Whitegirls Like You Ch. 07

Chapter 7 - Conditioned Black

Millie sat on the plush interview couch under the bright, slightly blinding stage lights of The Nightly Show, her heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement. Across from her, Johnny Sullivan flashed his trademark mischievous grin―the kind that made his guests wonder if they were about to be completely embarrassed or have the best time of their lives.

The audience was still cheering wildly at her entrance, a mix of Millie's longtime fans and the show's regulars, as the applause sign blinked to mark the start of the show. When it finally quieted down, Johnny leaned forward, rubbing his hands together.

"Alright, let's get into it," he said, still grinning. "Millie freaking Lucas, everybody! Now, listen―I've been dying to get you on here for a while, and I gotta say, what I'm hearing is that you've been switching things up lately."

Millie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling coyly. "You could say that."

Johnny gestured at her outfit―sleek, modern, edgier than her usual bubblegum pop aesthetic, but absent of her more controversial rebranding ideas. Those would come later. Better to ease the public in slowly. No, instead of her usual pastel princess vibe, she wore a simple black leather corset top, loose cargo pants, and high-top sneakers, her jewelry minimal but striking―a slim, black velvet choker and diamond-studded hoop earrings. She'd worn them at Markus' request.

"I mean, look at you!" Johnny continued, giving her a once-over. "This isn't the Millie Lucas I first met five years ago. What happened to that girl next door vibe? Did you get tired of bedazzled jackets and retire them for crop tops?"

The audience chuckled, and Millie smirked. "Something like that. I guess I just... started re-evaluating who I am, who I want to be as a person. You do this long enough, you realize you don't have to keep playing the same role forever."

Johnny nodded knowingly. "Ahh, I get it. You're in your reinvention era. Like when I stopped doing dumb prank movies and decided I wanted to be taken seriously." He paused dramatically. "For, like, a week."

The audience laughed, and Millie relaxed a little.

Johnny leaned back, tapping his fingers on his desk. "But real talk―your fans here tonight have noticed the shift. Are they going to see it across the board―in your music, your style, your vibe? Or is this more than just about switching up your aesthetic?"

Millie exhaled, choosing her words carefully. "No, it's more than that. I think... as an artist, you have a responsibility to grow, to understand the world better. To give back. And to use your platform for something real."

A murmur of approval rippled through the audience.

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like we're leading up to something big."

Millie grinned. "Oh, we definitely are."

Johnny slapped his desk. "Well, let's not make the people wait! Ladies and gentlemen, joining us now―one of the biggest, most talented names in hip-hop, my guy, the one and only―Markus Khan Kwaest!"

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers as the stage doors swung open and Markus strode out―ever confident, charismatic, and effortlessly cool. Dressed in a dark oversized hoodie, gold chains gleaming under the lights, he had the kind of presence that filled the entire room.

Millie felt her heart skip a beat as Markus walked straight up to her, flashing that signature half-smirk that made millions of fans weak. He reached for her hand, lifting it up to kiss her knuckle like her sweet, chocolate prince.

The energy in the studio skyrocketed. Millie fought own the butterflies in her stomach knowing that the world was finally learning who the new Millie Lucas was going to become.

"Ohhh, now this is a power move!" Johnny whistled as Millie and Markus settled on the guest couch together. "I don't think the music industry is going to know what to do with this!"

Millie laughed, her fingers still locked in Markus's firm grip.

"Man, the two of you here together," Johnny continued. "We need to talk. Because this?" He gestured between them. "This is a major adjustment to wrap my head around."

Markus finally let go of Millie's hand and shrugged, casually leaning back. "Yeah, man. We've been keeping this under wraps for a while, but it's time." He turned to Millie, nodding. "You wanna do the honors?"

Millie turned back to Johnny and the eager, electric crowd.

"We're making an album together," she announced, grinning wide.

The audience erupted again, the sound practically shaking the studio. Some of it was enthusiasm, sure, but Millie caught at least a few dissidents shouting in disbelief. She wasn't surprised―not everyone was open to this level of change.

Johnny threw his hands in the air. "Now that is what I'm talking about!" He turned to the audience. "I told y'all I get exclusives!"

The crowd finally began to settle after the big reveal, though an excited buzz still hummed in the studio. Johnny Sullivan leaned on his fist, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"So spill. How did this whole thing come together?" He pointed between them. "Because I certainly didn't see this collab coming. You guys are both top tier performers, sure, but aesthetically... I'm just wondering what it's going to sound like."

Markus chuckled, exchanging a look with Millie. "Well, I guess we should thank one particular night in L. A."

Millie grinned, playing along. "Yeah, we ran into each other backstage after a show, started talking, and the energy was just there."

"Just like that?" Johnny asked, raising an eyebrow. "You two met up coincidentally and immediately said, 'Hey, let's make an album together'?"

Markus smirked. "Pretty much."

Millie nodded. It was better to keep the details simple. "I mean, we had a lot of mutual respect already. I loved what Markus was doing, and he thought I had something special too."

Johnny snorted, unconvinced. "So no drama at all? No label shenanigans, no heated debates, no 'creative differences'?"

Millie and Markus glanced at each other, then Markus said smoothly, "Nah, man. We're keeping it sweet and free of conflict."

Millie laughed. "Yeah, just good music and good vibes."

The audience chuckled, and Johnny held up his hands. "Alright, alright, I'll let y'all keep your secrets. But let's talk about the album. What can people expect?"

Millie's face lit up. "We're blending a lot of different influences. It's got some pop, some hip-hop, a little bit of R&B and soul―"

Markus cut in with a teasing smile. "Basically, Millie's pop sensibilities and my more, uh, raw, real approach to storytelling."

Millie playfully nudged him. "I do storytelling too, okay?"

Markus chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. "Of course, of course."

Johnny smirked at their banter. "And the lyrics? Who's writing what?"

Millie answered quickly, "Oh, we're splitting it evenly―"

"Mostly, yeah," Markus interjected, leaning in front of her. "I mean, I do come from a lyrical background, being a rapper and all, so naturally, I'm bringing a lot of the lyrical foundation. Millie's bringing her ear for melody and structure―the sound."

Millie blinked, her smile faltering for half a second. That wasn't exactly how she saw it, but she didn't want to argue on live television.

Johnny, ever the instigator, picked up on it immediately. "Ohhh, is that true, Millie? You're taking a backseat, lyrically?"

The audience laughed uncomfortably, and Millie forced a chuckle. "No, no, I mean... we're both very involved."

"Of course you are, I'd never count you out, you know that, Millie." He was needling her now, trying to get her to crack just a little. "Meanwhile Markus is over here like, 'Nah, I got this, shorty.'"

"Man, don't be like that, Johnny." Markus gave her a smooth, reassuring nod. "Of course Millie's writing is dope. But you know―rap is a different game when it comes to lyricism―a whole 'nother level."

Millie nodded, though inside, something about the comment nagged at her.

"Well, however y'all split it, I know it's gonna be mind-blowing," Johnny Sullivan was shifting gears again, ready for his next talking point. "So, Millie, tell us a bit of what it's like working with Markus in the studio? I mean, you two coming from different worlds, how does that dynamic play out when you're actually in the booth?"

Millie opened her mouth, ready to answer―except... she hesitated.

How was it? It was like a fuzzy spot in her mind. Pleasant and exciting, but when she wasn't there in the booth, the details just seemed to leave her.

She had considered a dozen ways to describe it, but somehow, none of them came out. Her mind felt like a record stuck on a loop, flipping through words that didn't quite fit. Energetic? Creative? Intense? Fun?

The silence stretched a beat too long.

Johnny raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "Uh-oh. Don't tell me you just go in there and stare at each other for three hours."

The audience laughed, and Millie's stomach twisted.

Before she could recover, Markus smoothly jumped in, flashing his trademark charming grin.

"Nah, nah," he said, placing a casual hand on Millie's shoulder. "It's fire in there. Every time we step in the booth―just magic." He turned toward the audience, his smirk deepening. "I mean, working with a performer like Millie? She's got so much energy, she's got style... and damn, when she gets into the music, it's a sight to see."

The audience whooped and whistled at the suggestive tone in his voice.

Johnny cackled. "Oh-ho-ho! Sounds like it's getting hot in the studio, folks!" He wiggled his eyebrows at Millie. "You sure this is just a musical partnership?"

More laughter. More whistles.

Millie's cheeks flamed, but she forced herself to laugh along, flashing a playful smile even as something about Markus' words rubbed her the wrong way.

She was used to being admired for her talent, her voice, her songwriting. But this? This was different.

She'd been in interviews a thousand times before, never once caught off guard―but tonight? Tonight, it was happening again and again.

She told herself to snap out of it.

Smile. Laugh. Play along.

So she did.

But deep inside, the unsettled feeling in her chest wouldn't go away. She didn't know why it was so hard to remember what she worked on during the recording sessions, but she would make an effort to focus on it next time.

The dim, ambient glow of the recording studio lights cast warm shadows on the walls, the air thick with anticipation as Millie adjusted her headphones. The beat pulsed through the speakers, a smooth, seductive rhythm that seemed to vibrate in her chest. Try as she might, now that she was back in the booth, all her pep talk about keeping focus was gone again.

She was buzzing―not just from the music, but from the fact that she was here, working side by side with Markus Khan Kwaest himself.

After the talk show, she'd felt a twinge of doubt, but all of that melted away now.

She had never felt sexier, more powerful, more in control.

Her outfit―meticulously chosen with input from Markus―left no question about her allegiance. A cropped, skintight Black Lives Matter tank top clung to her curves, the bold lettering stretching across her chest. High-waisted black leggings hugged her legs like a second skin, accented by a gold chain belt with a tiny Black Power fist charm dangling at her hip. The final touches were a small silver necklace with a black spade pendant, and matching spade earrings. She'd long since discovered what being a Queen of Spades meant, even if she hadn't quite yet taken the plunge herself.

She looked hot. She looked dedicated.

And Markus had noticed―which was all that really mattered to her anyway.

"Damn, Millie," he said, leaning back in his chair as he took her in, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You really dressed for the occasion this time, huh?"

She smirked, twirling a loose strand of her hair, "Just making sure my commitment is visible." Both she and Tytus had discussed her desire to do more for Black culture as part of the impetus for moving forward on their partnership.

He let out a low chuckle, nodding. "Respect. It's good to see you so... invested. You know... if you put a bit more color on your face, it would enhance the look even more."

"Oh really? You want me dolled up pretty for our fans now?"

"Maybe. Or maybe you could do it just for me―at least until you decide that you like it."

Their eyes locked, and she felt the warmth of his gaze travel down her body like a caress.

"I'll think about it." Millie smirked, knowing full well she would be practicing some new makeup techniques later at home.

They got to work, tossing lyrics back and forth, refining lines, building hooks. But as the session went on, Millie found herself inching closer and closer to Markus, letting her voice dip lower, her fingers occasionally brushing against his as they scribbled ideas down. She wanted him but also didn't want him to view her as just another whitegirl. Respect at a professional level was still important too.

At one point, she leaned in, her lips barely an inch from his ear as she murmured, "I think this verse needs a little more... passion. Don't you?"

Markus' eyes darkened with amusement, his grin widening. "Oh, I definitely think we can turn the heat up."

She giggled, biting her lip. "Then let's make it sizzle."

As they continued to work, Millie soaked up every ounce of attention Markus gave her, feeling powerful, wanted, and in her element. When they recorded the vocals, she put her all into the performance, letting that passion burn like a beacon, even as the lyrics flitted out of her mind as quickly as she sang them.

When they finally called for a break, Millie was quick to invite Markus out to lunch with her. Part of her did it just for the attention she knew they'd get on the street together. Part of it was to clear her head from all the songwriting and focus just on building something deeper with her partner.

The moment they stepped out of Markus' sleek black limo, the camera flashes erupted.

Millie had expected attention―hell, she had wanted it. She'd even gone so far as to throw on some brighter lipstick and blush before they'd left White Hot Pop just to see how Markus and the crowd would react to a more "mature" look on her. But now the sheer intensity of the paparazzi crowding the sidewalk was almost overwhelming. It had never been this bad before, even when she first gained fame.

But this wasn't just paparazzi. It was fans too, both hers and Markus'. Phones pointed at them from every direction. Fans and photographers alike called out, their voices blending into an incoherent roar of approval, disapproval, and outright spectacle.

"Millie! Over here!" A paparazzi called to her, trying to frame her in his shot. She intentionally turned so that the Black Lives Matter lettering on her chest would be fully captured in the image.

"Markus!" A Black man near the front of the crowd shouted. "You bagged yourself another top-tier whitegirl, huh?"

"Millie, don't you care about your reputation? About being a role model to young women everywhere?" A reporter tried to ask her.

It was better for Millie to ignore the question. That way, she wouldn't have to think about the answer. It was better just to let the fallout happen now until the album was done.

A young businesswoman in glasses held up a sign that read: "What happened to the Millie Lucas I loved and admired?"

Millie froze mid-step when she saw the sign.

At first, she had been buzzing from the excitement just like she had in the booth―this was what it meant to be a white ally, right? To be out here, living her truth, proving that she was fully committed to breaking barriers? But the sign struck a cord in her soul. Millie wondered―had she lost part of herself somewhere along the way?

Most of the comments from the crowd weren't encouraging at all.

And the ones directed specifically at her were... different.

"Millie! Don't throw your career away for a thug!"

"From America's sweetheart to a rapper's side chick? Pathetic."

"Look at her―flashing Black Lives Matter like an emblem. She's just another dumb white bitch now!"

Millie flinched.

Markus, on the other hand, seemed unbothered, flashing his signature cocky grin, throwing up a casual peace sign as they waded through the crowd toward the restaurant.

A group of guys hanging near the curb whistled, nudging each other.

"Damn, Kwaest, you're winning at life, bro."

"Man, she really out here ruining herself for you, huh?"

Millie's stomach knotted.

Ruining herself?

She had never thought about it that way.

Sure, she had been reinventing herself, reshaping her image, aligning with a more authentic version of who she wanted to be...

But what if people weren't seeing that?

What if they just saw her chasing after Markus―trading in her carefully crafted brand for something cheap and temporary?

Markus didn't seem to care about the noise. He placed a confident hand on the small of her back, guiding her inside the restaurant like he owned the world.

The restaurant was dimly lit, the perfect high-end spot where industry elites could have lunch without too much disruption. But even inside, they weren't alone.

Fans among the restaurant customers still angled phone cameras their way. Some were pretending to take selfies while obviously catching Millie and Markus in the frame. A few paparazzi had even snuck in, loitering near the bar, trying to act casual.

Millie could feel their eyes. She'd learned to handle paparazzi as part of the job, but never really felt comfortable with their predatory practices.

Markus, on the other hand, thrived on it.

He stretched lazily in his seat, draping an arm around Millie's shoulders as if she were some prized possession rather than his creative partner. He pulled her closer, his large hand trailing up her bare arm, fingers playing with the thin strap of her top.

"You really showed out today, huh? Handling that crowd like a champ..." Markus murmured against her ear. His voice had that smooth, teasing lilt that always sent shivers down her spine. "Damn, baby, I might have to write a whole song about you."

Millie giggled on instinct, still reveling in the thrill of being his focus.

But then―

"Yeah, but you gotta say something about being a fine-ass whitegirl riding with the king." He chuckled, tossing a glance toward the nearest camera. "Maybe a line or two about how I made you switch teams."

The way he said it―so casual, so public―made something in Millie stiffen.

The photographer near the bar perked up, clearly catching the interaction.

Markus just smirked, like he had done nothing wrong.

Millie forced a tight-lipped smile, leaning into his touch but feeling strangely... off.

She might not remember the exact words, but she knew they had been writing lyrics like this since they started working together, throwing in lines about her body, about how he was the one to "convert" her over to "Black men."

She had told herself it was just art. That Markus' rap songs were all about confidence, about flexing, about owning your story.

But why did it feel so different now, with him saying it out loud in front of strangers?

Why did it feel less like they were making music together and more like they were feeding into his bragging rights?

Her mind drifted back to their session earlier that day.

She had hesitated over one of his lines. Something about her being less than him... and a good bitch? Was that really the line? It was so misogynistic, why had she agreed to that?

Every time they were together in the booth though, she had just laughed it off, figuring it was just Markus being Markus. But now, out of the booth and thinking more clearly, she watched as he practically made a performance out of their relationship for the cameras, and it hit hard how it didn't seem so harmless to her anymore.

She shifted in her seat.

Markus didn't seem to notice―or care―about her unease. His fingers idly traced the side of her neck, and he leaned in closer, his voice low and taunting.

"You're good with this, right?" He smirked. "You know it's just part of the art."

Millie hesitated.

The cameras were still snapping every second. The audience was still watching.

She plastered on a smile, let out another laugh, and leaned into him again. Like any good performer would.

"Of course," she said.

But deep down―

She really wasn't sure about this anymore.

Back at the studio, the dim glow of LED panels illuminated the recording booth. The energy from their lunch outing still lingered, but for Millie, it had soured into something heavy.

She sat on the couch, watching Markus fiddle with the soundboard, his large hands gliding over the controls with practiced ease. The way he moved―the way he owned the space―was intoxicating.

But she couldn't shake the discomfort curling in her stomach.

She took a breath. "Hey, Markus... about earlier."

He glanced at her through the glass reflection, adjusting a knob. "What about it?"

"The stuff you were saying. In public. About me... 'switching teams' and―" She hesitated, trying to choose her words carefully. "I just feel like... maybe we should be more careful with how we talk about things? Like, I don't want it to come off like I'm some―"

Markus turned, raising a brow. "Some what?"

Millie swallowed. Slut was the word that came to mind, but she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Some prize then? Some trophy for a Black man to flaunt?

"I just mean, like, I don't want people thinking that's all this is about―our relationship," she finished.

Markus let out a low chuckle and leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Millie, that is what people are gonna think. Doesn't matter how we spin it, doesn't matter what we say. You're a rich, famous whitegirl rolling with me. That's the story, whether we like it or not."

He wasn't wrong―but something about how easily he accepted it bothered her.

"I guess, I just..." She bit her lip. Try as she might to stand her ground, now that she was saying it, Millie felt so silly even bringing it up. "I don't love, like, some of the lyrics, either."

Markus tilted his head, amused. "Oh? Now Miss Songwriter has critiques? You suggested a lot of those lyrics yourself."

Millie hesitated. "Well... yeah. But, like, that line about me being 'down on my knees'―I don't know, it just feels, like, it feels..."

Markus grinned. "Feels hot."

She blinked. He's right, it does feel hot, Millie thought. God, am I, like, just being a silly, stupid bitch right now?

Markus shrugged. "Look, that's what sells, baby. People wanna eat this up. You and me? This whole thing? It's drama, it's spectacle, it's a moment." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming. "This ain't just music―it's the show. And you? You're playing your role perfectly."

Millie stiffened. Was that true? And... wouldn't it be more true if she just stopped worrying and fretting?

Markus had said it so smoothly, so confidently, like it was fact. Like her discomfort was just another minor inconvenience, something silly and stupid that she should ignore in favor of the bigger picture.

Markus leaned back again, stretching. "Besides, we both know lyrics ain't really your strong suit anyway."

She blinked. "What?"

"I mean, let's be real." He smirked. "You do your thing with melody, but bars? That's me, babe. You should just let me handle that part."

Millie stared at him.

She knew he was teasing―his voice was light, his grin easy―but something about the way he said it, so effortlessly dismissing her input, made her stomach twist.

She had always prided herself on her songwriting.

Was he saying she wasn't good enough?

"Oh come on, do get all defensive on me, princess," Markus chuckled. "I know you're sweet on me, so just let me take care of you. You do want that right?"

"Well, yeah, I'd like that," Millie said in a subdued tone, blushing a bit.

"Then just chill, I got you," Markus said, giving her a once over before changing the subject. "You know, that makeup you added earlier was a nice touch. You should take it even further though, really draw attention to that beautiful face of yours. Something bold."

"You don't like the way I look now?" Millie had thought she'd really put some effort in for him, but she still wasn't quite what he wanted.

"You're pretty, no doubt, but you're missing that seductive flair I like, the one I know will be a big hit with our fans." Markus had walked over to her now, placing his hands gently on her hips. "Bold makeup will help, and so would blonder hair, maybe with extensions. You've made some nice updates to your wardrobe though, that's coming along just fine."

Millie was stunned as Markus felt up her trim waist. What else does he think I need? Should I get a fucking boobjob too?

"Are you serious right now?" Millie forced a laugh, trying to move away from him. His hands just gripped her hips more firmly. "I thought we were supposed to be partners."

"We are," Markus said smoothly. "I just know my strengths. And, y'know―" he gave her a slow, deliberate once-over "―you got yours. You just need a little improvement is all, to be at my level..."

Millie's cheeks burned.

She knew exactly what he meant. Markus wants me to wear more makeup? What else does he think I need? Should I get a fucking boobjob too?

For the first time, she felt small in a studio. The place where she had always felt in control, where her voice mattered, where she called the shots.

Markus let her go and stretched his arms with a yawn. "Anyway, you ready to lay down some more vocals or what?"

Millie inhaled sharply. Then stood up.

"Actually, I think I'm done for today."

Markus blinked. "Oh?"

She forced a smile. "Yeah, just, like... not feeling it right now."

He watched her for a second, then smirked. "Aight. Your call, superstar."

She turned and left the studio.

The moment she stepped into the hallway, away from Markus's gaze, she let out a shaky breath.

Ever since this partnership started, she wasn't sure if she was actually in control―of the situation, or herself even. She needed to work this out with someone she could trust. Fortunately, she knew just the guy to back her up.

Millie pushed open the door to Tytus' office, her heart still pounding from the tense encounter with Markus. She needed guidance―needed to talk to someone who understood the industry, the optics, him.

What she didn't expect was to walk in on Helen perched comfortably in Tytus's lap, one arm slung around his broad shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns along his collarbone.

Tytus barely reacted to Millie's entrance, his eyes flicking up from his phone, while Helen simply turned her head, offering Millie a sleepy, satisfied smile as she twirled a lock of her blonde hair, nuzzling Tytus's shoulder like an adoring pet. Wait, when had Helen gone blonde?

"Millie," Tytus greeted smoothly, as if there was nothing inappropriate about the way Helen's body was molded against his. "Something on your mind?"

Millie swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. "Yeah. I... I need to talk to you about Markus."

Helen let out a breathy giggle, pressing closer to Tytus as if Millie weren't even there. Helen looked less like an executive now and more like a callgirl―sporting a slitted pencil skirt and nearly unbuttoned, sheer white blouse that clearly showed off the red lingerie she wore underneath. Her sensible footwear had been replaced with stiletto heels and her makeup was exactly the kind of "bold" look Millie assumed Markus wanted to see on her―long lashes, blue eye shadow, ruby lipstick.

"Oh, babe, I think she's having doubts," Helen teased, nuzzling against his jaw.

Tytus smirked, resting a possessive hand on Helen's hip as he looked back at Millie. "That true? Is my number one star questioning herself?"

Millie sat stiffly in the chair across from Tytus's desk, her hands clasped together in her lap so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. She shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to feel scandalized by the overt display in front of her―but she wasn't. Why wasn't she? The wetness between her legs confirmed that instead of disgust, she felt undeniably aroused. Millie fought a sudden desire to join Helen on Tytus' lap, telling herself this was all wrong, that Helen was being entirely inappropriate and unprofessional and a whore...

But then, a strange, quiet thought slithered into her mind.

That's exactly how a whitegirl should act. Especially in the presence of a Black god like Tytus.

She didn't even know where the thought came from―only that the sight of Helen clinging to Tytus, offering him her complete, unbothered adoration―worship even, felt so... right.

"I get it," Tytus said smoothly, voice slow and deliberate. "You're feeling overwhelmed. The heat is on, and the pressure's getting to you."

Millie shook herself, gripping the arms of the chair for grounding. "I just, like... I don't know about this partnership," she admitted. "I feel like I'm losing control of my image, of how people see me. Like, Markus is―"

"―a genius," Tytus interrupted smoothly, giving Helen's thigh an absent squeeze. Helen cooed in response. "And a legend in the making. You knew what you were signing up for, Millie. You came to me about the Black Lives Matter rally, about your commitment as a white ally. You wanted this and the authenticity that came with it, remember?"

"I do," Millie insisted. "But it feels like I'm being boxed into something I didn't agree to. Like―Like I'm just a piece of meat for him to dangle in front of the wolves."

Helen giggled again. "That's just 'cause you're overthinking, baby. Let the fans tell the story. It's not about what you want people to think of you―it's about what sells. As a whitegirl, what sells is your cute, pale body. I used to hate that idea too, but like it or not, it's the truth."

Millie bristled at the casual dismissal, but when she looked at Tytus for reassurance, he simply tilted his head, studying her. "Look," he said, voice low and patient, like he was explaining something obvious. "Markus is shaping you into something bigger than just another pop princess. You're evolving. That's a good thing."

"But―"

"But nothing." Tytus finally leaned forward, shifting Helen slightly so he could rest his arms on the desk. "This is what you signed up for, Millie. You said you wanted to be more than just another pop star. You wanted to be real. To stand for something."

Helen hummed in agreement, tilting her head. "Isn't this what a good white ally does?" she asked in a dreamy, sing-song voice. "You don't just talk about serving Black men. You live it."

Millie hesitated.

She glanced at Helen, still draped over Tytus, a satisfied little smirk playing on her lips like she knew something Millie didn't.

And maybe she did.

Maybe Helen had already learned the lesson Millie was still struggling with.

That if you just let go―if you stopped resisting―everything would fall into place.

"I'm only going to ask you one more time," Tytus said, his voice filled with gravity. "Do you want this or not?"

Millie exhaled slowly.

"... Yeah," she said finally, the word tasting foreign in her mouth. "I want this."

"Good answer." Tytus studied her, then sat back in his chair, dragging Helen's weight with him as he tapped his fingers against the desk, apparently still unconvinced of her commitment.

"Look," he said, "this isn't just about music anymore. It's bigger than you. Bigger than me. The world is watching. And you have a choice: do you want to be just another white pop princess who dips her toes in Black culture for the aesthetic, or do you want to be the one who actually changes the world?"

"I want to be more, do more," Millie swallowed. She was so glad she had come to Tytus now―this is exactly what she had needed. "I'll do, like, whatever it takes. I want to change the world."

"Then stop hesitating," Tytus said. "You have to commit. All the way. That means letting go of whatever's making you second-guess yourself. It means trusting the process―even when it's uncomfortable."

Helen giggled, lifting her head from Tytus's shoulder. "Tytus is, like, so smart, isn't he?" she mused, trailing a delicate finger down his chest. "He sees the bigger picture. That's why he's the one in charge."

Tytus barely acknowledged the praise, keeping his piercing gaze on Millie. "I need to know that you're really in this," he said. "Because if you're not, there are a lot of people―people who have believed in you―who are going to be very disappointed."

Millie's breath hitched. She thought about Markus―about the way he'd brushed aside her concerns, the way his presence made her feel both powerful and small. The way she still wanted to impress him, to belong in his world. The last thing she wanted was to disappoint him, or anyone else.

Millie straightened her shoulders.

"I'm in, 150%," she said, more firmly this time. "I'm going to be the best white ally ever."

Tytus nodded, satisfied. "Good girl."

Helen sighed happily and snuggled closer to him, beaming at Millie like she was proud."See? I knew you'd get it."

And Millie?

She walked out of the office wondering why she had just wasted everyone's time when she should just accept her place and move on.

The next evening after another recording session, Millie slid into Markus's private limo, the plush leather seats cool against her skin. The door shut behind her with a soft thunk, sealing them inside the dimly lit, luxurious space. Markus lounged across from her, legs spread wide, his expression unreadable behind dark sunglasses. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, which he sipped from slowly as the limo drove through the city.

She looked at her reflection in the window as the limo drove through the city. She had really put in the work after her meeting with Tytus and Helen, spending all night researching makeup and practicing.

Her face was now impeccable―primer, foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, blush, eye shadow, brows, mascara, lip liner, lip tint, and so on―giving her the kind of bold look Markus asked her to wear, the kind she'd seen Helen wear for Tytus.

She had worn the choker and spade jewelry again, just to make sure Markus knew she was his if he wanted her. She'd even gone so far as to go braless, wearing a strapless, scarlet bodycon dress that barely concealed her silky panties from view, making sure he could see her every curve―and he had let her know plenty how much he liked the look.

Despite all of that, and the attention she had been enjoying all day in the booth with him, Millie wasn't sure why she still felt so... off. She had already made her decision. She was in this, committed to being the best white ally she could be. She believed in Markus, in what they were creating together. So why did something still feel wrong?

"Hey, baby, come here," Markus offered, reaching an arm out as an invitation to sit beside him. She didn't hesitate to hop over and slide into his arms. "You look all stressed out."

"Yeah, sorry I―I just got a lot on my mind," Millie said, enjoying the feel of his arm over her, and the warmth of his chest.

"I got you, baby, but you know what helps a whitegirl like you relax the most?" Markus asked. Millie tilted her head up to look into his eyes.

"Getting some love from a Black man," Markus leaned down, and just like that, their lips locked for the first time. Millie felt electrified, as the surge of pleasure shot straight from her lips to her pussy.

Her hesitation melted away, and she found herself eagerly returning his kisses, feeling like she had been starving for this touch. She'd never felt this way with anyone before―like she was both the most important person in the world and the most disposable, all at once. It was intoxicating.

As their tongues danced, she could feel him smirking against her lips. He knew exactly what he was doing to her―exactly what kind of effect he had. And she didn't even mind. If anything, it just made her want him more.

With a whine of need, she straddled his lap, pressing herself closer to him, her legs on either side of his strong body. His hands roamed over her, one gripping her ass, the other tangling in her hair, and she moaned into his mouth, grinding down on the bulge growing in his pants.

The smell of his cologne filled her nose, musky and male, and she felt a sudden, desperate need to breathe him in, to absorb him, to never let him go. She broke the kiss to whisper in his ear, "I want this. I want you."

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent a thrill through her body. "That's my girl," he murmured, his teeth grazing her ear. "You're learning so fast. Why don't you get down on your knees and just keep letting go of that stress, baby."

Millie's cheeks flushed hot, but she found herself doing exactly that―sinking to the floor of the limo, her knees hitting the cool, plush carpet. She was so wet now, she could feel it soaking through her panties. She looked up at Markus, his cock pressing against his pants, and took a deep breath. "I've never done this before," she whispered, as much to herself as to him. She'd never had a man make her feel like this. Like she was born to do this―like it was her destiny to worship at the altar of his blackness.

Her trembling hand reached out and touched the fabric of his pants, feeling the heat emanating from his cock. It felt huge, like a thick, pulsing weapon of pleasure ready to conquer her tiny, feminine mouth and stretch it wide. She licked her lips, and Markus took the cue, unbuckling his belt with a knowing smirk.

"You've never done this before?" Markus' voice was teasing, amused. "Don't worry, baby. It's like riding a bike―once you get the hang of it, you're going to love it. And whitegirls like you? You're natural born cocksluts―you all take to Black cock like a fish takes to water."

His words were crude, but she didn't hate them―instead, they just made her even wetter. She nodded, eager to prove herself to him, eager to show that she was a good ally, that she could handle this. That she was everything he wanted her to be.

With trembling hands, she unzipped his pants, her eyes never leaving his. She saw the smug look of triumph in his gaze, and she knew that she was playing right into his hands. But she didn't care. All that mattered was getting closer to him, getting a taste of him, making him happy. And if that meant being his slut, then so be it.

When she finally had his pants open and his cock springing free, she was shocked by how big it really was. It was thick and long and beautiful, like a work of art, and she had an overwhelming need to kiss it, to worship it like it was a holy relic. She took a deep breath and leaned forward, her eyes still on his, and whispered, "I want to make you happy, Markus. I want to be the best whitegirl you've ever had."

"That's the spirit, baby." Markus' voice was like velvet, stroking over her. "You just keep acting like my little whore, and you'll do just fine. I knew a dumb white bitch like you couldn't hold out for long."

Her mouth had already lowered to his Black cock, ready to take him in, when she stopped and pulled back.

"I'm not a whore, Markus, and I'm not dumb either," Millie said, shuffling back to the seat across from him. She took a breathe. "I want this but... I also want your respect. Otherwise, well, I'm sure you can find another girl willing to degrade herself. But if you want me, then you need to treat me as an equal."

Markus studied her for a moment, then smirked. "You're thinking too much again, shorty."

Millie let out a small laugh, trying to shake the nerves, but Markus just reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, not bothering to put his distracting Black cock away. "I got something for you."

She watched as he tapped a few buttons, then the sound system in the limo came to life. A low, hypnotic beat pulsed through the space, wrapping around her like a slow-moving tide.

Whitegirls Like You. It was the song they had been working on for weeks.

"You put a track together already?" Millie asked.

"Yeah, as a special treat for you, baby," Markus said, looking into her eyes. "I thought if you gave it a listen, it might help you feel better about our work and our relationship. Just listen."

Millie heard the lyrics, heard her own voice singing them along with Markus as they alternated bars with each other, but even so, it was like she was hearing the song for the first time.

This version though, it was different from the snippets she had heard in the booth. It was deeper. Smoother. Almost like it had been made for her, to talk directly to her soul and mind.

The lyrics slipped over her like silk, Markus's voice a rich, commanding presence in the air. Hers―an anthem of feminine need.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm!

Panties in hand, waiting for you, My body in agony!

Won't call you by name, only 'baby', The more that you give, the less that I need.

Being with you makes me happy, Black just feels right.

You know that you're less than me, Only wish you'd met me sooner, like a good bitch.

You brought me down on my knees, "Cause me gettin' Blacked by you is ecstasy!

It's not your fault I ruin everything, And it's not your fault you can't be what I need. Baby, whitegirls like you open their eyes and see:

You're everything I said you would be.

Yeah-yeah-yeah, I'm everything you said I would be."

The beat slowed, then deepened, vibrating through her bones. Her breath hitched.

Markus leaned in slightly, his massive Black cock still hard and twitching, but his gaze remained steady on hers. "Just keep listening, baby."

Millie tried to focus, but her duet with Markus was sinking into her, curling around the doubt in her chest and smoothing it away. She felt warm―warmer than she should. Every pulse of bass sent a shiver down her spine and into her cunt, over and over, stoking her white hot need. Suddenly, everything made sense.

Why had she been fighting this? Why had she doubted?

"I'll lay you down slow, fuck you goodnight, Before I let go, just one more time.

Take off my clothes, pretend that it's fine, A little Black cock won't kill me.

Tonight, whitebois say, 'You look so happy.'

'Cus I'm such a good white slut!

You know that you're less than me, Only wish you'd met me sooner, like a good bitch.

You brought me down on my knees, "Cause me gettin' Blacked by you is ecstasy!

It's not your fault I ruin everything, And it's not your fault you can't be what I need. Baby, whitegirls like you open their eyes and see:

I'm everything you said I would be."

Millie exhaled, sinking into the seat. Her eyes rested on Markus' Black cock.

Yes, Millie thought, her mind fogging and eyes glazing over with lust.

Yes, this was right, Millie thought as her mouth opened and drool slipped out to splash onto her tits.

Markus smirked, watching her reaction. "See? You just needed to hear it."

Millie nodded slowly, a hazy smile curling her lips.

She wasn't thinking too much anymore.

She was just feeling it.

It was more than just the bass vibrating through the limo―it was their words, their music, Markus' presence and inviting cock―all of it coalescing into something that resonated deep within her. It was as if the very air had thickened, turned into something palpable that she could feel weighing down her eyelids, slowing her breath, making her body melt into the plush leather of the seat.

Markus leaned across the gap to reach a hand out to her, his fingers, so warm and firm, beginning to trace a path from her knee to her inner thigh, and she found she couldn't look away from his Black cock looming closer, illuminated in flashes as the lights outside the car streaked by. Her skin was alive with sensation, each touch from him sending a spark of electricity up her spine.

The lyrics seemed to grow more explicit in her mind, more demanding that she submit to him, and she felt herself nod along, a soft, needy sound escaping her lips.

"You know that you're less than me, Only wish you'd met me sooner, like a good bitch.

You brought me down on my knees, "Cause me gettin' Blacked by you is ecstasy!

It's not your fault I ruin everything (everything), And it's not your fault you can't be what I need. Baby, whitegirls like you open their eyes and see, oh!

Whitegirls like me open their eyes and see: They're everything you said they would be!"

His hand slipped under the hem of her short dress, and she gasped as his fingers found the wetness waiting there, her body betraying her even as her mind swam with confusion and a strange, eager anticipation.

He chuckled, low and dark. "You're already mine, Millie. You just didn't know it yet."

And she believed him. Some part of her had always known it, deep down, beyond the glitz and glamour, beyond the music―his words had always called to her, had always promised something more, something darker, something that would set her free.

The music had been like a siren's call that she could no longer ignore, and she watched with a detached fascination as her own hand reached up to yank down the top of her bodycon dress, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze as they bounced free of the fabric.

"Damn, those are some fine white titties," Markus complimented her, causing her to giggle and shake her boobs at him. "Still could use an upgrade though. You rollin' with me now, so you got to look the part."

"You'll have to persuade me," Millie joked, believing he was just messing with her. "It won't be easy though."

"I like a good challenge, plus I've got a doctor in L. A. on speed dial who can give you the upgrade real quick. Just say the word." Markus said, his smug looking letting Millie know he was serious, but that wasn't a concern for her just then.

The music had stopped but the beat was in her blood now, the bass thrumming in her veins, turning her thoughts to molasses. She didn't know why she'd ever questioned this, didn't know why she'd ever resisted.

All she knew was that she wanted this, needed this―his hands on her, his voice in her head, his words rewriting the very essence of who she was.

And she was ready to let him do it. She didn't need his respect to be a good white ally, she just needed to serve him.

With a surge of newfound desire, Millie leaned in and captured Markus's mouth in a renewed fiery kiss, her tongue dancing with his, tasting the smoky whiskey from his breath. His hand on her thigh grew more insistent, his thumb brushing against the slickness of her arousal, and she didn't fight it anymore―instead, she arched into his touch, her body craving the connection.

Her own hands roamed up his chest, feeling the solid muscles beneath his shirt, her nails digging in slightly. She felt his Black cock harden even more against her leg, and the power of his desire sent a thrill through her that she hadn't felt in a long time.

It was as if the music had taken over her mind, the lyrics looping endlessly, speaking directly to her soul, revealing the truth she'd been too blind to see before. She was less than him. She was a whitegirl, after all.

"You're right," she murmured against his lips, her voice thick with want. "I am just a silly little whitegirl obsessed with your Black cock. And I love it. I love every inch of you, Markus."

He chuckled, the sound low and deep in his chest, sending vibrations through her body. His hand slipped under her panties, and she moaned as his fingers found her clit, stroking it with the same rhythm as the beat of the song.

Her body responded eagerly, her hips moving in time with the music in her head, her breath coming in quick pants. Markus's grip on her tightened, his kisses growing more possessive as he realized she was fully on board.

This was what she'd been missing―this raw, primal connection to a man who knew exactly what he wanted and didn't bother with the games. She felt alive under his touch, more alive than she had in years, and she never wanted it to end.

The limo ride to the studio had never felt so long, or so short, as it did in that moment. The city lights outside the tinted windows became a blur as Markus's hands continued to explore her, leaving trails of heat wherever they went. And with each passing block, she grew more and more certain of one thing.

This was just the beginning.

As the limo pulled to a stop at a major intersection in downtown Nashville, Markus' hand slid away from Millie's pussy, leaving her panting and desperate for more. He leaned back into the leather seat, his chest rising and falling with his own excitement.

"It's time, baby girl." He nodded down toward his Black cock. "Beg for it."

"Please, Markus, let me serve you," Millie begged, her eyes glazed with lust. "Let me taste it. I need to taste your seed."

"Good whitegirl," he murmured, stroking her cheek. "Now get back on your knees and show me you've accepted your place beneath me."

Her heart raced as she obeyed, sinking back down to the floor of the limo, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud. She reached out, her hand shaking slightly, and took his thick, Black cock in her grasp. It was still rock-hard from her touch, and she stared at it with a mix of awe and hunger.

This was what she was made for―what she'd always been meant to do.

Her lips parted, and she leaned in, feeling the heat of his cock against her face, breathing in the scent of his arousal. She'd never felt so filled with purpose, so... right.

Markus's hand was in her hair now, guiding her closer, his grip firm but gentle as he whispered, "Take it slow, baby. Savor it. I like it best when whitegirls make it last."

Her mouth opened, and she took him in, feeling the velvety softness of his cockhead, the way it filled her mouth so completely. She moaned around him, the sound muffled but still deliciously obscene.

And as she sucked and licked and worshiped him, she knew she'd never be the same. The old Millie Lucas was gone―replaced by something new, something darker and more thrilling.

A whitegirl who knew her place. A whitegirl who loved to be used by Black men. A whitegirl who was proud to be Markus's bitch.

The sound of his pleasure filled the limo, mixing with the echoes of their shared music and the promise of their future together. The music was still playing in her head, those seductive lyrics looping endlessly.

Whitegirls like you, open their eyes and see.

And she did see. She saw the power in submission, the beauty in obedience. She saw that her purpose was to serve him, to spread the message of a new world―a Blacked world―through their music.

As she bobbed her head, taking him deeper and deeper, she felt a strange peace settle over her. This was where she belonged, on her knees, her mouth filled with his Black cock, her soul bound to his will.

And as she struggled to swallow him whole, the taste of him on her tongue, she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. But she didn't care. She was lost in the haze of lust and music, her eyes locked on Markus's as she gave him everything she had.

And when he finally came, the hot jets of his cum painting the back of her throat, she felt it―his power flowing into her, filling her up with a passion that she'd never known before.

It was like a switch had been flipped, and she was no longer the pop star who'd topped charts at sixteen. She was a new kind of artist, a vessel for the message that would change the world.

And she was ready to spread the gospel of Markus Khan Kwaest.