointed out to your lovely wife that folks are more liberal these days about open relationships and such, and that she should understand, which she did." 

I thanked him and then her, so relieved that I was getting through this mess with my skin intact.  But then Pamela gave me a critical look.

"But you'll still owe me, Gary.  And when it comes time for you to pay up, I except you to do it without any fuss.  Understood?"

"What do you mean by pay up?"

"I mean do what you're told and avoid a very ugly divorce.  How do you think that video would go over in court?  And what if it got leaked to the internet?"

"You wouldn't..."

"Not me."  She showed me her empty hands, as if to prove innocence.  "But somebody might."  Her eyes drilled into me as she finished with, "So think about whether you want your baby-sized pee pee getting shared all over the web."

The bottom dropped out of my stomach.  I sat there trying to shake off a sudden dizziness.  To have my private shame spread all over the electronic cyber-scape, laughed at and commented on, would be unthinkably mortifying.  I had no alternative but to do whatever my wife dictated and that bitch Beryl demanded for her eccentric art.  And the gallery show was the next night. 

I spent Friday morning and afternoon in the office, mechanically checking the work of people under me.  The hours dragged.  At last it was time to go home and then, all too soon, get ready for the Art exhibit, with me as some kind of ultimate exhibitionist, digitally recorded.  My wife wore an especially attractive dress, one that hugged her curvy figure and showed off her heavy boobs, along with plenty of cleavage.  In other circumstances I would have enjoyed showing her off that way and seeing the envious gazes of other males directed at me.  Not that I would want anyone ogling her.  I'm jealous and possessive.  But it would still be a treat to make other guys wish for what I had.  Under the present circumstances, however, I just wanted to get through the next several hours, including whatever silliness Beryl had planned, and then try to return to some semblance of normalcy.  The idea of my wife collecting the debt she felt I owed was still in the forefront of my thoughts. 

She had made a nice dinner but I barely ate any.  Pamela observed me with some secret devilment in her pretty eyes.  I was too backed into a corner to say anything.  I put on slacks, a pale blue shirt, and slip-on shoes, wanting just to blend in, if it were at all possible.  We drove to the gallery and parked in a pay lot halfway down the block.  I followed my wife inside, dragging an invisible weight behind me.  Curtains had been hung so no passersby couldn't see inside.  Beryl was there, the center of attention in a silver jumpsuit.  Roland circulated, talking animatedly to various arty types, as well as some obvious money people.  He waved me over to him.

The big man wanted to know, "Are you all ready to play your part for the next hour or two?"

"I don't have a choice."

"That's the way to deal with it.  Just keep your eye on the light at the end of the tunnel."  Beryl approached us.  Roland said, "But right now you have to get ready to participate in The Great Work."

Beryl walked me around the perimeter of the room, showing me her photographic prints. Their quality was undeniable. The subject matter was unnerving, at least to me.  The theme was perverted sex contrasted with mundane items.  A coat rack with several ordinary garments hung on it, alongside a girl in leather bondage.  An open refrigerator full of everyday food, next to which stood a guy with his body hair removed, in a pink tutu and ballet slippers, his face made up, looking distressed to be seen that way.  I could relate.

"Now," the artist said, "it's time to get you ready."

"Can we talk about this?"

"Can you afford a nasty, one-sided divorce?   And public shaming like you wouldn't believe?"

"That video isn't fair."

"Tell that to everybody when they're listening to your 'Gary wants' and 'Please give Gary'."  She chuckled.  "I'm sure you can convince them."

My shoulders sagged in defeat.  "All right.  What do I have to do?"

"Just some modelling... of a sort."

She led me into a back room.  There were some abstract painting hung on the walls, something that was either a sculpture or a packing crate, and a big, wrought iron, parrot cage on wheels.  It was the sort of crap you'd expect to see in a place like that.

With a straight face Beryl told me, "Strip down, handsome.  All the way."

I froze.  "You have to be kidding."

"Will your wife's divorce lawyer be kidding?  And your employers if somebody anonymously forwards them some choice video clips?"

I was trapped.  Against my will I got out of my shirt, slipped off the shoes, removed my socks, and reluctantly dropped my pants.  As much as I didn't want to expose my below average genitals to her again, I lowered my shorts and put them on top of the rest.  Everything got neatly folded and put on a chair, where I could easily retrieve it after this madness was over. 

Beryl said, "Now sit on that other chair and spread your legs."

I wanted to say something but by then all the resistance had been driven out of me.  I sat my bare bottom on the cold wooden chair and put my feet wide apart, unintentionally showing off my three-piece set and limited amount of wispy pubic hair.  I was so stressed that, even in the presence of that sexy figure, the front of her single-piece outfit zipped partway down to allow free peeps of much boob-age, I didn't get hard.  She took a small object from her pocket and knelt before me.  I felt her fingers nimbly slipping something over my dick and passing my balls through a narrow ring one at a time.  Then she fitted a second piece over my penis, a narrow chamber barely long enough to hold me, even though I was flaccid.  Beryl fiddled around and I glimpsed down to see the hard sheath of pink plastic holding my member was fitted together with the matching circle around the base of my parts.  It was a chastity device like I had seen while fulfilling my fascination with the sexually bizarre on-line.  Beryl slipped a padlock with a black spades symbol, like on playing cards, across its front.  It was too much and I almost said something but then the lock clicked shut and whatever words I might have spoken became pointless.  She stood up and smiled at me.

"Now," she declared, "into the cage you go."

Having my dick locked up, so tightly encased that it couldn't get hard, was so emasculating that I surrendered and backed into the cramped space.  All I could do was stay in a deep crouch, my arms nearly pinned to my sides, while she made a show of closing the door and locking that too.  Then she took a black cover and fitted it over the entire cage.  She pushed the enclosure and it moved easily on its little wheels.  Judging from the distance we went and the sudden buzz of voices, we had returned to the gallery floor.  The thought of being seen by anyone in my present state was unnerving but there was no way out of my fix. 

A familiar voice said, "How are you doing in there, Gary?"  It was Pamela.  "I trust you get the message about what happens when you show off in front of cameras."

I wanted to point out that the cameras had been hidden but trying to explain was futile.  I meekly responded, "Yes, dear."

"Good boy.  And later you'll get your other lesson."

Before I could dwell on what that might be, the cover was whisked off and there stood Beryl, beaming as the crowd applauded.  Then I heard my own voice and understood that the recording of me was playing.  People looked over my head, presumably at a screen on the wall, and then down at my face, determining that the same guy acting so wimpy in the video was the freak in the cramped cage, wearing a tiny pink cock-lock.  I shuddered and wanted to vanish, but with so many eyes on me that was an impossibility. 

For the next several hours I was an object of curiosity.  At some point the cage was rotated so I could see my apartment room drama played out over and over.  I listened to my self-demeaning words each time the recording replayed.  And had to listen to the discussions that went on all around me.

"His penis really is that small."

"It sounds like he's committed to his submissive role."

"Can you imagine being like that?"

"But what is the meaning of this work, within the deconstructive paradigm?  That's the question."

Beryl announced that it was permissible to touch the specimen in the cage.  I cringed as viewers converged on me and hands touched here and there, female and male hands.  My skin crawled as an effeminate man got on his knees to explore the insides of my thighs.  His partner, a big brute in leather, got behind me to paw my butt.  I flinched but the bars kept me from moving more than an inch in any direction.  A woman who acted tipsy decided she had to diddle my nipples to test if the chastity would stay in place.   She got me panting and whimpering, which attracted more watchers, and eventually had me sniffling and blinking back tears.  At last the crowd started to disperse.   It took a while for them all to go.  I think it helped when the free wine was no longer being replenished. 

"All right," I said to my wife.  "You've had your fun.  I paid for what I did.  Now can I please get out of here and have my clothes back?"

"No," she corrected.  "You only paid for getting yourself recorded on video.  You still owe me for the fun you had with Ms. Beryl, as she had you calling her, Gary."

"What...?  What else are you going to do to me?"

"I'm going to show you that two can play at that game."

She went to Roland and opened her arms.  He embraced her and they kissed with their mouths open.  His hands roamed up and down her body.  He even pressed in on the sides of those overgrown tits I loved so much. 

"Be honest with yourself, Gary," Pamela said.  "I still owe you bigtime.  Well, maybe not that big.  I started settling this score the night Roland stopped by to drop off the champagne.  And to show me your oh-so-dirty performance on his phone.  We talked about retribution and, before I knew it, but with my full consent, his marvelous cock was inside me.  And it was wonderful.  Not like that tiny joke between your legs.  What he has is the real thing, twelve thick inches.  I orgasmed like you could never make me do.  It might have helped if you'd been more thoughtful and used your mouth down there, but that was too distasteful for you."

"I'm afraid she's right," Roland said, grinning at me through the bars.  "You had a good thing and threw it away.  Plus, now you're going to have to become a master at playing the pink harmonica anyway."

"Doing what?"

Pamela explained, "Eating my pussy, dopey.  But right now we're taking the elevator in the back upstairs to the owner's private space, where we've been granted the use of the bedroom for the entire evening."  She looked up at Roland and asked, "Would you push my property to the elevator, lover?"

I was in shock.  This wasn't possible.  Yet I had cheated on Pamela, even if all I got was an incomplete hand job.  My lips quivered and hot tears rolled down my cheeks.  Beryl threw me a kiss as I was rolled away.  In the ascending elevator I had to witness my wife and her Black super-stud caressing each other.  She rubbed the front of his pants, where a huge bulge was evident.  He pushed my enclosure down a short hall and into a bedroom.  There was another of Beryl's images on the wall, over the bed.  It was a still of me from the video, cropped to feature my face in extreme close-up, my features made over into a mask of overheated need.  Roland parked me where I had a perfect view of the bed.  I had to watch them undress each other.  His cock was immense and she couldn't keep her hands off it. 

"Pay attention," she told me.  "See how a real man with proper equipment takes care of his woman."

"Please, Pamela.  Don't do this."

"What?  I should just let you party with Beryl and then deny myself the same right?  No way, Gary."  She reached between the bars to ruffle my hair.  "Enjoy the show, loser."

They got onto the bed.  His cock was at full engorgement, a monument to male virility.  He knelt between her legs and got the head against her pussy.  She purred and held onto his arms, looking like a girl about to go racing along on some amusement park thrill ride.  The Black stallion eased into her and, once he had buried his footlong to the root, it did turn into a thrill ride for my wife.  He handled her expertly, varying the length of his stokes and how fast or slow they came.  Roland easily kept her squirming and squealing underneath him. 

"OMG," she cried.  "With Gary it wasn't even a hundredth this good.  His puny dick couldn't make me finish.  I was never even sure if it was in me."  She turned her head to lock eyes with me.  "Did you ever see me look like this when I was under you, husband dearest?  Or hear me get so loud?  You know you didn't, because you're a total dud in bed.  So you and your sad little dick can do without pussy from now on."

"No pussy," the Black man echoed.  Then he added, "Unless you're eating it."

"Right," my wife told me with a hurtful sneer.  "You never had to decency to make up for your pitiful performances by going down on me.  Now that's all you'll be doing.  It will be your entire sex life.  With your pee-wee pecker all locked up you won't even be able to play with yourself.  Just think how sore your balls are going to be real soon."

After that Roland plunged into her hard a few times and the torrent of verbal abuse was replaced by fresh cries of ecstasy.  He drove her to a shuddering climax, after which he slowed so she could enjoy the afterglow.  Then he began building her up toward another orgasm.  His control was unbelievable.  He had sexual prowess to spare.  In comparison I was a bedroom nonentity.  Pamela had two more spine-arching, toe-curling climaxes and, as Roland launched her into the last one, he also allowed himself to finish.  Afterwards they lay there in a blissfully spent state.  Then he got up, took his pants, fished the key to my birdcage from his pocket, and unlocked it.  He dragged me out and I straightened up with difficulty, every muscle in my back and legs protesting. 

"Let's go," he said, slapping the back of my head.  "It's time for your first lesson in snatch licking."

"You mean using my mouth on Pamela's... part?"

"No, I mean lapping her cunt and cleaning up -- and eating -- all the cream I just filled her with.  And it's a full load, Mr. Dinky Dick."

His powerful hand grabbed the back of my neck so he could walk me to the bed, shove me onto the foot of it, and drag me forward until my nose was an inch from the center of Pamela's womanhood.  His thick cum was oozing from between her nether lips.  I couldn't avoid smelling the powerful scent of sex.  He let go and reached back to swat me painfully on the rump.

"Get to it, Pussy Boy.  Pamela will tell you how to do it right.  I'm sure you'll be a fast learner.  If not, I'll motivate you."

To let me know what a poor effort would cost me, he landed another four smacks on my bottom, leaving it burning.  I got my tongue on Pamela's leaking slit and scooped up a portion of salty ejaculate, took it into my mouth, and gagged it down.  She laughed.

"Now lick me up and down, Gary.  Then get your tongue deep inside.  And don't neglect my clitoris.  It likes to be sucked.  This is what you should have been doing since Day One, instead of just poking at me with your miniature dick and emptying your tiny balls, while I never got any satisfaction.  That situation just got reversed.  You're going to stay in chastity and be the one who can't get what they need.  I'll love seeing you walk around with aching blue balls.  That's going to be too funny.  So just keep licking and sucking, and enjoy gulping down all of Roland's big load of cream." 

It was the worst thing I could conceive of having to do, but rather than risk more physical punishment from that superior Black man, I kept on going.  I was at last getting my wife's pussy clean when she began to moan and buck her hips.  I paid more attention to her clitoris as she neared another climax.  Roland kissed her and fondled her substantial tits.  She got wetter, groaned, and came on my mouth.  That produced  more fluids for me to lap up and consume.  It was disgusting. 

When they were done with me I was sent back to my cage.  I had to back in, pull the door shut after me, and lock myself in.  Roland turned off the overhead light, leaving only what illumination came through the window.  It was enough for me to be able to see the lovers drift off into restful sleep.  I squatted there, unable to get comfortable, trying to find an unpainful position that didn't exist.  Eventually I dozed, which only led to anxious dreams.

In the morning I was released and it took much longer than last time to work out all the cramps in my muscles.  I was given a woman's short robe to wear, and nothing else, for the ride home.   As soon as we arrived, Roland started to act like he lived there and I realized he as moving in.  He had decided to expand the local office of his empire.  On Monday morning I tried to call in sick to work because I was still so rattled, and hadn't been given anything proper to wear.  My call was transferred to the head of the division who informed me that because of a video that had been sent to them my services would no longer be required.  Roland told me that I was going to work for him but my salary would get deposited directly into an account with only Pamela's name on it.  He was also having his legal team create documents for me to sign, which would put everything into my wife's name.  I still hadn't been given back my keys or wallet, the latter containing all my ID and credit cards.  I had to use a highly effective laser tool to remove every hair below my eyebrows.  Pamela and Roland were wildly amused by how smooth and pink that made me all over.  She said that with my hairless crotch my three-piece set appeared even more prepubescent than before. 

To go to my new job the next day I was permitted only a loose top and billowing slacks, both very unisex, with nothing on underneath.  As soon as Pamela got me into the office, I was hustled into Beryl's workspace.  She and another Black woman, a very full-figured one, were going to give me a makeover.  They teased and sprayed my hair, applied heavy cosmetics to my face, got me into panties and a slinky sleeveless dress, and made me wear high heels that gave me a mincing effeminate gait.  Then two oversized breast forms were stuffed into the cups of the dress's top, so that it appeared I had a huge bust. There was even a cut-out that showed faux cleavage.  Anyone could see that I was wearing fake boobs.  I resembled an empty-headed office-slut. 

Roland walked me out onto the work floor and called everyone to gather around.  We were flanked by Pamela and Beryl. 

He told them, "This is our new worker, Gary.  But he prefers to be called Gala while he's sorting through his gender identity issues.  Because Gala is Bi and impossibly oversexed, he invites all of you -- or rather, she does -- to become intimate with her, if you'd like.  One part of her erotic personality that's not in question is her submissiveness.  She'd be much happier under your desk providing oral services or accompanying you to the restrooms where you can get more creative with her.  And she just loves her bimbo look, so if any of you girls want to add to her make-up, or guys want to gift her with cheap and gaudy jewelry, she'd be most appreciative -- and eager to demonstrate her gratitude."

That put me into a daze.  I had just been announced as the office tramp, with the lie that it was something I desired.  All the youthful staff, most of them Black, eyed me with bad intent. 

"Hi everyone," Pamela said, waving cheerily to the gathering.  "I'm married to Gala and just want you to know that I approve of anything you can do to help her get to the core of her submissive bimbo identity.  Please don't be gentle with her.  In the meantime," she hugged Roland possessively, "I've found a man with no identity issues to keep me happy at night."

There was applause all around.  Andre, the computer expert I'd met briefly, came straight up to me.  He said, "I loved your video and have started a page for you, that anyone can visit for free.  There won't be anything obscene on it, just plenty of suggestive material, as well as you talking directly to your viewers, of which you already have nearly 200."

As if I needed anymore degradation, he had me strike several pin-up poses, including one that featured me kneeing and sucking on a banana from the breakroom fruit basket.  Andre assured me that they would get posted at once, and that there were already a few requests for custom pictures of me.  My wife and Beryl found all of that highly amusing.  I was trapped in my new role as a bimbo bubblehead for 40 hours a week. 

There had been an unoccupied office which Roland now took as his own.  He and Pamela went there, behind frosted glass panels that would keep anyone from seeing what went on inside.  I was summoned to accompany them.  Pamela had me adjust my obviously false bosom, and told me to do that frequently to keep it in line.  Then Roland said he thought I'd feel more like myself, like Gala, if I was under his desk.  I had to enter that tight space bottom-first.  He sat in his chair and Pamela planted her attractive ass on the blotter, so she was facing him with her feet resting on either side of the seat of his chair.  She leaned forward and they kissed.  He got his hands all over her legs and then fondled those full breasts I loved so much and was unlikely ever to touch again.  I had a worm's-eye-view of the action.  Then he opened his fly and got his potent cock out.  As he rolled his chair forward I had to back up further into the knee-hole, until my bottom touched the modesty board. 

"Gala," my wife called in a singsong way, separating the two syllables of my new name distinctly.  "Gala bimbo-brain.  My pussy is still tender from the last pounding Roland gave it. And his cock is such a jawbreaker that I have to take a day or two off between the blowjobs I give him.  Would you be a sweetheart and suck him off for me?  I'll stay right here where he can feel me up to keep him in the mood and so he'll give you an extra large feeding of his jazz.  Go on, sweetness... unless you'd rather be a substitute urinal in the men's room."

My balls throbbed.  Those artificial knockers wobbled.  I was stuck under the desk and facing an even worse alternative if I didn't perform.  Opening my mouth wide, I capped the knob of his cock.  It pressed up against the roof of my mouth and down on my tongue at the same time.  I wondered how much space mine would take up if Pamela or Beryl put it into their mouths, not that it was ever going to happen.  They would probably be able to chew gum while I was in there.  Pamela moved one foot and ground a stiletto into my shoulder to encourage me.  I fastened my lips behind the knob of that stupendous cock and sucked. 

Pamela told me, "Run your tongue around the wide part, that ridge.  Get your hands on the shaft and stroke it, but lightly. And then massage his king size balls.   That's a good little, mindless, BJ machine."  She rubbed the side of her foot against my cheek.  A tingling started in my crotch and my scrotum tightened up.  My buttocks clenched involuntarily.  All that sent signals to my nipples.  I moaned.

"Sounds like we hit the jackpot, sissy-wise," the Black man observed. "I think we're going to find out Gary was a secret faggot all along.  And that he'd rather be Gala, with a man-sausage in his mouth.  Isn't that right, girly?"

I groaned and he took it as agreement, even though that would have been the last thing I wanted to express.  I was producing saliva and had to swallow some.  Roland must have been leaking drops of clear pre-cum, because I noticed a subtle flavor on my tongue.  Ugh.  I ran my hands gently up and down the impressive length of his thick cock.  My wife chortled at the dilemma I was in.  She talked dirty to him to make sure I was going to get a big blast of his cream.  I worshipfully attended to his cock, my own much smaller version pulsing inside its plastic prison.  Why had I started getting aroused during these shameful happenings?  

Roland seemed to read my mind.  "What's the matter, sissy bimbo?  You're really putting a lot of effort into your new specialty.  And I noticed you jerking your hips.  Would you rather be jerking your little dick?  Is this getting you turned on?  Are you a freak who likes to see a better man in bed with his wife?  And finds out he enjoys having that man's stick in his faggot mouth?  Is that it, Gala?"

I tried to plead with my eyes for him not to say those things in front of Pamela.  But she got into the spirit of it and added her own thoughts.

"Sometimes guys with below average dicks drift into being pansies.  I read somewhere that it's about the other guys having so much more in the cock department.  The wimps feel like that have to submit to them.  They try to deny it but it eventually comes out."

"I've heard that too, babe.  Perverts like that get their first look at Big Black Cock and it's like a dam bursting.  All of a sudden they can't stop thinking about it.  Gala here probably noticed what other guys were packing back in school, in the locker room.  He would have told himself it was just for comparisons but we know the real reason."

I had been aware of other guys' equipment before and after gym class, including the way some of them really filled out their athletic supporters.  And I had told myself that I was just judging myself against them.  Now, however, those two had me questioning if I'd hidden my true desires even from myself.  Had I also snuck peeks at classmates' butts?  And their underarms?  I mean, maybe I had.  But why would I find armpits of interest?  Was I as freaky as they were suggesting or even more so?  I had to stop thinking that way but it was like the old trick where someone tells you not to picture a certain thing in your mind and then it's all you can do.  Of course, with the knob of Roland's massive cock forcing me to breath through my nose, and me so enthusiastically pampering it -- even though I told myself that was just to avoid worse consequences -- it was hard to argue in favor of being completely straight. 

At least I could try to get this horrid scene over sooner.  I tightened my grip fractionally and stepped up my pumping rhythm just slightly.  It wouldn't be good to be obvious about it.  My tongue teased the underside of his cockhead.  I backed off just enough to be able to lick his piss slit.  Was I doing more than I had to?  They had me questioning my motives.  Without being told to I took in another two inches.  Bobbed my head.  Made an involuntary sound in the back of my throat that I thought expressed distress but could have been taken for rising excitement.  Turning my eyes up I saw Pamela's lips meet Roland's again. He held her face between his big hands, the contrast of their skin tones lending a dramatic effect.  My hand and head moved faster.  Roland smiled down at me with what I was sure was the look of victory.  He had taken my wife and now he was destroying my manhood.  I closed my eyes but he told me to keep them open.

He sucked air in through his clenched teeth, blew it out between pursed lips, and launched his semen into my mouth and down my throat.  I wanted to gag to display my revulsion but for some reason that didn't happen.  Somehow I took it all, swallowed repeatedly, and ended with only a single drop leaking out of the corner of my mouth.  He sighed as I manually extracted the final drops.  Then he pulled out and wiped his dick on the sides of my face.  My wife gave him a congratulatory kiss. 

"That helps to even up the score," she decided.  "But I like this too much to stop now... or ever."

I emerged from under the desk and straightened my clothes and hair as best as I could.  There was cum and spit on my cheeks.  Pamela make a remark about my smeared lipstick and how it was a good look for a bimbo like me.  And that's what I was.  They had transformed me into a Black man's bimbo.  After that I had to make an extended walk of shame around the office and say hello to each person, my lipstick still a mess.  I was sure I had spunk on my breath and everyone would guess what had just taken place.   After I was done that, Andre called me into his cubicle to show me my webpage.  I was appalled by the images of myself looking like a nympho and especially by one of me in my old male identity that might allow someone to know Gala's true identity.  Then he took a cloth from a desk drawer and told me to buff his shoes while he captured a few digital images.  Andre kept me down there for ten minutes, making his footwear shine.  I thought it would lead to me giving him head, but he didn't want that, at least not yet. 

Just as the tension of a close call was leaving me, one of the women snapped at me to go with her to the ladies room.  She was Black and about forty pounds overweight, with the extra bulk mostly in her bust, hips, ass and thighs.  Several people chuckled behind my back as I followed her.  She went to a booth, pulled down her panties, sat on the toilet, and flipped up the front of her skirt. 

"I'm Janelle," she said as she slid her wide bottom forward on the seat and spread her legs.  "And you're going to get to know my puss real good, Gala girl.  Now get down, pull that door shut but don't lock it, then show me what you can do with your pretty mouth." 

I did as she said, pushed my shifting breast forms back where they should be, and got my head between her plump thighs, my chin on the porcelain rim.  Her female smell was marshy and her vaginal lips thick and rippled.  She tasted even worse than she smelled.  I licked her labia and sucked her clit.  She told me not to rush.

Just then we heard the lavatory door open.  Someone rapped on the stall door.  It was Beryl, wanting to know, "You all right in there, Janelle?  I don't want that he-lezzie taking advantage of you."

Janelle laughed.  "No problem, girl.  Open the door and have a look."

To my shame, Beryl did exactly that.  She chuckled at the sight of me on my hands and knees with my mouth busy against her friend's twat.  Then the Black office-runner moved forward, with a leg on either side of me.  She sat down on my upper back, her weight uncomfortable, but the contact with that big shapely bottom a perverse thrill. 

I must have slowed down my efforts on Janelle, because she slapped the back of my head and snapped, "Nobody told you to ease up, white sissy-freak."

The women began to chat as if I wasn't there.  But I'm sure they were paying attention to my presence, because their topic of conversation was my future at the office.   They referred to me by my new femme name.

"Gala is going to be a hit with the guys," Beryl said, "with those big tits and her bimbo ways."

"For sure.  Javon and Davon both have their eyes on her," Janelle observed.  "They might want some three-way action, with her in  the middle."

"Nobody will ever mistake her for a real man.  I mean, she doesn't make a peep about Roland being with her wife."

"What kind of guy keeps his mouth shut like that?" Janelle asked rhetorically.

"That kind that gets a secret kick from seeing his wife get plowed by a big Black cock.  In fact..."  She lifted her feet off the floor so her entire weight was pressing down on me.  "... Miss Pamela is in his office right now, getting her pussy filled with the real thing."

They laughed at my misfortune.  I had my tongue inside Janelle, with her thick rubbery pussy lips mushed against my face.  Beryl excused herself, saying she didn't want to interfere with her friend's big finish.  About two minutes after the executive left, that event occurred.  Janelle produced astounding amounts of juice when she erupted.  I gagged it down but some still got on my chin. 

"Damn," she enthused.  "This is going to be a regular deal for us, Gala.  You and me right here, with your mouth just working away.  After I tell the rest of the bitches how good you are, I'll have to get in line for my turn."

She dismissed me but predictably wouldn't let me wash my face.  Almost as soon as I returned to the work floor, one of the Black guys emerged from his cubicle and seized my arm.

"Let's go for a little walk," he suggested.  "Like to the breakroom.  I'm Leon and the other dudes figured I should get first crack at you, what with me being especially well equipped for the job, if you know what I mean.  And if you don't know," he said as he dragged me into the break area, "you will real soon."

"B... but, someone might walk in on us," I squeaked.

"Hey, we're all friends here."  He got himself a coffee, took a sip, set it aside, and told me to get over where he was.  "Time for us to get acquainted," he said, opening his trousers and taking out his cock.

OMG.  It was huge.   Leon put his hands on my shoulders and pushed down.  I sank into a deep squat without resistance.  My new personality was taking over.  As I gaped at his enormous shaft and its big knob, my eyes crossed.

He said, "Hah.  You're going cockeyed looking at cock, Gala."

"Y... yes, Sir."  I was still getting over the wow-factor of how long and thick his member was.  He gripped it by the root and idly slapped me in the face with it several times.  I said, "It's, like, so big."

"Damn straight.  But I know you can handle it.  So grab hold and give your lips and tongue a workout, Blow White."

I heard myself say, in a hushed voice, "It's so big."

Two seconds later, instead of talking about it, I was eating it, getting my jaws stretched to their limit, as I mouthed his cockhead and fondled his stalk.  The bimbo I was becoming took control and Leon got the full, mindless slut treatment.  He blasted a load of cream that nearly drowned me.  When he pulled out I toppled over backwards.  My mouth hung open as if I could no longer close it.  My tongue lolled out, coated with his spunk no doubt.  The fake boobs I wore were all disarrayed but I wasn't recovered enough to push them back into place.  All I could do was took up at him as he wiped down his tool with several napkins and tucked it away.  Then he took another swallow of his coffee and sneered down at me.

I could only repeat, "Like, so big."

Over the next two weeks my workdays were an endless round of sexual servitude.  Sometimes when Pamela visited I had to watch Roland slam her with his tireless cock.  My vocabulary began to shrink, I suppose from lack of use.  I became increasingly interested in cosmetics, nail polish, and fussing with my hair.  And I interjected my speech more and more with words such as 'like' and 'really' and 'you know'. 

Just when I thought my predicament couldn't get any worse, there was a disturbing announcement.  It happened one afternoon.  Pamela was at home, getting her strength back after a rough night of being fucked by Roland.  He was at work, ready to have his balls emptied again despite the previous evening's multiple ejaculations.  I was available, like always, and found myself under his desk with his stupendous shaft halfway down my throat, my hands on his heavy nut sac, as he got ready to feed me one of his thick rich 'protein drinks'.  My gag reflex was mostly gone by then, something he enjoyed reminding me was a sign that I was becoming a complete male bimbo.  When he fired down my gullet he was so deep in that I didn't taste it.  Roland made some remark about me being a good little jizz jar and told me to just keep him in my mouth because he liked it.

A minute later his phone rang.  "Hello.  Hey, Beryl.  What's up, girl?  Yeah, he's under my desk again.  Gala sure is getting to look forward to being down there.  I know.  What a bimbo.  That was clever of you to get him started chewing gum.  And having him buffing his nails all the time.  Acting like a dimwit is helping to make him one.  But why don't you come on in here?  I'm sure the sissy won't mind.  She's such an exhibitionist.  You can tell me all about that new Art project you want to do."

I didn't like the sound of that.  Not after the dual parts I had played in her last exhibit.  Beryl came in and sat across the desk from Roland.  Even though she couldn't see me, I was painfully mortified that she was in the same room, knowing what I had just done and that I was still crammed under the desk. 

She began, "So I have everything set up for my new video shoot.  And now that Gala is looking so much like a bimbo, and acting that way, and even starting to think the same, she'll be perfect.  I expect to get some revealing physical reactions and spontaneous remarks from our Miss Thunder-tits.  I'm even considering getting her some new breast-forms, but I don't want to spoil the girl."

"Well," he told her, "I've decided to fund this project for you.  Not only as an established patron of your Art, but because Pamela is so excited about it.  She can't wait to see her wuss-of-a-husband driven the rest of the way into his new lifestyle."

"You're funding this one?"

"Pamela and I are financing it together.  She has total control of all their assets.  We do so many things as a couple now.  Plus she wants the added involvement in her hubby's makeover."

  "Thank you both.  This way I'll be able to include some extras that I had only been wishing for.  This one is going to be a masterpiece.  And I'll be ready to record it in about a week."

"Sounds perfect.  I'm sure Gala will enjoy thinking about it day and night, wondering how she'll be involved... and what she'll be like after it's over."

They laughed together.  Under Roland's desk I could only huddle and quiver, his soft cock still filling my mouth.

In the days that followed I obsessed over what was facing me.  No one gave any clues.  When they mentioned it there was always a veil of secrecy cast over the details.  Even so, I knew I wouldn't like it.  And that remark of Roland's about what I'd be like when it was done as the most disturbing.

The night of the video recording finally came.  I was dressed by Pamela, based on instructions sent by Beryl.  Roland watched me being put into my bimbo outfit.    First there were super-large breast forms with realistic nipples.  These were glued to my hairless chest with an adhesive what was guaranteed to last for days, even through rough handling and profuse sweating.  Over them went a bikini-style bit-of-nothing that left plenty of fake cleavage and side-boob showing.  Next came a stretchy top that left my arms and midriff bare.  To my surprise, the cock lock was removed and put in a small bag, along with the key.  Then there was a thong that showed off the shape and limited size of my genitals.  It had only a narrow strap in the back, so that my butt cheeks were completely uncovered.  That was followed by smoky stockings with sparkles in them.  Then came hooker shoes, shiny magenta ones with chunky clear heels that had glitter imbedded in them.  And big hoop earrings, heavy ones that pulled at my lobes.  My make-up was overstated, to put it mildly, and I was given two sets of long, curling false eyelashes.  My hair was cut in bangs across my  forehead and spray-tinted blue and silver.  I looked like a perfectly emptyheaded sissy slut, a complete male bimbo. 

"How do you like the new you?" my wife wanted to know as I stared at myself in a long mirror.

"It's, like, a lot," I said around the bubble gum I was chewing like a cow with her cud.  "But I guess it's how I have to look.  You know?"  Why wasn't I more articulate?  Or more upset? 

"Someone will be here to pick you up soon," Roland said.  "And then your wife and I are heading out for a long weekend.  I'm sure you'll be too busy to worry about what we're doing."

Pamela hugged him, her big boobs against his manly chest.  "As if Gala didn't already know.  But just in case she's getting too dumb to figure it out, Roland will be pounding me with his masterful cock."

I was jealous, as always.  But there was also a new emotion.  Could it be... envy?  Was I honestly becoming what they said?  A slut for Big Black Cock?

There was a knock on the door.  It was a young Black guy, tough looking, tall and thin, with a black muscle-shirt, camouflage pants, and new athletic shoes. 

He said, "Yo, I'm Ty.  Here to get the sissy bitch for Beryl."

My wife pushed me toward him.  The flashy shoes made me tumble into his arms.  She gave me a crooked smile and squeezed my bare ass.  I could feel his anaconda cock against my belly.  They gave him the bag holding my chastity.  His strong fingers clamped onto my undeveloped bicep and he jerked me after him as he headed for the door.

"Gone need her for a couple days," he advised them.  "That cool?"

"All cool," Roland assured him.  "Beryl knows how to get in touch with us."

Ty walked me out into the early evening, straight toward a waiting van.  The back door was opened by a short stocky Black youth wearing a backwards ball cap.  He gave a mock bow and gestured for me to enter with a sweep of his arm.  I got in nervously and found two more guys waiting.  They smiled lasciviously at me.  My made-up face, big fake boobs, and booty-baring thong were an open invitation to full-access fondling.  Even so, they limited themselves to making comments, I supposed because Beryl had told them it was hands-off, at least for the time being.

"Looking sweet, girl."

"That sissy mouth got the lips that grip."

"And her bimbo ass be hungry for some meat."

That last comment was especially disturbing. Surely they weren't intending to... go all way with me.  When the vehicle stopped and the back was opened, I found myself in a poorly maintained parking lot behind a two-story building.  Ty and the others closed in around me.  I was herded to an unmarked metal door under a sign so faded it was illegible.  Inside, at the end of a plain corridor, was a second door, this one wooden.  Behind that was a spacious room with a low ceiling, cheaply paneled walls, and a linoleum tiled floor that was long overdue for a cleaning.  Spread around the room were a bed with a bare mattress, a worn table and chairs, a flat-screen TV, and an old refrigerator.  There were also a sawhorse, an ottoman, milk crates, and other incongruous items.  Beryl was there with her digital movie camera. 

Most importantly to me, however, there were more than a half dozen young Black men.  They were of various body types and shades of Black, brown and beige, but were united by a shared gangbanger look.  It was impossible for me to not see the impressive bulges between their legs.  I hugged myself, arms crossed under those outrageous fake boobs.  Every pair of dark eyes was on me.  I blinked nervously, which made my long lashes flutter.  I brushed my new bangs with my hand.   Then I smiled, hoping to elicit some sympathy.  But everything I did appeared flirty, as if I was trying to draw them to me in a way I didn't want. 

"Girl's just asking for it."

"Bitch wants all she can get."

"Damn bimbo got her game on for Black."

"She a queer Queen of Spades."

"Princess of Pricks."

"Duchess of Dongs."

"Got her white dick all caged up tight.  Even got that spades deal on the lock."

"Ain't got no hair between her legs.  Or nowhere." 

They moved to toward me in a pack.  Beryl dodged adroitly among them to capture their movement and, as she swung the camera around, my terrified reaction.  I was seized by rough hands and pawed mercilessly.  Then they moved me toward that out-of-place sawhorse.  My thong was dragged down and off, to be tossed aside.  I kicked my stockinged legs as I was draped over the horizontal slat of the horse, with my head on one side and feet on the other.  It cut painfully into my middle.  Someone grabbed my hips to steady me.  Rude fingers smeared cold gel onto and inside my tight rosebud.  I was so afraid that I clenched tightly, making the entry of even one finger -- and then two -- followed by three -- agonizing.  Seconds later I felt the blunt head of a cock replaced those probing digits. 

"Please," I cried.  "Don't.  I'm too tight right now.  And no one has... used me... that way yet.   I won't be able to stand it."

"Tight is good.  Faggot like you can ALWAYS take a cock," said the man who was about to take me.  "And I know you specially want a big one like mine.  We just gone have a quick date, then you get to know some of the other brothers."

"No, no, no," I sobbed.  "At least let me relax first."

"You gone feel real relaxed after I make your backdoor pussy happy."

"I can't..."  That was as far as I got before he shoved himself into my resisting rear entrance.  I wailed and shivered violently but he kept pushing, burying inch after thick inch until I felt his heavy balls touch my lightweight ones.  I settled into loud whimpering as he pulled partway out and plunged back in.  Soon he was doing it with a steady rhythm.  Someone put on music, that horrid kind with a pounding beat and spoken-sung lyrics.  The violator of my ass matched his tempo to that of the insistent music.  His strong finger dug into my soft hips.  I cried.  Several guys took up positions in front of me and watched my suffering with obvious glee.  The slamming of my rear shifted into high gear, I hollered, my attacker yelled out a war-cry of victory, and he pumped his load into my bowels.  He withdrew and I was lifted off the horse, my midsection so sore that I was sure bruising would result.

But my concern at that moment wasn't the marks that might be left.  It was that I was being manhandled and put onto my knees in front of the ottoman.  Another of the Blacks, with the physique of a bodybuilder, his pants off and long fat cock dangling, seated himself on the low piece of furniture.  He spread his knees.

"Get them soft white hands busy on my stick, snowdrop," he snarled.  "Unless you want me up your booty."

"N... no, Sir," I said, my voice quivering.  My fingers wrapped around his hanging member.  "I'll be good.  Whatever you want.  Just don't rape my ass."

"Then get me up and in your bad-girl mouth, ho."

It took only a half dozen strokes to get him hard.  He was threateningly large.  I had to duck my head down to get my lips around his rod, just behind the knob.  Sucking hard and swirling my tongue, my conditioned reflexes taking over, I kept my hands working at the same time.  When my fingers got to his root I lightly manipulated his balls.  He grunted his satisfaction and leaked pre-cum copiously.  I got the slimy stuff all over my tongue, which I then glided across the underside of his cockhead.  That did the trick and he spurted into the back of my mouth.  As I gulped down his plentiful semen another of the rough boys was getting ready to take his place. 

This one was stocky, with a protruding stomach.  He stacked two milk crates atop each other, so that his crotch was higher than the previous one had been.  This time I had to straighten up, while still on my knees, to attain the right angle.  His cock had an upward curve, which made it even more of a challenge.  But I got it into my mouth and slid my lips, slick with spunk, along it.  He growled his praise.  He wasn't as overgrown as the others, so I was able to deepthroat him.  There I was, my bare bottom on display, looking like a bimbo, with a Black cock down my gullet when, at the worst possible moment, I became aroused.  Why was that happening?  Someone noticed and announced my shameful reaction.  Beryl came closer to get a clear shot of it.  I moaned around the man-meat I was moving up and down on. 

The guy I was servicing said, "Gone a bust my nut.  Gone a bust it.  Gone... gone... gone..."

And then he suited his action to the words, firing a geyser down my throat.  After I pulled my mouth off him and took several deep breaths, someone stood me up so everybody could get a good look at my shameful tiny erection.  Beryl made sure to get a close-up of it, making a joke about how she needed to zoom in so it would be visible. 

I heard myself say in a sultry voice, "Fellows, you're being, like, so rough."  That was followed by my throaty chuckle.  "You don't want to hurt me.  Do you?"  Instead of a plea it sounded like a challenge, a temptation.  What was wrong with me.  I scanned the room, making eye contact with one lustful man after another.  "It's not like I'm just a mouth and as ass for you to plug with those big... Black... cocks, you know."  I sounded as much like a bimbo as I looked.

There were some murmured remarks, expressing astonishment at the change in me.  I was led to the bedframe with the lumpy mattress on it.  They got me on my hands and knees but it didn't take as much effort as it should have.  Something inside me wanted to please these masterful males.  If I did, an inner voice told me, it would mean there was something I was good at, which defined me and gave me worth.  I might have lost my wife and job, been turned into a feminized caricature, and be available to everyone at the office.  And I was the double-ended receptacle for every Black cock in this room, but to gratify them would redefine and re-empower me.  My ability to reason, no matter how erratically, was then replaced by pure physical lust.  My ego was defeated by my id. 

There was a cock aimed at my mouth, held by a thick-fingered Black hand.  The dark tool was semi-stiff but needed a bit more coaxing.  Another length of manhood, this one already rigid, was knocking  at my back door.  I got the one in front of me fully tumescent with some teasing tongue flicks, while my eyes were upturned to observe its owner's half-lidded eyes and open mouth.  I took the first cock greedily into my mouth.  Then I pushed back impatiently to urge the other to enter me.  In less than a minute I was busily sucking and being fucked, shoving my hips back to meet the powerful thrusts from behind.  Gala was in the driver's seat and I -- Gary -- was merely a passenger in my own body.   If there was any doubt about how fully I had lost control of myself, the needy sensations coming from my little dick and even from my nipples convinced me.

It was like I was inside looking out at the wanton way I performed.  I found myself in their filthy lavatory, sitting on the toilet to give two more blowjobs and then on my feet, bent over and holding the rim, to take another cock up my ass.  The tool's owner was fond of using short sharp jabs that made me mewl happily every time.  I was still erect and Beryl was still recording.  

Finally I was taken out and put on the bed again, this time on my back.  A huge Black youth with the biggest cock yet picked up my ankles and put them on his broad shoulders.  Even after all I'd been through by then, he was somehow ominous.  His expression was fierce and he snarled, showing a gold front tooth, as he got himself against my well used and well lubed rump hole.  I heard somebody refer to him as Sly.  He buried himself inside me with one savage effort, then began hunching his hips as if he was trying to destroy me.  I was bent so far that I could see my puny dick bobbing with his every thrust.  It was a brutal unthinking assault that caused blazing pain, yet I was growing more excited by the second.  Sly howled and emptied his balls into me.  I squealed and came all over myself.  The onlookers cheered.  Beryl caught every degrading bit of it.  As my passion faded it was replaced by searing shame. 

I would never be able to separate Gala from the rest of me, or be able to regulate her, or to reverse the way she thought.  The next several days were bad but consisted mostly of me giving head, lapping balls, hugging dark muscular legs, and kissing firm Black buttocks.  Several more times, while being anally assaulted, I had orgasms.  Usually my spunk landed on the dirty floor and I had to lap it up to the accompaniment of raucous laughter.  In the end the cock-lock was put back on me.  When they dumped me at home, a place that was by then solely in my wife's name, I reeked of semen and sweat.  Pamela laughed at my bedraggled appearance.  She allowed me to take a shower and put on a brief silky robe.  I was even given a glass of wine to revivify me. 

"Here's the way it's going to be," she announced.  "You are always going to be in something suited to your bimbo personality or else you'll be naked.  There will be housecleaning work for you but we still expect you to be available at any hour to serve us in the bedroom."

"Or any other room," Roland added.  "We'll be doing a lot of spontaneous screwing all around this place."

"And of course you'll still be at the office most weekdays to keep the staff happy."

Roland contributed, "And any of my clients who want to use you.  I've been spreading the word about my white slut and a lot of people are interested."

"Naturally," Pamela concluded, "we'll continue to make you available to Beryl for her projects.  She's going to have a private screening of some of her video in a rough cut, with you and a friend of yours named Sly at the event for a live demonstration."

The last piece of news made my heart sink... and then soar.  I dreaded it but Gala was already imagining ways to provoke that Black beast to even greater exertions.  She hoped her boy-part would be uncaged so she could cum, but even that had become less important than receiving Black cock and Black semen. 

Since then my new life has been an endless experience of being misused and mistreated, with the expected division of responses from my two sides.  As a bedroom slave to Master Roland and Mistress Pamela I find that I'm not so much attracted to her unless I'm licking his spunk off her body or out of her twat.  My unwanted preference is to suck Roland's enviable cock before they have sex and after they're done.  I get a special thrill when it's just he and I, with me at my most seductively feminine.  There is always the push-pull of desire and shame on my part, with me left afterwards wallowing in my disgrace.  Yet I know I'll be wildly eager the next time he wants me. 

My main interests are in hairstyles and clothes.  I have trouble stringing together thoughts about anything more substantial.  The only TV I watch includes the most frivolous of reality shows, anything about fashion, and infomercials for girly products.  When Pamela buys me any new cosmetics or skin creams I am flattered.  But when Roland compliments my slutty eye make-up or satiny smooth body, it is much more important to me.  He has even mentioned the possibility of giving me breast implants and perhaps doing the same to my butt.  Those ideas initially horrified me.  Losing not only my male personality but then my masculine physicality, seemed dreadful.  Even so, the idea of gaining curves, being able to flaunt them at Roland, and making myself more attractive to him, overrode all other concerns.  That would be, like, so good.  And guess what?  My body hair has stopped growing back.  Isn't that something?

So I know what I am.  I may be legally wed to Pamela, for however long it amuses her to let that union last.  And I am a submissive sex partner to anyone and everyone Roland says.  But in the end there's only one role that matters to me.  I AM A BLACK MAN'S BIMBO.

*********