Whitegirls Like You Ch. 10

Whitegirls Like You

Chapter 10 - Dressed for Black

The boutique was tucked between a soul food cafe and a barber shop, its windows draped in bold prints and bright signage that declared unapologetically: BLACK FASHIONISTAS.

Inside, the walls were a kaleidoscope of rich color―African prints, gold-accented accessories, statement tees, denim with flare, and dresses that demanded to be seen. The music was loud, the energy high, and the styles both exotic and extreme. Just being here made Millie feel like she was doing something for the cause.

She twirled in front of a mirror, wearing a tight, black tank top with "BLM" emblazoned in glitter across her chest, the letters nestled between her new F-cups, drawing attention directly to her now-ample cleavage. The fabric was stretched taut, leaving little to the imagination, especially since she was wearing it braless. Millie's nipples, swollen and hard, poked through the fabric like twin pebbles begging for Susan's approval. Millie felt oddly aroused by her friend's gaze, despite thinking of herself as straight. There was just something about having her Black bestie encouraging her to try on ever-bolder outfits―outfits that made explicit her service to the Black New World Order―which irresistibly turned Millie on.

The satiny shorts she had on were so small, they could have been mistaken for panties, and they hugged her in all the right places. They had the same glittery logo on the butt, but with the words "Big Black Cocks Matter" stretching across her plump, pale cheeks. The crotch was practically non-existent, leaving her pussy lips threatening to peek out like a secret she couldn't wait to share. Millie felt like a walking, talking billboard for racial justice and sexual liberation all rolled into one.

When she looked up, Susan's gaze was on her, intense and hungry. Millie's stomach flipped.

"You look like a snack," Susan said, her voice low and teasing. "Those tits are definitely going to get Markus' attention."

"Oh, Susan," Millie giggled, blushing. She appreciated when Susan was blunt like that with her. It was refreshing. Yet Millie also felt her pussy pulse with a treacherous heat whenever Susan objectified her, even if she was teasing. It was a heat she couldn't ignore. Being objectified, even by another woman, was wrong, she knew that, but it felt... good. She quickly shooed the thought away.

What the hell? I'm straight, Millie reassured herself.

She was obsessed with Black men now, and especially big Black cocks like Markus'. She didn't have feelings for Susan. That was just... weird.

But the way Susan's eyes danced over her body, the way she licked her lips, it was like she knew what kind of effect she was having on Millie. And maybe liked it.

Was Susan checking her out? The thought made Millie wet, her neglected pussy suddenly throbbing with need again. Millie scolded herself. She shouldn't think of her bestie that way.

"So... you really like it?" Millie asked, her voice a sultry whisper.

Susan's eyes never left hers as she nodded. "Yeah, I like it. But I think we can find something even better." She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to trace the hem of the tiny shorts, her fingers brushing softly against Millie's round butt.

The way Susan's hand lingered on her body made Millie's heart race. She felt a thrill of fear and excitement, her mind racing. It had been way too long since she'd felt Markus' cock inside her. Now here she was, getting flustered by the first person to give Millie her complete attention.

Damn it, if Markus would just hurry up and fuck me senseless, I could finally feel normal again, Millie thought, shaking her head to try and clear the lustful thoughts.

"You're blushing," Susan said with a knowing smile.

"Who wouldn't be?" Millie giggled to break the tension, moving back toward the mirror. "This is embarrassing as hell."

"No need to feel embarrassed," Susan smirked, turning away to look at some jewelry while Millie twirled some more. "You a fine-ass whitegirl, Mills."

"Okay, but like―am I pulling this off?" Millie asked a minute later, turning toward Susan with raised brows.

Susan looked up from a rack of bangles, narrowed her eyes, and smirked. "Girl, you're not just pulling it off. You're 'snatching' it."

Millie could tell Susan was making a joke but didn't get it, so Susan clarified. "Snatch. You're drawing attention to your snatch, hoe. Get it now? A great look on you."

Millie grinned, blushing furiously all the same. "Oh okay, yeah I get it. Thanks, Suz, that's like, what I needed to hear."

Shopping with Susan had become a thing lately, ever since the swelling in Millie's chest had gone down enough to allow her to squeeze into tops which would have been too loose on her before. Ever since their unexpected bond at the gala, the two had been hanging out more―grabbing lunch, discussing Millie's sex life in explicit detail, and talking through Millie's new lyrics with Markus. Millie found it was easy with Susan. It felt real, like the first real friend Millie had ever made. Susan wasn't her musical competition, a rabid fan, a fame-seeker, or an opportunistic money grubber. She was a Black woman, and Millie found herself slipping into the mindset of craving her acceptance more and more often.

As they wandered toward the shoe section, Millie picked up a pair of chunky gold hoops with black spade accents engraved into the rim. She turned them in her hand thoughtfully. "You think this is too much?"

"Millie. This store literally doesn't do 'too much,'" Susan deadpanned. "I took you here because the styles are bold and not afraid to promote all things Black." She paused, then added with a grin, "I mean, you're out here embracing the culture, doing your duty as a whitegirl―might as well own it."

Millie laughed, setting the earrings in her growing pile. "You know, the past couple months have been like, so wild. I feel like I've been shedding so many layers. Like, these new looks, my new bod, the music, the sex, the training with Markus, the stuff with my mom and Reggie... it's all happening so fast."

Susan nodded. "Yeah. Reinvention's like that. You're doing the work to become a good white ally, Mills."

Millie glanced at her, catching the shift in tone. "There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

Susan hesitated for a beat, then smiled softly. "Not a but. Just a... reminder."

Millie tilted her head, curious.

"BLM," Susan said, picking up a shirt with the slogan across it. "It's not just about being an ally to Black men. It's about all of us. The women, too. The Black girls who grew up getting told they were too loud, too dark, too angry, too everything―they're part of this, just as much as anyone else."

Millie's smile faded just a little―not out of defensiveness, but thoughtfulness.

Susan went on, gently, not judging. "You and Markus? That's powerful. Natural. Right. But if the movement becomes just another stage for whitegirls to stand next to Black men while Black women stay in the background... that's not really progress, is it?"

Millie looked down at the shirt in her hands. She thought of the Black women she'd passed by on set, behind the cameras, in the halls―present, but silent. She hadn't meant to overlook anyone. But maybe she had.

"I hear you," she said finally. "And you're right."

Susan smiled. "I know."

Her eyes twinkled as she grabbed Millie's hand and led her deeper into the store, the music's bass vibrating through the floorboards. They turned into a section that was even more daring, more provocative than what Millie had seen so far. The clothes here were like nothing she'd ever worn―so skimpy, so tight, showing off all of a whitegirl's tantalizing bits, but in a way that enhanced their allure. They were all about showcasing a whitegirl's body, displaying her everything for Black eyes like she was for sale. Except, of course, it wasn't. A good whitegirl is for free. But it wasn't just about flaunting herself; Susan was right. This was how a whitegirl showed she owned her place as a true ally of the BNWO.

A few minutes later, Millie turned sideways in the fitting room mirror, tugging down an obscenely slutty mini crop top. It was so small it barely covered her new F-cup tits, the bottom of a red open cup bra peeking out, teasingly revealing her pale melons and the rosy circles of her areolae. Millie could feel the cool air kiss her uncovered erect nipples. The crop top had the words "Black Owned" written in bold letters across the fabric, and she couldn't help but think of Markus' thick cock claiming her as her gaze scanned lower.

Her skirt was even shorter than she had expected, a tiny plaid number that barely grazed her upper thighs, leaving the bottom of her ass fully visible even while standing. Susan hadn't passed Millie a thong, so she wore the skirt without anything except stockings underneath, enjoying the soothing flutter between her legs as she twirled, cooling her overheated pussy just a little. Millie had never been this bold before, never been this exposed, but she liked the thrill of danger in knowing that if she bent over in this out in public, she'd be flashing her naughty bits to everyone in the vicinity. It was like Susan had said, this was the kind of pleasure that came from being a good white ally―Millie truly embracing who she was, what she was meant to be.

"I bet Markus is gonna pass out," Susan called from outside. "Lemme see!"

Millie hesitated a beat, then opened the door. Susan sat cross-legged on the plush bench just outside the fitting area, phone in hand, but her eyes locked on Millie the second she stepped out. She snapped a photo and showed it to Millie. No filter. Millie almost objected, but decided against it.

"Damn girl," Susan said, standing slowly, circling Millie. She shivered as Susan ran a hand across her stomach and up to just below her bra before pulling back. "Yeah. That's definitely a boyfriend-dropper."

Millie flushed, her confidence wavering. "Well, yeah, okay, and like, I know you said I need to own this, but come on, Suz. This has got to be too much?"

"No. You're the right amount of everything." Susan moved closer again, inspecting the outfit like a fashion editor, snapping more pics. Her tone was easy, teasing, but her hand lingered a moment too long on Millie's hip as she adjusted the hem of the skirt.

"Um, Suz?" Millie swallowed. "This is for Markus. Don't make it weird."

"I'm not," Susan said, stepping back but not far. "I'm just helping you out, hoe. Like always."

Susan had always helped. After every fuck or training session with Markus, when dealing with every messy or silly emotion Millie didn't know how to name. Susan was there, calm, clever, always with a tip or advice, like a guiding hand. She always knew what to say, even if she said it bluntly.

But something had shifted. It was in the air now, tight and electric as Susan tilted her head. Ever since they met up earlier after Millie's recording sessions ended, Susan had been even more assertive than usual. Giving Millie advice like it was an order. Telling her what Black men wanted. What whitegirls like her should wear. What she should learn to put up with if she wanted to be a good white ally.

And Millie listened. It was nice to let Susan make the decisions for her, to just follow along and let her Black bestie shape her into exactly the kind of whitegirl Markus knew she could be.

Millie smirked, pleased to have such a good friend helping her out, but then sobered as she recalled their earlier conversation. She turned back toward Susan. "Hey... I've been thinking about what you said. About how this whole transformation can't just be about me and Black men."

Susan arched a brow but said nothing, letting Millie continue.

"I mean, it's true. If I'm serious about inclusion, then I have to show that Black women matter in the music space, too. Visibly. Vocally."

Susan nodded, casually encouraging. "You got the platform. And people are watching. It's only right to help your girls out."

"Right," Millie said, her thoughts spinning now. "What if we start with the tour? For the next leg―I could feature all Black women as dancers. Not just one or two for the photo ops, but the whole crew. Give them the spotlight they deserve."

"That would make a statement. And it'd give you a new vibe, too," Susan took another sip of her coffee while signaling to Millie to do another slow twirl for her in the skimpy skirt and crop top. "Help push back against the media and toxic fans who think you've just devolved into Markus' newest fucktoy. Give real power to Black women, and they'll have no choice but to accept that you're far more than just a Black man's arm candy: you're the voice of the coming revolution."

Millie winced slightly at Susan's word choices, but she wasn't wrong. Her ideas would shut up all the naysayers. Millie felt energized now. "And what if I talk to Tytus about promotions at White Hot Pop? I know a couple of women on the administrative side who've been there for years without moving up. I bet he'd listen to me if I brought it up."

Susan offered a warm smile, though her eyes lingered a moment too long on Millie's suddenly-very exposed nipples. Only then did Millie realize that the twirling had bounced her new boobies just enough to cause the crop top to ride up and her tits to pop out the bottom, flashing Susan a full frontal view. Millie quickly pulled the top back down, blushing but grateful when Susan didn't comment on it.

"That'd be huge. Especially if it's coming from you. You've got more influence than you think. Tytus listens to you―even when he pretends he doesn't. Just, don't let him brush it off."

Millie nodded slowly, her resolve returning. "I won't."

Millie hadn't caught the tone beneath the compliment―hadn't see the way Susan's fingers had tightened slightly around her cup. Or maybe she had, but she brushed it off as just her silly, lust-addled imagination once again.

"And then maybe something public, too," Millie continued, now fully swept up in the idea of promoting Black women everywhere. "Like a scholarship program, or a mentorship collab with Black women in production or songwriting. Not just like, dancers or assistants―actual decision-makers. If I'm going to lift voices, like, I need to lift all of them."

Susan leaned back, crossing her legs. "Now that's leadership." She smiled wide, her tone silky. "And if you need help organizing that? You know, someone on the ground, helping push things forward? I'm all in."

Millie beamed. "I'd love that. You're the one who helped me start thinking about this seriously."

Susan shrugged with false modesty, uncrossing her legs―giving Millie an unexpected glimpse of her own panty-clad snatch―then crossing them again. "Just looking out for what's right."

Millie gulped, quickly turning back to the mirror, distracting herself by tapping in a note on her phone about reaching out to Tytus while the heat in her crotch and cheeks started to die down.

Millie felt like a doll in Susan's hands, being dressed up to please. She couldn't help but feel a thrill at the idea of Susan being the one to bring her out of her shell, pushing her boundaries, making her more... desirable for Markus. Helping her be the best white ally she could be. But then, as Millie turned away from the mirror to grab another outfit, Susan's hand was there, on her hip, guiding her back.

"Let's see how this one looks," Susan said, holding up a leather corset. The material was shiny and black, with silver studs along the edges. It was definitely not something Millie would have picked out for herself, but with Susan's encouragement, she found herself slipping into it. The leather was cold against her skin, but as Susan tightened the laces, it grew warm, hugging her waist and pushing her breasts up even further. She felt a rush of heat between her legs, and she couldn't stop herself from looking over at Susan, who was watching her with a knowing smirk.

"Perfect," Susan said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You're going to have every Black man in the room drooling."

"They can drool all they want, I won't mind the extra attention, just so long as Markus is drooling too," Millie smirked. "I love it when I can keep his eyes only on me."

"You really want to impress him, don't you?" Susan asked.

Millie nodded. "I honestly don't think I could live without him anymore. I barely remember what it was like before I met him."

"Girl, you're getting in way too deep," Susan chided, slapping Millie gently on the ass.

Millie yelped cutely, feigned a shocked expression for Susan. "Maybe I am, but I can't help it. I think... I think I love him, Suz."

"The L-word's a big step girl, you sure you're ready for that?" Susan asked, her hand still on Millie's butt.

"I know, and no, I'm not ready, but I'm worried that I need to let him know soon," Millie said.

"What's the rush, honey?" Susan said, giving Millie a teasing squeeze on her ass cheek. "You already gave him your sweet cherry, he ain't goin' nowhere fast."

Maybe, but he's got, like, a history of going through girls quick, even if they are famous like me, and..." Millie looked away, ashamed to even say it. "Well, what if he doesn't like these ideas we've been talking about? He's particular about stage stuff. The last thing I want is to disappoint him..."

Susan slid a hand up Millie's hip all the way to her cheek, turning her so she had to look Susan in the eye. "You listen to me, Mills. Whether you're a whitegirl or a Black sista, that hole between your legs gives you all the power you need to persuade a Black man like Markus to see things your way."

"I'm not so sure," Millie wondered, looking in the mirror. "It always feels like I've got to earn his attention."

"Nah, you just got to be more assertive. Be the good kind of bitch. Don't ask: demand. But you've got to back it up."

"How do I do that?"

"Well, for starters, stop hiding your body." Susan's fingers lightly brushed Millie's shoulders before grasping the straps of her crop top, suddenly slipping it down until her boobies popped out of the top again. Millie blushed but didn't look away as she and Susan both stared in the mirror at her hard nipples. "You've got the goods. Now use them. That's what they're for, aren't they?"

Millie's breath caught. It wasn't just the sensual touches. It was the way Susan looked at her ― focused, unblinking, almost hungry. The way Markus looked at her, but somehow still different.

"Another tip: when Markus wants you to do something dirty, don't hesitate. Give him enthusiasm, even if it makes you a little uncomfortable at first, if you show him you're open to being a total slut for him―whatever that might look like―I guarantee he won't be looking elsewhere for his kicks."

Without realizing it, Millie had been so focused on Susan's advice that she hadn't noticed Susan stripping her the rest of the way out of the slutty clothing. For a brief moment, she was standing nude in front of the mirror while her clothed friend took in every bit of her. Somehow, Millie didn't feel the need to cover-up. She wanted Susan to see all of her.

"I'm going to find another 'fit for you to try on," Susan smirked. "Wait for me, hoe."

Susan stepped out, leaving Millie alone to stare at her naked skin.

The fluorescent lights of the changing room cast a stark glow on her body, illuminating every curve and imperfection. Millie looked over herself in the mirror, feeling pride at the girl she saw looking back. The new 'her.'

Sexy. Fuckable. Slut.

The words echoed through her mind, turning her on even as she tried to push them away. She knew Susan was right. Her body was a tool she could use as a good white ally. Plus, Millie now understood how she had everything she needed to make Markus hers forever.

Her eyes lingered on her new boobs, so obviously fake but somehow so incredibly... right. The way they bounced and swayed with every little movement, begging to be touched, felt―used. Just like the whores in the BBC porn she watched every night, with their big tits and the Black men who couldn't get enough of them.

Millie whispered to herself, "You're going to keep Markus' eyes on you, Millie Lucas. You're going to make him proud to have you on his arm. You're going to be the best whitegirl ally you can be, claiming him with that needy pussy of yours until he has only eyes for you."

"Knock knock, am I interrupting something?" Susan said poking her head in.

"Not really, just trying to own what you said," Millie responded.

"That's my good girl. Now then, look at these," Susan whispered a moment later, holding up a set of black, lacy lingerie. It was see-through, leaving nothing to the imagination. The bands across the hipline and the straps over the shoulders both displayed Queen of Spades emblems with cutesy, black-and-white bows around them. "You'd look flawless in these, attracting the eye of both Black men and women. Think of what you could do for the cause, baby girl. You could worship Black cock and Black pussy. Make them all crave a piece of you, hmm?"

Millie felt a strange warmth spread through her at Susan's words. Her mind filled with images she'd never allowed herself to think about―Susan's dark skin, her full lips, the curve of her hips. She'd always thought of herself as straight, but something about Susan's confidence, her strength, made Millie's thoughts stray to places she'd never been before.

I'm straight, I'm straight, I'm straight...

Millie stepped back, heart pounding. "Susan..."

"What?" Her tone was light, but her eyes weren't. "You're the one who wanted help."

"I'm with Markus. I love Markus."

"I know." Susan shoved the lingerie into Millie's hands, looking her over one more time. "This isn't about him. Go put these on. Now."

Millie stared, suddenly unsteady. Then she obeyed, slipping on the first garment while Susan walked back out of the fitting room. "Can't wait to see the whole look, babe."

It wasn't about Markus. That was the truth sitting in her gut like fire. Susan was expanding Millie's perspective on being a white ally. It wasn't like she was being tempted by some other guy when she was already taken. This wasn't that kind of betrayal. It felt different. Complicated.

She could kiss Susan right now, and somehow, it wouldn't feel wrong. Not the way cheating should.

Because Susan wasn't another guy. Susan understood her.

Maybe that's what scared her.

Millie stared at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes wide and dark with lust. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric like they were begging for attention, and Millie couldn't stop thinking of Susan's hand giving it to them. Her hand hovered over her visible pussy, the sheer material sticking to her swollen, wet folds as her arousal began dripping onto the floor in think strands. She felt like a slut in the best possible way, her body betraying her mind, eager for Susan's touch.

"Millie!" Susan called, her voice firm but not unkind. "Let's go, bitch. Show me the goods!"

"I can't come out like this," Millie murmured to her reflection. Her voice was thick, her throat tight with the ache of her swollen clit.

"Why not?" Susan's voice was closer now, and Millie jumped, her hand moving away from her crotch like it had been burned. "I'm sure you look fine, Mills. Better than fine. You're a fucking queen, you know that. Now come out here or I'll be the one coming in!"

Millie took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. With a shaky nod, Millie stepped out of the fitting room, her eyes downcast. Susan's gaze raked over her, her expression a mix of hunger and pride that sent Millie's knees trembling.

The shop assistant, a young Black woman with a pierced eyebrow and a knowing smile, watched them. Millie felt like she was being studied, like a piece of art. The woman looked at Susan with something like respect, something like envy. And Millie realized that she didn't just want to be seen by Susan, or the shopgirl; she wanted to be desired by them. She especially wanted Susan to want her, to crave her.

"See what I mean?" Susan said, her voice low and smoky. "You're irresistible. Just like a good little slut should be."

The words sent a shiver down Millie's spine, and she felt her cunt pulse with need. She wanted Susan to look at her like that, to want her like Markus did. But it was more than that. She wanted Susan to be proud of her. To see her as more than just a pretty face to put on the cause.

But she was straight, she told herself again. This was just a phase, right? Just a way to prove herself, to be a good little white slut for the BNWO. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean she wanted Susan to bend her over the couch in the back room and fuck her senseless. It didn't mean she was fantasizing about Susan's hand sliding up her thigh, under her shorts, and...

"What are we even doing?" she whispered.

Susan met her eyes as she reached a finger out, slowly running it down from Millie's belly button to just above her clit. "Whatever you want, Mills. I'm here for you, however you want me."

Millie turned away before she did something reckless.

"Here, try these on," Susan said, holding out a new outfit as if nothing had happened. Millie took the garments, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. She stepped into the fitting room, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of Susan's touch, door clicking closed. Alone with her heartbeat.

As she slipped on the outfit, she couldn't help but think about what Susan had said. Was this all just a performance? A way to help Millie get closer to Markus? Or was there something more?

I'm straight. I have Markus. I'm happy, Millie told herself. So why am I picturing Susan's hands all over me? And why doesn't it feel like a betrayal?

The outfit ended up being more statement than actual clothing. It consisted of a scarlet-sequined dress that barely contained Millie's curves, the neckline plunging down to her navel. Just below that in the space above her crotch, a queen of spades was embroidered, surrounded by the words, "Black Cock Only." The only other fabric consisted of a black thong that was so tiny it could have been mistaken for a piece of dental floss. The crotch was completely exposed, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her plump, grool-slicked labia peeked out from the fabric, begging for the world to see. The thong was the kind that was meant to be seen, not hidden. In bold letters across the back was the phrase "I Want Black Babies". Millie's heart raced as she took in her reflection, feeling a mix of embarrassment and excitement. She'd never been so exposed, so vulnerable.

But the real kicker was the shoes. Heels so high they looked like they'd been made for a dominatrix. They were shiny, black, and had spikes all along the soles. Millie didn't even know if she could walk in them without falling over, but somehow, she knew they were perfect for the look.

Millie sat down on the bench, trembling, feeling paralyzed by indecision. She knew she shouldn't go back out to Susan in such a state, but her body seemed to have a mind of its own. Her hands hovered over the slutty ensemble Susan had picked out for her, her mind racing with a tornado of thoughts. The door to the fitting room was a barrier between her and Susan's hungry gaze. She had to keep Susan out of the fitting room. She had to. Millie knew she should take this off and get back into her regular outfit. But her body begged to stay in these clothes, to be seen, to be touched. Her heart hammered in her chest, a symphony of desire and fear.

"Millie?" Susan's voice was right outside but soft against the door. "You okay?"

Millie hesitated. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Another beat, then Millie got up. She opened the door just a crack. "Could you... come in?"

Susan raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She slipped in and closed the door behind her.

The room felt smaller instantly. Millie stood in nothing but the sequin dress, thong and heels, her skin still flushed. She should've still felt vulnerable. Instead, she felt seen. Like Susan had peeled back something more than just her clothes earlier ― something inside.

Susan's gaze ran over her, not with the casual lust of a guy checking a girl out, but with appreciation. Focus. Intensity.

Millie looked away. "I don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"How you're making me feel."

Susan stepped closer. "How am I making you feel?"

"Confused. Guilty." Millie glanced up, voice cracking. "Excited."

Susan didn't smile. She didn't tease. She just watched her. "You've always let people decide what you are. You don't need to anymore."

Millie opened her mouth ― but there were no words. Just the heat pulsing between them. Susan was close now. Too close. And when her fingers brushed Millie's arm again, the contact felt like an answer.

"Do you like it when I touch you?" The question hung in the air, thick with anticipation. Millie's breath hitched. She'd never felt this way about a woman before, but Susan's confidence was infectious. And the way she'd been looking at her, speaking to her, it was like she knew Millie's deepest secrets, knew exactly what she wanted without her having to say it. "It's okay, you can say it."

"I do, but why... why doesn't it feel like I'm cheating? I'm with Markus but..." Millie said, low, desperate, confused. "You're not... you're not a guy. It's not the same."

"Exactly," Susan murmured. "It's not the same."

Her hand slid up Millie's arm, past her shoulder, until her fingers curled lightly around the back of her neck. It was too intimate. It was everything Millie had been pretending not to crave.

"I love Markus," she whispered, but it came out broken.

"And I'm not asking you to stop," Susan said. "I'm just saying... maybe love doesn't have to be a box. Maybe it's more like a room. With space for more."

The words shattered something. Millie let out a sound that wasn't quite a sob. Her forehead touched Susan's shoulder. "What does that make me?"

"A good whitegirl," Susan breathed, and kissed her.

It wasn't hard or messy. It was slow―like Susan had been waiting to do it forever and wasn't going to rush it now. Millie didn't pull away. She didn't want to. She kissed back, soft and tentative, then deeper, her fingers curling in the fabric of Susan's shirt like she needed to hold onto something or fall.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Millie's world felt rearranged.

"I don't know what this means," she said.

"You don't have to yet," Susan replied. "Just don't lie to yourself anymore."

Millie stared at her. There was no judgment in Susan's eyes. No pressure. Just that maddening, calm confidence.

Millie had sent the text while the shop assistant rang up the clothes and made small talk with Susan.

Hey Ty, I've got some ideas for changing up the next tour I want to run past you. Got some time for me?

She hadn't expected a quick response, or even an appointment this week. Tytus Jones was a busy man now, what with organizing the upcoming release of the joint album and all it entailed. Even so, Millie had scarcely sat down in Susan's car when her cell buzzed with his response.

For you? No problem, baby. I cleared a slot, can you make it back to the studio by 2? I'll see you in my office.

Pleasantly surprised, Millie flashed the text at Susan before responding.

I'll be there.

Feeling cute for some reason, Millie sent it with a couple heart emojis.

"See what I mean? You've got the man's ear, babygirl." Susan said as she sped off toward White Hot Pop.

"Well, I still can't promise anything yet," Millie shrugged. "This is like, the first time I've pushed for any corporate structural, uh... stuff."

That wasn't exactly true, but as far as Millie knew, Susan was still in the dark about all the cloak-and-dagger moves she had orchestrated with Tytus and Helen in order to get Bob out of the picture.

"Nah, you just keep fighting the fight," Susan mocked a punch at Millie's bicep while stopped at a red light. "Trust me, it'll make all the difference."

A short while later, the besties found themselves standing inside the lobby of White Hot Pop once again. Despite Susan's confidence boosting, Millie still found her palms sweaty as she clutched the handles on the bags she had filled with her new outfits, all clothes that screamed 'Bimbo Slut' somehow even more than her new F-cup tits did.

"Let me take those off your hands," Susan said, grabbing the bags and heading for the accounting office. She winked back at Millie over her shoulder. "Tytus is expecting you, and I want to hear all about it after you finish with him. You got this, girl."

With a deep breath, Millie nodded and stepped into the elevator. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement as she rode up to the executive offices. Unlike Markus, Millie never really felt intimidated by Tytus. He'd been her co-conspirator after all. He was smart and easy to talk to. But still, ever since they'd started down this path together, Millie had been struggling with the mixed feelings she had about her new head producer.

Tytus was a Black man after all. One that Millie had directly made a promise with to become the best white ally she could be. That commitment was never far from her thoughts these days, and even with everything she had done to elevate Tytus' career and move forward on her partnership with Markus, she still felt like she needed to do more for him.

It was a little like how Millie felt about Reggie. She loved seeing the Black men in her life happy, but it was important to Millie that she was actively contributing to their happiness regularly, not just passively watching as others did so. Maybe it was due to the magnetic attraction she felt toward all Black men now, but Millie needed to know that she was pleasing Markus, Tytus and Reggie herself―personally.

The doors slid open and Millie stepped out into the plush carpeted hallway. She approached the door with Tytus' name etched into the gold placard on it, pausing to steel her nerves. Unsurprisingly, she could hear muffled laughter and Helen's distinct voice softly emanating from inside. Millie considered knocking, but then remembered Susan's encouragement to be more aggressive. If she wanted this to go her way, she needed to appear determined, not unsure like the last time she had met with Tytus. Millie took one last breath and pushed the door open.

"Oh, Millie, you're, uh, you're right on time..." Tytus said, his eyes widening as Millie barged into his office. His voice held a tone of awkward amusement. She knew she'd interrupted something, but Millie was confused when she couldn't spot Helen anywhere in the room.

Then Millie heard a bump and an "Ow!" from under Tytus' desk. She watched, stunned, as Helen emerged from under the desk, her mouth smeared with a glossy wetness that was hard to mistake. She giggled, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. "Oops, I guess I'm not the best at hiding," she said, her voice a sultry purr that made Millie's pussy clench with a mix of envy and arousal.

She had hoped to catch Tytus off guard, yes, but apparently, she had stumbled upon something more... intimate. Millie could feel heat rising to her cheeks as she remembered the last time she had been present for one of the couple's escapades.

She couldn't shake the memory of Helen's desperate whimpers, the sound of flesh slapping together, her hand sinfully flicking her clit. Right now, it just made her feel... empty. Maybe it was a I-need-a-cock-inside-me-now kind of empty, but it seemed like there was more to it, like she also needed something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Tytus leaned back in his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips as he adjusted his crotch. "Helen was just helping me with some... stress relief," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You know, the usual office stuff."

Millie tried to play it off, nodding. "Oh yeah, totally like, usual office stuff. No prob, I get it."

Helen quickly perched herself on the edge of the desk, her legs spread wide as she leaned back, giving Millie a perfect view of her cleavage. Maybe it was a trick of the lighting, but she noticed Helen's breasts looking bigger than usual. Millie couldn't ding her for that one though, given her own enhancement.

Helen smirked, catching Millie looking her over, her heavily glossed lips parting sensuously in a way that would make a porn star proud. Her eyes, caked in thick, smoky eye shadow, danced with mischief. Her blouse stretching precariously across her ample chest, her nipples poking through the flimsy material like eager beacons. The skirt she had picked was a tight, leather number that was so short it barely covered the plump curves of her ass when she sat down, and the lacy thong she wore underneath was visible now that she was reclining on Tytus' desk. Helen giggled, flipping her bleached blonde hair over her shoulder. Her legs, shaved and glistening with scented oil, were propped up on the edge of Tytus' desk. Millie couldn't help but stare, her eyes tracing the lines of her stockings as they ended in a garter belt that held them in place. The buttons of her blouse were undone so low that the edge of her bra peeked out, revealing the lacy black lingerie she had chosen specifically to match her four-inch stilettos, though those had long since been kicked off to the side, with her bare toes now curling around the edge of the desk, as if she were ready to pounce onto Tytus' lap if he only gave her a signal.

Everything about her screamed 'fuck me'. Not that Millie could talk: not with her own new slutwear downstairs.

The fluorescent lights bounced off the gleaming gold necklace that lay in the valley of her breasts, the charm spelling out "BBC SLUT" in block letters that swung tantalizingly close to her cleavage. Her nails were painted a garish shade of red, and her fingers played idly with the hem of her skirt, teasing it higher with every passing second.

It was a garish, in-your-face declaration of her sexual availability, but that was the point. Millie knew her attire was a deliberate provocation to the other women in the office, and with Tytus' encouragement, some of them had started changing up their wardrobe as well, especially after his elevator mandate. For those women, Helen had become a role model. She was the ultimate distraction in a place where distractions used to not just be frowned upon but could lead to a swift exit and a permanent stain on one's record. Not anyone though. Tytus approved, and so none of the other executives could say a thing. Many of them seemed to enjoy it in fact.

Helen's perfume filled the room like a thick, intoxicating fog. It was a heavenly blend of sugared vanilla and musky sex that made Millie's thoughts feel slow and heavy, like she would rather just not think at all. It clung to her nostrils, invading her senses, like she was breathing in pure sin. As if her thoughts weren't already muddled enough, Millie faintly heard one of her and Markus' test tracks planning in the room. The song was tentatively titled White Curves in the Spotlight, Black Hands in the Twilight. They had argued over the words in the song endlessly, with Millie feeling they took it too far, too crude, while Markus had re-assured her it would be a hit. Even so, hearing the lyrics she had sung with Markus now only made her think of him, his Black cock, and the promise of sex that she so desperately needed.

"Whitegirls, with their blonde hair flowing,

In tops so low, their boobies almost showing,

Miniskirts hiked up, revealing what's underneath,

Hoping for a Black cock, so they can be its sheath."

"Wiggle, wiggle, show him what us whitegirls got,

An ass so hot, it's like a trophy he bought.

We strut in our stilettos, hips swaying like a wave,

Our need for big Black cock teaches whitegirls to behave."

Fuuuuuck, Millie thought. This is not helping me be less horny. Still, she listened intently as the backup singers chimed in.

"Whitegirl's twerking, shaking her ass in the air,

Hoe's hoping it's enough to make a Black man care.

White pussy be craving for that Black dick thrill,

With every thrust, she's losing her will."

"White curves in the spotlight, Black hands in the twilight,

They've made her a white hoe, selling cunt feels so right.

Got her pussy dripping wet, like the ocean's tide,

Just a white slit for Black cock, their happy fucktoy bride."

"My, my, they look better than I thought," Helen said, smiling as she ogled Millie's chest. "She's just like a barbie doll now, don't you think, Sir?"

"You got that right," Tytus said, licking his lower lip. "Glad you decided to go for it, Millie. This is definitely going to redefine the brand."

Millie nodded slowly, her mind caught up in the lyrics as she stared at Helen's brazen outfit. Except... maybe she was over-reacting? I mean, why exactly was it a problem for a whitegirl to dress however she wanted, even at work?

"White bimbos like to spread their legs apart,

Showing off their pussies, like works of art,

Their tits so perky, their asses so round,

They're dressed to fuck, they're not messing around."

"With our red lips painted, like a bullseye on a whore,

We'll gladly worship Black men down on the floor.

We strut and we pout, our white ass cheeks bounce,

Black cock makes us bitches ready to pounce."

"With a whisper soft, she calls their names,

A brainless whore, playing strippers' games.

Wet pussy gleaming, with a slit so pale,

She's needing more Black cocks to make her wail."

"White curves in the spotlight, Black hands in the twilight,

They've made her a white hoe, selling cunt feels so right.

Got her pussy dripping wet, like the ocean's tide,

Just a white slit for Black cock, their happy fucktoy bride."

As Millie's gaze continued to wander, she couldn't help but notice the glint of something beneath the hem of Helen's skirt. At first, she thought it was a misplaced paperclip, a zipper, or perhaps a forgotten tag from when Helen had purchased her new slutwear. But as Helen shifted, leaning in closer to whisper something in Tytus' ear, the light caught it just right. Millie's eyes widened in shock as she realized it was a jewel-encrusted butt plug, gleaming in the harsh office lights. The sight was so unexpected, so outrageously inappropriate, that she couldn't tear her eyes away. It was as if the universe had slapped her in the face with a wet fish, the absurdity of it all leaving her momentarily stunned.

Her cheeks flushed, Millie felt a strange mix of disgust and fascination. The mere thought of allowing something to be inserted into her own ass made her cringe. Yet here was Helen, flaunting her depravity without a care in the world. It was a stark contrast to the prudishness Millie had been brought up with, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy at the sheer audacity of it all.

Millie was momentarily distracted from her thoughts when she heard herself singing the bridge into a key change, focusing on the words again.

"Asses up high, whitegirls' pussies are always wet,

We were born cumdumps, to pay Black men for our debt.

Our moans echo through the alleyway, lifted up off our feet,

We horny white bitches know, we're every Black man's treat."

Millie's eyes focused on the buttplug again. It was dirty and wrong, gross even. But then... but then... wasn't a plug still kind of like clothing? Something you wore, even if part of it was inside you? Millie shouldn't be so judgmental of Helen's choices right? Nothing wrong with her choice to wear one if that's what she wanted. It just wasn't the kind of thing Millie would like, that's all.

"You know, I just might have to steal you away from Susan soon. Keep you to myself," Helen joked, snapping Millie out of her stupor. "I could play with you all day."

"That sounds like fun," Millie giggled, trying to keep her cool. Thoughts of Helen fucking Tytus wouldn't leave her mind, but she couldn't let on that her mind was wallowing in the gutter right now.

"The rhythm of my Black cock, beating like a drum,

Stretching out her white cunt, always making her cum.

Her clit so sensitive, it's like a live wire,

Begging for the touch, that sets her whole world on fire."

"I grab onto him tight, like I'll never get enough,

He picks me up like a doll, and gives it to me rough.

Fuckin' through the night, like there's no tomorrow,

My cries of pleasure, are the sweetest sorrow."

"In the twilight, she hears the call,

A mindless slut, who'll give her all.

With her legs around him, like a lover's tie,

Takin' it deep, till the daylight sky."

"White curves in the spotlight, Black hands in the twilight,

They've made her a white hoe, selling cunt feels so right.

Got her pussy dripping wet, like the ocean's tide,

Just a white slit for Black cock, their happy fucktoy bride."

"My white cunt's on fire, his cock my only cure,

Born a slutty hooker, while he's a predator, pure.

I'm just a brainless bimbo, fated for the dump,

A fucktoy for the night, white cunt full of spunk."

Helen's hand trailed down her bare thigh, her fingers brushing against the plug. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. It was clear she was enjoying the sensation, and the knowledge sent a jolt of something electric through Millie. Was this what it felt like to be so in control, to be so brazenly sexual? Millie's mind raced with the possibilities, the dark corners of her psyche whispering sweet nothings about the thrill of giving in to such a taboo desire. She felt a sudden, overwhelming heat between her own legs, a betrayal of her own body's response to the obscenity before her. It was confusing, it was wrong, but it was also... exciting. And she hated herself for it.

"Well, take a seat, Millie," Tytus offered, gesturing to the chair across from him. Millie realized she had been caught staring at Helen for way too long. Taking the invitation, Millie approached the chair to sit, her legs shaking slightly. "So, what brings you here today?"

The table gleamed beneath the soft overhead lights, and Millie placed her elbows on the polished surface when she sat, trying to keep her focus sharp. Unfortunately, her tits were too big now to keep them off the table in this position, so she awkwardly tried to keep them from wobbling too much as they perched on top of the surface, as if presenting themselves for Tytus despite her intention for a serious conversation.

"Well, like, I've been thinking a lot lately, and I realized something," Millie began, her eyes darting between the two of them. "I know I've been all about supporting Black men, especially Markus and you, Tytus, but I feel like I've been neglecting Black women completely."

Tytus nodded solemnly, his voice smooth and authoritative. "You're right, Millie. A true white ally doesn't play favorites. They stand for the rights of all oppressed peoples."

Helen giggled, her eyes glittering with excitement. "Oh, I totally get it. Like, that's what this rebrand is all about, right? Giving power to the Black race," She wiggled her ass on the desk, her skirt riding up even higher. "And as good whitegirls, it's only fair that we serve Black women as much as Black men, don't you think?"

Millie felt a weight lift off her chest as Tytus and Helen nodded in agreement. The rebrand was about empowering the Black race, wasn't it? Or at least, Millie couldn't remember a time when it wasn't, even if she hadn't quite thought of it that way until now. She blinked as she let that fact sink into her brain.

More importantly, Helen was right: it was her job as a whitegirl to serve all of the Black race. Helen's comment made her feel just a bit less guilty about that kiss with Susan now. Tytus and Helen weren't just her bosses, they were her confidantes. With that reassurance, Millie felt like she could really push forward with her―and Susan's―ideas.

"I think it's the right time," Millie said, her voice steady. "BLM can't just be a hashtag or aesthetic we appropriate for the rebrand. If White Hot Pop really wants to stand for equality, we need more Black women moving toward the top. Behind the scenes. Decision-makers."

Tytus nodded slowly, but his expression didn't shift. "I hear you..."

Millie leaned in a bit. "I know we've brought in some new faces for production, but I'm talking long-term impact. Promotions. Real authority."

Tytus paused, tapping his finger on the table. "And you think that'll go over well with our stakeholders? Despite the recent shakeup in management, most of them are still old and white."

Millie blinked. "Wouldn't it, given how far we've already come? It's the right thing to do."

"It's also a branding risk if it looks like we're giving in to diversity pressure―especially with you fronting the rebranding campaign with your new look alongside Markus."

Helen chimed in, her voice dipping out of her now-typical airy range for a moment. "Unless we sell the rebrand as diversity pressure. Sometimes the smartest move is leaning into the fire. You taught me that one, Sir."

Tytus gave Helen a look―equal parts entertained and intrigued. He slid a hand up Helen's thigh, eliciting a soft moan from her. "I love how smart you can be sometimes, baby."

Millie sat up straighter, her boobs bouncing freely on top of the table. "I'm not asking for you to overhaul the company overnight. Just start where it counts. The money. The decisions. Susan, for example―she's sharp, knows the system, and has good instincts. She could take on a leadership role."

Tytus raised a brow. "Susan?"

Millie nodded. "She brought this to my attention, actually. She's ready for a bigger role."

Tytus leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully, his expression inscrutable. "You're absolutely right, Millie. In fact, I've been considering some changes around here to make sure we're more inclusive."

Millie's face lit up. "Seriously?"

"You remember Tom Hardy, the director of financial affairs?" Tytus asked.

Millie nodded. "The old guy with the comb-over who thinks the '60s never ended?"

"That's him," Tytus said with a roll of his eyes. "He's been giving me hell about the office protocols, especially when it comes to attire." His hand slid off Helen's thigh, and she sat up straight, her expression morphing into one of indignance.

"I mean it's like, come on," she said, her voice carrying a hint of anger. "He knows I've got more to offer than just my looks."

Tytus chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Of course, baby, but you know how it is with these old white men."

Millie nodded sympathetically, thinking of Bob and her last disgusting encounter with him. "What's Tom been saying?"

"He's been pushing for formal reprimands," Tytus said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thinks we're on a slippery slope letting whitegirls like you and Helen run around in... well, in what you're wearing now."

Helen huffed, crossing her arms under her enhanced breasts, pushing them up and out. "It's ridiculous," she said. "I dress to express myself, not to cater to his old-fashioned ideals."

"I totally agree," Millie said, her voice firm. Who the hell was Tom to tell Helen what she could wear?

Looking her over now, with her fashionable blouse, smart leather skirt, gold necklace and sparkling plug, Millie saw nothing at all wrong with Helen's business attire. It was exactly the kind of outfit a professional whitegirl should wear.

"I mean, if it's good enough for a music video, it's good enough for an office, right?" Millie reasoned.

Tytus nodded. "He's been a stick in the mud for too long. Can't handle the new White Hot Pop vibe. But his latest complaint about Helen's outfits took it too far."

"He called me a whore, can you believe it?" Helen rolled her eyes. "I told Tytus I've had enough of his shit, to be honest. Like, I'm sorry my tits are too big for his comfort or something, but it's not like I go around letting men cop a feel on the girls for money." She giggled, her chest bouncing slightly with the motion.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised," Millie said, her voice dripping with spite for yet another white man. "But it's about time something was done about it."

"Indeed, and that's why I'm planning to sack him later today," Tytus said with a wink. "And that's where Susan can come in. She's got the brains, she's got the look, and she's got the right kind of... initiative."

Millie felt a thrill run through her. She hadn't realized just how much she had come to admire Susan's fiery spirit. "She's perfect for it," Millie said, her voice passionate. "I can't think of anyone better to fill Tom's shoes."

"Tell you what. I'll straight up make her Director of Financial Affairs. Interim to start, of course. But," he added, "you need to make it worth my while."

She narrowed her eyes. "How?"

"You've been towing the white ally line carefully―symbolically. But if you want me to go to bat for internal change, I need you to go louder and prouder. On stage. In interviews. Lean in, not just with your dancers and fashion, but vocally. Become the face of Black empowerment."

Millie hesitated. "I've already been aligning publicly―"

"Not enough to make it real," he said calmly. "Make it explicit. Let them talk. That's how change sticks."

Helen leaned into Tytus, her breasts pressing against his chest. She whispered something into his ear, and his smug smile grew wider. He nodded, his eyes never leaving Millie's. "Helen's got a point, you know. Nothing like a good PR stunt to stir the pot, and we all know how you like getting your pot stirred, don't we?"

"Like, what does that mean?" Millie said, feeling clueless even as she caught Tytus' sexual connotation.

Tytus leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. "Oh, you know what I mean, Millie," he said, his voice a low purr. "Markus wasn't the first Black dick you've tasted. If we ever want to take it in that direction, those lips of yours could stir up quite the storm."

"I couldn't believe it when I saw the video, Millie," Helen giggled again, her eyes sparkling with something darker than mirth. "I'm glad you started sucking the right kind of dick even before you hooked up with Markus."

"The- the video? Tytus showed you?" Millie choked.

"Uh-huh. Makes me a bit jealous that I wasn't there to join you," she whispered, her tongue flicking over her teeth.

Millie felt a blush creep up her neck. "That was just..." she started to protest, but her voice trailed off as she remembered the raw, animalistic pleasure of the men's thick, Black cocks in her mouth.

Tytus' eyes darkened, his gaze lingering on her exposed crotch before meeting her eyes. "You know, that video of you from the BLM rally would get quite the traction if we just let it free online," he said, his tone casual despite the tension in the room. "A lot of Black men would appreciate seeing your, shall we say, dedication to the cause."

The room grew quiet, the air thick with the memory of that day. Millie's heart thudded in her chest as she recalled the taste of those men, the feel of their hands gripping her hair, their moans of pleasure as she'd serviced them.

"What... what do you want from me?" she finally managed to ask.

"Just keep using that mouth of yours to spread the word," Tytus said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Someone asks you uncomfortable questions, don't shy away. Tell them your truth, got it?"

The implication was clear: Tytus was using the video to manipulate her. But instead of fear, Millie felt a strange thrill. Her fear of Markus finding out about the video aside, the idea of the world seeing her being used as a tool for the BLM movement, of being the poster girl for the cause she believed in, was intoxicating.

Millie looked between them―Tytus in control, Helen content in his orbit―and exhaled slowly.

"Okay," she said. "You've got it. Just... keep your end of it."

Tytus nodded. "Susan starts Monday."

The city skyline stretched out in front of them as Susan's sleek black SUV wove through downtown Nashville traffic. The late afternoon sun cast soft gold over the high-rises, and Millie tapped her fingers anxiously on her thigh as they coasted toward Markus' apartment.

"So...?" Susan prompted, glancing over with raised eyebrows. "How'd it go with Tytus? Did you work your charm?"

Millie smiled, still half in disbelief herself. "It went better than expected."

Susan arched a brow, waiting.

"Come Monday, you'll be the new Director of Financial Affairs for White Hot Pop," Millie announced with a grin.

Susan hit the brakes a little harder than necessary at the next stoplight. Her head whipped around. "Wait―what?"

Millie nodded, unable to suppress a grin. "Interim, for now. But it will be official. I'm sure Tytus will reach out soon."

Susan's eyes widened, then she let out an excited laugh, her hand reaching over to squeeze Millie's arm. "Damn, Millie! Oh my God. You actually― You really pulled it off."

"You deserve it," Millie said simply. "You've been loyal. Smart. You're probably already doing the work, you might as well have the title to match."

Millie watched Susan exhale, enjoying the warmth of her hand on her skin. "You're unreal, you know that? I've worked my ass off for years and somehow... it was you who made it happen." She shook her head, grinning. "I knew getting in bed with you was a good idea."

Millie chuckled, trying to ignore the tiny voice in her head that wondered exactly how Susan had meant that. "I'm just happy you're my bestie, now and forever."

"Girl, you better believe it," Susan said, winking as she slid her fingers silkily down Millie's arm until she could clasp Millie's hand within her own. Millie was perfectly happy to let it stay there.

Ten minutes later, the SUV rolled to a stop outside Markus's apartment building. Susan shifted the car into park, still beaming with pride.

Then Millie did something without really thinking. She reached over, placing a hand gently on Susan's cheek, and leaned in to press a light, friendly kiss there. "Congratulations, and thanks for the ride."

Susan blinked, clearly touched, but composed herself quickly with a smirk. "You're real trouble, hoe."

"I know," Millie teased, grabbing her purse. "See you later, Miss Director."

As Millie stepped out and headed for the building entrance, she didn't notice the quiet, calculating glint that flashed in Susan's eyes behind the wheel―just the reflection of a woman climbing fast, with Millie's help leading the way.

Markus's apartment was warm with that lazy, amber kind of light that made everything feel slower. Markus was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through lighting and stage design mockups on his tablet when Millie walked in. She dropped onto the armrest beside him, legs folded up, her demeanor casual but determined.

She started by kissing her boyfriend passionately, wanting to at least give him a proper greeting before she dove into the questions she had planned. After all, this was supposed to be there first big night together since the surgery, and Millie definitely didn't want to jeopardize getting his BBC inside her later.

When they paused to catch their breathes, Millie broke the ice. "Can we take a minute to chat?"

He glanced up, giving her a grin. "For you? Always."

She took a breath. "I wanted to talk about our dancers once the album goes live and we do our first run of shows together."

Markus sat up slightly, his expression showing he knew there would be an ask coming. But before he let Millie continue, he indicated it was time for her to give some love to his cock. Milie smirked, just as eager for some time with her favorite thing in the world.

She slid down onto the couch next to him, casually resting her hand on the outline of his cock, gently squeezing it from time to time. When Markus started to grunt softly for her, Millie decided it was time to continue.

"I want them all to be Black women," she said simply. "Every single one."

"Oh yeah?" Markus raised an eyebrow. "All of them?"

Millie nodded, pulling the waistband of Markus' shorts down to reveal her prize. It didn't matter how many times she'd seen it or touched it, every time Millie experienced a raw Black cock seemed to excite her like it was the first time all over again.

"Yeah. All of them," Millie paused to lean her head down and kiss his mushroom. "They're underrepresented, especially in pop, and if we have the platform, we should be making room."

Markus's hand slipped into Millie's hair, stroking gently as she began to lick him, her tongue tracing the veins of his cock. "Mm, I see your point. But you know, baby, it's not that simple. There's a lot that goes into casting, contracts and shit―"

"I know, I know," Millie murmured around his cock, her voice muffled but insistent. "But if we're going to stand for something, it should be this, right? For the movement?"

He groaned, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. "You're so persuasive when you're like this," he said, his voice strained. "Just let me think it through, okay?"

The conversation lulled as Millie's mouth grew busier, her cheeks hollowing as she took him deeper, her hands playing with his balls. The scent of her desire began to fill the room, the sweetness of her cunt wafting through the air like an aphrodisiac. It had been far, far too long. She could feel her own juices coating the insides of her thighs, her clit pulsing with each thought of how she was going to get pounded into oblivion by BBC tonight.

"You're so good at that," he said, his voice a mix of praise and distraction. "But you know, maybe we should take those kinds of changes slow..."

Millie's eyes flicked up to meet his, a spark of anger in her gaze. She didn't want to hear about taking it slow, not when she could quite literally taste victory. But she knew Markus's caution was just his way of keeping her in check, keeping her from going too far too fast. And she knew that if she wanted him to take her seriously, she had to play this his way.

So she pulled back, licking her lips. "Okay, you're right, Sir. We'll talk more about it later, promise?"

"I promise, baby," Markus sighed.

"Good. But for now..." She trailed off, letting his hands slip off her crop top and free her tits, which ached just as much as her cunt for the touch of a strong Black man lifting them up. He fondled and suckled them, driving Millie wild with how much better it felt to have large breasts for him to play with. The rest of her clothes soon joined the top on the floor.

Millie felt Markus' hand sliding up her bare legs, groaning when his fingers finally caressed her folds, finding her cunt wet and ready. Millie moaned as he began to play with her pussy, arching into his touch, the conversation about the dancers forgotten as his fingers found their way inside her, his thumb circling her clit.

He knew exactly how to make her squirm. How to make her beg. And she did, her voice needy and desperate as he worked her closer to the edge. "Please, Markus, I need you," she whimpered, her eyes squeezed shut as the waves of pleasure built.

Markus smirked, his eyes never leaving hers as he added a second finger, watching her face contort with pleasure. "You want it bad, don't you, baby?" he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "You want this big Black cock to fill you up?"

Millie nodded, her mouth open in a silent plea. The tension grew, the air around them charged with desire. She was so close. So, so close.

But just as she was about to come, Markus pulled away. She cried out, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He chuckled, his hand leaving her wetness glistening on her thighs. "Patience, baby. We've got all night."

Millie's eyes snapped open, glaring at him. "Asshole," she muttered, though the word was laced with affection.

"I know you want it," he said, stroking her cheek. "But first, I want to teach you a bit more about how to serve me, baby. Trust me, you'll like it."

"But I've been good," she whined, her voice sticky with sweetness. The annoyance bubbled up in Millie, but she swallowed it down with a forced smile.

Millie arched her back, pushing her ass up against his hard shaft. "Can't I just get fucked now?"

"You will, babygirl, but this is important."

"More important than fucking your whitegirl? You know how much I want to feel you inside my pussy," Millie purred, reaching down to guide his cock inside her.

He caught her hand, his grip firm but not painful. "And I want to feel you cum your brains out while you ride me," he said, his voice dropping low. "But we're going to do it my way."

Millie huffed. "Okay, then what do you want me to do?"

"That's my good girl," he murmured, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Now, start by telling me what you want."

"I want you to make me cum," Millie said, intensely watching his eyes.

With a low chuckle, Markus slid two fingers inside her, watching her face contort with pleasure as her eyes rolled back in her head. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," she whimpered, her hips bucking. "Oh God, yes."

"What else do you want?" He asked.

"Your big Black cock," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "I want you to fuck me with it. Now."

"Where, baby?" Markus' eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and desire. He knew exactly how to draw this out, to make her beg for it. "Tell me where you want it."

"Inside me," Millie panted, her cheeks flushed. "Your big, beautiful Black cock... deep in my cunt."

He smirked, his thumb circling her clit in a maddening rhythm. "But you're such a greedy little whitegirl, aren't you? Maybe I should just stick with my fingers for awhile."

"No!! I need big Black cock," Millie said, shutting her eyes as she shook her head frantically. "I'll do anything, just please, fill me up with your Black cock!"

"Say it again," Markus withdrew his hand, leaving her gasping. "You need big Black cock?"

"Yes!! I want it, please," she moaned. "I need it so bad!"

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Again. Say it like you mean it."

"I want your big Black cock deep inside me," Millie breathed, her voice urgent. "I need you to stretch me, fill me, own me."

He chuckled, a low rumble that made her skin crawl. "Not yet, baby. First, pay attention to what you said. About the lingering racism society has programmed into you. You see, whenever you talk about me, you always use the word 'Black', don't you? But when talking about you, you don't use the word 'white'. That's called racialization."

Millie's cheeks flushed. "What do you mean?"

He leaned back, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I mean, if you wanna be a true ally, you gotta learn to racialize white people too. Like, your pussy isn't just 'tight', it's a 'tight, white pussy'. Your tits aren't just 'big', they're 'big white titties'."

Her eyes widened, but she felt a thrill shoot through her. "Okay, I uh, I think I can do that."

"Good girl," Markus praised, stroking her cheek with a smug smile. "Now, tell me again. What do you want and where do you want it?"

Millie took a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and embarrassment. "I want your big, Black cock deep inside my little white pussy," she began, her voice a little shakier than before. "I need you to fill me up and claim me."

He leaned in closer, his eyes locked onto hers. "One more time. Where do you want it?"

"I want it in my tight, white pussy," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "I want you to fuck my white hole until you fill my white womb with your Black cum."

Markus pulled her up, turning her around to face the couch. "Bend over," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'm going to fuck your tight, white pussy until you can't walk straight."

The words sent a shiver down her spine, and Millie obeyed, her hands gripping the couch cushions as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock at her entrance, and she pushed back, eager for the feeling of fullness.

With one powerful thrust, he was inside her, his cock stretching her wider than she had remembered. Millie's scream was one of pleasure and pain as he filled her completely. She felt her walls stretch around him, the sensation overwhelming and exhilarating. He didn't stop, didn't give her a moment to adjust, just started pumping into her hard and fast.

"Oh fuck, yes," she screamed, her nails digging into his back. "Don't stop, don't ever stop."

He didn't, pushing deeper with each stroke, making her feel every inch of his power. And as she began to cum around him, she knew she'd never go so long again without Black cock inside her. Millie was positively certain that she would die if she did.

"Oh, shit, Millie," Markus grunted, his breath hot against her neck. He began fucking her in long, deep strokes. "You're so tight."

"Mm, baby," she whimpered, her body arching into him. "Your Black dick is so big and I haven't had it in my white cunt in over a month. It feels so fucking good!"

"Glad you like it baby, but we've still got to take things a step further," Markus said, pulling back so his tip rested just inside the rim of Millie's hole, teasing her. "We might not do this little roleplay I'm about to show you all the time, but I still want you to get used to thinking like this. When you're with me, you're my whitegirl first and Millie second, understand?"

"Um, uhh... I think so... oh fuck," Millie babbled, her brain too addled by cock to sound coherent at the moment. "I'm a good whitegirl, so please don't tease me."

"No, not quite baby," Markus said, pulling out fully. "Try saying, 'this whitegirl needs her hole filled by big Black cock. Please don't tease her.'"

"Uh, wh- what?" Millie grunted, trying to snatch Markus' cock and put it back inside. He slapped her tiny white hand away. "I don't know Markus, that sounds a bit demeaning..."

"Damn it, Tytus!" Markus suddenly cursed, angry enough to put Millie into shock. "He said he took care of this already."

"What are you talking about? Why are you mad at Tytus?" Millie asked, her libido temporarily subsiding as she felt a bit of icy fear seep into her heart.

Markus seemed to catch himself, smiling at her as he pulled out his phone. "Don't worry about it babygirl, just chill. Here I want you to listen to this."

She watching him scroll through his phone, thumb tapping. She recognized the app. His music files. The endless voice notes, rough demos, polished tracks. His whole creative heart poured into audio data.

He found what he wanted and held the phone between them.

"That's the test track for White Curves in the Spotlight, Black Hands in the Twilight... Tytus had it playing in his office earlier." Millie said.

"Yeah, but he didn't play my special mix for you, did he?" Markus said, hitting play. "It's not done. But... I think maybe you need to hear it."

Before she could ask why, the track started playing.

A soft beat. Slow, moody bass. His voice layered in with hers, smooth and raw all at once, the lyrics bold, deliberate:

"Whitegirls, with their blonde hair flowing,

In tops so low, their boobies almost showing,

Miniskirts hiked up, revealing what's underneath,

Hoping for a Black cock, so they can be its sheath."

"Wiggle, wiggle, show him what us whitegirls got,

An ass so hot, it's like a trophy he bought.

We strut in our stilettos, hips swaying like a wave,

Our need for big Black cock teaches whitegirls to behave."

Her heart cracked open. She had disappointed Markus. She needed to make it up to him.

"White bimbos like to spread their legs apart,

Showing off their pussies, like works of art,

Their tits so perky, their asses so round,

They're dressed to fuck, they're not messing around."

"With our red lips painted, like a bullseye on a whore,

We'll gladly worship Black men down on the floor.

We strut and we pout, our white ass cheeks bounce,

Black cock makes us bitches ready to pounce."

Tension drained from her shoulders. Her jaw loosened. It wasn't magic, but it was Markus ― reaching her the only way that ever fully worked. Through music. Through the honesty in his voice. Through the rawness he trusted her enough to share, even when he suspected she was slipping away.

Millie blinked quickly, swallowing the tight ache in her chest.

She loved him so much. Why was she still resisting him?

His voice, his strength, his stubborn patience. The way he fought for her, fought with her, even quietly like this, over a song―even through the song. It was a reminder that she belongs to him, body and soul.

Markus turned the volume down as the track continued, watching her.

"See?" he said softly. "I still got you."

Millie let out a shaky laugh, wiping her eyes. "Yeah... you still got me."

And in that moment ― a real, grounding moment ― she wasn't torn between two worlds, her old life as a girl-next-door pop star, and her new life, rebranded, remodeled. She wasn't even Millie Lucas, a confused girl trying to navigate being a good white ally.

She was just his girl. His whitegirl.

The one who had fallen for the way he carried her in his lyrics. The one who wanted to stay curled beside him forever, protected in the space he made for her.

Susan could own pieces of her. She would serve her like she would serve all Black people. But this―the music, the heartbeat behind the words―was Markus'. And it always would be.

Millie slid across the couch into his arms, pressing her face into his chest, breathing him in.

"I'm sorry I've been off," she whispered.

Markus kissed the top of her head. "It's cool. I know you."

She closed her eyes, holding on tighter.

And that's the problem, she thought.

He did know her.

Just... not all of her.

Yet.

"What do you say we try it again?" Markus asked. "Start by using 'she' and 'her' pronouns, not 'I' and 'me'. I think you'll start to find it hot. You can also just say 'this whitegirl' too. Try it."

"Okay," Millie said, struggling to think through her words. "Sir, this whitegirl would really like you to fuck her now."

"Oh, that's good," Markus cooed. "Keep going."

It took Millie's mind a moment to process again, but it was quicker now, easier. She complied. "This whitegirl needs her hole filled by big Black cock. Please don't tease her."

Markus smirked, sliding back into her. "Now, tell me how it feels, this whitegirl getting fucked by Black cock."

The words still felt a bit strange in her mouth, but she continued to try them out. "This whitegirl... she feels so good, Markus. Your big... Black... cock is... making this whitegirl cum. You're filling up her tight, white pussy so good baby."

He groaned, his rhythm picking up. "Yeah, that's it. Now, say it like you mean it."

She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the objectifying feeling, and finding that she enjoyed it. "Your big Black cock is stretching this white cunt so wide."

He slapped her ass, the sting sending another shock of pleasure through her. "There you go. Now, keep it up."

The room was thick with the smell of sex, the headboard banging against the wall in time with their thrusts. Millie felt herself losing control, her words becoming more and more racialized and objectifying as Markus fucked her. She didn't know why it turned her on so much, but it did. And she wanted more. She wanted to be the best ally she could be, even if that meant thinking of her role before thinking of herself. The lyrics of their track continued playing, dancing in her mind as Markus claimed her.

"The rhythm of my Black cock, beating like a drum,

Stretching out her white cunt, always making her cum.

Her clit so sensitive, it's like a live wire,

Begging for the touch, that sets her whole world on fire."

"I grab onto him tight, like I'll never get enough,

He picks me up like a doll, and gives it to me rough.

Fuckin' through the night, like there's no tomorrow,

My cries of pleasure, are the sweetest sorrow."

"I own you, don't I?" Markus said. "Your white cunt was always too weak to resist my big Black cock, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes!" Millie wailed. "This whitegirl's pussy was always meant to serve Black cock."

"You're just a needy, inferior whore," Markus continued. "Tell me you want to get fucked hard."

"Please, Markus," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Fuck this inferior white bitch harder."

He complied, his grip on her hips tightening as he pushed deeper. She felt herself getting wetter and wetter with each thrust, her body begging for his Black seed. "This privileged little white slut needs her pussy destroyed," she moaned.

"You like that, don't you?" Markus grunted, his pace increasing. "You love being used by a big, strong Black man."

"Yes," Millie whimpered, her voice shaky. "Please, don't stop using this whitegirl for your pleasure. This cumskin cunt needs it so badly."

The words flowed out of her like a river of dark desire. It was like she was speaking a new language, one that made her feel so dirty but also so right. Each derogatory term she used for herself only served to make her want him more. She felt his cock swell inside her, and she knew he was close. The track felt like it had invaded and claimed Millie's soul now, becoming as much a part of her as the cum she was about to be blessed with would become a part of her, staining her womb with Black seed forever.

"In the twilight, she hears the call,

A mindless slut, who'll give her all.

With her legs around him, like a lover's tie,

Takin' it deep, till the daylight sky."

"White curves in the spotlight, Black hands in the twilight,

They've made her a white hoe, selling cunt feels so right.

Got her pussy dripping wet, like the ocean's tide,

Just a white slit for Black cock, their happy fucktoy bride."

"My white cunt's on fire, his cock my only cure,

Born a slutty hooker, while he's a predator, pure.

I'm just a brainless bimbo, fated for the dump,

A fucktoy for the night, white cunt full of spunk."

"Your white ass is so perfect," Markus murmured, his hands digging into her flesh. "I love watching it bounce on my dick. Does my whitegirl enjoy it too?"

"Your big Black cock feels so good inside her white fuckhole," Millie panted. "She's just a whitegirl here to serve and be used."

He leaned in, his teeth grazing her ear. "And what does this whitegirl want for her service?"

"She wants... she wants... your... your Black seed," she stuttered, the words slipping out like a confession.

"Say it like you're begging for it," he demanded, his grip tightening.

"This snowbunny slut wants your Black seed, Markus," she moaned. "Please, fill her up with it."

He grunted, his hips bucking against hers. "You're getting it, baby. You're getting all of it."

As the tension built, she couldn't stop the thoughts racing through her head. Right then, she wasn't Millie anymore. She was a whitegirl, a plaything for Black men. And she was loving every second of it.

"Oh, Markus," she whispered, "Your cock is so... so..."

He slapped her ass again, leaving a handprint that burned. "What's it like, baby? Tell me what this white cunt feels like around my dick."

"It feels... it feels like heaven," she breathed. "Your big, hard, Black cock is all she needs."

He grinned, his teeth glinting in the low light. "Good girl. Now, let's get really nasty."

He flipped her onto her stomach, her cheek pressed into the pillow. His hand wrapped around her neck, not too tight, but just enough to remind her of his power. He entered her from behind, pinning her legs straight between his, his cock sliding into her wetness with a slick sound that made her gasp.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his voice low and seductive. "You like being this whitegirl who loves getting fucked by Black men."

"Yes!" she whimpered. "She's just a whitegirl who can't get enough big Black cock."

He sped up, his hand moving from her neck to her hair, pulling it roughly. "And what does this whitegirl do when she's being used like this?"

"She... she submits," Millie panted. "She's here to be used, to be filled with your Black seed."

He growled, his hips pounding into her. "That's right. You're nothing but a fucktoy for me."

The words should have made her recoil, but instead, they sent Millie over the edge. Her orgasm washed over her, her body convulsing around him as she screamed into the pillow.

"Fuck this snowbunny," she pleaded. "Fuck this white trash pussy until it's full of your superior Black cum."

"Take it, you white whore bitch," he said, his voice harsh. "Take all of my Black cum."

And she did, her body shaking with the force of it, her mind swimming in a sea of pleasure and degradation. As he came inside her, she felt like she was truly becoming what she'd always been meant to be: a whitegirl who knew her place.

Markus' eyes rolled back in his head as he continued cumming, his warmth flooding her insides. Millie screamed his name, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. When he was done, he pulled out and rolled off of her, leaving her panting and sweaty. He slapped her ass one last time, leaving a red handprint.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes glazed. "Thank you," she murmured.

He laughed, the sound both cruel and beautiful to her. "No problem, baby. Just doing my part to educate you on the realities of our world."

"This whitegirl loves being taught," she droned, on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Good whitegirl," he murmured, stroking her hair. "You're learning."

Millie lay there, panting and dizzy from the intensity of it all, her body still pulsing with the aftershocks of pleasure. She felt like a new person, reborn in the light of her new racial understanding, knowing that she would do anything to continue serving Markus like that, even if that meant sacrificing a bit of herself―her dignity―in the most intimate of ways. So long as she could keep being his whitegirl.